Eyes of the Emperor (4 page)

Pop was at the kitchen table when we ran in. A cup of tea sat steaming in front of him.

Ma was at the stove, stooped over fried eggs and rice. “What's wrong?” she gasped, her hand flying to her chest.

“Can't you hear it?”

She glanced up at the ceiling. “Oh, that's just the military, like always.”

A plane flew low overhead, shaking the house. Ma frowned. Opah scurried under the table.

Pop said to Herbie,
“Shinbunwa dokonanda? Kyono shinbunwa doshita?”

“Forget the paper,” I said. “Turn on the
radio
.”

He glared straight ahead, arms crossed, the radio only inches away from him.

“Pop,
please
! Turn on the
radio
!”

He sat like a stone.

I tumbled down across from him and snapped it on.

Church music.

I spun the dial.

Pop knocked my hand away.
“Rajio kesunda!”
He turned off the radio.

I turned it on.

Pop slapped his hands on the table, stood, and left the room, knocking his cup over. Tea sped across the tabletop and dripped hot onto my leg.

Herbie tried to tell Ma about the planes, but her eyes were following Pop. Eggs spat in the frying pan under her raised spatula.

“Come on, come on,” I whispered, begging the radio to tell me something.

The vibration of low-flying fighters rattled through the tin roof and shook the walls and the floor. I could feel Opah trembling against my foot.

“Ma,” I said. “I think Japan is attacking us.”

Pop heard that and stormed back into the kitchen. The veins on his forehead popped out like soda straws.
“Nandato?”

The music on the radio stopped and the announcer came on, breathless. “People ah, ah… listen, people, you better be calm, ah, people, people, we are under attack by Japanese planes.… This is not what you might think, this is not maneuvers… this is real.…”

Pop's face flushed red and the skin around his eyes wrinkled into a squint.

“Masaka!”
he spat.

He paced around the kitchen, filling it up. A muscle just below his right eye began to twitch.

“It's true, Pop,” I said. “Go outside. Look at the planes, go!”

His eyes jabbed into mine, saying, What kind of son are you to say Japan would do such a dishonorable thing?

He stalked out, the screen door whapping back.

Ma stood with her mouth open, eggs spitting louder on the stove top.

The announcer said, “A lot of you people might think this is a military maneuver. Understand this: this is no maneuver. This is the real McCoy! We are being attacked by Japan!”

Whomp!
—an explosion just down the street, so big it rocked our house.

Ma gasped and stumbled back.

Opah ran out from under the table as another fighter boomed overhead, its engine rattling my teeth. I squatted down and picked him up, his paws raking my chest.

Pop staggered back into the kitchen, his eyes glazed, skin ghostly gray.

Was he hurt? I set Opah down and went to him. But I was afraid to touch him. I never touched him.

There was no blood that I could see, no wound. Just those spooked eyes.

I let my hand fall on his shoulder.

“Pop,” I said. He would not have allowed this even five minutes before. But now he didn't bat my hand away.

The announcer said, “All military personnel return to your posts immediately.…I repeat,
immediately
! All civilian
defense workers report to your jobs.…We are under at-tack.…All civilians take cover.… Stay indoors.…This is no joke.…We're being bombed by the Rising Sun! I repeat, all military personnel return to your posts immediately!”

That meant me.

Pop sagged against the wall. I tried to support him, but he waved me off. Herbie stood frozen, eyes darting from me to Pop to Ma.

I ran to my room to get my uniform on.

Ma hurried after me, the spatula still in her hand. She grabbed my shirt. “Eddy… don't go—”

“No!”
Pop shouted.

Ma yelped and dropped the spatula. She broke into sobs, covering her face with her hands.

“No,” Pop said again, this time more softly. “You go, boy. Go back army.”

My throat burned at the sound of his voice.

And at the look in his eyes.

Son, they said. Son.

He blinked and looked down at his hands. For his homeland to have attacked us this way—a sneak attack—was warfare of the worst kind. Cowardly and shameful.

I could tell there was more he wanted to say. I could read it all over his face: Eddy, do something.…Do something.…

Herbie was backed up against the wall, as if trying to seep into it, to hide. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Stay strong,” I said. “I need you now.”

He stood frozen.

Ma's sobbing made my throat burn worse. I put my arm around her. “It's okay, Ma. We going be all right.”

She looked so lost and afraid.

“You go,” Pop demanded, his voice raspy. “Go back army. You no can stay. Bad, bad, time now. You solja.…You go back barracks.” His eyes were stunned.

“No make
haji,
Eddy,” he went on, saying my name for the first time I could remember. He usually called me boy. For a second I didn't know who he was talking to.

“Pop—” My voice broke.

