The Plum Blooms in Winter

by Linda Thompson

  The guards lined up and bowed to them in unison. Not a little bob, but a real, deep bow. The one in the middle addressed them in heavily accented English. “War is over. You go home.”

  Watt stared at the man, blank-faced. “Go home?”

  “It’s a trick,” Vitty stage-whispered.

  It could be. Dave wouldn’t put it past these fellows to burst out laughing and turn on them. Pull out clubs and beat them back into their cells. Or worse. Get their guard down, then shoot them all.

  He ran wary eyes along the line of guards. But their batons stayed in their belts, and they carried no other weapons. The guy who spoke a little English bowed again.

  “True. War over. You free now.” He gestured with a flourish down the hall. “Bath?”

  “Bath?” Dave turned to Nielsen. “Sure, but I had one two days ago. You?”

  The guard nodded at them, wearing an ingratiating smile. “You take bath now. Please.”

  Nielsen fixed the guard with a stare for a second or two, like he could see straight into him. He gave Dave an ambivalent shrug and slipped an arm beneath Vitty’s shoulder. Dave got the man’s other side. They followed the guard into the washroom, Watt on their heels.

  Bowing repeatedly, the guards brought razors and ran water in buckets. The English-speaking guard planted a bucket in front of Dave. He knelt and cupped his hands in the water. Warm. That tiny bit of offered dignity was the thing that made him start to believe. He looked up at the others.

  “Guys. They gave us warm water.”

  Watt’s face broke into a slow grin. “So maybe we’re not horyo anymore?”

  Nielsen shook his head. “It can’t be that easy.”

  The guard bobbed another bow, like that would convince them. “War over. Americans come for you.”

  Nielsen shot Dave a look. “Just like that? Do we believe him?”

  Dave splashed delicious warm water over his face. It trickled into his matted beard. “Things have been different. For days. Haven’t you felt it?”

  Watt turned to the guard. “Who are you, anyway? What happened to the regular guys?”

  The guard gave a quick nod. “Some men go home.”

  Dave paused his splashing. “See? The Japs are going home.”

  Watt’s jaw dropped. “So we’re next? We won?”

  And then they were all yelling and hollering.

  Nielsen thrust a fist into the air. “No more rice balls!”

  Watt’s face lit with joy. “No more kill-all order.”

  “No more dang clubs!” Tears streaked Vitty’s dirt-stained face.

  “No more stinking lice.” Dave felt tears on his own cheeks and realized he was crying too. “Home. We’re going home. Thank you, Jesus!”

  My mountain moved.

  Faces seemed to dance in front of him. Mom. Julie. Dad. Even Jenny and Uncle Verle. And Eileen. Especially Eileen, walking toward him with that radiant smile. Her presence was so real he almost reached for her.

  “I can’t believe it,” Nielsen said. “We made it. Gentlemen, we outlasted this war.”

  “Thank the dear Lord.” Watt’s cheeks gleamed with tears. “Annie, honey, I’m coming home.”

  Vitty threw his arms around Watt, broke down and flat-out bawled.

  Nielsen’s eyes widened, his voice full of wonder. “Home. Back to the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

  Dave turned to the English-speaking guard. His face had lapsed into a vacant stare. Dave caught his gaze and the man was quick with a bow and an obsequious smile. But it didn’t erase the haunted look around his eyes.

  Those other guards. What did they go home to? They’d been taught all their lives that Japan was invincible. How did it feel to find out your entire belief system was a lie?

  “What do we do now?” Watt asked the guard.

  “Americans come. One hour.”

  Looking back on their release later, Dave never quite understood it. The day before, the guards had been, for the most part, vicious thugs. Overnight they transformed into kowtowing hosts. When he compared notes with others, he learned this experience wasn’t unique to the Raiders.

  The best explanation he came up with was this. As horyo, the Americans had been a lesser breed—something subhuman in their captors’ eyes. But now that they were victors, full human rights and privileges applied.

  Dave remembered the days after their release in bits and pieces. An ecstatic, delirious blur. He and the others had finished washing up, then lingered on the cellblock steps, blissful in their new status as free human beings.

