I was sitting at the Menzi porch talking to Paul Hartnal about Joe being on the boat that was sunk, how he was an expert swimmer and probably saved himself only to be shipped out again from San Fernando. Paul gave a queer look at Margot Menzi and she turned to face me:

Henry, I meant to tell you this before but ... I met a boy who was a survivor on one of the ships and he said Joe was on it and our good friend Bill Pearce too.... He thinks they had no chance. You see, there were 1,800 on board cramped in the holds for 36 hours, and about half of them suffocated that first night.... The next morning an American plane scored a direct hit on the deck and the ship blew up. Only five were saved, and of these, two subsequently died so there were only three survivors. He knew Joe — 'a good friend of his' — he said.

Her voice trailed off and she looked sick.

"Oh, that story ... but that was last October," I said.

"No," said Paul, "it was December ... about the 15th or 16th."

I couldn't believe it. I questioned them relentlessly, seeking to extract any trace of doubt. "But ... did he really know Joe?" I almost cried.

"Yes, he knew Joe. He said to me: 'Joe Brimo? Yes, I knew him ... a good friend of mine. And he was well too, better than anyone else.'" And Joe was that too, probably fitter than most when he was captured. A feeling of rage and helplessness swept over me.

"I'll not tell mother," I said tentatively.

"Oh no, don't," said Margot, "there's always a chance isn't there?"

Hartnal changed the subject by saying there was a message for my dad at Santo Tomas from my brother Paul. And that's how God took Joe away from me today, and as a comforter, brought a letter from my other brother in the States, our first word from him in a long time.

. . . .

continues...