Bridge of Scarlet Leaves (28 page)

Authors: Kristina McMorris

BOOK: Bridge of Scarlet Leaves

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Maddie’s emotions bubbled over, along with her tears. Unable to resist, she dared to lay her hand on Kumiko’s shoulder. The woman didn’t pull away; she continued to sway, back and forth, whispering what sounded like a prayer. Only when Maddie leaned closer did she make out the Japanese words, repeated over and over like a chant.

“Please, not again.... please, not again... .”

T
hey were on a secret, two-plane recon mission with a bonus of dropping a payload. Since his crew’s reassignment to the 5th Air Force in New Guinea, TJ had grown to miss the luxuries of his old base. Granted, from the air, the islands they’d been bombing for the past month could easily pass as Hawaii. Palm trees split up by mountain ranges. Beaches and rain forests dotting an endless supply of water. Ironic that whoever did the most damage got to claim the territory. Congratulations, you blew it to hell. Enjoy your prize.

Closing in on the targets at last, the airmen moved to their stations. Before the shark episode, TJ had been pretty fond of their gatherings in the radio room, a nice place to keep warm. On return stretches the gunners would sit in there, listening to tunes like

“Take the ‘A’ Train” and “Don’t Fence Me In” on Armed Forces Radio. Aircrews became like family, against the regulations of military pecking order, and TJ’s was no different. Except now, he chose to be the token black sheep. In spite of the cramped quarters, he parked himself in the tail as often as possible. He’d rediscovered the comfort of solitude. Once more, he was on the mound. Like hand signs during a game, nothing but voices crackling over the intercom connected him to his team.

That’s how it should have stayed all along.

Oxygen mask on, a requirement at over ten thousand feet, TJ manned his guns. He scanned the Philippine skies for enemy aircraft. The B-17s were known as Flying Fortresses, and for good reason. That’s exactly how they felt. Sturdy and safe. But this, like so much of life, was an illusion. Just last week, those fortresses had escorted three crews from their base to the Promised Land. One plane had cracked up on landing, another exploded mid-air. A third flew through “soup” hiding the broadside of a mountain. Here today, gone tomorrow.

This was the inescapable reality that had guided TJ to mail Jo a short note before his transfer from Kahuku. Several combat missions later—destroying convoys, warships, cargo vessels, and subs—and that blasted letter still clung to his thoughts.

Dear Jo,

By now, I’m guessing you’ve received a stack of letters from me. Please do me this favor—rip them up, burn them to ashes, throw them out. They were just the ramblings of a tired airman who wasn’t thinking straight. Truth of it is, they were only sent out by mistake. You’re a sweet gal and you deserve to be happy, but with another guy. As harsh as it might sound, I don’t care about you enough to have you wait for me. I’m sorry if this hurts you. Just wouldn’t be fair to keep leading you on.

Imagining her reaction to the cold message had tempted TJ to pitch the page into the trash. He was wild about that girl, no two ways about it.

But then, that was precisely the reason he had to let her go.

“They’re rolling out the welcome mat, fellas,” Tack warned. “Hold on tight.”

Adrenaline heightened TJ’s awareness. Antiaircraft guns on Samar Island were peppering the sky with flak. Those impact-bursting shells were every bomber’s nightmare.

Cabbie yawed the plane, evading, but one exploded near the port wing. The concussion gave their ship a violent shake. Thick smoke smudged the view. TJ squinted, searching for Zeroes, the notorious Japanese fighter planes. Sweat trailed the inside of his flight suit. A second burst knocked him to the side. Their fuselage was taking a pounding.

He regained his grip on his weapon, heart contracted in his chest. Their lead plane, another B-17, dropped back into his sights; fire blazed in an orange ball from its right inboard engine. Its whole body seemed to pause, suspended like black smoke from flak, before dropping off sideways.

Two ... three ... four parachutes plumped into white mushrooms.

“They’re shooting at the flyers,” Tack yelled. “The bastards are shootin’ ’em!” Fury in his voice swept straight into the tail section, where it gripped TJ’s body. The airmen drifting downward should have been seen as surrendering. Evidently, Japs respected the Geneva Conventions no more than the fleet they’d decimated at Pearl Harbor.

“Bombs away,” the bombardier hollered. Their ship lurched upward upon releasing the demolitions: fragmentation clusters and 100-pound GPs. An airstrip lit up. A fuel-supply depot heaved fire and smoke at the sky. “Bomb-bay doors closing,” he announced after the radio operator had verified all bombs were clear. The noise and shaking dimmed. “Let’s get our asses home.”

Mission completed.

