Three Stories of Wartime.

By johnksutherland All Rights Reserved ©

Action / Romance


The first story recounts some of the bloody atrocities of the Japanese in the Pacific war, following Pearl harbour. The second recounts a heroic tale of intervention by a lone Civil War soldier returning home after the war had ended, and taking on seven confederates. They intended violence and mischief, if not worse, and he had been hunting them down steadily, and relentlessly, over the previous weeks.. He intended to die. The third story is a story of love, and violence for which medals were awarded for something which could never be openly revealed, or spoken about.

It Ends, Now.

From 'There Is No Tomorrow.' also on inkitt.

Rebecca, the only American nurse on the island, waited with increasing despair and desperation for the coming invasion, or for her continuing murderous efforts on the wounded Japanese in the hospital to be discovered.

She wondered how much longer she could put up with what Mashito did to her. This feeling of hopeless inevitability was what had come over Madison, the American nurse who had been here when Rebecca first came, with her forever waiting for the rescue that never came, eventually losing hope, giving up, but never giving in, fighting to the very end.

Rebecca began to take some comfort from the changes she saw each day. More wounded were coming in with fresh wounds no more than a day or two old. Some of them very severe. The war was drawing closer.

She also saw more prisoners coming in to the camp to die of neglect and starvation, or to be executed if they did not learn to stay quiet and remain in the background. It would be a hard lesson at first. She was not allowed to attend to them. Her duties were confined to the hospital, and to Mashito’s hut.

Everyone knew that a coming attack and invasion was inevitable, and she had weeks to think about what she could do, and to prepare for it.

She would die, of course, as Madison had, and like her she would take as many of them as she could with her, and so it needed careful planning, or the ability to quickly take advantage of any opportunity that might be presented.

She had rehearsed killing as many men in the hospital as possible and, as quickly as it could be done before discovery, and then her own inevitable death. She had deliberately eased many of the wounded out of this world, despite her ingrained professional ethics, which still nagged at her—difficult to submerge entirely—as she treated them, but had not yet had the courage to do anything that would be so decisive, or obvious, as Madison had done. Nevertheless she had contributed to the early deaths of tens, if not a hundred or more of those who came into the hospital, never to leave.

There were many changes she could have made to save lives, rather than taking them, but she changed nothing.

When Mashito lost his sexual interest in her, near the end for them all, he would be the one to kill her, even as he raped her for the last time. Would he be sorry to be no longer sexually assaulting her as often as he did? She would die, be killed, just before he would expect to die himself in the coming invasion. She must anticipate him, and be ready to pre-empt him.

She had seen that intent in his eyes once, when he had looked at her with his hands on her throat at one of those times when he had difficulty coming. There was too much on his mind, and he took more than five minutes to ejaculate when he normally took only one or two in his eagerness with her, or even just seconds if he had thought about her all day. He had received continuing bad news about the war over the camp radio, and had been as distracted from what he was doing to her, as she tried to be with him. She knew that when the time came, Mashito had to be the first to die before he gave any order about executing all of the prisoners, as they usually did upon being invaded, and before he killed her.

She could see from the map on the wall of his hut as he raped her across his desk in a daily ritual, that war was getting closer with each day that passed. She now had an idea of where they were, which island they were on as the map slowly shrank ahead of the advancing forces, but it did not help. The island was clearly too small to show up on the large map of the Pacific that she could see: a National Geographic map. It seemed strangely out of place here.

More, recently-wounded Japanese, dejected and downcast, were being brought in more often, their wounds just hours old, so the conflict was getting closer with smoke visible on the horizon.

Those still conscious, were mentally and physically exhausted, bloodied and beaten, and showed it in their dejected manner that they could not hide from her. They felt defeated and were almost hysterical at being beaten, openly crying in their shame at being alive.

They suffered cruelly, but not cruelly enough to her way of seeing it, with their horrific wounds and extensive burns where they had been subjected to flame throwers. They feared them, scorching them out of their caves, more than they feared anything else.

For every burn victim who managed to come into the hospital, she knew that ten or twenty, had died where he had come from, or were shot when they tried to get out with their clothing on fire, or had suffocated for lack of oxygen. She understood most of the body language where she did not understand the spoken word.

