Days of Infamy (26 page)

As they pulled out of Kewalo Basin, Hiroshi said, “Father, why not bring Mother on the sampan? That way, we'd all be safe together.”

“I said this,” Father answered. “She told me she didn't want to come. What am I supposed to do, drag her?”

Hiroshi didn't say anything to that. Kenzo wouldn't have known what to say to it, either. They just stood there listening to the engine. The sampan had enough fuel to get to Kauai or Maui, but so what? What difference did that make? Even if they got Mother aboard, they'd be nothing but refugees. And, for all Kenzo knew, the Japanese Army was already on the other islands. Even if it wasn't, it probably would be soon. The U.S. Army hadn't garrisoned them. They couldn't put up any kind of a fight.

Oahu, now, Oahu had put up a hell of a battle.
And a whole lot of good it's done anybody, too
, Kenzo thought bitterly. The fighting here couldn't go on much longer, either. The diesel throbbed under his feet. For how long would his father be able to keep it fueled? How much longer would the food last? What would people do when it started running out?

Starve
, was what occurred to Kenzo. That might be a reason to get off Oahu: the other islands had fewer people, and might have bigger reserves. Or they might not—with fewer people, maybe they'd got less in the way of supplies to begin with. That was probably how things went, all right. They seemed to be going the worst way they could.

T
HE GARDENER WHO
spoke for Major Hirabayashi in Wahiawa was named Tsuyoshi Nakayama. Some people called him Yosh. Till this mess started, Jane Armitage hadn't called him anything. She'd never had anything to do with him. What she and a few other
haoles
were calling him these days was Quisling. They were careful about where, when, and to whom they said it, though. Let the wrong ears hear and . . . Jane didn't know what would happen then. She didn't want to find out, either.

To give Nakayama his due, he didn't seem to relish being the occupiers' mouthpiece. He didn't shrink from the job, though. What the Japs told him to do and say, he did and said. They'd confiscated guns and food just after they took the town. Radios lasted only a couple of days longer. If Jane had had a little one, she might have tried to hide it. She didn't have a prayer with the big, bulky shortwave set. When a Japanese soldier carried it away, she felt as if he were stealing the world from her.

She soon discovered she was lucky she hadn't tried anything cute. Mr. Murphy, the principal at the elementary school, had had two radios. He'd given the Japanese one and secretly hung on to the other. Not secretly enough—somebody ratted on him.

Through Yosh Nakayama, Major Hirabayashi called the people of Wahiawa into the streets. Mr. Murphy, hands tied behind his back, stood in front of Hirabayashi. The officer spoke in Japanese. Nakayama translated: “This man disobeyed an order of the Imperial Japanese Army. The punishment for
disobeying an order is death. He will receive the punishment. Watch, and think about him so this does not happen to you.”

Two soldiers forced Mr. Murphy down to his knees. The principal looked astonished, as if he couldn't believe this was happening to him. He didn't seem afraid, which also argued that he didn't believe it. Surely the Japs would call it off once they'd taught him his lesson.

Major Hirabayashi drew his sword. Jane had seen it there on his hip before. She hadn't thought about it; it seemed about as useful in modern war as a buggy whip. Now, all at once, she noticed that the major had lovingly kept it sharp. The blade was slightly curved. The edge glittered in the sun.

Hirabayashi raised the sword above his head. With a sudden, wordless shout, he swung it in a gleaming arc of death. It bit into—bit through—Mr. Murphy's neck. The principal's head leaped from his shoulders. Blood fountained, amazingly red. Some of it splashed the soldiers who'd held the American. Mr. Murphy's body convulsed. The spasms went on for a couple of minutes. His head lay in the street. It blinked once before the features slackened into death's blankness.

Somehow, that blink sickened Jane worse than all the gore and the flopping. Had he
known
what had happened to him, even if just for a few seconds?

Some people in the crowd—women and men both—screamed. Several threw up. Some made the sign of the cross. A hulking six-footer who ran a hardware store keeled over in a faint. His wife, who barely came up to his chin, kept him from smashing his face on the asphalt.

Hirabayashi wiped his bloody blade on Mr. Murphy's trousers, then slid it back into the scabbard. He shouted something angry-sounding in Japanese. “You will obey,” Yosh Nakayama translated. “If you do not obey, you will be sorry. Do you understand?” No one said anything. Hirabayashi shouted again, even louder. Nakayama said, “He wants to know if you understand.”