TJ sat back on his seat. Their sleek ol’ bird had survived another run. Typically, after nerves settled, this would be chow time. K rations that hadn’t frozen from the altitude. Hard candies as backup. Today, though, no food sounded appealing. All TJ could think about were those floating mushrooms being raked with lead.

He let out a breath, one he sucked right back in at the sight of red taillights. “Got Zeroes—two Zeroes—at eight o’clock level!” TJ laid on the trigger, short bursts of .50-cal slugs. The first of the pair peeled to the right. “One’s coming around!”

“I see it,” Ranieri yelled. Bullets whizzed between the planes.

Focus,
TJ told himself. Without the buffer of a squadron’s formation, he’d have to focus. Circling a track in the rear of a pickup, while shooting disks that didn’t fire back, might not have been the most effective training for combat. Still, he could do this. If he didn’t panic, he could do this.

He went after the rear fighter with another spray of gunfire.
Hula Hattie
rocked and shuddered.

“Hang in there, girl,” he said, just seconds before the Zero disappeared behind a cloud.

TJ ordered his nerves to take the bench. There wasn’t room enough in the tail section for anything but confidence. He’d been here before—down three runs in the ninth inning, full count. All he needed was one good strike, straight into the catcher’s mitt. His dad had taught him that; concentrate on one pitch at a time.

The Zero sprang up from its cover. It unloaded machine-gun fire on
Hattie,
piercing a small hole in the skin of her tail. TJ swore the goggled pilot was smirking, and that’s all the incentive he needed. Leading the target, TJ opened up with a string of purposeful shots. Soon billowing smoke sailed from the nose, and the little white plane sputtered and dove toward the sea. The bright red dot beneath its wing shrank on descent. Another rising sun had set.

TJ declared the kill over the intercom, then swiveled in his seat, ready to pick off the other Zero. But Ranieri got him first.

Cabbie called out for a status check. Shrapnel had ripped through the navigator’s flight pants, yet merely grazed his leg. Somehow, everyone had made it through in one piece.

Once below ten thousand feet, TJ pulled off his mask. Nobody spurted words of celebration. Maybe they were reflecting on the crew that wouldn’t be coming back. Maybe, like TJ, they just wanted to go home.

Daylight waned as they soared over a long runway of ocean. All that water was making TJ thirsty. He unplugged his heated flight suit so he could go fetch a drink. Chest-pack parachute in hand, he went to unhook his headset when the co-pilot spoke. Their number-four engine had up and quit. TJ stayed in the tail, waiting to hear all was clear.

Cabbie summoned the engineer to feather the props. Angling the blades would at least cut back air resistance. Three engines could get them through, but four was ideal, and they still had a ways to go.

“Damn gremlins,” the co-pilot muttered. The invisible elflike creatures were often blamed for mechanical troubles on warplanes. For the sake of the Allies, TJ hoped gremlins didn’t pick sides.

From the cockpit, the pilots and flight engineer traded suggestions, experimented to restart the engine. Then the ship’s usual drone quieted a bit. Not in a peaceful way.

“Number three’s out!” the engineer reported. The whole wing was dead.

Hattie
groaned into a straight plummet. TJ braced his hands against the walls. A boost in the throttle tilted the port wing up and drove them into a sharp circle. Restrained yells ricocheted back and forth on the flight deck—about lowering the RPMs to level them out. Nothing worked. They were losing altitude and speed, two things you didn’t want to be short on while in flight.

Do something,
TJ thought, even though he himself had no piloting skills. All he had were remnants of wishful thinking, which fled the moment someone shouted, “Prepare to ditch!”

A mix of screams and orders and prayers had to have traveled over the intercom. But strangely, TJ heard nothing in his headset. Instead, an utter calm enveloped him. This was the end. They were falling too fast, being tossed too much, for a clean bailout. They were trapped in their own Fortress, yet somehow, TJ felt indescribable relief.

“I’ll see you soon,” he whispered to his mother.

And he closed his eyes.

PART FIVE

Look upon the wrath of the enemy.
If thou knowest only what it is to conquer,
and knowest not what it is to be defeated,
woe unto thee.

—Tokugawa Ieyasu, Edo shogun

L
ane didn’t dare touch her. The expression on her face emitted a sheer sense of peace. Though still tanned from the desert sun, Maddie resembled an angel as she slept beside him, oblivious to morning’s light filling the bedroom. A quilt rested low on her bare back, her muscles toned since moving to the Illinois farm.

