Bridge of Scarlet Leaves (36 page)

Authors: Kristina McMorris

BOOK: Bridge of Scarlet Leaves

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“L
et’s go over it again,” TJ said, crouched in the center of the small huddle. His command caused a hum of groans that echoed in their barrack. He threw a glare at Bobby the Brit and the redheaded Sully.

Repetition, drills—TJ knew from a lifetime of sports that these were the keys to success. Tonight there would be no room for failure. “A single thing goes wrong and Looney’ll be slicing us up for sushi. You tired of listenin’, you can stay and rot. You got that?”

The guys nodded, though TJ could tell that gathering during daylight was making them nervous. He looked over his shoulder and confirmed the room was still empty. Then he turned to Ranieri kneeling beside him. “All right, one last time. Make it quick.”

Ranieri proceeded to detail the plan they had been revising and polishing for more than two months: After the game today, they would go to bed as usual. At roughly 0100 hours, Tack would send a bird trill from outside TJ’s window. By then, most guards would be knocked out from exhaustion, maybe even from victory
sake.

At the signal, TJ, Ranieri, Bobby, and Sully were to sneak out of their barrack, as if headed for the latrine, and join Tack—who was smuggling in supplies right this minute. Together they’d move from cover to cover until reaching the southeast corner of camp. There, Happy would be catching some hefty Zs, thanks to the flask Tack would give him as a gift before lights-out. According to their Filipino aid, a sympathetic farmer in the vicinity, the moonshine spiked with sleeping powder would do its job, as would the wire cutters. A few snips to the fence and the five men would take off through the jungle.

If they got separated, there was no going back. All they could do was hope to see each other in the hull of a commercial fishing boat ready to sail at dawn. The vessel, bribed by a quiet force of island resistance, had been confirmed once the game date was finally set. Wanting a fair competition, Looney had given both teams until early March to practice. Strange that sports rules applied while wartime rules didn’t. He’d actually improved rations for the POW roster, even adding raw sugar cakes, like fattening up Hansel and Gretel before the slaughter.

At the time of tryouts, TJ’s goal had been twofold: wear out the guards and capture the title. This was the reason he’d handpicked players whose thirst for revenge compensated for muscle loss and malnutrition. But then, based on Eddie’s advice, TJ wound up instructing his team to put on a worthwhile show that would lead to their loss. Not just any kind of loss. Lose by too much and Looney might kill every POW player. Win by anything and the guards would eventually make them pay. Sure, it would be long after TJ was gone, but he didn’t need that kind of burden on his conscience.

“Ah, good. There he is.” TJ sighed at the sight of Tack entering the barrack with his now subtle limp, and he was just in time. People would be gathering for the game soon. “Got the stuff?”

Tack nodded. As he drew closer, though, the flush in his face looked an awful lot like panic. “Fellas,” he said, “we have a problem.”

They shot to their feet, voices overlapping. “Why? What is it? What happened?”

“It’s Guico, the farmer. He says the ship’s leaving at eighteen hundred.”

Jesus
... evening rather than dawn. It was a challenge, but somehow they could make it work. Everything else was in place.

Ranieri shook his head. “We’ll have to hide out in the boat all day long tomorrow. The Japs’ll be searching high and low for us.”

“Not tomorrow,” Tack said, sweat dripping from his forehead. “That’s eighteen hundred
today.
”

Silence plowed through the room, followed by an eruption of hushed cursing. TJ raked his hands through his hair, wishing a solution could be combed from the grimy strands.

“Bloody hell,” the Brit rasped over and over.

Ranieri stared off with a look bordering on terror and hopelessness. Worse than the daily beatings, strategic humiliation over the past fifteen months had worn him down. The only thing that had kept him going was the promise of escape.

“We won’t make it.” Sully paced the floor. “Even if we left right after the game, no way we’d make it in time.”

TJ squeezed his eyes shut and breathed himself calm. Soon a solution—the only solution—appeared on the blackboard of his closed lids. In that instant it became clear what he’d been training for since childhood. The one game that actually mattered.

