Forgiveness

by Mark Sakamoto

  Hideo always retained his thick Japanese accent. Mitsue would come to feel that it held him back in life. He had a sharp intellect-and read voraciously—history, geography, politics, and ecology, and he had a particular fascination with health. He read health and diet books well before they were popular. Every morning, he ate one carrot, two tomatoes, and a bowl of rice. The carrot, he thought, would keep him away from the doctors. (When my grandpa was ninety-two, I took him to his family physician in Medicine Hat for treatment for gout. The doctor sat down and just stared at him. He was in awe. He had not seen his ninety-two-year-old patient in over a decade. He turned to me and cautioned: “Kid, with genes like this, you’d better be stashing money away somewhere.”)

  Mitsue’s father took an immediate liking to Hideo. He appreciated his intelligence. They both loved to read and they would talk about Japanese history, trading books back and forth. This was important to Mitsue. She needed her parents’ blessing, especially her father’s, in order to marry.

  For the next few months Hideo would escort Mitsue home every day that he was not working. They got to know each other on trains, on walks through parks, and in her parent’s Celtic living room.

  Government repression crept into their third date, during the spring of 1941. The government ordered all Canadians of Japanese descent to obtain registration cards. It was the beginning of the end for Japanese Canadians in British Columbia. Hideo did not want to comply, but failure to do so would have resulted in jail time. He and Mitsue went to the RCMP office to register together.

  The registration card included a photo, an identification number, and a fingerprint. Mitsue hated getting her fingerprints taken. She felt like a criminal. But she smiled for the camera so as not to be rude. Mitsue’s card was white because she had been born in Canada; her parents’ cards were pink because they had been issued Canadian citizenship. Those who were not Canadian citizens got yellow cards.

  In November, Hideo worked up the nerve to speak to Yosuke. They met at the family home while Mitsue was at work. Hideo told Yosuke that he loved Mitsue and that he wanted her family’s blessing and her hand in marriage. He pledged to Yosuke that he would always provide for his daughter and be by her side.

  He had no idea how soon that pledge would be challenged.

  Yosuke gave his blessing and Hideo went straight to the dress shop. He waited outside until Mitsue closed up and locked the door. When she looked at him she recognized his expression. She’d seen it before—four times before, to be exact. This time she said yes. They hugged and took the train home.

  Mitsue was in no rush to marry. She thought that they could take the time during their year-long engagement to get to know each other better. That was the plan.

  December 7, 1941, started out just like any other day. Mitsue woke up and ate a little porridge for breakfast. Her mother walked into the living room and switched on the CBC. The announcer spoke in a feverish tone. There had been a “Jap attack.” Tomi fell to her knees.

  CHAPTER 3

  No Good

  Fourteen months before Pearl Harbor, on September 15, 1940, Ralph MacLean left Grindstone as a rifleman. He had had two months of hurry-up-and-wait basic training in Valcartier, Quebec. The men wanted to get out into the world, they wanted to fight. They got to do neither. Their first international garrison duty was guarding Gander’s airport for nine monotonous months. The only action Ralph saw was guarding the officers’ liquor chest.

  Rifleman Ralph MacLean in Gander, Newfoundland, 1940

  Finally, the call came. The men were buzzing with anticipation. They were being reassigned. No one knew where they were going. They had no idea what their campaign had in store for them.

  Before their next scheduled deployment, the men from the Magdalen Islands were granted a brief leave to return home. It had been months since Ralph had been with his family and he was keen to see them all, especially his mother. He knew she had been worried about him and that she would only be satisfied when she laid eyes on him and could see for herself that he was in good condition and well fed—even if it was not with her home cooking.

  The night before they were to leave, Ralph’s cousin Henry Clark took them on a caper. Ralph had never really liked his cousin. Henry was a troubled guy. He had a short fuse and was quick to violence. He reminded Ralph of his own father.

