“Of all the rotten luck.” At that moment, Dave liked that plane better than most people. At least Payback got her job done. Vitty had gotten them lost somewhere, and all Watt could do was take shots at him.
His frustration boiled over into a savage punch at the instrument panel. He took a second or two to collect himself, fresh blood oozing from his knuckle. He looked at Watt. “I’m ready.”
It seemed Watt spoke as gently as he could, considering he had to shout. “You don’t have any romantic notions about going down with the ship, do you?”
Dave didn’t address that. “We need more altitude to bail.” He pulled back on the yoke until the altimeter showed about three thousand feet, then leveled out and switched on the interphone. “Gentlemen. I never wanted to say this, and I’m sure you never wanted to hear it. But we’ve exhausted every option.”
His next words took all his force of will. “We’ve gotta bail.” There. Done. “Make for the hatch. All of you. Now.” He tore off the headset and rummaged for his parachute.
Thursday, December 23, 1948
Osaka, Japan
Miyako was a few minutes late to meet George-san. She found him lounging across from the Hollywood Club, leaning casually against a wall, sand-colored hair glistening under the streetlamp. He stood taller than the crowd by a head.
She was halfway up the block before his eyes locked on her in the crowd. He broke into the unabashed grin only an American could muster and pushed his broad shoulders away from the wall. “There you are, Midori.” He used her street name. “Now this party can start.” He strode to her.
She bobbed him a bow and took a deep breath, steeling herself for what was sure to come next. For the rent. For Papa-san. That’s why I’m here. Even though Papa-san would never accept it if he knew. “Hello, George-san. Very nice to see you.”
He reached for her, the manly scent of his leather jacket mixing with the spicy aroma of his shaving soap. He pulled her into a bear hug and gave her a greedy kiss on the mouth, oblivious to the looks he drew from men and women around them. “Great to see you, doll. I checked us into that Orchid hotel on the next street.”
“Checked us in, ah?” She stared at him, surprised. The Orchid wouldn’t have impressed her in the old days, but it was several cuts above the Namba Jade, where he usually took her. And that place was nicer than the hotels her other okyaku used.
He flashed her that easy grin. “Don’t drop your handbag, sweet pea.” He cinched his arm around her waist and steered her around the corner and down the next street.
She ducked her head, feeling the weight of people’s stares. His broad chest felt solid against her shoulder. It still seemed odd to her, walking next to him rather than following discreetly behind. She stole a glance at him. He was pleasant to look at, as gaijin went. But so big. So loud. His voice jarred her nerves. At least she no longer fought a primordial urge to flee. She had at first.
She knew girls who wouldn’t take gaijin. She understood how they felt, but it was hard for them. The gaijin had the money. Perhaps it was a little easier for her, since she’d studied their language in school. Papa-san had insisted on it. Of course, that didn’t make her fluent. But a few clients, like George-san, seemed to enjoy teaching her to say things.
He ushered her up the elevator and into the room. A handsome brass chandelier dangled over the Western-style bed. He switched on the lamp on the nightstand, sat on the bed, and loosened his tie.
She took a deep breath and summoned the most vivid mental picture she could of Papa-san. The way he’d cared for her when she was small and helpless. This was for tea for Papa-san.
George-san’s eyes lingered on her curves. “Hit that switch by the door, will you, honey?”
She did, turning the chandelier off. The lamp cast a softer glow on elegant mauve wallpaper.
She settled on the bed beside him and gave him her best attempt at an eager smile.
He pulled her against him for another kiss, then fished in his duffel. He produced a bottle of whiskey and a slim package. He held the package out to her. Tissue paper with an understated cherry-blossom design and a cream-colored satin ribbon.
A twinge of fear ran through her. The last time a gaijin had given her a handsome gift, it turned out to be an advance apology for some rough handling. “What’s this?” She looked up into his ocean-colored eyes and let out her breath. This was George-san, after all.
A smile played at his lips. “Don’t just sit there, silly. Open it.”