  “Hey!” Watt said. “I’ve got an idea. How ’bout we raid the kitchen?”

  “Are you nuts? I’m not touching anything they have in there.” Nielsen spat on the ground like he was expelling something vile. “I’m holding out for real food. Steak and ice cream, fellas.”

  Dave glanced at Vitty, took in his emaciated arms and unfocused eyes. His buddy was in no condition to wander around. “Let’s rest till they come for us. I sure don’t want to miss that bus.” He elbowed Watt. “Hey, you might get to build that dude ranch after all.”

  Watt grinned. “And you might take home that Thompson Trophy.”

  Dave stared at the sky above the tile roof across from them. A thunderhead was stacking up. “That’d be a fine thing. I hope they start the air races up again, now that this war is—”

  “Over!” The others joined him in hollering the last word. Their voices reverberated from cinder-block walls.

  Watt whooped and they all laughed. Poor Vitty nearly toppled over with the excitement.

  Three Caucasian men in dirt-streaked prison uniforms strolled across the yard toward them. The men looked as gaunt and ragged as Dave and his friends, but they sported enormous grins. One had commandeered what looked like a table leg. He stumped along, using it as a cane.

  Dave riveted his eyes on their faces. Besides his fellow airmen, he hadn’t seen a pair of round eyes since the U.S.S. Hornet. Three years and four months earlier.

  The man in the lead called out to them. “You must be the Doolittle men?”

  Dave pushed himself to his feet. “Yes, sir.”

  The man’s grin went even broader. He extended his hand. “Commander Scott Cunningham. Thank God we found you.”

  Cunningham. Dave had seen that name scratched on tin. He gave the man’s hand an enthusiastic shake. “The Tincup News Service.”

  Commander Cunningham laughed. “The what?”

  “That’s what we called it, sir. And the morale boost it gave us helped pull us through.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it. And your mission, men”—he snapped to attention and included all four of them in his gaze—“may have helped win this war. The impact in military terms wasn’t enormous, but I wish you could have seen what you did for morale.”

  Nielsen broke into a disbelieving grin. “No kidding.”

  Chen’s voice reverberated through Dave’s mind. Get airplane. Kill many Japs. For us. He’d done exactly none of that. But perhaps their mission had accomplished something worthy of Chen’s sacrifice.

  He felt tears well again.

  Watt draped an arm across Dave’s shoulders and sniffled. “Praise God. Praise be to the living God.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Saturday, January 1, 1949

  Osaka, Japan

  The rain gave way to a light drizzle as Miyako retraced her steps toward Ebisu Bridge. The mid-day throng was appearing now, which would be true with any of the bridges. Thankfully, Kamura-san had left her the umbrella. She positioned it so it hid her face as much as possible.

  With no plans and nowhere to be until three o’clock the next day, she paused on the bridge and leaned over the railing. Studied the water fifteen feet below. A pair of ducks bobbed on the surface. The drake’s iridescent plumage gleamed against the dismal gray-green water.

  Was it true they mated for life? She watched the pair, her mood murkier than the water.

  She wandered acros
s the bridge to the alley that led to the ancient Hozen-ji temple. This time, the fragrance of red bean soup beckoned. That soup was a favorite of Hiro-chan’s on cold winter days. They would eat it together in Mama-san’s kitchen after they came home from school. It did wonders to dispel the winter chill.

  Why not? Let the memories come. Che! Why not wallow in them?

  An old cafe stood on that alley, very famous before the war. Sweet red bean soup was its signature dish. It had even given the title to a famous novel, Sweet Bean Soup for Two. She turned into the narrow alley, her shoes squelching on mossy fragments of broken flagstone.

  That whole district had been leveled, but the cafe was somehow still in business, serving from a scrap-wood shed. A petite woman took orders behind a rough counter. A ramshackle roof stretched over a row of plank tables.

  Miyako joined the line of customers that stretched under the string of bright-red paper lanterns.

  “Sweet red bean soup, if you please.”

