Island War

by Patricia Reilly Giff

  “I was talking aloud?”

  “I don’t read minds, after all,” she said.

  “I was thinking about the planes overhead, going south. It could be the battle the Japanese soldier talked about,” I said slowly.

  She was sitting up now, facing me. Was she crying?

  “Are you afraid?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she said.

  But it wasn’t that, we were afraid all the time. I knew it was because of me.

  I didn’t stop to think. I crawled underneath the overhang and sat there with Willie between us. And now I did say it. “I’m sorry, Izzy.”

  She didn’t stop crying. She cried even more. “Izzy the Mosquito,” I said. “You’re my best friend.”

  And that was true.

  She laughed through her tears. “I’m your only friend.”

  I didn’t laugh, though. I thought of all she had done these long months. How could I have made it without her?

  I reached across Willie and took her hand.

  “On the ship,” she said. “I’m clumsy. I never meant…”

  “I know you didn’t do it on purpose. I should have known it all along. And someday,” I said, “we’ll be home. We’ll go out on the Sound together.”

  “Home!” She squeezed my hand. “Willie too. And the Sound!”

  I felt tears in my throat. I couldn’t let her see that. Instead, I just nodded.

  WE finally saw the ships on the horizon one day. And it wasn’t long before bombs rained down and shots were fired.

  The noise vibrated in my ears and chest. Willie hated it as much as I did, whining, then howling.

  It was all coming closer. But still, we had to have food.

  “We have to climb the hill and look for nests,” I told Matt, covering my ears against the boom of the battle.

  He looked doubtful, but shrugged. “No worse up there, maybe.”

  We climbed, heads down, looking for nests in the rocks, but we couldn’t find any. “Maybe it’s too soon,” I said, not sure if he could hear me.

  Below, there was a tremendous boom.

  “We have to do something,” Matt said when we reached the overhang again and climbed in for what little bit of warmth it gave us.

  “They’ll think the enemy might be here,” I said, knowing what he meant and feeling my heart pound.

  I remembered a movie I’d seen with Gram. Something about a man marooned on an island, dragging rocks on the sand that spelled out SOS. Save Our Souls.

  But how would American fliers know we were on their side? Suppose we were the enemy?

  I thought I knew a better way.

  I leaned close to Matt’s ear. “Listen. If we take the blankets, the blue one, the white one…” I broke off, trying to think. “The large red scarf.” Yes. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes. Then what?”

  “We’ll anchor them down with rocks on top of the hill. Red, white, and blue. The Americans will know friends are here.”

  He shook his head. I knew he was thinking that without the blankets we’d be freezing.

  A huge explosion that raised smoke in the air convinced him.

  We went back to the top of the hill, carrying the blankets and the scarf, and spread everything out in order. Red, white, and blue, a huge flag, all weighed down so it would stay in place.

  Fliers would see it; maybe they wouldn’t bomb. They might even wonder who was here and come to get us.

  In the meantime, we’d manage to huddle together, me, Matt, and Willie.

  Later, from the overhang, I saw a bird with a yellow back and a soft buff color below. Its legs were long and yellow too.

  I thought of the picture Dad had drawn long ago: the yellow bittern. It was the one I’d seen a couple of times, a rare bird that must have flown all the way from Indonesia.

  The bird turned and stared at me. He dipped his head, then spread his wings slowly and flew. I watched until he was only a dot in the sky and then disappeared.

  If only Mom were here.

  If only she could see. A yellow bittern!

  I’d write about that bird, though, and tell her someday.

  SOMETIMES planes flew over, loud and vibrating, but we were never bombed. Izzy said it was because of her flag.

  It was a great flag, so I never mentioned that most of the time it was hidden in the fog.

  Would the war ever end? Would Pop and Izzy’s mom come back?

  Would we ever go home?

  One morning, there were no bombs, only the rat-tat-tat of the guns went on. Izzy pointed to a flock of birds flying in from the sea and crawled out to see them.

  I watched her running along after them, head up, stumbling on the sand with Willie; then they disappeared behind the rocks.

  She was gone a long time, too long. I’d have to go after her and make sure she was all right.

  I went along the sand, back around the hill, and she was there, arms out, crying. “Oh, Matt!” she called.

  And I noticed that the sound of the firing had stopped.

  I fell, pushed myself up, and went on. I was crying, sobbing, yelling Matt’s name. Willie ran with me. Did he know? Did he have any idea?

  The voice behind me kept calling, “Wait! Stop!”

  I couldn’t wait; I couldn’t stop.

  Matt came toward me. “What is it, Izzy? What’s the matter?”

  I ran straight into his arms, crying hard, but still managing to say, “Look, dear Matt. Look.”

  Willie tore around us, barking; he knew something had happened. Of course he did.

  Matt kept looking down at me. “Are you all right?”

  I couldn’t say anything more. I raised my hand and pointed over my shoulder.

