Atonement for Iwo

by Lester S. Taube

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Novels by Lester S. Taube

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Atonement

  for IWO

  by

  Lester S. Taube

  CCB Publishing

  British Columbia, Canada

  Atonement for IWO

  Copyright ©2004, 2014 by Lester S. Taube and Mark Taube

  ISBN-13 978-1-77143-119-4

  Third Edition

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Taube, Lester S., 1920-2013, author

  Atonement for Iwo / by Lester S. Taube. – Third edition.

  Issued in electronic format.

  ISBN 978-1-77143-119-4 (pdf)

  Additional cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada

  Cover design by: Matthew Van Der Tuyn

  Photo on front cover artwork provided courtesy of:

  www.photostaud.com, ©Frantisek Staud

  Portrait of a Maiko (Geisha apprentice) in the Gion quarter of Kyoto, Japan

  Photo Ref. No: geisha-p-006

  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events and persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission from the publisher.

  Publisher:

  CCB Publishing

  British Columbia, Canada

  www.ccbpublishing.com

  Dedication

  To those who paid for this small piece of land.

  Novels by Lester S. Taube:

  The Grabbers

  (republished as: The Diamond Boomerang)

  Peter Krimsov

  (republished as: The Stalingrad Conspiracy)

  Myer For Hire

  The Cossack Cowboy

  Enemy of the Tzar

  Atonement for Iwo

  I Contadini

  The Land of Thunder

  Publishers:

  W.H. Allen – London, England

  Ediçöes Dêagá – Lisbon, Portugal

  Lademann Forlagsaktieslskab – Copenhagen, Denmark

  Longanesi – Milan, Italy

  Van Lekturama – Rotterdam, Holland

  S. Fischer Verlag – Frankfurt am Main, Germany

  Winthers Forlag – Copenhagen, Denmark

  Pocket Books – USA

  Pinnacle – USA

  Bookman – USA

  Cherica Publishers – USA

  CCB Publishing – Canada

  Prologue

  1945

  First Lieutenant Keith Masters neared the edge of the cliff and raised his hand for the patrol to stop. The soldiers promptly sank to the ground with sighs of relief. There was a soft breeze flowing in from the sea, and the sun was bright. To the left were the sounds of machine guns. The marines were still reducing Japanese strong points. Mopping up an island was always a dirty and fatiguing job, especially when the holdouts knew it was a lost cause.

  Masters took off his helmet, wiped his sweaty forehead, squatted, and drew out a pack of cigarettes from a pocket sewn on the sleeve of his fatigue shirt. Behind him, in the distance, loomed the sharp peak of Mount Surabachi, Iwo Jima.

  “Where to now?” asked Sergeant Schneider, as he sat down beside the officer.

  Masters peered over the edge of the cliff down to the sands below, a narrow ribbon of white running between the precipice and the calm sea. “We’ll move along the beach,” he said, squinting into the harsh glare of the sun bouncing off the water. “We haven’t searched it for a few days now.”

  Sergeant Schneider frowned, his broad face drawing down into an expression of unease. “I don’t like that area,” he said, in his dull, Midwestern drawl. “Lieutenant Howard found a gang of duds out there the last time through.”

  “Tough shit,” said Masters. He did not care much for Schneider. The beefy sergeant was more suited for rear echelon duty than leading combat patrols. He wanted the glory without being handed the bill. But he had been assigned as a squad leader in his platoon, and Masters was not about to let him sit on his ass back in the perimeter. He threw away his half smoked cigarette and rose, a tense, wiry man of twenty five, medium height, with cropped brown hair and light blue eyes. “Let’s get going,” he called to the men.

  He led the way to a cut in the cliff and started downward, turning to hang from a projection before dropping to a ledge below. Slowly, carefully, he found the safest way down for the patrol. Soon the men had descended the fifty-foot cliff-face to the beach.

  “Single file,” he ordered, motioning for one of the squad to take the point position. The men moved forward cautiously along the forty yard wide strip of sand, their eyes glued upward at the cliff, searching for occupied caves.

  After about a hundred yards, Masters stopped to look closely at a small opening halfway up the steep rock. Without turning his head, he said to Schneider, who was directly behind, “There’s sure as hell a Nip in that hole. I bet that’s where the goddamn shot came from last time through.”

  Schneider focused his binoculars on the opening, which was about thirty feet up. “It’s pretty small,” he commented.

  “Those bastards don’t need a helluva lot to get in,” growled Masters. “And those holes open into caves big enough to hide a truck. Pass the word to Stapler in the rear to keep his eye on it as we go by. At the first sign of movement, start shooting.”

  He felt a chill run down his spine as he passed the opening. At each step or two he shifted quickly from one side to the other. During the last patrol through here, about four days ago, at this very point, a bullet had kicked up sand at his feet, fired from one of the dozen caves in the cliff face.

  The patrol continued its search to the northernmost tip of the island. Directly ahead, an arm of the cliff curved into the sea, bringing the ribbon of sand to an end. Masters halted the twelve man patrol for another break.

