by Harry Mazer
Heroes Don’t
RUN
A Novel of the Pacific War
Harry Mazer
Simon & Schuster Books For Young Readers
NewYork London Toronto Sydney
Other books about Adam Pelko by Harry Mazer:
A Boy at War
A Boy No More
SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 by Harry Mazer
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Book design by Debra Sfetsios
The text for this book is set in Jansen Text.
Manufactured in the United States of America
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Mazer, Harry.
Heroes don’t run: a novel of the Pacific War/Harry Mazer—1st ed. p. cm.
Summary: To honor his father who died during the Japanese invasion of Pearl Harbor, seventeen-year-old Adam eagerly enlists in the Marines in 1944, survives boot camp, and faces combat on the tiny island of Okinawa.
ISBN 0-689-85534-6 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 978-0-6898-5534-4
eISBN-13: 978-1-4424-0703-9
1. World War, 1939-1945—Campaigns—Japan—Okinawa Island—Juvenile fiction. [1. World War, 1939-1945—Campaigns—Japan—Okinawa Island—Fiction. 2. United States. Marine Corps—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M47397Hc 2005
[Fic]—dc22
2004010935
FOR ALL WHO SERVED. A WAR ONLY SEEMS TO END. FOR THOSE WHO SURVIVE, IT NEVER ENDS.
“Every man who’s here, on this line, in these hell holes, is a hero in my book.”
—Sgt. Bernard “Rosie” Rosenthal, USMC
Heroes Don’t
RUN
Part One
Boot Camp
1944
In the summer of 1944, just before my senior year of high school, I took the train across country from Bakersfield, California, where we were living, to visit my grandfather in upstate New York. I hadn’t seen him since before my father died at Pearl Harbor, and I told my mother that if things worked out I might stay and finish school there. My mother liked the idea. She thought I needed a man’s influence.
What I didn’t tell her was that I intended to join the marines as soon as I got to my grandfather’s farm. He was an old soldier from World War I. He’d been wounded and lost his arm serving in the Austro-Hungarian army. His son—my father—had served too. He was a U.S. naval officer and died for our country. My grandfather would understand that I had to join up now, that I couldn’t wait until next year when I was eighteen and didn’t need anyone’s permission. The war might be over by then.
“Good if it’s over,” my mother said. “Good. There’s been enough sacrifice in this family. And if you have to go, you can wait until they call you, until your turn comes and you’re drafted. Wait like everyone else, Adam. The war isn’t going away that fast, anyway. We can only wish!”
But the war was going to end; that was the point. It had been going on for four years now, and people were saying it was only a matter of time before it was over. I’d break out in a sweat just thinking about it. I didn’t want to be left behind. I wanted to serve, to be part of this thing my father had given his life for. I didn’t want the war to end, and all I’d be able to say was, No I didn’t serve, I was right here the whole war, safe in Bakersfield.
Living in Bakersfield, you’d never even know there was a war on. Yes, there was gas rationing and food stamps and Mom working in a war factory, but it was such a sleepy, sunny, boring place. One boring day was like the next. Hot summer days, and nights full of the sounds of insects. Bakersfield was killing me.
All I could think about was joining up. I’d wake up at night and feel my father right there in my attic room, in his navy whites, looking down at me in bed, wondering what kind of son of his I was. Saying, Up, up! Sign up. What are you waiting for, son?
When I told my mother I was going to visit my grandfather, my little sister, Bea, said, “I want to go see Grandpa too.”
“No,” I said. I was too sharp with her. Mom wasn’t about to let Bea leave home at the age of seven, but I was so afraid my plan would get screwed up that I blurted out, “Just me!”
Bea’s face swelled, and she ran out of the room. “Hey, Bea, I’m sorry.” I went after her and tried to pick her up.
“Don’t!” She was getting too big for that, anyway. “You’re a drip, Adam!”
“Come on. Come on, don’t be that way. You want to go for a walk?”
“Maybe I do and maybe I don’t,” she said.
We walked over to the playground, where I had to push her on the swing for as long as she wanted.
That night, after supper, I wrote to my friend Davi Mori. I had to tell somebody, and Davi was the one. He and I had talked about joining up for years now, ever since Pearl Harbor. Davi was in Manzanar, the internment camp way out on the other side of the Sierra Mountains.
Davi’s whole family was there. They’d been interned along with other Japanese Americans who lived on the West Coast. It was a dirty deal. They hadn’t done anything. It was the war, and they looked like the enemy, even though most of them had been born in this country.
Dear Davi,
No more talk. I’m ready. I’m going to do it. You said talk to my mom. I tried that, and she said what I told you she’d say, NO. No, she won’t sign for me. I didn’t get excited, I didn’t start yelling. It was frustrating, but I was reasonable. You would have been proud of me. But my mom—she was twice as reasonable. She’s got reasons you wouldn’t even dream of.
She’s afraid I’m going to get hurt, that’s what it comes down to. Well, so I’ll get a Purple Heart. Wouldn’t I like that!
