Winter in June (23 page)

Kay froze at the crossroads. “Did you hear that?”

“What?” I said.

“Somebody's coming.”

I strained for evidence of our intruder and picked up quiet footsteps heading toward us from the village. We ducked into a tangle of foliage and waited for whoever it was to pass.

As we crouched in the greenery, standing in puddles still left from the heavy rain, bugs and beetles attempted to make meals of us. Dangling vines quivered with the wind, tricking me into believing that any number of reptiles had just brushed past me. I yearned to swat them away, but I couldn't wince, slap, or shriek if I wanted to stay hidden. All I could do was freeze and pray.

Whoever was coming was taking their time.

“We should've just gone,” I whispered. “They never would've seen us.” Something furry tickled my leg.

“Too late now,” whispered Jayne.

We receded further into the jungle. The air was ripe with a stench of something rotten. Above this putrid sweetness lingered the scent of new growth brought on by the recent rain. What a queer place this island was, at once repellent and attractive. Were Japanese bodies still out here? They couldn't have found all of them. Surely some of the corpses had been left behind to become a permanent part of the jungle. If this were a story in
Tales of Terror
, those bodies would reanimate and roam the island seeking revenge. In fact, maybe they had. Maybe I wasn't feeling vines brushing past my cheek but skeletal fingers marking their target.

Sometimes I hated my overactive imagination.

At last a figure appeared in the dim light, guiding their path with a flashlight. I strained to get a slant on them. It was Candy Abbott.

“This isn't good,” said Kay.

“What do you mean?” I said. “It's the one Wac who likes us.”

“No, it's the one Wac who did me a turn after you did her one, and who probably spent the day hearing about it from the others.
There's no telling what'll happen if she gets back to the tent before we do and sees that we're gone. Especially if Captain Lambert arrives before she does.”

I got what she was saying. If Candy went back to the tent and encountered Amelia or set off the guards, our absence would be discovered. And rather than getting in trouble herself and risking the rest of the Wacs' ire, it would be very easy for her to divert everyone's attention by pointing out that we were missing.

Something rattled in the wind. It was bones. Definitely bones. “Candy's not like that,” I said.

“Maybe not where Jayne and you are concerned, but I'm not so sure she feels any loyalty toward me.”

“So then, what do we do?” asked Jayne.

I wasn't sure, but whatever it was better be happening soon, before we were gobbled whole-cloth by the undead.

“Candy,” Kay stage-whispered as she disentangled herself from the brush.

Candy jumped at the sound of Kay's voice before peering into the darkness where we were hidden. “Who's there?”

“It's Kay. And Jayne and Rosie.”

We stepped out of our hiding place. Candy took us all in.

“Hi,” said Kay. Her tone was soft and hesitant, like a small child who encounters a once-enthusiastic friend they're afraid might not want to play with them again. “Thanks for what you did this morning.”

Candy's face bent in confusion. While gratitude was nice, she certainly didn't expect to receive it in the jungle in the middle of the night. “You know Irene would hate them for how they're treating you.”

“I like to think so,” said Kay. “I'm sorry about what happened to her. She was my best friend.”

“She was mine too.”

“I know,” said Kay. “And I should've been the one to tell you when she died.”

Candy shrugged. “I'm not sure the news would've gone down
easy, no matter who told me.” She seemed to realize that Jayne and I were hanging on their every word. “What are you doing out here anyway?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” I said.

She had a bag slung diagonally across her body. From the way it was hanging I could tell it was empty. “Late-night rendezvous,” she whispered.

“He must be pretty special to risk this much hot water,” I said.

She grinned at the ground. “Oh, he is. He definitely is. Now, what are you three up to?”

“Trying to stop a lynching.” I told her about Spanky and the boys' plot to punish the sniper.

“Do you honestly think talk is going to stop them?” she asked.

“No. But us staying in the tent and waiting until morning isn't going to help either. At the very least, they need to know that this isn't what Gilda would've wanted. Do you want to join us?”