  The officer squatted and lit a cigarette. He watched Gorman, one of the recent replacements, walk up to the ocean’s edge to look for shells. Gorman stepped into the water to grab at one of them as the calm waves receded.

  Goddamn fool, thought Masters. He’ll ruin his boots sure as hell.

  Gorman waded to the end of the cliff, which projected twenty feet or so into the sea, and looked around it. Suddenly he stiffened, whirled about, and began rushing back to the beach. Masters straightened up.

  “Japs!” he shouted. “Just around the bend!” The safety locks of the soldiers’ weapons were pushed to the ‘fire’ position.

  Motioning to his men to wait, Masters waded out into the water. It was well up to his thighs when he reached the point. Slowly he edged his head around. The cliff fell back sharply to disclose a shallow cave at its base, its mouth barricaded by a two foot high wall of stone.

  Masters gripped his Thompson submachine gun more tightly as he stepped around the point.

  A Japanese soldier was squatting off to one side by the water’s edge, pants down to
relieve himself, his eyes fastened on the sand. Two more soldiers were seated behind the stonewall speaking to each other.

  Masters took three slow steps forward. He tried desperately to remember how to say surrender in Japanese, but the words eluded him. At the same time, his brain registered the danger of being unable to see the hands of the enemy behind the wall.

  Suddenly, the squatting man looked up! His eyes opened wide in disbelief. Masters fired at once. Three bullets bored into the Japanese’s chest, driving him onto his back. His legs kicked violently in his death throes.

  The two Japanese leaning against the wall froze. Masters shot them in quick succession. A movement next to the enemy caught his eye! A fourth Japanese, lying down out of sight, abruptly sat up! A burst sent him sprawling over the others.

  Masters advanced warily to the beach, his weapon at the ready. The first Japanese shot was lying motionless, his eyes wide open, three blue holes over his heart. The officer continued on to the cave. The two he had next shot were also dead, sprawled in a tangle. The fourth was stirring, feebly trying to turn.

  Sergeant Schneider came hurrying up to his side. “That one’s still alive!” he said hoarsely. He snapped his rifle to his shoulder, aimed deliberately, then shot the wounded Japanese directly in the head.

  “What the goddamn hell did you do that for?” growled Masters.

  “He was still moving!” said Schneider, his voice rising.

  “I saw it, you asshole. Maybe I wanted him alive.” In disgust, he turned away. The patrol had come around the point and was wading up to the beach. “Pull them out,” ordered the officer. With apparent eagerness, the soldiers dragged the bodies from the cave and began to search them for souvenirs.

  The last one shot was a sergeant, a saber hooked to his belt.

  “It’s mine,” said Schneider. “I killed him.” The men looked up at Masters, leaning against the cave, smoking.

  “Horseshit, it’s yours,” snapped Sergeant Yeager. “Look at his chest.” He pointed to three holes grouped there, just off center. “They’re from the Lieutenant’s tommy gun. You blew off that Nip’s head after he was dead.”

  “He was still moving,” shouted Schneider. He turned to Masters. “Wasn’t he, Lieutenant?”

  The officer straightened up and spat. “It goes into the pot, Sergeant,” he said sharply. We walked over to inspect the souvenirs lying by the bodies. The rule was three choices for the man who killed the remainder to be distributed by drawing lots.

  He stopped at the side of the Japanese sergeant and gazed down at the face which had been disfigured by the rifle bullet tearing through his head. The crown had cracked open like a ripe melon. Beside him was a wallet. Masters picked it up. Next to the wallet was a thousand stitch belt with a coin sewn in the middle a good luck charm. He picked that up, too.

  “Divide the rest,” he ordered.

  Then he turned and waded into the sea, around the edge, away from this place of death.

  Chapter 1

  June 1965

  Keith Masters jabbed his thumb on the doorbell, then, without waiting for a call to enter, opened the door and strode through the dimly lit hallway to the dining room at the rear of the house. A large, round table stood in the center of the room with a matching buffet off to one side.

  “Hi, Mamie,” he greeted the fat Negress seated in front of a television set. He made his way around the table to the buffet and picked up an envelope marked ‘Metropolitan Life Insurance Company’. Inside was a receipt book and three one dollar bills. He marked down two weeks’ payment in the book, then opened his heavy debit book to record it there.

  Mamie waited for a commercial before turning away from the television set. “Hi there, Mistah Masters. Where’s Mistah Bronsky?”

  Masters grinned. “He’s sick. He got the clap from screwing all you girls on the debit.”

  The fat woman shook with laughter. “Ah swear, Mistah Masters, Ah sure do miss you on the debit.”

  Masters pocketed the three dollars, fired up a cigarette, and eyed her. “How’s everything going, Mamie?”

  She pursed her lips. “Pretty good, considerin’ how sick Ah’ve been the last five years.” She cocked her head. “What you doin’ now. Ain’t seen you fur a long time.”