  And then he saw: the blue uniform, the smiling face of the man behind me. A sailor from an American ship.

  “I’ve come to take you home,” he said, and his arms were out too.

  I couldn’t cry, not with that sailor smiling, nodding at us.

  But when he said, “We saw the flag, and now we’ve won the battle…” I really did cry: Izzy and I hugging each other.

  I was going home to Connecticut, to Mom, to rowing on the Sound.

  And Izzy?

  I was used to the way she looked, the way she tapped her feet. She’d roll her eyes when I was grumpy, and sometimes she made me laugh.

  I really would take her out on the Sound. I knew she’d love it. And we’d wait together for Pop and her mom to come home.

  “What about the dog?” the sailor asked.

  We looked at each other, then looked at him. “We don’t leave without the dog,” I said.

  IT was warm, the backyard filled with color, the hall clock chiming, a half-eaten chocolate cake on the counter.

  I was home at last!

  I held hands with Gram across the kitchen table. Her hair was gray now, and her face lined, but I thought she was beautiful.

  And Willie? Underneath on my feet, chewing on a huge bone. Willie thought he was in heaven.

  I thought so too.

  For a moment, Gram and I were quiet, thinking about Mom, Matt’s father, Maria, Mrs. Weio, and the others who had been taken from the island. I ran my hand over the bracelet still on my wrist.

  “We have to believe they’ll come home too,” Gram said.

  I did believe it. Someday, Mom would sit here just the way I was sitting.

  “I’m so glad to be here,” I said, feeling sorry. “Dad thought I’d love the island best, but…”

  She patted my hand. “Wait, Izzy.”

  She went into Dad’s old office and came back with photos. One showed the front of our house, another our kitchen table with a roast turkey in the center, and still a third, me sitting on a swing out back. “He was so glad to be home, Izzy.”

  She pushed a book across the table. Coming Home, the title read.

  I could read it, read all of his books now. A little slowly maybe, carefully. But yes, what would I have done without Maria’s books?

>   Then I remembered something. I patted Gram’s hand, slid my feet from under Willie, and went into my bedroom.

  Mom’s water-stained notebook was still in my suitcase. I ran my hand over it. It had been with Matt and me the whole time.

  I brought it back to Gram and we sat paging through it together. The last half was in my writing: wild and loopy, even though I’d thought it was my best. I’d written about the yellow bittern staring at me with round dark eyes, rain spattering across the rocks, the kayak, and…

  I stopped. The island was so clear, the wind bending us sideways, the snow slanting, an irritable boy who’d become my best friend.

  Gram looked at me, smiling. “You see it.”

  I could hardly breathe. I did see it. I had captured the island, page after page: that wild, windswept, desolate place.

  I was a writer.

  How had that happened?

  You could do anything if only you’d set your mind to it.

  Oh, Mrs. Dane. I’d tell her about it. No, I’d write it for her. And rowing on the Sound someday with Matt. Willie’s new life. And mine.

  I’d write it all.

  I couldn’t wait to begin.

  A NOTE:

  This is a work of fiction, but always there’s a kernel of truth in the writing. And so it is with Island War.

  The story is loosely based on the island of Attu, the farthest west in the chain of the Aleutian Islands, eleven hundred miles from the mainland part of Alaska. It is windswept, with only eight to ten clear days a year free from rain, snow, and fog.

  The small island was inhabited by the Aleuts, who hunted and fished for a living. Birds fly there in remarkable numbers, many not seen anywhere else on this continent.

  During the Second World War, Attu and Kiska were the only territories of the United States invaded by the Japanese army. On Attu, everyone from the small village was taken off the island, and sent to Japan. At the end of the war, only half were alive, but they were never permitted to return to their homes. They were forced to settle elsewhere in Alaska.

  For many years, birders came to the island, which had been taken over by the government. The battlefield became a national landmark.

  But suppose, I thought, as I began to write this book, a boy and a girl remained on the island to survive on their own?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I owe much to my editor, Mary Cash, for her belief in me, for her thoughtful editing, and wonderful suggestions. I’m grateful too, for my long association and friendship with Terry Borzumato, and for Barbara Perris’s careful copyediting.

  As always, Joan Jansen was more than willing to help with research and added to my thoughts about the book.

  My daughter, Alice, and my son, Bill, are always there for me, both tremendous sources of encouragement and love. Laurie Giff, my daughter-in-law, and I have been through much together, and urge each other on.

  My seven wonderful grandchildren, Jimmy, Chrissy, Bill, Cait, Conor, Patti, and Jilli, as well as Cathie Giff, Bill’s wife, and Jim O’Meara, Alice’s husband, have added so much to our family, and are willing to read my books!

  I’m especially indebted to E. Andrew Duda for his enormous support and advice over the years.

  I particularly want to mention my sister-in-law, Mary Giff, who is so dear to me. Our weekly talks, our memories of family, and her knowledge of my books make me want to keep writing and writing.