She hesitated, her eyes following the trail that would lead back to camp. Her gaze returned to Kay before landing on me. “Why not?” she finally said. “I'm in the mood for an adventure.”

Candy led the way. She knew where the POW camp was, but, more important, she knew how to approach it without being seen. We came at it from behind, hugging the hills that formed the camp's back wall and led up to the Suicide Cliffs. The entire compound was only about two thousand square feet. Barbed wire surrounded it, though I didn't think it would take much to compromise it if that's what you were set on doing. We could hear Spanky and his crew from where we stood, though we couldn't see them. Apparently, gaining entry was slightly more complicated than I anticipated, since from the sound of things, the men had to linger outside the gates for a while.

“They're probably bribing the guard,” said Candy.

“There's a guard?” I said.

“Several of them. You don't think we rely on barbed wire alone to pen our POWs, do you?”

Eventually, the men's voices grew muffled, and we knew they'd entered the building. Rather than trying to climb the fence, we decided to follow their lead and walk in through the front door.

As Candy had described, there were two guards standing post at the gate. They were playing cards, and each of them had a jar of something in hand to help them pass the time. Sitting at their feet, his attention divided between us and the pen, was Mac, a wide white bandage wrapped around his torso. His tail thumped an enthusiastic greeting.

We didn't have anything to offer the guards: no booze, no cigarettes, no late-night snack. All we had was Jayne.

“Mind helping us out here?” I asked her.

“By doing what exactly?”

“Just being your charming self.”

The three of us opened our robes and Candy opened a button. Jayne fluffed her hair and pinched some color into her cheeks. Her nightgown only qualified for that title because she wore it at night; there certainly wasn't enough fabric involved to call it a dress, much less a gown.

“Hiya, fellows,” she cooed.

The guards snapped to attention at our arrival. One of them had a scar across his face. The skin puckered around his eye the way a ring mount clutched a diamond.

The other fellow had one of those soft bland faces that made you think of unbaked dough. My stomach growled at the sight of him.

“Evening, ladies. What brings you here?” asked doughface.

“We're looking for Spanky,” said Jayne.

“Sorry,” said the guy with the scar, “there's no one here by that name.”

As though to verify the guy was lying, Mac let out a single bark.

“That's his dog,” I said. “We know he's here.”

“He and his pals were supposed to wait for us so we could come along for the fun,” said Candy.

“They didn't tell us anyone else was coming,” said the man with the scar.

“I can't imagine Spanky being dumb enough to leave girls like you behind,” said doughboy.

“We were afraid we wouldn't be able to sneak out tonight,” I said. “I think Spanky took that to mean we weren't coming at all.”

“I didn't think this was the kind of thing dames would want to be part of,” said the scar.

“Well, we're not just any dames,” said Kay. “We were in the show with Gilda.”

I pushed Jayne forward. “Jayne here was the other girl who was hurt.”

Jayne lifted her hair to show off the red wound at the top of her ear. The men did a double take. Doughface jumped to his feet and offered Jayne his chair.

“I'm fine. Really I am.” She took a deep breath to dramatize just how all right she was. Her chest jutted out like the prow of a ship.

“I'm sure she'll be even better once she sees the sniper get his what-for,” I said.

Jayne's voice grew weak and wispy. “It doesn't seem right that someone could do something like that and end up serving time behind bars in the lap of luxury.”

Even as she said it, we all recognized that this was hardly the country club Blake had described. In the States, there were tales of German and Japanese POWs being put up at resorts where they had access to whatever amenities they desired, and still some of them attempted to escape. Here on Tulagi their encampment was a prison pure and simple. It might have been slightly better than facing the danger on the warfront, but it was still a miserable way to live out your days.

“All right, ladies. Go on through. The Jap you want is in the last cell on the right.”

