A few weeks after Liberation Day. 1944.
Thousands of Chamorros were in temporary refugee camps. American guards watched the perimeter of these camps because some Japanese soldiers were still on the loose, only too happy to take shots at Chamorro civilians and American soldiers alike.
Out of the blue, an American guard heard a rustle. Looking in the sound's direction, he sees the figure of a man in the distance, but cannot make out who he is; friend or foe.
The guard shouts out to the man to identify himself. Silence. He calls out a second time. Again, silence. Finally a third time. This time, no silence, but instead, the blast of the American guard's gun. The man in the distance falls. Now, silence - dead silence.
The guard carefully goes up to see who he has just killed. The dead man is not Japanese. He is Chamorro. Why he never responded to the guard's shouts, no one knows.