After the incidents at Manzanar, families in jeopardy had been relocated to Cow Creek, a former civilian conservation camp in Death Valley. From newspapers, he’d learned about the protest and the Black Dragons. Maddie’s letters added accounts of nurses who’d saved Fred Tayama by hiding him under a bed, and factory workers who had bravely guarded the Moritomos’ apartment.

Nothing, however, shocked Lane more than the description of his mother embracing Emma for hours, of the woman’s tears spilling when her daughter regained consciousness.

The protected evacuees, sixty-five total, had apparently rallied together to make the abandoned camp livable. Within a few months, the American Friends Committee had helped place them in jobs and homes free of barbed wire, almost entirely in Midwestern states. Until then, everyone—refugees, soldiers, WRA staff—had shared facilities. The same showers, same meal tables. A crisis had torn down the walls between them, proving his father’s old saying:
After the rain, the earth hardens.

Now, after spending two days of his furlough on the farm, Lane had to agree. When it came to the ladies in his family, the ground had become more solid after the storm they’d survived. As had their resolve.

He had seen it in Maddie’s eyes last night. Never straying from each other’s gaze, they’d made love slowly, as if moving underwater. Newly gained maturity and assuredness had flowed from the woman in his arms. Even her hair seemed to divide over her shoulder in thicker locks. Her sheer beauty could make any soldier in his right mind go AWOL.

What if he did just that—never returned for his orders? By enlisting, he had put his family in jeopardy. Obviously they needed him more than the Army. He wasn’t an officer or a skilled combatant. He’d had only the barest bones of basic training. How much difference would he really make in the MIS? Permitting Nisei any vital roles in the Military Intelligence Service would contradict the government’s stance of distrust. And one missing Jap GI would hardly constitute a nationwide search.

Why not stay here? He could help out in the fields, wake up beside Maddie every day... .

Breaking from the thought, Lane forced himself from the covers. The temptation would be too great if he shared her bed a minute longer.

Quietly he slid into his khaki trousers and white undershirt. On the way to the door, he leaned over to grab his shoes. Noise from his swinging dog tags caused Maddie to stir. He froze and waited, and found relief when she continued to sleep.

He needed her to dream enough for them both.

An enticing aroma led Lane to the kitchen. Crisp-fried bacon wafted from two plates left on the table. Clean dishes on the drying rack indicated he and Maddie were the last to rise. His hunger fully awoken, he shoveled down his meal in record time. Eggs from the chicken coop, butter freshly creamed, muffins so soft he imagined himself eating a cloud made of corn bread.

To wash it all down, he poured a tall cup of joe. He had never been a fan of the stuff until moving to Camp Savage, where hot beverages were a staple. The Minnesota winter had been absurdly cold. And without heavy doses of caffeine, how could he have survived all those grueling exams on military vocabulary? Lessons on an ancient Japanese script had required all-night cramming sessions in the latrine, a study spot exempt from lights-out. He could still see the flash cards flipping.

All of that faded now as he stepped out onto the wraparound porch. The traditional white farmhouse was weathered but warm. He sipped the strong black coffee to keep himself alert. He couldn’t afford to get too comfortable.

“Morning, soldier.” Mr. Garrett paused while in passing. The farmer’s medium paunch matched the roundness of his face, stubbled with salt-and-pepper at age forty. He had on a red checked shirt that showed as much wear as his cowboy hat. “Catch some good shut-eye?” he asked.

“I did, sir. Thank you.”

“You find your breakfast okay?” He gestured his shovel toward the screen door. Over his other shoulder, he balanced a dirt-crusted hoe.

“It was delicious,” Lane replied. “You’re definitely a better cook than the ones in the Army.”

“Well, the grits yesterday were mine. But can’t take credit for the tasty spread this morning. That was all your ma’s doin’.”

Deep sleep must have plugged Lane’s ears. No way could she have whipped up a meal like that—not only edible, but full of all-American standards. “My mother?” he said.

“Sure as mud.” Mr. Garrett scratched his nose with the work glove on his hand and laughed a little. “The gal couldn’t make toast or fry an egg when she first got here. Just goes to show ya. Amazing what a person can do when they set their mind to it.”

Lane agreed, “It’s amazing all right.”

“Your sis, actually, is teaching her how to milk a cow today. Might want to pull up a seat. Should be an interesting show.” He grinned broadly, the bottom teeth a little crooked.

Lane tried to envision the outlandish scene, but Mr. Garrett’s manner struck it right down. Something wasn’t sitting well. The guy was being ... too nice. He’d welcomed in Lane’s family, offered to provide room and board in addition to small pay. He even drove Emma to and from school. What did he have to gain? Anymore, white folks in America weren’t this generous to Japanese, not without an ulterior motive.

