Days of Infamy (55 page)

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Kenzo muttered, deliberately ignoring how much he sounded like his father when he said it. To think he'd been reduced to worrying about how he could comfortably wipe his ass! Before December 7, he would have taken the answer for granted. Before December 7, he'd taken all kinds of answers for granted. What did that prove? It proved he'd been pretty goddamn dumb, that was what.

Here came a squad of Japanese soldiers. Kenzo got out of their way and bowed. By now, he did that automatically. But he couldn't help noticing that one of them was reading a copy of the
Nippon jiji
. How could he, when the soldier held it open to read an inside page so Dad's picture was right there looking out at him?

What did the soldiers think when they read a piece like the one Ichiro Mori had written? Did it make them think all the people who lived on Hawaii were glad they'd come? Or did they just go,
Oh, more crap
? Had they seen so much of this garbage that they recognized it for what it was? Kenzo didn't know.

He hoped all the people who saw the story wiped their asses with it. Then they would forget about it. If the USA got Hawaii back, people who said stuff like this would be remembered. Dumb as Dad was, Kenzo didn't want that.

F
LETCH
A
RMITAGE LOOKED
longingly past the barbed wire surrounding Kapiolani Park. Waikiki was almost close enough to reach out and touch. Honolulu wasn't much farther.
If I could get past the wire . . .

Escape was a POW's duty. He'd had that drilled into him. But even the Geneva Convention let garrisons that recaptured escaped prisoners punish them. And the Japs cared as much about the Geneva Convention's rules as a bunch of drunks in a barroom brawl cared about the Marquis of Queensberry's. They'd already made that very, very clear.

And so . . . Fletch looked. A mynah flew over the barbed wire. The scrounging was bound to be better on the other side. Fletch had never dreamt he could be so jealous of a stupid, noisy bird.

After a little while, he turned away. Contemplating freedom just hurt too much. He laughed, not that there was much to laugh about. In one sense of the word, there was no such thing as freedom anywhere in the Territory of Hawaii, and there hadn't been since the surrender. In another sense . . . Fletch would gladly have traded places with anybody outside the camp. He didn't think anybody out beyond the wire would gladly have traded with him.

He mooched back toward his tent. A slow Brownian motion was always on display in the camp. Some prisoners who had nothing else to do would drift toward the wire to get a glimpse of what things were like out beyond it. Others, having seen as much as they could stand, sadly drifted into the interior
once more. You never could tell where any one man would be, but the traffic pattern hardly ever changed.

Here and there, POWs bent over a card game or a makeshift checkerboard or a race between two or three crawling bugs—anything to make the time go by. Most of the captives, though, just sat around letting it go by as it would. A lot of them were too hungry to have the energy for anything unessential. They came fully alive twice a day, at breakfast and supper, and banked their fires the rest of the time.

I'm not far from that myself
. Fletch contemplated his own hand. He ignored the filth; nobody here could get as clean as he wanted. What he noticed were the bones and tendons thrusting up against the skin. The flesh that had softened his outlines melted off him day by day, leaving only the basics behind.

He saw the same thing on other men's faces, which displayed more and more of the hard uplands of nose and cheekbones and chin as time went by. No doubt the same was true of his own mug, but he didn't get to see that very often. Not seeing himself was a small mercy: in a place singularly lacking larger ones, something to cherish.

Ducking into the tent was another small mercy. If he stayed outside for very long, he burned. Oahu never got too hot, but sunlight here was fiercer than it was anywhere on the mainland because it was more nearly vertical. Back before the fighting started, he'd gone through a lot of zinc-oxide ointment. It hadn't helped much, but nothing else had helped at all. Since then, he hadn't had much choice. Some guys tanned almost native-Hawaiian brown. Fletch just scorched, over and over again.

He didn't have to wait till after sundown to emerge, though thoughts of Bela Lugosi crossed his mind every now and then. The sun was sinking toward Waikiki as he came out to line up for supper. That was funny if you looked at it the right way; people in Honolulu often used
Waikiki
as a synonym for
east
, the same as they used
Ewa
for
west
. But now he'd moved far enough Waikiki of Honolulu that Waikiki was Ewa of him.

