by B. K. Fowler
“It’s not night.” Ken attacked the part of the question that didn’t pose troublesome implications.
“It’s, hmm, oh-five-hundred hours,” Major Kohanski said. “What say we give these kids a lift back?”
“That’s OK,” Ken said. His dad would be in bed for another hour and a half, long enough for Ken to think of how to face him, what to say, what not to say. “We don’t need a ride. We’ll walk.”
“Hmm, if Paderson finds out we didn’t give his son a lift, we’ll be in deeper—”
“Shut your flappin’ mouth, Kohumski,” Bellamy fumed. Leveling his voice, he told Ken, “If I was you, I’d say goodbye to your friend here, you know, and hop in the jeep. Your old man will go easier on you if you don’t bring your friend along.”
“I’m not afraid of my father! I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“If that’s true, why won’t you climb on board?” Bellamy asked.
Ken helped Yasuko into the back of the jeep.
Bellamy glared at the young Japanese woman, and again at Ken. “You’re too full of piss and vinegar.” His voice hinted at a grudging admiration.
“Jerk,” Ken muttered.
The major drove too fast over ruts and fallen branches. The jeep bounced over a downed palm tree, launching the four passengers off their seats. Yasuko half-stood to catch her geisha doll as it flew off her lap. Ken threw himself onto Yasuko to hold her and the doll down.
He wasn’t worried for himself. He’d take whatever punishment his dad dished out, and if his dad tried to hit him, why, he’d flip him on his ass. If that didn’t work, he could at least bring his old man to his knees, he was sure of that.
What were Yasuko’s parents going to do to her when she returned home? How would they punish her? Would it be swift and symbolic? Would it be cruel and life changing? Whatever her punishment was to be, it would be worse than what his father would do to him, because Yasuko wouldn’t do anything to defend herself or assert herself. She would bear heavy shame for disobeying her parents, a bigger deal for her than for Americans like him. He looked at her and couldn’t read anything from her cool expression.
“What will your parents do?” he asked.
“They will do nothing to you.”
So this was how she thought of him, a coward, only worried about his own hide. “That’s not what I meant!” he protested. “I told you, I’m not afraid. It’s you I’m worried about. Can’t you understand that, or don’t Japanese care about other people?”
The ease with which he’d unleashed this cruel remark surprised him. Maybe it was because she’d lured him to her, knowing that her parents would strongly disapprove of the relationship.
“Sorry,” he said, thinking that he wasn’t the only one who should be apologizing.
She shook her head.
Ken remembered the undisguised pride with which Mr. Watanabe had explained the concept of filial duty to Ken, after they’d all seen that Japanese movie.
Ken looked at the side of Yasuko’s face until she turned toward him. He said, “Your Japanese culture isn’t the only one with filial duty.”
She turned away from him.
He knew she’d heard what he’d said. Ken continued, “My dad brought me here to Japan to be with him. He could have left me in the States. But he didn’t. We stick by each other.”
Saying it felt good, mighty good.
The jeep neared the village where the Quonset hut was. The milky dawn dimly illuminated the road, littered with flattened lanterns. Geothermal steam and mist rising from the earth made seeing all but impossible. Houses leaped to the roadside. Trees sprang up, long-fingered branches grasping and reaching.
“Watch out!” Kohanski yelled.
“What?” Bellamy cut the wheel, and veered off the road.
A hair-raising shriek. A bump.
“What was hell was it?” Ballamy asked.
“Better pull over and look,” Kohanski said. “Hmm, looks like a baby.”
“It was a chicken,” Bellamy shouted, and drove back onto the road.
“I saw it too,” Ken said. “It wasn’t a chicken.”
Kohanski raised his left leg, pushed Bellamy’s right leg away from the gas pedal, and tromped on the brake. Bellamy u-turned hard and drove back to where they’d heard the scream.
Kohanski’s flashlight beam flickered on a mound in the muddy road.
Ken jumped out of the jeep. For an instant he thought it was Neko, bloody, twisted and broken on the road. He nudged the body with the tip of his shoe. The white fur was matted with mud and blood; pink eyes open, lifeless. He stroked the monkey’s head.