“No make shame for this family. You go. Fight for your country. Die, even, but die with honor.”

I looked into his eyes, letting him know I understood, that I would honor him, that I would honor us all.

“You come back dead before you shame us.”

His eyes were steady.

Neither of us looked away.

In my room I ripped off my T-shirt and shorts and stumbled into my uniform. My shiny brown shoes were outside on the porch.

Herbie sat on the bed watching me. I wondered if he had any idea how bad it was that we were being bombed by Japan. It was crazy. They'd just poked a wasp's nest with a stick.

“Herbie, you got to watch Pop. He's in shock or something. He's confused.”

Herbie scowled, his eyebrows drawn together.

“It's up to you now,” I said. “You the man standing next in line to Pop.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Come, walk outside with me.”

In the kitchen I hugged Ma goodbye and kissed the top of her head. “I gotta go. Don't—”

She pulled me closer and buried her face in my chest.

“Ma,” I said, pushing her back and looking into her eyes. “Don't worry about me. I going be fine, and so will you and Pop and Herbie. I promise.” I hugged her again and ran out.

On the porch I stepped into my shoes and tied them quickly. Pop's work boots stood guard next to Ma's grass slippers, like always. I stared at them, choking up.

I wondered if I'd ever see them again.

Maybe not.

Herbie followed me out to the street. Planes sped past overhead, engines screaming, earth shaking, Ma's shadow framed in the screen door.

I reached out to shake Herbie's hand. His grip was stronger than I thought it would be. I pulled him close and hugged him for the first time in my life. I slapped him once on the back, then let go.

“Help Ma, okay? Things going get tough now. You got to be strong. I know you can do it.”

Herbie nodded.

We looked at each other. I felt bad putting weight on him like that. But what could I do?

“Strong,” I said.

Just down the street, Pop stood with his back swayed, gazing up at a sky smeared with the ugly black bursts of antiaircraft
fire. Down toward Pearl Harbor fat black columns of smoke boiled into the clouds.

I wanted Pop to see that I was leaving. I wanted him to say goodbye, to say something, anything. I wanted him to know I wouldn't let him down. I would never shame him, not in a million years.

I mashed my lips together, then turned and headed downtown.

Honolulu was a mess.

Cars zipping around, ignoring red lights and stop signs. Police sirens, ambulances, fire engines, horns, people shouting. Now I could hear machine-gun fire mixed in with the rumble of planes. Nothing seemed real. Was the world coming to an end? A bomb could fall on me and—
boom!
—I'm gone.

I headed downtown, looking out for Chik and Cobra, who were also home on pass. I ran by Advertiser Square, the old missionary church, the palace, cutting through yards, crossing soft grass in the shade of monkeypod trees, while all around, uniformed guys like me raced toward the Army-Navy YMCA, where the buses would be.

Amazingly, I spotted Chik running up ahead, his unbuttoned shirt streaming out behind him.

“Chik!” I yelled.

He glanced over his shoulder and stopped.

“Ho, man!” he said. “What
is
all this?”

“You seen Cobra?”

“Not since Friday night.”

“Look at all these guys,” I said. “How we going get back to Schofield?”

Down near Pearl Harbor more and more black smoke was piling into the sky, rising up darker and dirtier and uglier by the second.

Chik said, “Man, I was only home for half an hour before all this noise. What a party last night. How come I never saw you at Jiro's place?”

“
Party?
How can you even
think
about that now?”

Before he could answer, a thundering explosion rocked the street just blocks away. We covered our heads and ducked, then looked at each other and took off running.

We ran past bars and cafés and arcades and tattoo parlors, the streets tangled with military and emergency vehicles and guys trying to hitch rides back to their posts.

But there were way too many of them.

“Chik! Eddy!” We turned and saw Cobra shoving his way toward us.

“Hey,” Chik said, his white teeth flashing. “How come you never showed up at Jiro's party? I thought for sure you—”

“Are you
nuts
?” Cobra said. “Talking about—”

He stopped and looked up.

The skies had fallen eerily silent. Between the buildings that ran down to Honolulu Harbor we could see the planes
racing away, little specks regrouping and zipping out to sea. I checked my watch. Eight-forty.

“It's over,” I whispered.

“For those guys it is,” Cobra said. “They gotta be running low on fuel. Must be a carrier out there.” He slapped my shoulder. “We got to find us a bus.”

“Wait—I have an idea,” I said, and took off up the street, away from the crowds. A bus, if we could even find one, would take too long.

They ran after me, Cobra yelling, “What are you
doing
?”

We needed a car.

A black Packard broke away from the traffic jam and sped toward me. The red-haired haole driver honked—
Blaat! Blatt!
—hunched over the steering wheel.