We passed through the gate and entered the low, dark building. It was damp inside, smelling like a combination of mold, urine, and rotting food. We could hear people shifting in the darkness, but no one called out to us. Most of the prisoners were probably asleep,
and the ones who weren't must've recognized that we weren't their friends and that any attempt to get our attention wasn't likely to help them.

“How many men are here?” whispered Kay.

“Not many. Probably only three or four,” said Candy. “Once things get too crowded, they send them to a bigger camp on one of the other islands.”

I peered into each of the small rooms to see what sort of conditions the men were living in. Each had a military-issue cot and what looked like some sort of portable toilet.

“Do they just stay in here all day?” I asked.

“No. There's an all-purpose room, where they can talk to one another, and a kitchen. I think they're allowed access to the yard during daylight hours. They would put them to work, but they're not allowed to make them do anything that would benefit our side in the war, which kind of limits any potential jobs they might give them. Of course, from what I hear, those rules are stretched at some of the other camps.”

“How so?” I asked.

“I've heard rumors that they make some of the Axis prisoners clear out minefields.”

If Blake considered that living in the lap of luxury, I hated to see what sort of conditions the Axis were subjecting
our
POWs to.

“This way,” said Kay. We followed the sound of our men talking in the distance. We stopped just short of where they were. I didn't think it was wise to let them know we were there until we knew what they were doing.

“Put him over there!” said a man whose voice I didn't recognize. The others were egging him on, listing any number of things they hoped to do to the prisoner in question.

Someone—the prisoner?—said something in Japanese.

“He wants to know what they want,” said Candy.

“You speak Japanese?” I asked.

“And German,” she said. “Kay and I both do. You can't break their codes if you don't speak their language.”

This was a boon I hadn't anticipated.

“You think you can get away with killing a woman like that, you slant-eyed bastard?” said one of the men. Other epithets followed, so littered with curse words that even if the prisoner knew English, he couldn't have made head or tail of what they were trying to say. We heard the sound of flesh hitting flesh and winced as a clatter of furniture followed. The prisoner yelped in pain.

“Aren't you going to fight back? Or are you too yellow?”

The prisoner responded in rapid-fire Japanese, his tone making it clear that he was both hurt and terrified.

“He's begging them to leave him alone,” said Candy. “He's saying he didn't do anything.”

I was itching to respond. The sniper's tone reminded me of a wounded animal. I couldn't bear to listen to that sort of agony, especially when people I used to like were the ones inflicting it.

“Kick the yellow bastard!” someone yelled. There was a sickening thud, followed by retching. That was it. I was done.

“Stop!” I yelled. We rounded the corner and found a group of five men crowded into the all-purpose room. The prisoner was on the floor on his side, vomiting as he clutched his stomach. I was shocked by what I saw: this wasn't a Japanese soldier enduring what every soldier prepared to face. This was a mere boy so terrified of what was happening to him that his eyes were filled with tears.

 

“What are you doing here, Rosie?” asked Spanky. His face was red, not from the sun this time but from the excitement of the fight.

“You've got to stop this,” I said. “He's only a boy. It's not right.”

One of the other men lectured me with his index finger. “What's not right is what he did to Gilda. He deserves to pay for that.”

“Not like this,” I said.

The boy spoke again in Japanese.

“He says he wants to go home,” said Candy.

The men parted to let the other women through.

“Of course he does. He's a coward,” said a guy they called Sheep, a name he immortalized with a tattoo of the animal on his forearm.

Candy said something to the boy in Japanese. He looked at her in shock, unable to reconcile the image of this white American woman speaking his language. She said something else to him, her tone soft and reassuring. As he replied, his eyes darted around the room, looking at the men set on doing him harm.

“He's a deserter,” said Kay.

“What?” asked Sheep.

“He went AWOL a week ago.”

Candy asked him something else, and he responded at greater length.

“His name's Yoshihiro,” said Kay. “He's only sixteen years old. He thought he wanted to be a soldier, but after watching his friends get killed, he got scared and ran.”