“It’s the albino macaque,” he said.
“No matter. Get back in,” Bellamy yelled.
“It’s not breathing,” Ken said, barely breathing himself. “We gotta do something.”
“It’s taking a dirt nap. Get back in.” Bellamy gunned the engine.
“We can’t leave it here on the road,” Ken said. The monkey was linked in his mind with the first time he’d seen Yasuko, splashing water over her pale shoulders, chatting with her parents in the ofuro.
“We ain’t gonna bury it,” Bellamy yelled. “Get in.” He jumped out of the jeep. Arms outstretched in front of him, he rushed at Ken, as if to tackle him to the ground.
With an elegance and speed that rewards practice, Ken did what he’d dreamed of doing for a very long time. Using Bellamy’s momentum, and very little of his own energy, he redirected his attacker. What pleased Ken the most was the bewildered look on Bellamy’s face as he flew past Ken.
Bellamy landed on his back in the mud. His face was sickly white, his mouth opened and closed like a hooked trout’s. Ken resisted spitting on the man’s face.
Ken took the monkey’s warm paws in his hands, and dragged the body to the side of the road. He covered it with dirt and leaves, knowing too well that wild dogs would be tearing at the flesh within minutes. When he got into the jeep beside Yasuko, he saw tears on her face. There was nothing more he could do now.
Saying nothing, Bellamy crawled into the driver’s seat and rammed the jeep into gear. The vehicle lurched forward. As they neared the warehouse, Bellamy cut the engine and coasted to a stop.
“No one’s up yet.” Bellamy turned around in his seat. “Get out now. Don’t tell your dad you saw me and Kohanski, OK? And I won’t tell him where I found you, and who with.”
Ken ignored him.
Neko, head low, shoulders high, stalked through the cones of light the jeep’s headlights sculpted out of mist. Looking neither left nor right, the cat melted into the roadside thicket. Ken checked his watch. Time enough to get in there, brew a pot coffee, and fry eggs for three people, while his dad shaved. Then, just as natural as you please, Ken would tell him Yasuko was joining them for breakfast, and don’t make a big federal case out of it. She’s leaving for school in Los Angeles. I’m not gonna marry her or anything.
“Hmm, we have a welcoming committee.”
Ken raised his hands to shield his eyes from the glare of lights bouncing toward them. Recognizing that pistol barrels were aimed at them, he kept his hands up. Yasuko pressed her body against his. The warehouse door opened with a crack making everyone in the jeep jump. Ken wondered who had been shot. If he was shot, he wasn’t feeling it now. The pain would set in later. Bellamy reached for his rifle but changed his mind.
Kohanski hummed. “Looks like our days of midnight requisitions are over.”
Four MPs surrounded the jeep, their lights dancing intimately over the vehicle and faces. Another MP led Wizard out of the Quonset hut. Wizard was handcuffed. Captain Paderson, his closely shaven face gleaming in the flashlight beams, walked behind Wizard. If Paderson saw Ken and Yasuko, he didn’t show surprise or anger. The MPs closed in on Bellamy and Kohanski, cuffed them, and escorted them and Wizard into the back of a truck.
Using official army manual phraseology, the ranking MP formally addressed Major Bellamy and Major Kohanski. “Embezzling U.S. Army
supplies...full investigation...court-martial.” The MP addressed Private First Class Abernathy, regarding, “Incompetence...negligent handling of U.S. Army provisions.”
Wizard, his face cratered with weird shadows, drilled Ken with hard eyes. He said, “So long, partner.”
Ken felt an inner collapsing sensation. It was his self-respect draining out of him. Wizard was taking the hit for the stuff Ken had stolen from the warehouse and sold.
Yasuko, Ken and Paderson watched the military police truck taillights stutter down the road until they blinked out.
“Your parents are in my kitchen waiting for you,” Captain Paderson said. “Go on in. They’re worried sick about you.”
His father’s voice surprised Ken with its nearness, the mist creating the illusion of distance.
