Days of Infamy (39 page)

Damn, I look like hell, he realized: hadn’t shaved in days, eyes dark rimmed, face a bit gaunt, pale. His mouth felt gummy, disgusting. He opened the medicine cabinet, found a can of tooth powder, held it with his right hand, pried the lid off, then just held it up and shook some of the powder into his mouth and swished it around, spitting it out into the sink. He turned the water on; barely a trickle came out, brown, almost muddy looking, and he realized the tank for the toilet was just barely filling as well. Blown water mains; pressure was still down.

He switched off the light and came back out into the hallway.

“Open your mouth,” she ordered and popped a thermometer in, guiding him back to the bedroom, where the light was still on, pointing for him to sit on the bed.

She checked the thermometer a couple of minutes later.

“Just over a hundred,” she announced. “You’re still fighting the infection. Now get back in bed.”

He shook his head.

“Back to the base.”

“James, don’t be absurd.”

“I’m not. How many Japanese translators and code readers do they have down there?”

“I don’t know, you never told me about your work, but I’d guess there are enough on duty. You’ve done your part, now for God’s sake, get back in that bed.”

He shook his head.

“I have to go back,” and he looked at her sharply. “Now help me get dressed.”

She sat down by his side, gingerly took his arm, raised the bandage to her face and sniffed.

“Smells a bit strange.”

“It’s the sulfa. I’m feeling better; it isn’t throbbing like it was before.”

He was half lying. It still hurt like hell, but the pain did feel a bit different now. With the fragment of God knew what pulled out by Dianne, the throbbing sensation was gone, though the infection was still there. The fragment, what was it? Part of
Arizona
when she blew? The thought made him sick, hating the memory of that moment. And I want to go back down there?

Take a day or two in bed, his weaker and yet more sensible half whispered. And besides, given the tensions in the city, he wanted to stay here, look out for Margaret and her mom. Lord only knew what had transpired in the city during the night. He had heard more than one story about lynching of Negroes in the South and Midwest not all that far in the past, more than a few of his comrades in the Navy talking about witnessing such things, and an unpleasant few obviously not caring, or even joking about it. Were we capable of that here, now? Could there be some in this town who would trigger a “Crystal Night,” as it was called in Germany, and run riot against Japanese civilians?

Without doubt there could be the same here if that darkness was allowed to fester, the same as an infection, and then spread. He looked at Margaret, her jet-black hair, the oriental cast to her eyes
which had so bewitched him when first they met, and which still after twenty-one years could steal his breath away. Some would now call them the eyes of the enemy.

If that is how this war turns, then God save us all. Perhaps I should stay here. If things turn ugly, I can at least protect them.

And yet if I let that fear keep me here, what will I think later? I’m needed down at Pearl. I at least did something useful yesterday, even if only for a moment. If their boy was still alive, chances were he’d be in the Navy now. Kids his age had died by the thousands these last two days; more would die today. I’ve got to do something.

“Help me get my jacket on and make up some kind of sling.”

“Damn your stubbornness and sense of duty,” but there was a touch of a smile as she whispered to him.

She went out to the hallway, fished through the linen closet, came back a moment later with a towel, folded it into a triangle, and making a sling, helped him slip his arm into it. He tried not to grimace or react to the pain.

“To hell with the jacket,” she said. “It’s a filthy mess anyhow, they’ll know you’re an officer from your hat. Now let me make you some coffee.”

Together they went down the small corridor into the living room. On the sofa his mother-in-law was sitting upright, and for a second he wasn’t sure who the other person was, head nestled in the old woman’s lap. It was Dianne, blanket half off her. In the moonlight he could see her tear-stained face. She was fast asleep. He had to admit she did look beautiful, and he could understand Margaret’s initial reaction, even before Dianne’s bitterness toward the Japanese was voiced. His mother-in-law smiled sadly and made a shushing motion with a finger raised to her lips.

They went into the kitchen.

“She cried for hours,” Margaret whispered, “wanted to leave, to walk home, insisting her boyfriend might still be alive and looking for her. Mom stuck with her, even when that girl really let loose with some pretty rotten things about us.”

Margaret hesitated.

“I think I would have thrown her out, but Mom took it. At last she just collapsed in tears and went to sleep. I think Mom has been up all night like that.”

“Dianne is a good kid. Try not to take what she said too hard.”

“You like her?” and he caught a slight edge of accusation and tried to step around it.

“Collingwood thinks the world of her. She comes from good family. Her father was in Annapolis, an instructor when Collingwood was there. She passed the security check with flying colors.”

He realized he was being a bit too enthusiastic about her and fell silent.

“I bet Collingwood likes her,” Margaret replied softly, even as she measured out the coffee into the percolator, filled the pot with water, and put it on the stove. Fortunately it was electric; those using gas had been cut off.

Registering a bit slow, he finally caught on to the implication in Margaret’s comment.

“Come on. Old Collingwood is a decent man, loves his wife as much as I love you. Dianne’s a kid, not much older than Davy would have been.”

“How come you never talked about her?”

He drew closer, put his good arm around her waist and drew her closer.

“Think about it. I never said a word about work, period. We were all under strictest orders; it was the most secret operation in the Navy. The fact that she got a security clearance to work in our office says something about her character. Her boyfriend was a pilot, and there’s nothing else to tell.”

He thought of the blown-out wreckage of CinCPac headquarters. The thousands upon thousands of pieces of paper floating around, scattered across the lawns, top secret documents, coding books. Hell, we’re going to have to rebuild all of that.

He could sense her relaxing a bit.

