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Reviews
A collaborative review by Leslie H. Nicoll
and Natasha Villion at Speak Its Name Review Blog.
Let's start the year with a five star review, shall we? If
you are hankering for a well written, historically
accurate World War II story that will tug at your
heartstrings, The Lonely War by Alan Chin should go
straight to the top of your TBR pile.
This story both terrified and enthralled me. I was born in
Singapore to a Malay/Indian mother and a white Royal Navy
father in the 1960s. So WW2 was still quite fresh in
people's minds. Singapore had expelled the communists and
had moved away from British rule. It was a glorious
upbringing but the underlying sadness of those that lived
through WW2 was ever present.
Changi had become a full prison but the beaches around it
were a popular swimming place for locals and us temporary
locals. There were still small Malay villages with houses
sitting on stilts with their palm frond roofs. The old men
sat in the shade and watched the mad Europeans dash around
the beach playing cricket and other English staple sports.
I was raised by a Malay woman who was both our amah (maid)
and nanny. She told my sister and me stories of the
Japanese invasion of her island and how her father had
helped smuggle British and Australian soldiers out of the
prison and into Malaysia .
My mother told me stories of her father and grandfather
and the torture they suffered at Changi prison during the
war. They were accused of aiding and spying for the
British, which they most proudly did. My great grandfather
died during one of these torture sessions watched by his
son, my grandfather.
I have yet to come across any Asian who is bitter about
the war. Maybe they know more about forgiveness than I do.
This story, The Lonely War by Alan Chin, is about Andrew
Waters, an Asian American seaman with the US Navy.
The book is written in three distinct parts. The first is
set aboard the US Navy ship, The Pilgrim; the second, at
Changi prison; and the third, in Japan , after the war has
ended.
Raised in Southeast Asia and forced to leave when it was
invaded, Andrew tries to make a life for himself as a
Buddhist and pacifist in the US Navy. It was his
American father's wish that Andrew join the Navy and
Andrew, being a good Asian son, complies. He is very well
educated but not of officer rank. He struggles to maintain
a polite distance from all the other men on the ship
except one.
The first part of the story, while aboard the USS Pilgrim,
has Andrew battling wits with an officer, who is both
enthralled and confused by him. This part of the book sets
the tone and pace of a love story that lasts a lifetime.
It also shows what life was like for non-whites during WW2
and the way they were treated and what was expected of
them. It is a good depiction of life aboard a ship of war.
Part One ends when the ship is attacked and the men are
taken prisoner by the enemy.
Part Two is set during the prisoners' internment at Changi
prison, run by the Japanese. For me, this section of the
book was terrifying, as I knew from family accounts how
ruthless the Japanese were. Even telling such a horrific
tale, the writing was very tastefully done. Some of what
is described is completely believable, such as the making
protein from insects to trade among prisoners. In this
part of the story, Andrew shines, although you might not
realize it at first. His love for his officer makes him do
something that changed him forever. I liked the way this
part of the book unfolded and Andrew's dilemma was
handled. It wasn't gratuitous or unbelievable. He kept the
soul of himself intact and that alone made this section
more believable for this reader.
Part Three is Andrew's journey after the war; it is about
promises kept and finding your humanity. His soul is
shattered and bleeding. Andrew's journey in body and
spirit is harrowing. His loss and failings are
heartbreaking and the writing is so true to his experience
that it hurts to read. This kind, gentle, man has nowhere
to turn and no one to turn to and it leaves such a bitter
taste in your heart you don't know if you can recover or
if he can.
This part sold the story for me. It was so well written
that you feel every blade in Andrew's soul.
This part sold the story for me. It was so well written
that you feel every blade in Andrew's soul.
I know this story sounds more about war than love, but is
it? The author Alan Chin, has written a very good story
about WW2 from an Asian American perspective. It is a
story of a life-altering experience during internment at
one of the most barbaric prisons in Asia and redemption
after the war. I found it a truthful telling of one man's
life and a faithful account of the war in Asia . I also
found a love story that will stay with me long after the
last page has been read. I fell in love with all these
brave men and I wish them well wherever they might land.
I find I can honestly give the book 5 stars. The
historical accuracy was outstanding and that, here at
Speak It's Name, is the gold standard by which I judge a
book and in that respect, it definitely earned its stars.