What’s my mother afraid of? I’m not going to get killed. Look what happened to you and me and Martin at Pearl Harbor when we were in the rowboat, and the Japanese bombers came, and they blew us out of the water What happened? We got scratched up—well, worse than that for Martin—but we came through that okay. We’re all still here. By the way, have you heard from big old Martin Kahahawai?
Next time you hear from me, I’ll be in the marines.
Your friend,
Adam
The minute I boarded the train to Chicago, I said to myself, This is it. No more kid stuff. No more hanging around the house. No more mom telling me what to do. The train was crowded, people were sitting in the aisles and on the arms of seats. It was hot, and the wind coming in through the open windows smelled of steam and coal smoke.
I went looking for a seat, maybe for someone to talk to, maybe a girl. I imagined the admiring way she’d look at me when I told her I was joining up. The train thumped and rocked. Telephone poles, houses, fields, and barns whipped by. Every tunnel sent soot and cinders into the cars. I found an empty seat facing mother and daughter. Both of them had red hair—the mother’s faded, the girl’s alive, like a flame. She was young, maybe eleven or twelve. She was leaning against the window, looking out, when I sat down. The mother was reading her magazine.
I took out the envelope that Mom had handed me this morning before
we all went to the train station. A photo of Davi in an army uniform fell out. It got me right in the gut. He’d beat me to it. I never thought Davi would get in the service before me. The grin on his face seemed to say, Gotcha!
“Is that from your girlfriend?” The girl was peering at me.
“Yup.” I showed her Davi’s photo. “Isn’t she cute?”
“Oh, you’re fanny. What’s your name?”
“Jane!” her mother exclaimed, and apologized to me. “You have to excuse my daughter, she’s so forward.”
“So what?” Jane flung herself back. “You ever think maybe I know him?”
“Don’t be fresh.”
Jane sprang up. She was tall, with freckles and that amazing hair. “Mother, please shut up,” she said, and walked away.
“Did you hear that?” her mother said to me. “You’re young. Tell me what to do.”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry,” I said, wishing I wasn’t there. As soon as she picked up her magazine, I left.
The girl was in the vestibule at the end of the car. The minute she saw me, she said, “I suppose she sent you after me! Well, save your breath.”
“It’s none of my business,” I said.
“Did you see the way she treats me, like I’m a baby. How old do you think I am? How old?” she demanded.
“Sixteen?” I teased.
“Oh, yes!” she said. “You’re nice! My name’s Jane. Oh, you know that, don’t you? What’s your name?”
“Adam.”
“Where are you going, Adam?”
“New York. I’m joining the marines.”
“Oh, good for you! Oh, that is so swell! If I was a boy, I’d join right up. I would, no matter what my mother said. Do you have a girlfriend, Adam? A sweetheart? Do you have a girlfriend who will write to you and keep your morale high?”
“Not exactly,” I said, thinking of Nancy, who used to live down the road from us. She’d moved with her mother to Oakland last year. We’d kissed once. Maybe I’d write to her.
“I wish I had a cigarette,” Jane said. “Do you smoke?”
“Sometimes.” I patted my pockets like I had a pack. “Girls shouldn’t smoke.”
“Boys do, so why can’t I?” She looked around. “Uh-oh!” Her mother was making her way toward us down the aisle. “Here she comes. Don’t you have just one ciggy, Adam? I would smoke it right in front of her, just to show her!”
“Jane,” her mother said. “There you are. Come on, honey. Let’s go back to our seats.”
Jane yawned. “Oh, okay,” she said, as if granting a huge favor. “See you later, Adam.”
“’Bye,” I said, taking out Davi’s letter and unfolding it.
Dear Adam,
My mom forwarded your letter to me. Good plan!
Well, there’s been a big change in my life too. Before, the government didn’t want us in the service. They wouldn’t even let us volunteer. Now every male in Manzanar, seventeen and up, has to register and answer a bunch of insulting questions. One was, would I fight for the United States. What kind of question is that? Maybe I look Japanese, but I don’t think Japanese and I don’t act Japanese. I’m an American, and I have the right to defend my country, even if it does stupid things sometimes.
Anyway, I heard that if I joined up, there was a good chance they’d release my parents early and let them go back home to Hawaii. I was one of the first to sign up. I got called every name in the book. Stupid, traitor, bakatare. Remember Sam, my brother-in-law? You should have heard him. “You little skunk, joining after what they did to us, to your father.” He wasn’t wrong, but I don’t think I’m wrong either. This place is killing my parents. If my joining up gets them home a day sooner, it’s worth it.
So I’m in the army. Look at the picture, if you don’t believe it. I’m in the MIS. Military Intelligence Service, to you. I’m in a Japanese language school at Camp Savage, Minnesota. I’m going to be reading all those captured Japanese maps and battle plans. The recruiting officer here says that if we do our job, we have a good chance of shortening this war! With you joining up and me in it already, this war’s going to end fast.
So, good luck on your plan. Hey, wouldn’t it be neat if we met up somewhere?