“So he is a yellow coward!” said a man they called Red, a nickname derived, no doubt, from his flame-colored hair.

“Why did he shoot Gilda and me?” asked Jayne.

Candy took a step toward the boy and knelt down to his level. She looked like she was about to touch him, then thought better of it. Quietly, with a gentle smile planted on her face, she continued her interrogation. His eyes widened in surprise at something she said, and he became more animated as he attempted to answer her.

“What's he saying?” asked Spanky.

Candy raised her hand to let him know that she wasn't going to tell him anything until the boy had spoken his piece. They continued this way for several minutes. As the boy's response came to an end, Candy reached into her bag and pulled out a chocolate bar. The boy eyed it suspiciously until Candy unwrapped it and demonstrated what it was. Understanding passed through his eyes as he slid it into one of his pockets.

“Well?” I asked Kay.

“He said he was trying to watch the show from up in the cliffs. He heard us singing and wanted to know what was going on. He hid in the brush up there and watched as everyone performed. He said that the women on stage were very beautiful, and he loved to hear the American music.”

“If he loved it so much, why did he decide to fire on us?” asked Jayne.

“He didn't,” said Kay. “He said the shooter was on a cliff below him.”

“He's lying,” said Spanky.

“He ran when he heard the gunshots,” said Candy. “He thought they were firing at him because of his desertion.”

“Ask him if he saw the shooter,” I said.

This time Kay repeated the question in Japanese. The boy responded quickly and succinctly. “He says no,” said Kay. “It was too dark and the sniper was too far below him.”

“Ask him if he knows about the Japanese sneaking onto the island to take supplies.”

Again she repeated the question. His face crinkled in confusion, and his tone indicated that he was asking her something in return. She replied, and whatever her answer was, it was sufficient to allow him to respond. “He doesn't know anything about that.” The boy started talking again, his large eyes locked on Kay's face. “He said he explained all of this to the man with the white hair,” said Kay. “He wants to go to America. He can't go back to his home after dishonoring his family by running away.”

So Blake had known all along that this boy wasn't the sniper. Why would he imprison him and let the real culprit run loose?

“He's lying,” said Spanky. “He'll say whatever he can to get us to leave him alone.”

“I don't think so,” I said. “If word about what he's done gets out, he'll be killed by his own men. By claiming he killed Gilda, he's much more likely to be viewed as a hero in their eyes.”

“He's probably still guilty of something.” Spanky's eyes were fast becoming as red as his sunburned face. “Who knows how many of our men he took out before now?” He shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out a jackknife.

“What the deuce is that?” I asked.

He stabbed the air in front of him. “He deserves to pay. They all do.”

The boy began to pray under his breath. At least, I think it was a prayer. Lord knows it's what I would've been doing in that moment. I stepped between Spanky and him.

“If you kill him, Spanky, I swear to God I'll make sure everyone knows. Got it? You either leave him alone, or I'll see to it that you're court-martialed for this.”

“Then maybe I'll kill you too.” He lifted the knife until it was level with my neck, the blade turned just enough to catch the light. It was so close to me that if I swallowed I would've felt the tip prick me.

This wasn't just about avenging Gilda and Jayne. Spanky had become rock happy, so long had he sat on this island with nothing to do. He needed to accomplish something that he believed would affect the outcome of this war, and he'd convinced himself that killing the sniper was that thing. With less time on his hands and more activity, he might've been able to look at the situation rationally.

And the booze I smelled on his breath probably wasn't helping things.

He held my eyes while I held my breath. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Thirty.

He dropped the knife. Candy caught it with her foot and kicked it toward the door.

“I'm sorry,” said Spanky. “I wouldn't hurt you. I swear.”

“It's all right,” I said. He and Violet were made for each other. My hand leaped to my neck and explored the skin to make sure no harm had been done.

His eyes filled with tears. He looked like a sleepwalker who'd just awakened to find himself teetering on a ledge. “I don't want to hurt an innocent person.”