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When You Were Absent, Part II
by Archibald Cook
E ver since my arrival in the Far East in 1920, a spectre haunted me. Its shadow always fell across any plans I might make. It was always present to spoil some joyous moment. It loomed larger in moments of indecision or depression. There was no escape from it, and with the passage of time it grew less spectral and more real. The first gossamer threads of the web were changing to meshes of steel. The tiny voice altered to a raucous dissonance from the radio as it re echoed the world's statesmen. Slowly, inexorably, as a glacier moves to the sea, the drama moved on. Experts hastened to reassure "that of course it couldn't be," but in the same breath asked for haste in the re armament program. My fear, my spectre, was the possibility of again, the second time in my lifetime, becoming a prisoner of war. The fear of physical torture beyond the capacity to endure, a fear of being required to fulfill the hard grind of coolie work under the last of a captor with a body no longer capable of long hours on a starvation diet, the horror of grueling manual work on roads, or wharves, or in mines. It was not the fear of death. Are we not taught it is good and sweet to die for one's country? From 1920 to 1937 a new and vivid chapter of my life was about to begin. Should I resign and withdraw from the East and perhaps escape? By 1938 it was evident that the conflagration in Europe would be the first to ignite. The tempo and success of the European baptism of fire would determine the torch kindling moment for the fires of hatred and war in the East.
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