The paper crinkled in her fingers. “So beautiful, George-san!” She tried to read his face. “So nice to me this evening, ah?”
He cocked an eyebrow and gave her a squeeze. “Open it.”
She tugged at the bow and pulled the tissue away. She found herself holding a delicate pink negligee embroidered with chrysanthemums. She ran her fingers over the luxuriant silk. “George-san, I—”
“No need to say anything.” He laughed, a rich one from his belly. “You know how to thank me.” He planted a hand on her thigh. His voice went husky. “Put it on for me, babe.”
“Thank you! But why, George-san? Why the pretty gift?”
“I’ve made a decision, Midori.” His hand traveled along her thigh. “I like being with you. But I’m not so keen on sharing you with every man in Osaka. And I’m sick of these lousy hotel beds.” He squeezed her knee, sending a little thrill of excitement mixed with reluctance through her. “What if we, um...What if I got a place? You could take care of it for me.”
Her heart did a stutter step. “Ah.” Had she really understood? “I’ll be your onri wan?”
“Yes.” A grin crept across his mouth, making his white teeth flash and carving creases at the corners of his eyes. “You’ll be my only one.”
His words sunk in, took hold, set her spinning through the air with no more direction than a snowflake.
Why her? Why now? Why not a week ago, when she’d have been grateful for such an invitation? Steady money. A way off the street corners. And with a good man, a trustworthy man, even if he was a gaijin. She’d felt from the beginning he was different.
This was the best offer a girl like her was going to get.
But Delham’s brochure changed everything. Now the thing with George-san was only to keep body moored to soul long enough to achieve kataki-uchi. Nothing else could matter. She couldn’t let it matter.
She couldn’t hold his gaze. “I’m very happy, George-san. But...”
His grin faded. “But what?”
“I have to think. Papa-san...” This would be harder to hide than her few hours on the street.
“Papa? But didn’t you say...” He studied her for a long moment, something she couldn’t read in his expression. He pulled his hand off her thigh and worked at his own shirt buttons. “Since it’s such a tough decision, sure, think it over. You can have some time.”
A hint of a break in his voice told her she’d hurt him. “George-san. Please—"
He avoided her eyes. “If it’s not for you, I can live with that. But I’m telling you, I don’t want to keep going this way.”
Fear of loss ripped at her. There were plenty of girls who’d push their sister to the pavement for this chance. She slipped her arms around him and buried her face in the crook of his neck. “I’ll do it. You’re my favorite. Of course I will. We just have to take care of some details.”
Like how I keep Papa-san from ever having to know.
“There’s my girl.” He gave her a wolfish grin. “Now put on that nightie. We have something to celebrate.”
Miyako woke at first light. She winced, willing the dull ache in her head to go away.
George-san’s arm weighed on her, and she started to slip out from under it. He stirred, pulled her tight, and gave her a drowsy, whiskey-scented kiss. “Do you have to go, babe?”
“Hai, George-san. Papa-san—”
“He’s sick. I know. Hey, why don’t you find us a few rooms to look at next time I’m on leave?” He burrowed
into the pillow, his words slurring. “If you need money for the train, my wallet’s on the nightstand.”
She studied him while she brushed out her hair, let her eyes trace the muscles on his bare arm and shoulder and his long, taut torso. Not bad. Really, not bad.
How would it be to share a place with him? She tried to picture herself arranging flowers at their kitchen sink while rice simmered on their stove, her pulse quickening at the crunch of his shoes outside the door.
She turned from him, a hint of acid in her mouth. In the Japan that once was, her parents would have considered her barely old enough to start the omiai, the formal introductions to acceptable suitors. Just old enough to put up her hair, don a lovely kimono with sprays of hand-painted flowers, and waft on the fragrance of jasmine into some captain’s home to meet his son.
Instead she was here. Softening toward a gaijin who had the impudence to think he could buy her.