“Sorry, just so you know how it is.”

“Sure.”

He suddenly realized that there were just the four of them in the house.

“Your cousin Janice, is she OK?” he asked a bit nervously.

“She called from the fire station right after you fell asleep. She’s staying there for now, helping with blood transfusions. God, James, she said it’s a madhouse. They’re so desperate they’re sterilizing milk bottles and using them to store blood. There’s so many wounded at the bases and in town. I’ve got type A; I think I should go down.”

He violently shook his head. The last thing he wanted was his wife walking around alone out there.

“Not on your life. Stay here and keep an eye on your mom.” He didn’t add Dianne’s name into that equation.

“You’ve got your duty, I’ve got mine,” she replied sharply.

“Wait until I get back, then I’ll drive you down. Is that OK?”

She reluctantly nodded in agreement.

The coffee began to percolate. She offered to make him some eggs and bacon and he refused, just settling for toast. He was afraid if he ate anything more, his stomach would rebel. In spite of his bravado, he was feeling a bit lightheaded and nauseated.

She poured him a cup, leaving it black, no sugar or cream, as he preferred it, as nearly everyone in the Navy drank it. The toast filled his stomach a bit, settling it down.

As they opened the front door he looked back at his mother-in-law. She smiled at him, and then looked down at Dianne, who was still asleep, not wishing to move and disturb her.

“Keep an eye on her,” he whispered, “and try to get her to stay here till things settle down. She can’t go home, and she needs someone to look after her.”

The old woman smiled, and he felt such a wave of love for her he tiptoed back over and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

“Be careful, my son,” she whispered in Japanese.

“Of course, Mom,” he replied, in the same language.

He went outside. Not yet dawn to the east, moon fairly high in the southern sky, to the west, the flickering glow of fires still raging.

He slipped into Collingwood’s old DeSoto, realizing again it was going to be tough to drive with one hand, but he had made it up here, he’d make it back.

Margaret closed the door of the car and leaned into the window, kissing his forehead.

“You still have a fever. If it starts to get any worse, you come home immediately.”

“Of course.”

He looked into her eyes and hated to say it now. “You have the gun.”

She nodded.

“Things should be OK. But if something goes wrong …” He paused. “If an invasion starts and I can’t get back, don’t resist. Chances are you’ll be left alone.”

Memories of what Cecil had told him about Nanking drifted up, what he had seen as well in China. She was American, so was her Mom, but if they were invaded, their race might protect them.

But will their being American protect them from us? he wondered sadly. It will have to be enough, he thought. If not, then this is no longer a country worth fighting for. A horrifying thought as he looked back to the west, the fires from the oil tank farms still soaring into the night sky.

“Just be careful. Stay inside. There are enough decent folks around here, nothing is going to happen.”

She nodded, saying nothing.

“I’ll be home at the end of the day, I promise.”

She leaned in and kissed him.

He forced a smile, shifted the car into reverse while bracing the steering wheel with his knees, and backed out. He shifted into first and started up the hill and then out on to Pali Highway, the glowing of the fires to the west almost as bright as a rising sun.

IT HAD BEEN
a tough night for sleep. The President had been tempted to ask for a mild sedative, but decided against it. If some new crisis hit that needed a decision he had to be instantly alert.

He dressed and had breakfast in his bedroom. One of his Secret Service agents rolled him into his office and left him alone. His secretary had placed his datebook on the table, opened to the day’s scheduled events. Several had been crossed out, replaced with more pressing matters: meetings with Marshall and Stark in an hour and a half for a briefing update. There was also a single typewritten sheet, a briefing paper, one or two sentences highlighting what had transpired during the night.

He continued to scan the report while sipping his coffee. Two Medals of Honor, he thought; the nation needs heroes as soon as possible, and those two fit the bill.

There was a knock on the door and it cracked open. It was Eleanor, and he smiled, motioning for her to come in. She came around to the side of his desk and scanned the datebook as she rested a hand on his shoulder.

“I see the luncheon with your mother and me has been canceled,” she said quietly.

“Priorities of war now,” he said.

She nodded, picking up the night report, looking it over.

“Do you think the Japanese report is accurate? Why no word from our aircraft carriers?”

“Security. If the
Enterprise
is still afloat, a single radio transmission could be monitored and tracked. The same with
Lexington.
Maybe later today we’ll know for certain.”

“What do you think?”

“It sounded like
Enterprise
took a terrible pounding yesterday.” He paused. “If Pearl is reporting only three planes from that ship landing there, it could indicate
Enterprise
is sunk and orphan planes are all that is left of her.”

“God save those boys,” she sighed. “How many are aboard a carrier?”

“About two thousand men.”

“Nearly half as many dead, then, as reported from Pearl Harbor so far.”

He nodded, saying nothing.

She put the report down. He shifted a bit uncomfortably in his
chair, lighting a cigarette, a subtle signal that he wanted to be alone for a few minutes before the day started.

“I wanted to talk with you about something over lunch,” she finally said.

“Let’s do it now, Eleanor, but I’m sorry, it will have to be brief.” He looked up at her, trying to smile as he said it. “I have meetings starting in half an hour.”

“This is important, Franklin. We’re already hearing rumors about anti-Japanese propaganda,” and she unfolded a newspaper that she had kept in her left hand and laid it upon his desk. It was a political cartoon, a crude caricature of a leering “Jap,” buck-toothed, with thick glasses, laughing as he plunged a samurai sword into Uncle Sam’s back. A decapitated body, labeled “China,” lay at the “Jap’s” feet.