Clutching the doll to her chest, Yasuko walked toward the light of the window. She didn’t look back.
His father took a step toward him. Ken braced himself. He resigned himself to accepting the blistering words and blows his dad was going to deliver. His father reached toward Ken, and he stepped in closer.
Ken swatted his dad’s arms away from him.
Paderson encircled Ken within his arms, pinning his son’s arms down tight. He pulled Ken to him, hugging him. “I thought they got you. Hurt you.”
The scent of his father’s neck evoked a memory. It took a second for Ken to figure out his dad had been afraid that Bellamy had harmed Ken, kidnapped him, or something. Using Ken as Bellamy’s insurance, Paderson wouldn’t turn the soldier in for the theft and sale of U.S. Army property.
Ken let himself sink into the warmth of his father’s embrace.
“They didn’t get me, Dad. You got them.”
“I did.” He laughed an odd laugh that could’ve been mistaken for weeping.
Chapter Eighteen
~ Heroes ~
The base commander’s voice reverberated through Camp Zama’s public address system and across the airstrip. Sea breezes played in banners emblazoned with USARJ and USARPAC, and a flock of pigeons, their wings catching the sun, rose like a diamond-studded net over Okinawa sugarcane fields.
Lieutenant Colonel Topker and other officers sat behind the dais. They murmured appreciatively and applauded when the base commander ended his speech, and introduced the four-star general who’d flown in for the ceremony.
The four-star spoke in confusing, although complimentary, metaphors about honor and duty. The general reminded everyone that wars were won thanks to the concerted efforts of support staff, as well as those of combat troops. He sat down and Topker came forward and began recapping for everyone what Paderson had done to merit recognition.
A man, arriving late for the ceremony, pinched the creases of his newly-pressed slacks between his fingers, and sat next to Ken. The private first class removed his hat to smooth down his hair, fragrant from a recent shampooing.
“Whoa! Wizard, what happened?”
“I clean up pretty well, if I say so myself.”
Together they watched what was happening up front.
“Your dad has what every father hopes for,” Wizard said.
“Yeah, he’s been itching to get reassigned stateside ever since we landed.”
“I was referring to you, Ken. I’m talking about you. I know it was difficult, but I’m damn delighted you told him the truth.”
On that morning a few months ago, after the MPs had arrested Bellamy, Kohanski and Abernathy, and after the Watanabes had left the house, Paderson drank slow cups of coffee while Ken confessed to stealing goods from the warehouse and selling them to pay for chi gung lessons. Private First Class Abernathy might look like a candidate for Section 8, Ken had pointed out to his father, but he’s not a crook. He’s a loyal soldier and a good guy. Paderson looked at Ken oddly and nodded thoughtfully in agreement. “I couldn’t let Dad think you were stealing junk from the warehouse and you get a dishonorable discharge,” Ken told Wizard. “We’re buddies. Buddies stick together.”
“Someday you’ll be glad you ‘fessed up, partner.”
“I’m glad today. Here’s some money to repay you for the mask. I’ll repay the rest to you somehow.”
Wizard clasped Ken’s hand in his hands. “You keep this money and repay me in a lump sum next time I see you.”
Wizard wouldn’t let go until Ken said, “OK.”
“Shhh. Listen.”
“The Soldiers Medal,” Topker said into the microphone, “is for heroism by those serving with the U.S. Army in any capacity that involves the voluntary risk of life under conditions other than those with an opposing armed force.”
“Risk of life?” Ken echoed uncertainly.
Wizard nodded.
The officers standing in a semi-circle behind the dais, and everyone in the audience watched as the four-star general stood and pinned the Soldiers Medal to Paderson’s chest. Paderson delivered a hasty salute to the general and to the other officers. He scanned the audience’s faces. Finding Ken, he saluted sharply. Ken stood and returned the salute, renewing the crowd’s cheers and applause.
From his seat in the plane, Ken watched the archipelago that had been his home slide under them. When the airplane reached altitude and leveled out, Topker got out of his seat beside Captain Paderson, and lumbered down the aisle. Ken gripped the arms of the plane seat. Topker probably knew of Ken’s crime and was coming to explain to him the exact nature of the punishment he and his dad had devised especially for him. Topker squeezed into the seat beside Ken.