  But Henry was his cousin, so when he stole a turkey from the Officers’ Mess and needed a hand from Ralph to get it off the base, Ralph obliged. Family is family. The two of them snuck off the grounds and cooked the turkey at the home of an acquaintance of Henry’s just a few blocks from the barracks. Later they stumbled home drunk and full to bursting, singing old Maritime songs. They were headed home to the island and glad of it.

  But Ralph did not return to a happy home. His father had fallen ill with tuberculosis. Not that it made much difference to Ralph. He had left the island in large part because of his father’s brutality. But he found his mother stricken with anxiety. He hated to see his mother in anguish. It left him puzzled—Stanley MacLean had been as cruel to her as he had to him. Why was she grieving? Ralph was not.

  After a few more nights visiting friends and family and playing cards, it was almost time to go. Bur Ralph’s mother had a going-away surprise for him. She did something she’d never done before: she threw a party. Nothing big, nothing fancy, just a small gathering of folks, some baking, some tea, and a few fiddles. Ralph’s army pals were invited: Deighton, Bookie Leslie, Joe Delaney, and the Arsenault boys. His mother frowned on liquor, but Bookie saw to it that a flask was passed around discreetly.

  The folks of Grindstone were proud of their boys. Not one of them over twenty-two, the boys puffed with pride as well. English and French floated through the house. As always, a fiddle was passed down the hall and into the living room, a couch was pushed aside, and a jig was born. They danced into the night, oblivious to what awaited them.

  Ralph knew that there was one formality he needed to attend to. He had to see—and say goodbye to—his father. Stanley had been on bedrest the whole time Ralph was home, upstairs in the master bedroom. In his eighteen years, Ralph had rarely set foot in the room a mere two doors down from his. He had spent his whole life avoiding his father. As he entered the darkened room, he could hear his shallow breath. He was dying; that much was clear. Ralph stood above him. He did not touch him.

  “Goodbye, Father.”

  That was that. If you can’t say anything kind, don’t say anything.

  He turned and closed the door behind him.

  Ralph returned to base at Valcartier to find the regiment turning in their regular clothes for lightweight uniforms built for hot climates. They were getting inoculations. When Deighton saw Ralph, he pushed through the men waiting in line. “Word is we’re going to the tropics, Ralph! The Winnipeg Grenadiers just came back from Jamaica and they need replacements! Jamaaaaica!”

  Deighton was mad with excitement. The whole crew was. For most of these men, seeing the aqua blue waters of the Caribbean was a distant dream. For several generations, the families of these men had toiled on the land or on the sea, venturing only so far as the lobster would take them.

  The very next morning, the men were told to pack their bags and return in an hour; they were departing by train to their next mission. In the barracks, the excitement was palpable. The men had sun, sand, and rum on their minds. Ralph was diligently folding his clothes when the platoon officer entered. All men stood at attention as Sergeant Tulk made his way down the centre aisle of the barrack hut. Tulk had a sincere composure to him. He had survived the poisonous trenches of the First World War. Most of his pals were dead, buried in unmarked graves scattered across western Europe. He slowly made his way to Ralph.

  “Rifleman MacLean, come with me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ralph replied, his mind racing. He caught his cousin’s eye as he followed his sergeant out of the barracks.

  Shit. They know about the turkey, Ralph thought. He followed silently two
paces behind Sergeant Tulk through the centre field towards the Officers’ Mess.

  “Take a seat, Ralph,” Tulk said.

  Ralph sat down.

  “Like whisky? Have a sip, it’s Protestant.”

  What the hell was this all about? It was 10 a.m.—why was he being offered a drink by his commanding officer? He did as he was told.

  “Son, I have received some sad news from your family. Your mother wired us this morning to have you informed that your father passed away yesterday afternoon. I’m very sorry.”

  Ralph bowed his head, nodded, and fidgeted with the glass.

  “Now listen, I’ve made some arrangements. The Bren carriers won’t depart for another week. You can go home to pay your respects and be back in time to make it out with them. It has all been taken care of, okay? Stay here and take a moment—finish your drink.”

  Tulk got up. He thought that the conversation was over.