They had been surprised, taken off guard by the ferocity of the American assault. Their greatest shame, which they were made to feel, was that they still lived.

That was why Mashito did not care about them, but despised them for their dereliction of duty, and their weakness. They should not be here, but should have died fighting to the very end. When the time came he would show them how a true warrior died.

Rebecca smiled. She would try to help them recover their honor, to see them eased out of this world, but slowly, and not as obviously as Madison had done. Not yet.

The smell of gangrene was not as noticeable as it once had been. They did not live long enough.

With each death, Mashito was less and less caring, but made preparations for the end. He did not care. War would soon overrun them all. More prisoners of war were present too. They were even more poorly fed than before, with supplies dwindling. One day’s rations had to feed two Japanese, and was not to be wasted on the prisoners who would soon be dead anyway.

Another few days? Hours? Who could know when the invasion would come? It had better come quickly or they would all be dead by attrition, and from disease.

Mashito knew when the invasion might come, or could guess, but he did not say. He visited her less of a night now, as she became more busy, and he became more and more morose and impatient with his own officers and soldiers. So there was one benefit to be thankful for.

Rebecca prepared.

When the invasion began, provided they had warning, Mashito would order all of the prisoners to be murdered, no matter what the Geneva Convention might say. If he could evacuate the wounded Japanese on one of the few craft that still were useable, he might take her with him to tend to them, or to see to his own personal needs until she was no longer useful to him, or they managed to come close to Japan, and then he would put her overboard.

One morning, Rebecca noticed a subtle change in him. News had come over the camp radio. Orders. Everyone was issued more ammunition, and sandbags were built up higher around the machine gun nests and the single functioning AA gun. There was a heightened state of readiness, less strutting, less arrogance. More agitation.

There would be no evacuation. They were ordered to prepare for an invasion and to fight to the death. That was always the order when there was an imminent invasion. To the death!

The doctor had told her that. He had spoken good English from his western education and he had been as kind as he dared to be. With him now dead, murdered by his own commanding officer, that one linkage for her to understand what was happening and changing around them had been severed. She would have to rely upon her keen observation to understand changes, even as they happened.

Rebecca noticed that the wounded in the hospital were given weapons and grenades. They would be given another chance to make their ancestors proud of them. They were careful to keep any weapons out of her way as she tended to them, knowing what she might be capable of. They had all heard what the previous nurse had done to them.

There was greater tension, raised voices, officers suffering humiliation, being slapped several times, even in her presence, the ultimate humiliation, before Mashito dismissed them and turned to attend to her.

Invasion seemed to be only hours away.

She knew that Mashito would soon come to her for the last time. She saw the way he looked at her, with his knowledge of his own coming defeat and death, and knew the way his mind worked. He would assault her body one last time before he killed her, and then would give the order to kill every prisoner. It fitted with her own suddenly formulated plans now. She knew what she would do.

When he next came into the hospital, he just pointed as he dismissed her guard, sending him off to a machine gun post just outside of the hospital to await his summoning him again. She went into her room knowing that Mashito approached behind her.

He closed the door this time, wanting some privacy where he had never bothered before, intending to take his time about it with it likely being the last time he would be able to fuck her.

Unlike those previous times, she did not wait for him to undress her but got rid of her coat herself. She wanted an end to this too. She stood proudly, defiantly naked before him. He did not notice that, as he saw only her body with growing sensations, and an excitement he was helpless to ignore or to hide. He began to undress himself, laying his swords and his personal things aside as he put his clothing, all of his clothing, carefully folded for once, onto the desk. Today, he intended to take his time with her, kill her, and then he would die as a soldier should. Or so he thought.

His own wife in Tokyo had never excited him as this woman constantly did. He was angry with himself over his lack of control with her, this despised American, but could do nothing about it. He was besotted with her. This one was always on his mind, and not his wife or daughters.

As he came above her, kneeling between her legs, he paid only perfunctory attention to her breasts this time. He was not sure how much time he had. He pushed her legs apart with his own, touching her, opening her, then settling into her with a sigh of satisfaction as he usually did, entering her easily, unlike the first time.

She grasped hold of the bamboo frame as he did that, to hold herself still as he pushed hard into her, harder than ever before. This would be his last time with her, and she felt it. He had submerged his concerns for this one moment of pleasure left to him, over the reality of the coming invasion, and focused upon only what he was now doing, and for possibly the last time, feeling his excitement rising as the perspiration began to break out on his body.