She waited until his snores took on a deeper resonance before she picked up his wallet. She counted out seven hundred-yen bills. More money than she’d seen in one place since much happier days.
The trouble was, he did have the means to buy her. And a couple more like her.
She thrust that thought from her mind. How much could she get away with taking? She studied him, relaxed and trusting in his sleep.
He did owe her for last night. She wadded three bills into her handbag and cleaned out about half his coins.
She slipped out of the room and made her way home through the soul-draining chill of a bleak December dawn.
When Miyako woke the second time, full daylight filtered through the rice-paper shoji that screened the window. She closed her eyes again and lay still, grateful that Papa-san had let her sleep so long. He slept fitfully most nights and woke early most mornings.
His breathing seemed more labored, with a new wheezing sound. She rolled over to study him. “Papa-san?”
He grunted. His eyelids fluttered. It took him a long moment to open his eyes.
She sat up. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Quit clucking around like an overgrown hen, ah?”
A smile quirked her lips. “As you wish. I’ll find us breakfast, then.”
He grunted.
She’d set washed rice aside the night before, so it only took thirty minutes to put breakfast together. She set the tray on the floor and knelt next to him, ready to spoon the rice porridge into his mouth. As always, he waved her away.
“Papa-san, you should let me. You tire so easily.”
“Nonsense.”
She picked up her own bowl, pushed a spoonful of rice mush around, and set it down. She took a deep breath and plunged in. “You know how determined I am to honor Hiro-chan, yes? And you know I’ll always do my duty, for you and Mama-san and our honored ancestors. But...”
He gave her a piercing look. “But what?”
“Papa-san, I’m not sure how. I’m no warrior, as you say. The only weapon I’ve ever held is a bamboo stake—you know how they made us all drill with those at the...at the end. I don’t think I’m prepared.”
“You’re my daughter, ah? You’ve Matsuura blood in your veins, ah? You will find the courage.”
Courage. She stared at him, stunned, feeling the heat of blood rushing to her head. He thought she lacked courage? He had no idea what she braved daily, for him.
He let his head and shoulders sag onto the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t doubt you.” But his pained expression said something different. He took a shuddering breath and then another. “Kamura-san.”
She bent closer to hear him.
“I got him...that job...instructing at the naval academy, ah? Go see him. Tell no one else.” He drifted into mumbling about how Nippon wasn’t what it once was and no one respected the old ways.
She lifted her chin and set her jaw. “Hai, Papa-san. Remind me, if you please. Which street is Kamura-san’s restaurant on?”
Saturday 18 April 1942
Jiangxi Province, China
From the corner of his eye, Dave saw Watt peel his wife’s photo off the instrument panel and tuck it in the breast pocket of his aviator jacket. Watt grabbed his parachute and climbed down into the navigator’s pit.
Dave held the yoke steady with one hand and, with the other, clipped his floater to the harness around his chest. He glanced over his shoulder at his crew.
Vitty had abandoned his charts and instruments and strapped on his floater. Smith was behind him, strapping on his ’chute. Braxton emerged from the turret and grabbed his ’chute.
Watt squatted to pry up the hatch in the floor. Wind howled through the opening. Nav charts whipped around the cramped cabin like giant crazed moths. Dave pushed one off the windshield in front of him and took another look over his shoulder to check the men’s progress.
Vitiollo went first. He pinned Dave with a dark glare for a full second. He mouthed something, then stepped into the hatch and vanished.
Smith was next, but he froze, staring into the howling hole in the floor. Watt shook the man’s shoulder and barked something in his ear. No response.
Braxton shoved Smith in the small of the back, along with some choice words Dave couldn’t make out. The bombardier dropped to a crouch at the edge of the hole, popped his legs through it and was gone, his wild yell barely audible above the roar of the engines and the shriek of the storm.
Braxton crouched, counted out three seconds, then followed him.
Dave and Watt were alone. Watt looked at him and gestured at the dark hole in the floor. “See you downstairs, Ace. Right?”