A ragged chorus of yeses rose from the crowd. Some of the people who'd crossed themselves did it again. Major Hirabayashi grunted again and turned his back. Nakayama gestured to the locals: it was over.

Singly and in small groups, they straggled back to their homes. Jane was alone—and had never felt more alone in her life. She'd seen Mr. Murphy every day since getting her teaching job here. He wasn't the most exciting human being ever born—what principal was?—but he was solid, competent, plenty likable if you didn't happen to be a fourth-grader in trouble.

Now he was dead. For a radio, he was dead.

Hardly anyone talked about the—murder? execution?—as the crowd drained away. Part of that, no doubt, was shock. And part of it probably had to do with fear over who might be listening. Somebody you'd lived across the street from for the last twenty years might sell you down the river to the Japs. How could you know, till too late? Why would you take the chance?

People in Russia and Nazi Germany and the countries Hitler had overrun had to make calculations like that. Americans? Even a month earlier, Jane never would have believed it. But if you didn't make those calculations, or if you got them wrong . . . you might be the next Mr. Murphy.

And it wasn't just the local Japanese you had to look out for. Jane had seen more than one
haole
sucking up to the occupiers. Some people had to be on the ins with whoever was in charge. If it was the usual authorities, fine. If it was a bunch of bastards with guns—and with swords; oh, yes, with swords—well, that was fine, too. There was one more thing Jane wouldn't have believed till she saw it with her own eyes.

She locked the door behind her when she got to the apartment. She hadn't been in the habit of doing that till the Japs came. It wouldn't help her a hell of a lot now, either. The rational part of her mind knew that. She locked the door anyway, because she wasn't feeling any too rational these days.

She wished she could fix herself a good stiff drink. But Fletch had taken most of the booze when he left (she'd been glad to see it go, too—then), and the rest had been confiscated along with the food. She was stuck with her own thoughts, no matter how much she hated them. The thunk of the sword as it slammed into Mr. Murphy's neck . . . That last blink after he was—after he had to be—dead . . .

“Oh, Jesus,” she moaned: as close to a prayer as had passed her lips in years.

The worst of it was, she'd have to go out again for supper. The communal meals had started off bad, and were getting worse as stocks of this and that began to run out. She was damned if she knew what they would do in a few months.

“Damned is right,” Jane muttered. And damnation might not wait for months. It might be only weeks away. She wondered how much food other people had given up, and how much the Japs had taken from groceries. How long would it last? How long
could
it last? “We'll find out.”

She also wondered whether the occupiers gave a damn. Wouldn't they be
just as happy if everybody on Oahu except maybe their few special friends starved to death? Then they wouldn't have to worry about keeping an eye on them any more.

With that cheery thought echoing in her head, she went to supper. It was rice and noodles and local vegetables and a small chunk of cheese that was starting to be past it. Before the Japs came, the food would have appalled her. Now all she cared about was that it filled her belly. Quantity had routed quality.

People had chatted over meals. No one said much this evening. Mr. Murphy's death hung over Wahiawa the way that cloud of black smoke had hung over Pearl Harbor for so long. Jane went straight home when she finished eating. She'd been on dishwashing detail the week before. All the women in town took turns at it. Not for the first time, Jane wondered why nobody had included the men. Who was going to suggest it to Major Hirabayashi, though? That . . . chopped the head off that idea.
Stop it!
she told herself fiercely. But she couldn't.

Two days later, somebody knocked at the door. Fear shot through her. These days, a knock on the door was likely to mean trouble, not a neighbor wanting to borrow a stick of butter. The knock came again: loud, insistent. Jane trembled as she went to open the door. She'd started taking in another lesson Americans should never have had to learn.

Tsuyoshi Nakayama stood there, with two younger local Japanese behind him. “You are Mrs. Jane Armitage?” he said. Jane nodded. He made a check-mark on a list. “Where is your husband, Mrs. Armitage?”

“I don't know. We were getting a divorce when—when the war started,” Jane answered. That was true. No one could say it wasn't. She didn't want to tell him she'd been married to a soldier. Who could guess what he or Hirabayashi might do if she did? He could find out if he poked around. But even if he did, she hadn't lied.

The gardener just shrugged now. “You live here alone, then?” he asked. Jane's head went up and down again. Yosh Nakayama nodded, too. He wrote something else on the list. What was it? Jane couldn't tell. Not knowing alarmed her. Nakayama looked up. “We may run short of food,” he said.

This time, Jane nodded eagerly. If he wanted to talk about food, he didn't want to talk about Fletch. Everybody had to worry about eating. Not everybody had to worry about a husband in the Army.