  “Sir, before you leave, may I speak freely?” Ralph said.

  The sergeant nodded.

  “See, I was just home. I said my goodbye. Truth be told, there wasn’t much respect to be paid anyway. I wish that was not the case, but it is. So if you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to stay with the men. I’m appreciative for all you have done in making the arrangements, but I belong here. I don’t want to hang back.”

  The sergeant nodded.

  “Well, Ralph, that is entirely up to you.”

  With that, Tulk put his hand on Ralph’s shoulder and left.

  Ralph did not attend his father’s funeral. He felt he was where he should be, where he needed to be. The men were his family and he did not want his father holding him down any further. He’d had quite enough of that.

  As the train from Valcartier weaved its way farther west across the Canadian Shield, the men wondered just where they were going. Jamaica was beginning to seem out of the question. By the time they were in the middle of the vast prairie wheat fields, their best guess was Singapore.

  Throughout Asia, the British Empire was in atrophy. When presented with a proposal to add a contingent of British forces to Hong Kong, Sir Winston Churchill studied the map. He knew Hong Kong was indefensible. After a long and imposing silence, he simply said: “This is no good.”

  But Canada was eager to prove itself. Australian and New Zealand troops were helping in North Africa. With the Hong Kong decision, hubris carried the day. Mackenzie King gathered his cabinet. They pledged two battalions. Churchill accepted the Canadian troops. Both parties agreed they’d provide moral support to the beleaguered islanders. Passing political opportunism swept military logic out the door. Nearly two thousand Canadian souls were committed to reinforce a garrison the British had already substantially depleted. In so doing, the fate of 819 men was sealed. They would never return home. The remaining 1,155 survivors would be forgiven if they sometimes felt they were the unlucky ones.

  When they finally got off the train in Vancouver, the boys knew they were headed to Asia. On the deck of the New Zealand steamship Awatea, with Vancouver’s harbour in the distance, the officer in charge finally addressed the troops. Standing beside Ralph, Deighton asked what almost every other man on that deck was asking himself: where the hell is Hong Kong?

  But concerns about finding Hong Kong on their issued map were quickly forgotten when the dinner bell rang out. The New Zealand cooks served a mountain of mutton. This led to near mutiny before the Awatea left Canadian waters. As the men stood and threw their plates to the ground in disgust, Ralph stayed seated with his head down. He ate what was placed in front of him without complaint. He ate extra that night. This trait would serve him very, very well in the coming days.

  The Awatea steamed into Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. The men hung off the edge of the boat, gawking at the beautiful, exotic women dancing the hula. They were itching to get off the boat and into some trouble, but were soundly refused. Instead, for the next hour Canadian bills rained off the side of the Awatea as Hawaiian women danced farewell. Ralph’s hands stayed firmly in his pockets.

  Ralph stayed on deck long after the women were out of sight. Later, as they steamed away from Pearl Harbor, he witnessed the most beautiful sunset he had ever seen. The sky and coast was awash in reds, pinks, and a golden yellow. It seemed as if the harbour had been set ablaze.

  After nineteen days at sea, the Awatea arrived in Hong Kong Harbor. It was greeted by six decrepit planes and a few naval patrol boats. Unbeknownst to the men, the British had already evacuated their largest ships to Singapore. The Awatea sailed up to Holt’s Wharf at Kowloon.

  Kowloon is a city in mainland China, across the harbour from Victoria on the island of Hong Kong. It was then—and still is—referred to as the New Territories, and consists of a small crescent of land some twenty miles wide.

  The men disembarked the Awatea like a bunch of tourists, not one of them with any sense of the place or of the danger they were in. They were intoxicated by the beautiful women and the tropical heat. They thought they had won the lottery, and anticipated nothing but good from their exotic destination.

  The men were greeted on the wharf by the Governor of Hong Kong and throngs of local inhabitants. Everyone was smiling and waving. Deighton and Ralph made formation and commenced the four-mile march down Nathan Road to the Shamshuipo barracks. Along the way, the exotic scents of the East enveloped the men, inviting them in. The warm, humid air put them at ease. The smiles gave them a false sense of security.