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Ranieri said, pulling TJ’s gaze. “You ain’t staying here.”

Until then, TJ hadn’t realized he’d voiced his intention. He continued consciously with the thought, his certainty solidifying. “I’m the team captain. I’m the one who asked for the game in the first place. Without me, Looney will know something’s fishy.”

Ranieri stammered at him, “Yeah, he’ll get suspicious later. So what?”

“So I’m the pitcher, is what. Think about it. I can slow the game down all I want, give you guys extra time to get there.” He turned to Tack, who stared back at him stunned. “You go and give Happy his sleep potion right now. Then once it kicks in, and the game’s off and rolling, you all sneak out same as we planned. And Sully”—he swung to face him—“you tell Anderson he needs to play shortstop. That Ranieri’s got a bad case of the gallops.”

Bobby interjected, uncertain. “It’s bloody risky. We’d be fleeing in broad daylight.”

“More than half the guards will be in the game,” TJ reasoned. “You might have an even better shot.”

“That’s bullshit,” Ranieri spat with renewed vigor.

Sully and Tack mumbled their agreement.

“What’s bullshit?” TJ said. “The rest of you giving up your one chance? You guys don’t make it out, none of us will.”

The final step of their plan had always been to inform Army headquarters of the camp’s location. An American Intelligence officer, who’d recently been captured, claimed their prison was nonexistent on any map he’d seen. This confirmed the reason no POW letters went in or out, why they’d yet to glimpse a Red Cross package. If nobody knew where they were, there would be nothing to stop their captors from erasing proof of their gruesome crimes should the Allies win the war. And the Allies were going to win. They had to.

“What if they figure it out, Kern?” Ranieri’s volume grew. “It wouldn’t take a genius to trace it all back to you.”

“But they won’t—if I stay.”

“What’s the goddamn matter with you? Don’t you wanna go home?”

At the idiocy of the question, TJ got right up to his face. He barely kept himself from gripping the guy’s tattered shirt. For months that’s all he’d thought about—returning to Jo, to Maddie. If the escape worked, odds were good that Looney would execute a handful of POWs as a deterrent for future breakouts.

But what option did they have? Stay and they’d all die.

TJ spoke low and firm. “We don’t have time for this. Now, pipe down or you’ll blow the whole thing.”

Ranieri went to argue, but his words crumbled. Emotion welled in his eyes.

Bobby stepped forward and said, “He’s right, old chap. He’s right... .”

“Eh, Kern!” a voice hollered. Their first baseman, a former all-star at Boston University, entered the barrack. “Fellas are getting antsy. Time to warm up.”

TJ relaxed his muscles, took a step back.

The infielder, sounding curious over the scene, asked, “What you want I should tell ’em?”

With eyes on Ranieri, TJ replied with a final request. A plea for his family back home. “Just tell them I’m here.”

PART SIX

Had I not known that I was dead already
I would have mourned my loss of life.

—Death poem by samurai Ota D

kan

A
single letter had changed everything.

It had been six months since Lane received the post from Ida. Six months since the news about Maddie’s ordeal had woken him to the reality of his life. Nothing like nearly losing your wife and baby to set a guy’s priorities straight.

Even after Maddie recovered, she never went into detail about the scare she must have had. She’d only confirm facts from Ida’s account, about the placenta pulling away from the uterine wall. When bed rest hadn’t stopped Maddie’s hemorrhaging, and the baby’s pulse slowed, the doctor performed a C-section. All had ended in a happy and healthy outcome, which Maddie continually spotlighted. She seemed to understand he’d otherwise go AWOL to make sure she and Suzie were safe.

Suzie. That was their daughter’s name—short for Suzume, meaning “sparrow.” It was a favorite of Lane’s mother, Maddie had explained. He had fallen in love with it instantly, just as he did with his daughter from the first peek at her photo. In every letter to Maddie, he would ask,
How’s our baby bird today?