Your friend,
Another Japanese American serving his country,
Private Davi Mori
In Chicago there was a change in time zones and trains, and a long delay. I wandered through the station eating a hot dog and stopped to listen to a marine recruiter. He was sitting behind a card table with a bunch of boys hanging around him.
“Go home and eat your spinach, George,” he said to a boy who looked about as old as that girl on the train.
A poster next to the table showed blue water and white beaches and palm trees and a rugged marine in dress blues. The recruiter could have been that marine. He had two rows of ribbons on his tunic for campaigns he’d been in, and slash marks on his sleeve for years of service.
“Timmy,” he said to another boy, “you’re still three inches short.” He straightened a stack of brochures. “I’m telling all you boys, come back when you have some hair on your chest.”
Then he noticed me. “Okay, make some room,” he said to the boys. He beckoned me over. “I want to talk to you, lad. You look like you’re ready for the marines. How old are you?”
“Seventeen, sir.”
“You’re old enough and you’re big enough. Here you are.” He slapped the recruiting papers into my hand. “Take these home and have your father read and sign.”
“It’s my grandfather.”
“That’s okay. Your grandfather’s signature, plus a notary, will do it.”
“Thanks!” I tucked the papers into my pocket.
Once I was on board the Empire State Express, I looked over the papers. Nothing was too hard.
I slept for a while, but when I woke up, I started to worry. Why was I so sure my grandfather would sign for me? What if he said no? What if he said he couldn’t go against my mother? By the time I got off the train in Syracuse and found the bus to Watertown, where my grandfather was going to meet me, I was convinced he was going to turn me down.
In Watertown I saw him through the bus window—still the old soldier, ramrod straight, his empty sleeve pinned back at the shoulder.
I grabbed my suitcase and ran to meet him. “Grandpa!” Seeing him, all my fears fell away. I dropped my suitcase, ready to hug him, but he held out his hand for me to shake. He crunched my hand in his, and I remembered the way he used to crack walnuts with two fingers.
“Look at this boy, Doris,” he said to a woman standing near him. “It’s my son again. Ja, it’s Emory, God be thanked.”
She smiled at me. She had a kind face. “That’s what happens to boys, Oskar, they grow up and look like their fathers.”
“The girl that gets him is going to be one lucky girl.”
“Don’t embarrass him, Oskar.”
“Embarrass, what are you talking about? We Pelkos don’t get embarrassed.” He insisted on taking my suitcase as we walked to the truck and rested his half arm, which used to give me the creeps, on my shoulder.
“It’s great to see you, Grandpa,” I said.
“The last time I see this boy, he was half this size,” he said to Doris. “Now look at him. He’s bigger than me.”
At the truck Doris got in on the driver’s side. When my grandfather objected, she said, “What are you worried about, Oskar? You know I’m a good driver. You talk to your grandson.”
“Big boss,” he grumbled, but he handed over the key.
That evening, after supper, Grandpa and I sat in the kitchen and talked. We had boiled potatoes and sausage, and there was an apple pie Doris had made. We demolished that, too.
“She’s a good woman,” Grandpa said. “Always there when I need help. Her and her boys. She’s bossy, though. You have to watch her. But now that you’re here,” he added, “I won’t be calling on her so much.”
“Grand
pa,” I interrupted. Heat filled my head. “Grandpa, I want to say something. I want to—” I stopped and looked down at my feet. Big feet. I wanted to see marine boots on those feet.
“Well, go ahead,” he said. “What is it? Say it.”
“I want to join up.”
“You want to join up,” he repeated.
I nodded and looked at him, at his old face. “My father was—” I started over. “It’s a tradition, Grandpa. Right? You first, then Dad, and now it’s my turn. Now me.”
“Now you,” he said, and he looked down at his missing left arm.
We sat that way for a while, neither of us saying anything. Outside, the sun was going down. Shadows crept into the room.
“Will you sign for me?” I said finally, but maybe I didn’t say it loud enough.
He leaned forward. “How old are you?” he asked.
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen,” he said.
“Grandpa, I don’t want to wait until I’m eighteen. I can’t! I have to do this, Grandpa.”
He shook his head.
I couldn’t believe it. I’d come all this way, all the way across the country, all those hours and hours on the train, and now he was saying no. He was shaking his head at me. Just looking at me and shaking his head, letting me know in his quiet old man’s way the same thing my mother had said. No. No, I won’t do it. No, I’m not going to sign for you. There’s been enough sacrifice in our family.
I didn’t sleep much that night. I was in the same bedroom upstairs where I’d always slept when we visited my grandfather. The moon was full and shone through the window, lighting up the corners of the room. Far away I heard a train whistle. Then a dog barking. Then, nothing.
The night was still and quiet, so quiet. Bakersfield had been quiet, but compared to this … I sat up and sank my head into my hands, thinking of the long months ahead until my birthday, when I could sign up for myself.
Around four thirty I got up and dressed and went downstairs. I moved around the kitchen, trying not to make noise. I didn’t want to wake my grandfather. I found the bag of coffee, but no coffee pot. I boiled water in a pan and added the coffee and let it boil some more.