  The progression down Nathan Road was a march unlike any the men had experienced. Everywhere they looked, they saw people. In every shop and restaurant, and down every little alleyway, there was someone doing something.

  For the boys from the Magdalen Islands, the next three weeks would be the closest to royal treatment they would ever experience. They were billeted in the Shamshuipo barracks, which was right next to the dockyard. Constructed for the British troops in 1927, it had an air of empire to it. The grounds were orderly, with green grass growing in the well-maintained courtyard. Chinese boys scuttled to and fro as servants, helping the men with their gear, asking to clean their shoes, cook them some meat. Mosquito nets hung over every standard-issue and precisely made bed. The concrete floors were swept clean, the bedding neatly tucked in. Everything seemed in order.

  Ralph found his assigned bunk, unloaded his gear, and walked the perimeter of the camp to get his bearings. The camp sat atop steep cliffs that looked out over the harbour. It was a beautiful, expansive view. The Chinese junks with their large painted sails, which ferried goods and people across the harbour, looked like they were from another time. From these peaks, he could see Hong Kong Island. It, too, seemed a bustling place. Ringing the north side of the camp was a long, winding road that hugged the coast. The road led to downtown Kowloon, where a group of men headed just as soon as their commanding officers let them.

  Major MacAuley gathered all the men in the centre courtyard. The excited group stood at attention with the greatest of difficulty. They were, after all, just boys. Most had never ventured out of their province before enlisting. The foreign sights and smells outside the camp walls enticed their imagination. Now, halfway around the world, they were eager to soak up the sun and see what kind of fun they could find. The major reminded the boys of their obligation to their regiment and their country. NO funny business.

  Ralph and Deighton met up with a crew that had already grouped together by the camp’s main gate. They left camp as quickly as the major’s words left their minds. In Kowloon, they first hit an open market. Food was prepared on the street, and fine silks in every colour hung from the vendors’ stalls.

  “Ralphie, look at this place! Look at these prices! We’re going to live like kings.”

  Deighton was right. The conversion rate was six Hong Kong dollars for every Canadian one. Even after the twenty-dollars-per-month that went to his mother, Ralph had about $130 Hong Kong dollars to spend on anything he wanted. It went a long way, and he came back from his first venture with s
ome silk for baby Alayne. He also bought his mother a teapot; she was so fond of a good cup of tea. He told himself that he’d mail it as soon as he could. He would never get the chance.

  By the time Ralph and Deighton made it back to camp, some soldiers had already hired local Chinese boys as personal servants to shave them, shine their shoes, and wash and press their clothes. Some men really lived it up from day one. The company’s shoemaker lost no time and promptly moved off base with a Chinese woman. Ralph could not let himself part with his money so easily. He would shave himself, thank you very much. He was determined not to get too carried away in this new world.

  The first night ended with a big feast put on by many of the local folks to welcome their new Canadian guardians. There was beef, rice, shrimp dumplings, green tea, and, of course, a good amount of beer. Ralph went to bed with a full belly and a smile on his face. Things were looking up for him and his pals. This was going to be a breeze. For the next three weeks the men spent their days lazily preparing the camp and their nights taking the rickshaws into town to hit the SunSun Café. They fraternized with the locals, playing ball with the local Portuguese ball team and getting into the odd brawl with their British comrades. The only enemy was the daily hangover.

  Nothing lasts forever. Not with fifty thousand hardened Japanese troops coming at you with all their might.

  December 7, 1941, started out like any other day for Ralph in his new home. But as he was finishing eggs and coffee for breakfast, he saw Deighton rush into the mess hall, eyes ablaze.

  “Ralphie! Judas!”

  Deighton grabbed Ralph by the arm. “Get under your gear! The Japs are coming hard at us. They hit everywheres: Hawaii, Guam … you name it. The major thinks we got over fifty thousand of ’em coming straight for us.”