Now, in a restaurant booth, not far from his base in Sydney, Lane read his wife’s latest response to that very question. The description of Suzie sitting up on her own and blowing spit bubbles made him smile. He laughed out loud, picturing the incident at supper, how she’d turned a bowl full of rice into a hat. It took two baths to loosen the sticky grains from her hair.

Then, in the next paragraph, arrived the greatest gem of all. Suzie had spoken her first word.
Da-Da,
she’d cried when Maddie held up his portrait. As Lane read this, his heart brimmed with love and pride and longing for the only thing that truly mattered. His family.

That, above everything, had become his motivation for aiding the war effort. Not his own vain aspirations. Not even to prove the loyalty of Nisei to his country, a need that continued to lessen for them all. Japanese Americans had earned back enough trust to fully qualify for U.S. military enlistment, as well as the draft, and the segregated units weren’t taking the “privilege” lightly. The 100th Battalion and 442nd Regimental Combat Team were receiving as many citations from their battles in Italy as they were Purple Hearts.

Lane, on the other hand, was fine not possessing either. All he craved was a ticket home, which he appeared to have recently earned. In the midst of wading through a fresh tide of Japanese documents—maps, charts, operational plans from the Allied capture of Saipan—he had been called to his CO’s office. Based on his service record, coupled with Berlow’s endorsement, Lane had been recommended for Officer Candidate School.

“Nothing set in stone,” the man had warned, “but if all goes well, you could be stationed at Fort Benning by New Year.” Though many aspects had improved for the Nisei, MIS promotions weren’t among them—unless you attended OCS.

Interesting that measurable recognition for Lane’s feats came only after his drive for it had ended. Admittedly, the prospect of donning those shiny bars was still appealing. He couldn’t wait to tell Maddie once the paperwork went through. In the meantime, he would celebrate with Dewey, who’d insisted on treating him to dinner.

Speaking of which, where was the guy?

Lane checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes late was unusual, even for Dewey.

“Are you ready to order, love?” An Australian waitress with a sweet smile stood beside the booth. How refreshing that Aussies saw him as a Yank, not a Jap.

“I’m actually waiting for a pal.” Just then, sizzling salmon wafted from the next table. One long inhale and temptation took over. “Ah, the heck with it. The guy can fend for himself. Does the salmon come with potatoes? Or ... just the beans?”

Instead of answering, she pointed toward the front door with her pen. “Reckon that’s your mate. Looks like the soldier’s in a rush.”

Lane turned and spotted Dewey hurrying from the entry.

“Nice of you to show up,” Lane chided.

But Dewey didn’t smile, didn’t take a seat. “We gotta talk,” he said. “Outside.”

“Are you
sure?
” Lane asked, wary of his friend’s claim.

Two strangers sharing a black umbrella passed by on the sidewalk. Dewey refrained from replying until the area cleared. “That’s what he said.”

Lane wrestled with the news, turned it over in his brain. He shivered from rain falling in a watery curtain from the awning above. Winter in August. Everything was backward, mixed up. Nothing seemed clear anymore.

“So Maddie was right.” Lane shook his head. “She swore he was alive, even after the telegram, but—deep down, I didn’t believe it.”

Dewey broke in gently. “Keep in mind, though, it’s been weeks since these fellas escaped. There’s a chance TJ’s fine, not saying he isn’t. But you need to know, the Jap commanders at these camps, they—well, from the stories we hear ...” He tightened his lips before finishing. “Just saying things can get ugly for the ones left behind.”

Lane heard the warnings, forced them in. It was sound advice.
Don’t get your hopes up.
This was wartime, after all. The Allies were making huge strides toward victory, yet when they would reach TJ’s prison was a mystery.

“I want to talk to ’em,” Lane decided.

“Who, the prisoners?”

“The one who gave you the list of POWs. This ... Ranieri guy.”