Rebecca slowly retrieved that knife from the bed frame, waiting patiently for her opportunity. She even moved with him this time, encouraging, helping him to come quickly, as she never had before to get it over with the quicker. She wondered if he sensed that.

He became increasingly distracted as his excitement over what he was doing to her reached its pinnacle.

Then, the moment she had been waiting for arrived as he stiffened up on her, pushed, pushed again, and came at last with a few grunts and gasps. He arched his back as he pushed hard into her with his eyes tightly closed at that moment, against the suddenly bright light from outside, no different from what it had been a minute or two earlier, causing him discomfort in his excitement as he reached his climax in her. He froze as he ejaculated, both of his hands beside her on the bed, his left one inside of her right arm.

This was what she had waited for. She quickly brought the doctor’s knife up from the bed frame, and drove the blade through his neck, exposed above her. He was unable to let out a cry to bring others to assist him with that knife severing his wind-pipe as it passed into his neck.

She did it again.

Blood spurted into her face, into her eyes, her nose, and into her mouth from his severed jugular veins. She could taste it.

His eyes were wide with shock, and blazed with sudden anger, pain, and futility. He could not believe that she had dared do this to him, but, aware, too late, that she had done something terrible to him. His hand reached slowly up to his neck to feel. It was trembling in horror with what he felt and found, understanding what she had done to him.

Triumphant, but not fully revenged upon him yet for what he had repeatedly done to her, Rebecca pushed him off her, feeling him slip out of her, and she rolled with him off the bed onto the floor with a thump, landing upon him, knowing that he would be unable to shout out or do anything else with his vocal cords severed, spouting blood, and bleeding out.

She hit him again and again in the face with her fists, as he tried to get her off him and call for help, even kill her for what she was daring to do.

She took the knife out, causing more blood to spurt, and then hit him with it in the neck again. She wanted to stab him once for each time he had fucked her, but she would never have time for that. His eyes were wide now with shock and surprise, though his hands had risen to her arms and up from there, to try and grasp her about the neck to kill her before he died, feeling what she was doing to him as she straddled him, but there was no strength in his grasp.

She raised over his face on her knees as he stared up at her in disbelief, and she dribbled his own fluids from her vagina back into his eyes and mouth, then pissed on him, into his face, nose, mouth; stinging his eyes, though he was beyond feeling it, letting him see her do that in the ultimate act of contempt for him and everything he represented.

Before he slipped into final unconsciousness, she turned, grasped him hard, by his now limp penis and scrotal sack, pulled, and took everything off with one sweep of that same knife, just as Madison had done with those others in the hospital, careful not to cut herself the way she was trembling with adrenaline-driven emotion, then forced them into his open mouth, and part-way into his throat, as the Japanese had done with others, and as Madison had also done, that dreadful night.

He tried to scream, uttering only gurgling sounds as he fought for air, his legs alternately extending and relaxing as he tried to kick, but without aim or control over them.

The hatred she felt had steeled her to do things she would never have been able to do at any other time.

She should cut his heart out and eat it as the Mayans did, but did not have time. But she could do other things. She was breathing with pent up emotions, almost as though she had climaxed herself, or had run a lengthy race.

“For Madison, you inhuman bastard.” She smiled down at him as she spoke those words, a look of triumph on her face.

The look in her eyes was the last thing he saw as she spoke those words. She saw that he understood, just as those men, the prisoners, understood what was happening to them, even as Mashito’s sword had taken off their heads.

Rebecca’s mother, a strict Pentecostal, would have disowned her daughter for using language like that, but Rebecca knew that she would have been forgiven, considering what he had done to her daughter. Such a rapid death was much more than he deserved.

He lost consciousness in seconds, and bled out over the cracks in the rough planking as his pumping heart found less and less blood to move. His blood pooled, then dribbled down onto the sand beneath the hut, unnoticed by anyone. The flies would soon arrive.

His wife might thank Rebecca for freeing her from this brute.

Her room, the mattress, her body, her clothing on the floor, were all covered with his blood. She would certainly die for what she had done, but she did not care any more than Madison had cared. She still had time to do more, if she could, but she could not go back into the ward looking like this, and naked. The only comfort was that they would remember her, just as they remembered Madison, little as they would want to.