To conclude, I sometimes wonder why I like war stories so
much, since I certainly don't like war! Maybe it is
because the well-written ones do so much to point out the
futility and ultimate uselessness of killing each other;
that being brutal and hateful is not the way to solve
problems even when we are put up against evil people. But
we persist. In The Lonely War, Chin makes us ask those
hard questions again, framing them against the background
of very real men caught up in extraordinary and terrible
circumstances. He puts World War II on a human plane,
which is, for the soldiers and sailors--men like
Andrew--how it was fought. As I closed the last page, my
heart ached for all of them.
I would suggest that a fitting resolution for 2010 is to
put this book on your "must read" list sooner, rather than
later. It's that good and Tish and I recommend it
wholeheartedly.
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Excerpt
PART I
The Pilgrim
It has been said that Common souls pay with what they do,
nobler souls with that which they are. And why? Because a
profound nature awakens in us by their actions and words, by
their very looks and manners. Unknown
March 20, 1941, 0800 hours
In the spring of 1941, the Japanese army surged across the
border from China to extend their bloody campaign to all of
Southeast Asia . As war crept south, the French, English,
and Americans scattered throughout Indochina hastened to
Saigon , where they boarded ocean liners bound for their
homelands. Meanwhile, the Japanese army massed on the
outskirts of the city, poised for another victorious
assault. The city held its breath.
Andrew Waters pursued his father across a bustling wharf,
still wearing his boarding school uniform and clutching a
bamboo flute. The ship that loomed before him was a floating
city, mammoth, with numerous passenger decks and topped by
two massive stacks that muddied the sky with exhaust. It had
been berthed at the inland port on a tributary of the Mekong
for a full week, but Andrew saw the crew now scurrying to
get underway.
The wharf trembled slightly, and he heard the rat-tat-tat of
gunfire over the sirens blaring from the center of the city.
Andrew's father sported a tussore-silk suit of superlative
cut and a Panama hat tilted so the brim hid his right eye.
His tall figure marched purposefully towards the
black-and-white behemoth, and his normally long gait
lengthened with noticeable desperation.
Andrew, who was nearly eighteen, paused and panted from an
acute nervy rush. He searched the sky for planes. They were
still beyond his field of vision, but the drone of bombers
echoed through the cloud cover. The rumble of explosions
grew loud, and the air carried the faint stench of sulfur.
He hurried on, jostling through a milange of beings,
Caucasians dressed in fine western clothes (like his
father), rich Chinese in their silks, merchants in
long-sleeved jackets, coolies wearing only tattered shorts.
Voices all around him shouted while the harsh twang of a
military band playing "Auld Lang Syne" vaulted above that
unbridled confusion of humanity.
Directly behind him trotted an aged wisp of a monk, who wore
the traditional orange robes and held a string of wooden
prayer beads. Each bead was the size of a marble and had the
chalky gray coloring of Mekong silt. The monk's thumb
deliberately ticked past each bead, one after another, like
a timer counting down the seconds. Behind the monk came the
porters carrying four steamer trunks.
At the gangway, Andrew's father told him to quickly make his
goodbye then sprinted up the ramp with the porters in tow.
Surrounded in a press of bodies, the youth reverently
embraced the monk. The old man wrapped his arms around
Andrew and drew him nearer. The monk's breath tickled his
neck, which helped to dissolves his anxieties.
Using the native tongue of South China , he whispered,
"Master, I'll come home as soon as I can."
The old monk's face contracted, as if Andrew had posed a
difficult question.
"Andrew, war and time will whisk away everything that you
love. This is our farewell."
The youth wiped away a tear that broke free from his
almond-shaped eyes and slid down his amber-colored cheek.
"Master, I will strive to apply everything you have taught
me."
"No, Andrew. You will forget my lessons. Such is the nature
of youth. But remember this, since you are American by
birth, they will surely draft you. So, on the battlefield,
resist the hate that is born from fear. Nurture only love in
your heart, Andrew. To love all beings is Buddha-like and
transcends us from the world of pain, for love is the
highest manifestation of life. To experience love's full
bounty is life's only purpose, so tread the moral path
before you and sacrifice yourself to love. All else is
folly, a dream of the ego."
Baffled, Andrew replied, "Master, I do not understand about
sacrificing myself to love."