POWs gossiped in the chow line, almost as they would have back at Schofield Barracks. What energy they had came out now. They were hungry, but they knew they'd soon be . . . less hungry for a little while, anyway.

Somebody behind Fletch said, “Do the Japs really feed you better if you go out on a work detail?” Fletch pricked up his ears. He'd heard the Japs did that,
too. They'd damn near have to. They couldn't expect to get much work out of people who ate only the horrible slop they dished out here.

Another prisoner answered, “Yeah, they do, but only if you meet their work norms. And they set those fuckers so high, you do more shit to meet 'em than they give you extra food.”

“Sounds like the Japs,” the first man said.

Fletch found himself nodding. It sure as hell did. The Russians had a name for workers who went over their norms. Some of the left-wingers at Schofield Barracks had used it now and again. What the hell was it? Fletch scowled, trying to remember. Sta-something . . . He snapped his fingers. Stakhanovites, that was it!

Feeling smart was almost as good as feeling full. After supper, Fletch shook his head. Feeling full would have been better. But feeling smart
was
almost as good as feeling not quite so empty, which was the most camp rations could achieve.

After the morning count, a local Japanese came into camp and, speaking good English, did indeed call for volunteers for work details. He got them, more than he could use. Lots of men figured things were so bad here, they had to be better somewhere else.

Fletch wasn't convinced. Here he ate next to nothing, but he also did next to nothing. If he ate a little more but did a lot more, wouldn't he just waste away all the faster? That was how it looked to him.

The Japs had boasted about their victories in the Philippines and New Guinea. Taking Hawaii had let them run wild farther west, and had kept the United States from doing one damn thing about it. Fletch could see that very clearly. But the USA hadn't given up. The B-25s that had visited Honolulu were proof of that. Sooner or later, he was convinced, the Americans would try to retake Hawaii. He wanted to be around when they did.

If that meant sitting around on his can doing very little and eating very little, then it did, that was all. He'd been in more than enough poker games to know that bucking the odds was the fastest way to lose. From where he sat, going out on a work detail looked to be bucking the odds. How many of those who went would come back? Ma Armitage hadn't raised her boy to be a fool. Fletch hoped she hadn't, anyway.

C
ORPORAL
A
ISO WAGGED
a finger in Takeo Shimizu's face. “Be careful when you go out on patrol,” the veteran warned. “Something's in the air. Don't trust any of the locals. Don't even trust the local Japanese. Some of them are like bananas.”

“Bananas?” Shimizu scratched his head.

Kiyoshi Aiso nodded. “
Hai
. Bananas. Yellow on the outside, white on the inside. They may look like us, but they think like Americans.”

“
Ah, so desu!
Now I understand. Bananas!” Shimizu wondered who'd come up with that. It was pretty funny.

Aiso might have been reading his mind. “You may laugh now, but you won't if you run into trouble. And don't go wandering off by yourself or let your men do anything dumb like that. Somebody knocked a soldier over the head and stole his rifle the other day.”

“My men and I will be careful,” Shimizu promised. “Why did the Americans want a Japanese rifle? Even after all the sweeps we've done, I think this little island has more small arms on it than all of Japan put together.”

“I wouldn't be surprised,” Aiso said. “Whoever slugged the soldier was probably after him first and took the rifle as an afterthought.”

Shimizu nodded. That made sense. He warned his squad the same way the older corporal had warned him. The men all looked attentive. He looked like that whenever a superior addressed him, too. He knew it didn't necessarily mean anything. Half the time he'd been thinking about something else, no matter what his face said. Half the squad was likely to be thinking about something else now.

“Let's go,” Shimizu barked, and off they went.

They made a fine martial spectacle, backs straight, helmets all just so, bayonets gleaming in the sun. Locals scrambled to get out of their way and bowed as they tramped past. People of Japanese blood did it right. The others? They obeyed the requirement, but they still didn't really understand what they were doing.

Back and forth went Shimizu's gaze. Trouble might come from anywhere, Aiso had said. If somebody'd been brave—or foolhardy—enough to take on a fully armed Japanese soldier, the other noncom was right, too. Shimizu wondered whether the attacker had killed the soldier. Shimizu hoped so, as much for the man's sake as for any other reason. Anyone who suffered a disgrace like that was better off dead.