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“Care for a toothpick?” He held out a finely carved Japanese toothpick for Ken.
“Thanks.”
“How much do you appreciate what today’s ceremony was about, son?”
“Dad tricked those guys who were stealing medical supplies.”
Topker flicked his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other and said, “He streamlined the paperwork for requisitioning, tracking and transporting supplies, and made it less cumbersome and, this is the beauty of it, harder to camouflage unauthorized movement of supplies. With fewer opportunities to play havoc with the MRP system, the perpetrators’ activities become transparent. Without an ocean of falsified papers, their purposeful discrepancies were harder to camouflage.” He spoke happily, in detail, his words rolling along like marbles on a sidewalk. Then he added, “You don’t know who’s swimming naked until the tide goes out.”
Topker continued. “Then he performed a classic sting maneuver. Kohanski and Bellany were the ringleaders of the gang that had been stealing medical supplies. Their crimes caused the prolongation of illnesses and pain, not to mention the deaths of soldiers injured in the field. I cannot think of villains more heinous than traitors to our great country.” Trying to get comfortable for a nap, Topker rearranged himself in the seat. “Captain Paderson is a hero,” he said, “a real soldier. The kind who saves lives.”
“I know.”
Only a few parts of the lieutenant colonel’s version of the investigation were difficult to follow, with its mishmash of warehouse lingo and tides. Ken understood enough, though. To be honest, he’d figured his dad would slog along with Operation Valiant until his transfer came through, or until the war ended, whichever came first. Ken was relieved to have been wrong, and ashamed to have lacked faith in his father.
Remembering a morning in the bamboo grove when Sikung had drawn the soreness out of his healing wrist, Ken squeezed the mended fracture as hard as he could, but no soreness remained. His bones had healed as strong as new. Maybe Sikung could have healed Paderson’s left hand, the one he’d injured when he’d decked David Marshall’s dad a couple years ago. Ken couldn’t even offer to introduce his dad to the chi gung master and healer now. He felt he’d failed his father. Sikung’s gift didn’t strike Ken as miraculous. No, the miracle was that people healed on their own, in their own time.
Ken squeezed past Topker’s legs and sat in the seat next to his father.
“What’s in that box?” Ken asked. The package in Paderson’s lap was wrapped in handmade Japanese paper and tied with twine.
“It’s yours, if you like it,” Paderson said.
After removing the twine and laying it aside, Ken removed the paper without tearing it, and found a cellophane packet filled with dried tealeaves. He inserted two hard green curls into his mouth. A sweetish tannic flavor of sunshine, and of things green juiced up his mouth as the tealeaves softened. He held the open end of the packet toward his father. Paderson looked into the packet, reached in, and placed a dried leaf on his tongue. He rested his head against the seatback, interlaced his fingers on his lap, and closed his eyes.
“I thought you didn’t like green tea, Dad.”
Paderson raised his eyebrows jauntily, but kept his eyes shut.
The pilot’s sonorous voice came over the intercom to announce the plane’s ground speed and ETA to Hong Kong. He informed the passengers that they were flying over the East China Sea, that a tailwind was pushing them along, and visibility was exceptionally good. He didn’t anticipate any turbulence for the remainder of the flight.
Ken settled into the purring of the engines, the sun warming the cabin, the blue sea sparkling below. He sat quiet and content beside his dad.
The End
About the Author
B.K. (Beth) Fowler isn’t going to bore you with that stuff about where she was born and how many cats she has (two).
She went to high school in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, home of the U.S. Army War College, and "army brats" were her pals. Like the protagonist in Ken’s War, she was uprooted from Yankee soil to live in the Far East where culture shock was a daily adventure. Although Ken’s War isn’t based on Fowler’s life, nuances and insights gathered while living abroad give her novel richness young adults and older readers appreciate. Over 400 of her articles and short stories have been published. Oxford University Press published two anthologies of her stories.