“I am going to give you turnip seeds and pieces of potatoes with eyes,” Nakayama said. “You will plant them. You will grow them. You will take care of them. We hope we can start growing things to eat soon enough to keep from getting too hungry.”

“Plant them where? How?” Jane asked. She didn't know the first thing about farming.
But it looks like I'm going to find out
.

“You have been assigned a plot,” Yosh Nakayama told her. “I have tools for you.” The young men behind him carried a spade, a hoe, a rake, and a trowel. They thrust them at Jane now. Nakayama went on, “Plenty of people here know what to do. Ask them. They will be in the fields, too. And the seeds come with instructions. Follow them. Follow them with care.”

“Turnips?” Jane couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten a turnip. Back in Ohio, they fed hogs more often than people.

Nakayama shrugged. “They grow fast. You can eat the root and the greens. We have to do whatever we can. We will all be hungry soon. Other people will raise beans and corn and squash and whatever else we have. We need to work hard. Otherwise, we will be worse than hungry.”

What about the Jap soldiers? Will they help us farm?
But Jane didn't have the nerve to ask the question. She accepted the seeds and the quartered potatoes. All she did ask was, “Where will my, uh, plot be?”

“I will show you. Come on.” He led her downstairs and out to the street. A whole stretch of lawn had been divided into sections with stakes and twine. Yosh Nakayama pointed to one of those sections. “This is yours. You will clear it and plant it.”

“Clear it?” Jane echoed. The gardener just nodded impatiently. Jane looked down at her hands. They were nice and soft. The only callus she had was a small one on the middle finger of her right hand: a writer's callus. That was going to change if she had to dig out all that grass and plant vegetables. She sighed, not too loud. “What about bugs and things?”

“It is a problem,” Nakayama admitted. Hawaii was chock full of all kinds of bugs. You couldn't ship local fruit to the mainland for fear of turning them loose there. He went on, “We do have to try, though. If we don't try, we try starving instead. Which would you rather do?”

Jane had no answer to that, none at all.

F
LETCHER
A
RMITAGE STARED
in dismay at the De Soto that had hauled his 105 down from the north coast of Oahu to not far from the outskirts of Honolulu. The De Soto sat on the grass, sad and lopsided. Fletch was glad the burst of Japanese machine-gun fire had missed him and his crew. And so it had, but there were fresh holes in the car, and three of its tires were flat.

One of the infantrymen he'd collared into serving the gun came up beside him and said, “Sir, if it was a horse, I'd shoot it.”

“Yeah.” Fletch had fixed flats before, but he saw no way in hell to do it this time. Two of those inner tubes didn't just have holes in them. They'd been chewed to pieces. Then he brightened. “Tell you what, Clancy. There's houses around here. If you and your buddies bring me back wheels with fresh tires on 'em, I won't care where they came from.”

He'd started breaking rules when he commandeered the De Soto in the first place. He was ready to keep right on doing it if that meant he could go on hitting back at the Japs. Maybe somebody would make him go stand in a corner later on. He'd worry about that then, if there was a then.

“I'll see what we can do, Lieutenant,” Clancy said with a grin. “Hey, Dave! Arnie! Come on!” He appreciated larceny. By now, he and his pals made pretty fair artillerymen, too.
Baptism by total immersion
, Fletch thought.

The soldiers grabbed their rifles and hurried off. If some civilian didn't fancy watching the wheels from his car walk with Jesus, a Springfield was a terrific persuader. Fletch hoped the men found a Jap to rob, not a
haole
. That wasn't fair, but he didn't give a damn. Every time he saw an Oriental face, he suspected its owner was on the enemy's side.

Airplanes droned by, high overhead. He gave the Japanese bombers the finger. That was all he could give them. Even as he did it, he knew a certain amount of relief: they weren't going to drop anything on
him
. If not for the Japs' air power, he thought the Army would have held them.
Yeah, and if ifs and buts were candied nuts, we'd all have a hell of a Christmas
.

As things were, the Americans were losing hope. He could feel it. They'd thought they could stop the Japs in front of Schofield Barracks and Wahiawa. Then those enemy soldiers appeared in their rear—and they hadn't been the same since. He had to admire the Japs who'd got over the Waianae Range. That didn't mean he didn't want to kill them all, but he knew they'd pulled off something astonishing. After its hasty retreat from a line that was just coming together, the U.S. Army simply hadn't been the same.