The old monk's eyes opened wide and his lips spread into a
grin.
"Meditate on what I have said. Understanding will come when
you are ready." He methodically bundled his string of beads
into a ball roughly the size and shape of a monkey's skull
and forced them into Andrew's left pants pocket. "Keep these
beads to remind yourself of our time together."
The pressure against Andrew's thigh felt awkward, and before
the monk pulled away, Andrew became distracted, thinking of
how fortunate this man was to be wise and compassionate in
the midst of the impending carnage. He realized it took
impeccable courage to maintain one's morality during
perilous times, courage that he himself did not possess.
He had always assumed he would live a quiet, studious and
spiritual life under this old monk's guardianship, and
eventually become the old man who stood before him. That
image was shattered when war turned the world on its head.
Now, all Andrew could think about was getting on that ship
and sailing to safety, if such a thing existed.
The ship's whistle cut the air, long and terrible and loud
enough to be heard throughout the city. The monk pressed his
hands together in front of his forehead and bowed, silently,
finally.
Another blast from the ship's whistle sent Andrew running up
the gangway, leaving the earthy world of South China behind.
He joined his father on the first-class deck. Entombed in
steel, heavy riveted plates of metal underfoot that curved
into walls, he jammed together with the other passengers at
the rail, peering down at the apprehensive faces. Their body
heat added to the stifling temperature. Sweat dribbled down
his neck, and he had to gasp to get enough air.
Lines fell away, and the gangway was hauled aboard. Tugs
pushed the ship into the middle of the channel and withdrew,
leaving the ship to the whim of the current.
Andrew stared straight down at the dense, opaque surface of
the river. It reflected the cloudy sky, making the water
seem gray rather than the usual brown, yellowish streaks of
oil running with the current. The flat moving surface seemed
strangely alive, carrying him along, muscling him
downstream, as if it were an overwhelming force whose
motives he could only guess at.
On the dock, Asian women held their infants over their heads
for a last look. Handkerchiefs waved. The band played on.
He saw the first planes against the darkening sky, droning
above the city. Explosions grew even louder, and from his
perch on the first-class deck, he saw sections of the city
erupting. He turned northeast towards his boarding school.
Flames. That entire section of the city was engulfed in
fire, as if hell had opened its mouth to swallow it whole.
"Clifford," he whispered.
A searing stab of regret lodged in his chest. He had been
forced to abandon the object of his adolescent love, and he
imagined himself dashing through the chaotic streets to
reach the boarding school. There was still time, he thought.
They could disappear into the forest. They could live on,
together. He wanted to perform that fatal act of love, but
he wondered if he could really muster the courage to defy
his father.
Reluctantly, at least it felt that way to him, he climbed
onto the railing to dive overboard, because he realized the
love he shared with Clifford wasn't a trifling adolescent
crush at all but rather a deep and consuming love. A love
that had somehow been lost in the joys of youth like water
in dry sand, and was only now realized.
His father pulled him back, forcing him to stay and suffer
what felt like an unquenchable loss. Locked in his father's
embrace, he entered a narrow canyon of desolation, knowing
the days and hours and minutes ahead would be heartbreaking,
and that he might not be strong enough to endure it.
The ship's siren sounded three blasts for its farewell
salute. The engines throbbed, and propellers chewed the
river. The noise swelled to a din like the end of the world.
The passengers on deck could no longer hide their sorrow.
Everyone wept, not only those people parting but the
onlookers as well. Even the dockhands and porters shed
tears.
The ship traveled downstream as the military band played
"The Star-Spangled Banner."
To Andrew, the orange-robed figure crushed within the throng
on the dock seemed at odds with the fires raging across the
city. He now fully understood the monk's words, that war
would steal everything he loved, that a way of life, their
way of life, had perished. Pain flooded his whole being,
like that of a baby prematurely ripped from its protective
womb.
He pulled away from his father's embrace and staggered
farther down the deck to cry without being seen. He
positioned himself at the rail, one arm folded around a
steel support beam and his face pressed against the hot
metal.
People on the wharf seemed to hesitate, then regretfully
turned and scurried away. He watched the smudge of orange,
scarcely visible and standing at the edge of the pier,
utterly still, quiescent, until the harbor faded from view
and the land disappeared as well, slowly swallowed beneath
the curve of the earth.
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