  She chose a seat at the table farthest from the counter and waited, running her fingers over the tablecloth. It was well-worn cotton, with a pattern of scattered pink cherry blossoms. Cherry blossoms. The warm scent of red bean soup. The memories came in a tsunami that swept her back to that horribly bright April afternoon, to the dappled shade and drifting petals—pink snowflakes on the breeze.

  Natsue’s voice echoed in her ears. The blossoms always disappear too soon, ah?

  She crushed her napkin into a clump in her fist. Hai, Hiro-chan. You disappeared much too soon. I swore I’d do my best for you, but it keeps getting harder.

  George-san. It was all up to him and his ten thousand yen.

  He’d tasted red bean soup once, on one of their first Thursdays together. They’d passed a small shop on a frosty evening. A shop much less famous than this one. But unlike this one, it had actual walls.

  Sampling the soup hadn’t been her choice. It had been his. He’d stopped outside the door, his breath hanging on the air. “What is that? It smells good.”

  She breathed in the rich, spicy aroma and forced back the memories it carried. “Japanese special dish. Maybe you like, ah? It’s warm.”

  His nose crinkled, along with the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. “I don’t mind trying something new.” They turned in and joined the queue to order. He stared around, taking in everything, his face lit with perplexed amusement. He pointed at various items on display in the glass case. “What’s that?”

  Dango, rice dumpling balls on sticks, coated with sweet, sticky sauce. Mikasa, pancakes sandwiched around a layer of sweet bean filling. She did her best to explain what they were. But he looked especially dubious at the thick red-brown mixture a woman behind the counter was spooning into bowls. “Is that what we’re eating?”

  Miyako smiled up at him and stroked his arm. “Hai. Trust me, George-san.”

  A pair of schoolgirls stood in front of them, matching short braids cascading onto frayed white collars. Matching pairs of toothpick legs and scuffed shoes under pleated skirts. The older girl clutched a worn wallet. The younger one studied the pastries in the case with wide eyes, standing so close her breath fogged the glass.

  When it was her turn, the older girl ordered two bowls of sweet bean soup.

  “Thirty yen,” the cashier said.

  The girl shook her wallet so her coins spilled onto the counter. Twenty-five yen.

  She counted them.

  George-san shifted his weight impatiently, his smile fading.

  The girl sucked in her breath. “Do you have some coins, Ko-chan?” Her little sister dug in her pocket and pulled out two small coins.

  The older one rearranged the coins on the wood-plank counter. “No more money, Ko-chan?”

  George-san’s eyes widened with understanding. He murmured in Miyako’s ear. “She doesn’t have enough? Is that why she’s taking so long?”

  “No. Not enough.”

  George-san winced.

  The smaller girl pushed out a quivering lower lip and shook her head.

  The older one looked at the cashier, her expression flat. “One bowl, please.”

  He took a half step forward. “I’ll get that for her.” He looked at Miyako. “Do they want that soup stuff? Tell the lady to give them each a bowl, please. And”—he smiled down at the younger girl—“ask if there’s anything else they’d like.”

  It was easy to be generous when you had a full belly and a wallet crammed with bills. That thought lodged in Miyako’s mind. But she learned in time George-san was like that. Always free with his cash. So ready to pamper his onri wan—hotel room, silk negligee, train tickets. Even ready to protect her. Maybe there was something in him that liked to come to the rescue. Play the big hero.

  An acrid taste grew in her mouth. If Bowman had talked to him, he was sure to be feeling a lot less generous now.

  The young woman who’d taken Miyako’s order came over. She bowed and set a lacquer tray with twin bowls of steaming red-brown soup on the table. Their rich sweet aroma teased at Miyako’s senses. “Excuse me. But I’m afraid there’s a mistake. I only ordered one.”

  “Ah. Please forgive me. We only serve them in pairs. His and hers bowls.”

  She did her best to smile at the server. The woman bustled off, humming.

  Of course. That happened in the novel too. But Miyako had always assumed it was fiction. She dropped her gaze to the tray in front of her, a sentence from the novel’s climax running through her mind.