Dave forced his reply through a clenched jaw. “Right.”
Watt came up behind him, clapped him on the shoulder, and yelled into his ear, “She’s been a fine plane, but at the end of the day she’s a hunk of metal.”
Dave shrugged. “Shame to waste that rye. Give me a pint of it, would you?”
Watt sighed. He squeezed Dave’s shoulder, closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Lord, please preserve us, and all our men, this day. Amen.” Then he turned and dug around under Vitty’s seat until he came up with two bottles. He handed them to Dave one at a time, pivoted, and stepped into the hatch like a fellow going off the high dive. And Dave had Payback to himself.
He shoved the bottles into the deep breast pockets inside his jacket.
Hunk of metal. No, she was his first command. And he’d failed her. She deserved better.
Maybe his crew did too.
He caressed the yoke. If this was Japanese territory, what was most likely to tip off the enemy they were there? The smoking hulk of the crashed plane, of course. The more distance he could put between the crash site and his crew the better.
Keep Payback in the air. He could do that a little longer. How long did it take the men to bail? Five minutes maybe? Payback would have traveled fifteen miles in that time. His men were scattered across half a Chinese province.
He had his orders in the event they went down. Collect the men and reunite with the squadron in Chungking. None of that would happen if the enemy found his crew first. He had to do whatever he could to prevent that.
He held the yoke steady and trimmed the controls for straight and level flight. Eyed his watch, tuned his ears to the sound of the engines and did his best not to think about one key fact. Every second he and Payback flew took him farther from Watt and the rest.
One minute. Three-and-a-half miles.
Two minutes. Seven miles. Sixty more seconds and it would be ten.
He swallowed past the constriction in his throat and gave the yoke a pat. “Sorry it had to end this way, old girl.”
Thirty more seconds passed. Forty. At the forty-five-second mark, he trimmed her out once more then let go of the yoke. Sprang from the cockpit and made for the hatch.
He stopped short when he reached it. He saw why Smith had trouble. The hatch was barely wide enough for his shoulders. And with no one at the controls, the plane was jumping around like a k
id playing hopscotch. He actually wished for an instant that he could share Watt’s belief in a benevolent God.
He couldn’t bring himself to step through like Watt had. He crouched at the hatch’s edge, glad there was no one to see him.
He checked his floater one more time. Gave his pockets a quick pat to ensure their contents—bottles of rye and everything else—were as secure as he could make them. He took a deep breath, put his legs through the opening and dropped into the blackness.
The slipstream struck him like a wall. His cap whipped off as he hurtled into the night sky. He screamed a string of curses.
Right. Count to ten, idiot.
One. Sheer terror. He fought hard to bring it under control.
Two. Still spinning. Payback’s lights whirling in and out of view.
Three. He spread his limbs. Glanced up to see Payback steady above him, the hatch he’d left the size of a cigarette’s lit end. Shrinking fast.
Four. Darkness swallowed Payback’s lights, leaving him surrounded by black. It was the loneliest thing he’d ever felt.
Five. Wind shrieked at him, pushed his cheeks back and sucked the tears from his eyes.
Six. What if the rag didn’t work? He fought through his panic again.
Seven. Focus, breathe. Keep a steady count.
Eight. How long did it take to fall three thousand feet?
Nine. Good enough. He yanked the rip cord. The floater deployed, the shock of it a slug to the chest. The jolt flipped something out of his pocket. It struck his shoe before it plummeted from sight.
The howling wind calmed to a robust breeze. He drifted, caught his breath. He mopped his face. He was drenched. Cold sweat beneath his jacket, cold rain everywhere else.
The throaty bellow of Payback’s engines—his unfailing companion for more than fourteen hours—was gone, with all connection to anything he knew. The cords made a rhythmic swishing noise above him.
He stared past his feet but could make out nothing. He was in a cloud cocoon, with no sense of motion. But physics said the earth had to be rushing at him—fast. How hard would he land?
The Plum Blooms in Winter Page 5