She had no fear that they would be interrupted at any time when Mashito was with her like this. His officers knew enough not to enter while he was in there, no matter what they heard from that room, and doing what he often did in there to the nurse. They would never dare enter his presence without his permission. Only the doctor had done that. Once, while he had been fucking Rebecca. And he was now dead.

She pulled him onto his face and, feeling where his cervical vertebrae were, finding a junction near the skull, she inserted the knife-point, placing all of her weight upon it to drive it between the bones and sever ligaments, muscles, tendons, to separate them. She could feel the bone giving, splintering under the point of the knife, and then brought the knife down to the floor in a slicing action with all of her weight on it. She completed that same action on the other side, repeating it in her attempts to separate the head from the body. If only she could do the same for all of the other Japanese out there.

She placed the head on her desk where the light from the open window space shone across it, so that whoever came in, would be unable to avoid seeing it. The ever-vigilant flies would come first, however.

She rolled his headless torso away from her as she moved the coconut fiber covering, sodden with his blood, to one side, lifted the planks, and then brought his headless torso back over, to fall through the narrow gap to the sand underneath the hut, out of sight. His body was followed by his clothes from the desk, his personal belongings, his ‘notebook’, which he always kept near him, and his swords. She should have used that sword to take his head off instead of the knife, but it would have been too cumbersome to use in that small space. She re-laid the planks by turning them over, replacing them to hide as much of the blood as she could.

Her mind was clear now. She opened a bottle of Sake from one of the cases, laid back on her bed with her legs bent and, feeling for her still open vagina, and opening it further with her fingers, she inserted the neck of the bottle a little way, and poured the bottle’s contents into her and over her, focusing on relaxing, changing her position and taking as much of it into her vagina as would go until it ran out and over her, to kill everything he had left there. She squeezed it out of her and repeated it. Not one sperm from that monster, should live for even another second in her body, even if she died soon after.

Sloshing the remainder of the bottle into her basin, she squatted over it, splashing it up at herself and felt everything drain from her. He could watch her now from his place on that desk, with his mouth full of his own genitals, and her piss still stinging his eyes in death, dripping from his hair, running own his blood-streaked face, tracing out clear trails, and it did not matter.

When his own soldiers saw him like that, they would be horrified, relieved to be rid of such a martinet, then angry at what she had done. They would then be looking for her, if she were still alive.

Had she been able to send his head, with his genitals in his mouth, to his wife in Tokyo, she would have done so. It would have been her final revenge. Maybe they would do it for her, to show how he had died at the end, and to make his ancestors weep in shame.

She washed herself all over with more of the Sake, striving to remove all trace of fresh blood from her face and hair, and then donned her bloody coat from the floor.

She would look like the demented Lady Macbeth when she emerged to show them what she had done, though she had not murdered a royal guest in her own house, but had executed a monster, in his own.

She waited with a thumping heart, but in a coldly calculating way, as she thought about what to do next to add to what she had begun, and before they discovered what she had done, and killed her. There were grenades that she might have access to. One or two of those would kill everyone here.

She gained some comfort from knowing that Madison had been just as calculating in what she had done, when she had taken her revenge, and had taken her time about it. Hours, even, to kill all of those men, one by one, suffocating them with a pillow, cutting their throats, injecting them arterially with a syringe-full of air, and then castrating them, stuffing everything in their mouths, before she had opened her own wrists.

Rebecca did not have hours. Nor would she kill herself. She drank deeply from another bottle of Sake, intending to become inebriated, as Madison must have done, to make her death less traumatic or to become less fearful. Dutch courage. It was only a saying. The few Dutch she knew were courageous enough. Some of that alcohol would also be absorbed from the walls of her vagina, but at least she had cleaned him out of her. She smiled at what she had done, and even at the needless futility of it. She’d had no need to have bothered douching as she had. Death would be only minutes away for her now, but it was the principal of the thing. Not for even a second, should any life from that, struggle to get a toehold in her body, no matter how tenuous, or brief.

It would not be long now, but at least she had got her revenge upon her biggest and only tormenter. Her only disappointment was that history would never know what she had done, but there were a thousand tales like that.

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