  It’s better to be a couple than alone in the world. True, if you were identical as a pair of bowls. But she and George-san had always been a mismatch. A baishanfu, a woman who’d sold her spring, to use the polite expression. Paired with the man who’d bought it from her. A proud daughter of samurai on the verge of a historic but ruthless deed. Coupled with an enemy soldier.

  Enemy soldier. Enemy airman. Delham had been one, like George-san. Who were the women in Delham’s life? What did he mean to them?

  Did he like to come to their rescue?

  She couldn’t bring herself to eat “his” bowl.

  20 August 1945

  Peking, China

  A truck brought Dave and his friends to a swank hotel in downtown Peking. Its towering marble lobby was grander than anything Dave had seen, even in Chicago. A bellman in full gold-braid regalia showed him to a luxurious room. He soaked in a real tub bath and flushed the toilet about ten times simply to watch the water swirl around the gleaming white porcelain bowl.

  He had a hazy memory of seeing a doctor, who gave him injections and a bottle of vitamin pills. The man cautioned him. “Go easy on the food, now. Stick to soft, bland meals for a few days. Your stomach’s not ready for anything rich.”

  He had no intention of taking that advice.

  He had a very clear memory of that first dinner. Thick, fragrant Irish stew with big chunks of beef and carrot and potato. Crusty rolls, meltingly soft inside, with actual butter. Dainty fruit tarts for dessert. And finally, coffee with sugar and cream. Dave gorged himself, then furtively stuffed his pockets with rolls and tarts in case the food disappeared later.

  After the meal, Watt joined him in his room. He settled on the bed with its red brocade spread. “Sheets, even.” He ran his hand along their crisp folded edge. “I think I could get used to this.” He sat a moment, then looked at Dave, eyes glistening. “Pinch me, Delham. I still can’t believe it.”

  Dave nodded. “The only thing that would make this better is if the other guys were here. Meder. Braxton. Hallmark. Smith.”

  “I know.” Watt closed his eyes.

  A spasm wrenched Dave’s stomach, like the doctor predicted. It passed, for the moment, although he suspected worse would come later. But he didn’t care. He walked over to the window. Men and women strolled the boulevard three stories below—free men and women, going wherever they pleased.

  “I love my country.” Watt’s voice broke with emotion. “I love that we won this stinking war. I love every one of t
hose boys that fought to set us free.”

  Dave turned to look into his friend’s face—his eye sockets still hollow from hunger, the skin on his jowls still slack, his cheeks moist with tears he was no longer holding back.

  “Yes,” Dave said, “but no. I don’t mean any disrespect, and I’m more grateful for every man’s sacrifice than I can say. Especially our friends. But no man set me free. Jesus Christ did that, over a year ago.”

  Monday 10 September 1945

  Washington, D.C.

  Walter Reed General Hospital. A meeting room on the main building’s first floor. Dave sat at a rectangular table that ran along one end of the room. An Army public relations man, Chuck Roberts, sat to his right. Nielsen and Watt to his left. Poor Vitty was still too weak to come.

  It was a press conference with the remnant of Doolittle’s lost crews—turned out that’s how the free world knew them.

  A sparkling glass of water stood in front of him, with actual ice cubes. He picked it up to watch them jiggle.

  Newsmen crowded the room—at least a dozen of them. He looked at all the faces, and animal fear pushed his throat closed a little. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that a press of friendly strangers was a good thing. Cameras flashed, and he tensed. Took a few more deep breaths.

  A slight, balding man in the front row issued the first question. “The whole world has been in suspense. Tell us your story. What happened after the raid?”

  Questions came in a rapid stream—too rapid for him to keep up. He struggled to focus. Thank God Nielsen did the talking.

  “What’s the best part about being home?” A beefy fellow in a tweed jacket issued that one.

  “That’s easy.” Nielsen broke into an infectious grin. “Six square meals a day.”

  Laughter rippled through the room.

  The door swung open. A sergeant slipped in, clipboard in hand. As it closed, Dave caught a flash of color—burnished copper—in the hall outside.