  “I’m out with the boys all the time. Being an assistant manager is just a crock of crap.”

  The woman, torn between wanting to watch her daily show or asking a question, dragged her eyes away to look back at Masters. “You tell that Mistah Bronsky Ah wants to know what’s goin’ on with that policy fur Lily.”

  Masters shook his head. “Hasn’t he refunded the money?”

  “What you mean, refunded the money?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Mamie, I’ve told you a dozen times not to try grabbing a big policy for Lily. I told you to buy it bit-by-bit, quarter by quarter. Who dreamed up that ten dollar a month shit?”

  “Mistah Bronsky said he’d get it through.”

  Masters shook his head again. “Well, he didn’t get it through. It was rejected, just like the other three applications over the last five years.”

  “What fur they always rejectin’ Lily?”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ, Mamie, you know better than that. There isn’t a guy in town who hasn’t screwed Lily. The Company doesn’t mind you having a piece of ass now and then, but when you make a business of it...”

  Mamie’s eyes narrowed. “That ain’t true, and you know it.”

  He leaned over the table. “Name one guy who hasn’t fucked her?”

  Her eyes narrowed further, then a twinkle came into them. “You!” she shouted, her heavy breasts heaving with laughter.

  Master grinned as he closed the debit book. “I’m holding out for you, baby,” he chuckled, starting out of the house. Behind him, the room shook from her mirth.

  On the street, he looked at his watch, surprised to see it was almost noon. He glanced at his route sheet. The next collection was in the Italian neighborhood. He walked the four blocks to where his car was parked and climbed inside. He turned the key three times before the motor caught.

  Goddamn car, he muttered, eyeing the 1958 Chevrolet with distaste. If I ever get those fucking bills paid off, the first thing I’ll do is drop this heap in the junkyard.

  He drove out of the Negro area to a drug store and sat at the counter to eat a ham sandwich. Thirty minutes later, he was on his way to the Italian section. He parked the car, got out, and opened the debit book to the route card. The first house to collect from was halfway down the block, on the other side of the street. He stepped off the curb.

  (God!) his mind screamed, as a fiery slash of pain ripped at his chest! His mouth opened wide to gasp for breath.

  (God!) He fell to his knees, the debit book sliding under the car.

  (Help!) his mind cried out. Then he crumpled to the ground.

  Mr. and Mrs. Elvino, seated on their porch across the street, saw him fall. The woman grasped her husband’s arm. “Tony, that’sa Mister Masters. Quick!”

  The old Italian limped down the steps and across to the stricken man. He kneeled and rolled him over, then turned startled eyes towards his wife.

  “He’sa dead!” he shouted. “Calla de police.”

  (God, oh God! Stop the pain!) Masters’ mind shrieked.

  Angelo Foretti, picking his teeth, came out of the house directly behind them. He took one look and ran down the steps.

  “What’s the matter, Tony?”

  “He’sa dead.”

  Angelo kneeled to peer into the pale, clammy face. “He sure is. Who is he?”

  “Insurant man, from de Metropolitan.”

  (Stop! Please stop!)

  “He had a heart attack,” explained Foretti. “I saw the same thing with my Aunt Mary. Bang! Just like that. One minute she’s reaching across the table to pour some wine, and the next minute she’s lying over all the food. I thought Mom would have a fit.”

  (God!) the scream started. Then a merciful curtai
n of darkness cut it off.

  A thin, colorless ray of light bored into the brain cell. The cell quivered under the violent impact, then passed on the vibration to the cells surrounding it. The motion spread out like a circular ripple triggered by a pebble dropped into a motionless pool as it rolled faster and faster in its rush to sensibility.

  “Can you hear me, Mr. Masters?”

  Masters’ eyes flickered, his head turned slowly to one side, his face muscles relaxed, his shallow breathing grew more steady.

  “I think he’ll be all right,” said the cardiologist as he closed the flap of the oxygen tent. He turned to the nurse standing at the foot of the bed. “Keep him under constant observation and call me the moment he stirs.” He left the room with a younger doctor trailing behind. “That was a close one,” he commented in the hallway. “Imagine, a cardiac infarction and angina pectoris at the same time. What a massive shock he must have experienced.”

  The younger doctor nodded. “Three days. I never thought he would make it.”

  A short, gray haired man was waiting at the end of the hall.

  “Doctor Martin?” he inquired of the approaching physicians.

  The older doctor stopped. “Yes.”

  “I’m George Brighton, manager of the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company, Northeast District. Keith Masters is one of my assistant managers. How is he?”

  “He’s doing as well as can be expected, Mr. Brighton. I believe one of your people was in a day or two ago, to arrange for his hospitalization insurance.”

  “Yes. I sent over one of our other assistant managers. I realize it’s somewhat premature to make a definite statement, but what is Mr. Masters’ actual condition?”

  The doctor hedged. “It’s quite uncertain at this point.”

  Brighton smiled wryly. “Doctor, I am an attorney by training. Furthermore, in my profession as an insurance company manager, I deal with these matters extensively.”