I waved my hands above my head. “Stop! Stop!”

Blaaaaaaaat!

“Eddy!” Cobra shouted. “Get out of the way!”

The haole slammed on the brakes. The engine stalled, and he fumbled to start it. I could see he was scared. He tried to roll his window up, but I ran over and put some weight on it.

“Get away from me!” the guy shouted.

Chik and Cobra crowded in.

“You don't understand,” I shouted. “We gotta get back to Schofield. We're soldiers. We need a ride.”

The car sprang back to life.

“Here,” I said, ripping my wallet out. “You don't believe the uniform, then check my ID, look!”

The guy glanced at it and frowned.

“We'll pay you,” I said. “Here, take all my money.” I
yanked out all the bills I had, twenty-two dollars. “Cobra, Chik, give him everything you got!”

The haole grabbed the bills, trying to shove them back out the window. “I can't take this. I have to go.”

“Please, mister, we got to get to our
post
. We're at
war
. They need us at Schofield.”

He glanced at the smoke rising from Pearl Harbor. “How do I know you're not one of…of them?”

“Who?” I said.

He pointed toward the planes out on the horizon. “Them!”

I shoved my ID in his face. “You see where it says
United States
Army?”

The guy jerked his head back. “All right, all right, get in.”

We piled into the backseat.

“Where was it you needed to go again?”

“Schofield Barracks.”

He frowned. Schofield was thirty-five miles away.

Chik looked like he wanted to strangle the guy. Cobra ducked his head out the window, peeking up at the sky as we raced out of downtown Honolulu.

The haole said, “I'm Jack. Sorry for being suspicious, it's just—”

“ 'S okay,” Cobra said. “No worry about it.”

“Yeah,” Chik added. “We all jumpy.”

Boy, was that the truth.

When we hit Kam Highway we gasped at the black dragons of smoke snaking up out of Pearl Harbor. Cobra, hanging halfway out the window, shouted, “Hang on, boys, they coming back!”

A new squadron of fighters screamed down over the mountains. And then another swept in behind us, banking low around Diamond Head.

The fighters swooped down in V formation, heading straight toward the fiery devastation.

High above the fighters, bombers crawled across the sky over Pearl Harbor and Hickam Field, each letting loose their belts of steel death. You could see the bombs falling, falling, disappearing into the smoke, then—
Ka-boom!
—buckling and obliterating the helpless parked planes and ships.

We gaped at Pearl Harbor as we sped by just above it. The battleships were being eaten by flames that flicked out like lizard tongues. Some ships were underwater with their superstructures showing. Others leaned against the dock.

“They coming to finish the job,” Chik said. “Those ships are sitting ducks.”

Traffic came to a halt.

Just ahead a group of SPs, the Navy police, were turning cars back or forcing them off the road.

Fighters raced in overhead, and the SPs scattered into a ditch. When the planes had passed, they crawled back out.

“Come on, come on,” I mumbled, pounding my fist on the back of the front seat.

Even up at Schofield, miles away, I could see smoke. Above us, the sky was splattered with black puffs of navy antiaircraft fire.

The SP glanced into our car.

“I gotta get these guys to Schofield,” Jack said. We held up our IDs, and the SP waved us through.

Just then, sweeping in from the mountains, a single fighter came down on us with snaps of flame flickering in its gunports. Dusty puffs of red dirt and weeds jumped out of the ground in twin trails racing straight toward us. The SP hit the dirt by the left front tire. Jack gaped at the machine-gun tracks. Cobra and Chik piled over me, all of us diving to the floor and covering our heads with our arms as bullets ripped across the hood—
thwack-thwack-thwack!

The engine died.

The fighter boomed past and dropped down into Pearl. We inched up and watched it. Jack sat with his eyes frozen wide open.

“Hey,” I said, shaking him. “Wake up. Start the car. We gotta get out of here! Wake up!”

Jack shook his head and fumbled with the ignition, his fingers trembling wildly.

Nothing happened.

He tried again, and when the car coughed to life we cheered.

Jack gunned it. The Packard jerked forward, but the engine sounded raspy. “We're never gonna make it,” he said.

“We got to,” Cobra said.

Something huge blew down in Pearl, so big it whoomped through the car. “Good Lord!” Jack said. “What was
that
?”

A hideous monster of smoke boiled up, red and orange and black, a volcanic fireball climbing into the sky. At its base, huge flames shot out like claws, reaching across to the ships nearby. The whole harbor was burning, even the water.

“God bless their poor souls,” Jack said.

I turned away, sick, trying not to think about the blood and pain and agony down there.

Jack got the car moving again, a smoking, slowmoving target for the next fighter that dropped down out of the sky.