A policeman escorted a fisherman with a string of silvery fish along the street. Otherwise,
he
would have been a real candidate for getting clobbered. The policeman was white, the fisherman Japanese. Because of his job, the policeman retained the pistol he'd worn before Honolulu changed hands. But, like anyone else here, he bowed when the Japanese soldiers marched by.

Senior Private Furusawa said, “I still don't like seeing Americans walking around with guns.”

“Policemen don't worry me too much,” Shimizu said. “They're watchdogs, not wolves. They'll do what the people in charge of them tell them to do—and we're the people in charge of them now.”

“
Hai
,” Furusawa said. That wasn't agreement; it was only acknowledgment that he heard the corporal. Shimizu knew as much. He shrugged, ever so slightly. Furusawa didn't have to agree with him. The senior private did have to stay polite, and he had.

Cars sat next to the curb, quite a few of them on flat tires. Hardly any rolled down the street these days; fuel was too short for that. Even seeing them immobilized, though, reminded Shimizu of how different Hawaii was from Japan. Honolulu wasn't anywhere near as big as Hiroshima, but it boasted far more automobiles. They were perhaps the most prominent mark of American wealth.

The corporal shrugged again.
Who cares how rich the Yankees were? We beat them anyway. They were easier to beat
because
they were rich. It made them soft
. Men set above Shimizu had said that a great many times. They'd said it so often, they undoubtedly believed it. He wasn't so sure. The Americans he'd fought hadn't shown any signs of softness. They'd lost, but nobody could say they hadn't fought hard.

Everything seemed quiet this morning. That was the idea behind patrolling. Marching through Honolulu, making the Japanese presence felt, was the best way to stop trouble before it started. Remind the locals that the Army was keeping an eye on them and they wouldn't get gay. Leave them alone, and who could say what might happen?

A pretty woman with yellow hair bowed as the soldiers went by. The light cotton dress she wore covered much less of her than would have been proper back in Japan. Several of Shimizu's men gave her a thorough inspection. He looked her over himself. If they decided to drag her into a building and enjoy her one after another, who could stop them? Nobody. The fright on her face as she bowed said she knew it, too.

“Keep going, you lugs,” Shimizu said. “Maybe another time.” A couple of the soldiers sighed, but they obeyed. Honolulu hadn't been treated as roughly as Chinese towns were when they fell . . . and Shimizu, a good-natured man, preferred his women willing.

It was midafternoon when they headed back toward the barracks. Nothing much had happened on patrol, which didn't break Shimizu's heart. He approved of routine while he was prowling the streets. Anything that wasn't routine was too likely to be messy and dangerous.

Getting back in the company of lots of Japanese soldiers felt good. It meant he didn't have to look over his shoulder and wonder whether all hell would break loose when he rounded the next corner.

So he thought, anyway, till a freight-train noise in the air made him throw himself flat. His body recognized that sound before his mind did—and before the incoming shell burst less than a hundred meters away. Most of his men hit the dirt, too. Few who'd met artillery forgot it in a hurry.

Another shell crashed down by the barracks, and another, and another. Only after the third or fourth burst did Shimizu wonder where they were coming from. Out of the south, by the sound, but what lay south of Honolulu? The Pacific, nothing else.

“Submarine!” someone shouted, his voice half heard through the crashing impacts and the screams of wounded men.

Submarine! Shimizu swore.
I should have thought of that myself
. A sub could sneak close to shore, surface, use its deck gun against whatever it felt like shooting up, and then disappear under the sea again.

That had hardly crossed Shimizu's mind before the shelling stopped. He cautiously raised his head, ready to flatten out again in a hurry if more rounds roared in. But the bombardment did seem to be over. He looked around. The men in his own squad were scrambling to their feet. None of them seemed more than scratched.

Not all the Japanese by the barracks were so lucky. Injured soldiers went on shrieking their pain up to the uncaring tropical sky. And others weren't men at all any more, but disjointed chunks of meat. Someone's foot lay only a couple of meters from Shimizu. The body from which the foot had come was nowhere to be seen. Men who hadn't been hurt started bandaging their comrades and tying off bleeding wounds with tourniquets to try to keep people alive till doctors could see to them.