“Well, gotta get back at it,” the farmer said. “Only so many hours the Lord grants you in a day. If you need anything, give me a holler.”

“You bet.” Lane pushed up a smile, which fell as Mr. Garrett turned for the toolshed. Detouring suspicion, Lane centered his thoughts on the meadow, the scents of early spring. When he took another drink, a cynical reflection swayed on the surface. Maybe Mr. Garrett really was a Good Samaritan, a kind widower who’d accepted the female crew to help with cooking and chores, allowing him to better supervise his seasonal field hands.

Given that Lane was due back at the base tomorrow, he certainly hoped that was the case. Just as he hoped Maddie truly enjoyed living here, as she claimed. His aspirations had never included his wife doing manual labor, yet it was a concept he’d have to accept.

As for his mother working a farm, the thought was pretty amusing.

He finished off his mug before journeying into the barn. In a far corner, with their backs to him, Emma and his mother sat beside a cow. They perched on low wooden stools, straw beneath their shoes. The Mahjong socialites in Little Tokyo would have keeled over from the sight.

“See that? You just get in a rhythm,” Emma was instructing. “Mr. Garrett says you always sit on the same side. And once the stream gets going, you use all your fingers, like this.” Shots alternating from two pink teats rattled the metal pail.

Yuki barked from excitement.

Startled, the cow mooed and shuffled backward, causing milk to squirt at Lane’s mother. She gasped and jumped to her feet, hands blocking her face.

“I’m so sorry,” Emma said, frantic with regret.

Milk trailed down their mother’s shirt, a casual button-down, presumably from the late Mrs. Garrett. Brow creased, she brushed away the drops that hadn’t yet soaked in. Ruining another’s belongings could provoke shame in their culture.

“Do you want a towel?” Emma asked. Her shoulders hunched the way they always did before a verbal lashing.

Out of habit Lane went to intervene, stopped by his mother’s response. Not her words specifically. Her tone—as calming as a sunset.

“
Daij

bu yo,”
she said to the girl, an assurance that all was fine. The lines on her forehead softened with her tendering of a smile. Then she reclaimed her stool and patted her daughter on the back. It was a single touch that lasted a mere instant. Emma’s heart, however, melted from the gesture.

Lane knew this for a fact because his did too.

Suddenly, as though sensing his presence, Emma spun around. “
On

san,
you’re awake!” Her cherubic cheeks had thinned, stretched by time that refused to slow. “And it just so happens that today’s your lucky day,” she said.

“Oh? How you figure that?”

“ ’Cause I’m giving milking lessons for free. Tomorrow I start charging.”

“Well, as your brother, I hope I’ll at least get a special rate.”

“You will.” She grinned. “For family, it’ll cost you double.”

Their mother covered a second smile. She seemed to suppress a giggle as she looked at them both. From that look, a feeling of affection swept through the barn, rising past the rafters. When it settled, Lane found a surety of one thing.

For his father to see her now—to view their family like this—he would have paid any amount in the world.

Gravel crunched out a reminder as Lane exited the barn, of the many thousands who remained imprisoned. Overlooking roads just like these, armed guards continued to survey the communities. Self-contained and trapped. A human ant farm. All Lane could do was hope his military service would help set them free.

“A delivery just came for your wife.” Mr. Garrett approached without a smile. He held a sealed envelope marked
Western Union
. “Wasn’t sure if you wanted to wake her.”

Lane accepted the cable and the farmer walked away, a clear gift of privacy. The luxury had become such a rarity; Lane felt the space around him like a cold spot in a summer pond. So much so, a chill covered his arms.

Or was it from anticipation of the message?

Images of TJ snapped into his mind, followed by Maddie’s father.

To protect her, Lane would need to read it first—whether to buffer a tragedy or save her from fretting. Telegrams also brought good news on occasion.

Warily, he opened the envelope. He read the note to the end. Then he read it through again, slower, begging the words to change.

“You should’ve woken me up,” Maddie said sweetly, embracing him from behind. “Unless you’re planning to sweep out the horse stalls, in which case I’ll gladly keep sleeping.”

Lane hesitated in facing her. He wanted to shield her from the pain that would follow. But the news wasn’t his to keep.

He gingerly broke from her arms and wheeled around. In denim coveralls, hair gathered for a day of work, she’d never looked happier.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Before he could answer, she caught sight of the cable. She reached forward a few inches then pulled back, as though touching the page would burn her skin.

“It’s ... about TJ.” Lane’s explanation ground to a halt, impeded by his own dread and worry. Yet not until he pushed out the rest did he discover how deeply it would cut. “He’s missing in action.”

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