Dewey slid his hands in the pockets of his Army overcoat and angled his face away, right before his cheek twitched. Lane knew that telltale twitch; meant there was a problem he wasn’t disclosing.

“Just tell me where they’re keeping him.”

“Listen, Lane.” Dewey turned back toward him, not quite meeting his eyes. “I think you should give it a little time, is all. You know, let the fella get settled. The higher-ups are working on gathering more intel, so we’ll know more soon.”

“I’m not going to hound him, if that’s what you’re worried about. Only need to make sure it’s not a mistake.”

“Really. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why’s that?”

Dewey sighed, hedging. What the hell was he not saying?

“Forget it, I’ll find out myself,” Lane bit out. “Tell me where he is.”

Something in Dewey’s silence struck like an invisible shove. Lane pushed back with a roar of words, “Tell me where he is!”

“The hospital,” he murmured. “By the base.”

Lane didn’t stay for more details. He took off into the rain, charged by a sudden, desperate need to connect with TJ, in any way possible.

“He’s alive,” he whispered as he splashed a path through the street. “He’s alive.” It wasn’t a fact, but a wish. One he’d been too scared to make ever since Maddie had received the last military cable. A year plus a month was the standard time line to announce the presumed death of someone missing in action. A mere formality that didn’t mean a thing, Maddie had insisted.

Oh, God, please let her be right.

He’s alive, he has to be alive.

The phrase looped in his mind as he entered the hospital. From a nurse’s odd glance, he noticed his poor appearance, soaked from cap to shoes. He used his palm to swipe moisture from his face.

“May I help you?” the Australian woman asked.

“I’m looking for an American POW. His name’s Ranaree.” That wasn’t right. Damn, what was it? “Or, something close to that. First name, Vince ... I think.”

Her eyes said she was still gauging Lane’s intentions, and likely his sobriety. Another case of battle fatigue frying the brain. “Might I ask how you know the bloke?”

Lane considered spinning a plausible scenario, as he would have in the old days, but much had changed since then. He chose the truth, banking on faith that she would help. “He’s a friend of ...” Lane paused to gather the syllables that carried the weight of his past. “He’s a friend of my brother.”

After a moment of consideration, she nodded. “Follow me.”

At a counter, she skimmed pages on a clipboard, then guided him through a hallway and down the length of a ward. The smell of antiseptic blended with the coppery scent of blood, the subtle reek of urine. Beds lined both sides of the room, each filled with wounded men.

On the front lines, Lane had witnessed his share of broken bodies. Yet seeing them here was somehow more unsettling. In a civilized environment—covered in fresh bandages, pajama sleeves or pant legs flattened from missing limbs—they no longer looked like warriors in the trenches. They were just men, many of them boys, who would soon return to a home that didn’t recognize them.

“Over there, on the right.” The nurse gestured before stepping away to answer a medical query from another nurse.

Lane scanned for features that would fit a name like Ranieri. He found a patient lying in bed, puffing on a smoke, with black hair and an olive complexion. Italian, as Lane expected. What he hadn’t envisioned was the gauntness in the guy’s cheeks, the dark circles cupping his eyes. Outlined by the sheet, his legs appeared starved for muscle. His arms were no better. Scars slanted over his neck and forearm. Facial scrapes and a cast-bound wrist boasted a narrow escape.

This, Lane realized, was the picture Dewey didn’t want him to see, because of the natural question to follow: If this was how a survivor looked, what about those who remained imprisoned?

“Excuse me.” Lane edged himself forward. “Are you the one who knew TJ? TJ Kern from Boyle Heights?”

The patient turned his sunken eyes in Lane’s direction, studying him, not answering.

Lane removed his damp garrison cap and continued, “My name’s—”

“Tomo,” Vince finished.

The nickname gripped Lane’s throat. “That’s right,” he said softly.

“Thought as much.” Vince leveraged his weight onto his bony elbow. Then he offered his hand, and a heavy smile touched his dry lips. “It’s a real pleasure. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

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