Hiroshi waved to someone across the room.
“Are you listening to me? Think of our parents. Think of–”
“Silence,” Hiroshi hissed. His eyes narrowed. “There’s too much at stake. I won’t hear of it.” A shadow crossed his face. He seemed older than his years.
“But why? Why can’t you... “
Hiroshi stood and waved again. Through the haze, he pointed to the bar where several girls languished, combing their hair and surveying the crowd. “See that one?”
Noyama didn’t feel like standing. “Hiroshi. Listen to your older brother. I’m trying to talk sense into you.”
“And I to you. Now be quiet or you’ll ruin everything.” He pointed to a girl at the bar’s end. Coyly, she returned the look, then flipped a mirror from her purse and adjusted her lipstick. “That’s Nina. She’s all right.”
“You know her?”
“Since last night. I got here early to sample the goods and get to know the lay of the land, so to speak. She had the Cokes spiked for us.”
“I hate hangovers,” said Noyama. Then he sipped again and said, “Actually, it’s not bad stuff.”
“Are you talking about the Cokes?” asked Hiroshi.
“Both.”
They laughed.
With an arched eyebrow, Nina eased off the stool, edged her way through the crowd, and stood over their table. She was very petite, with shiny straight black hair that dropped to her waist. She had a deep olive complexion and was barely five feet tall. Her lips were full and her smile would have stopped Genghis Khan at the border. Another girl followed close behind. She was a smaller version of Nina, except her hair was done in a bun wrapped behind her head. She had extremely quick eyes and wore an electric blue dress with leg slits up both sides. Perfume wafted around Noyama. He couldn’t tell which one it belonged to; perhaps both.
“Nina, see? I really was telling the truth. This is my brother, Yuzura,” said Hiroshi.
“You’re better looking than your brother,” said Nina. After they laughed, she continued, “Say hello to my cousin Maria.” She nodded to the woman next to her.
“Cousins, brothers? Who’s telling the truth around here?” quipped Hiroshi.
The girl in blue shot a glance at Hiroshi and stood before Noyama. “Best of the day to you,” she said in faltering Japanese. She tossed another smile that could have melted resin off the table.
Noyama drew a deep breath. Her perfume found every nook in his lungs, his brain, and his stomach. His eyes seemed to bulge; and he wondered if it was perfume or mustard gas in disguise. “And to you, too,” he nodded back. Maria might look intelligent and might even be intelligent. But with her Japanese, he was going to have a tough time finding out. Maybe that didn’t matter.
Maria sat beside Noyama and nudged him with her hip. Then casually, she lay a hand on his knee while laughing at something Hiroshi said.
At a nod from Nina, the malado waiter appeared, laid down new drinks, and picked up their old glasses.
Noyama’s head whirled and he sipped while Hiroshi gulped. The first drink had gotten to him and he knew he wouldn’t last long. What the hell was in it? And the band was playing fast and loud Filipino jazz, featuring three screeching trumpets. “I can’t hear.” He jammed his hands over his ears.
Hiroshi said something to Nina. She nodded, and he said, “Let’s get out of here.”
“To where?”
“Her place.” Hiroshi and the girls stood.
Noyama stood. “Oh, no.” He weaved in place. “Ito warned me about that.”
Throwing down a few bills, Hiroshi shouted, “About what?”
“These people set you up for the HUKs. After they torture you, they slice off your head and throw it into the stew pot at the Subic Bay officers’ club.”
“Who says so?” demanded Hiroshi, wrapping his arm around Nina.
“Sergeant Ito, Don’t you read your bulletins?”
Hiroshi started walking and tossed over his shoulder. “Bulletins, my foot. With where I’m going, who cares about damn bulletins?”
They had reached the middle of the dance floor and were hemmed in by the crowd as the band shifted to an American ballad. Tightly packed, the dancers moved slowly. Maria eased her arms around Noyama’s neck and began swaying. He was at least a head taller than she, but somehow it all worked and they fit perfectly. He relaxed and held her close.
Hiroshi shouted something.
“What?” Noyama yelled back. With the cigarette smoke, the room was closing in. And he couldn’t hear the band. “What did you say?” he shouted.
Hiroshi leaned close. “Nina’s father is a glassblower.”
Maria’s motions were all too plain and he felt himself becoming aroused. He took a deep breath. Maybe it was her perfume. “So what? Maybe you’re right. We should get out of here.”
“I said a glassblower, damn you,” said Hiroshi.
“So what?”
“I want you to have something before I forget.”
Maria clung to Noyama, moving up and down, her motions now demanding. “Let’s get out of here,” she rasped.
“Here,” said Hiroshi. He handed over a small box.
Maria rose on her tiptoes and mouthed his ear. “Quickly, upstairs.” She tugged at his coat.
“Back in a minute,” said Noyama, stuffing the box in his pocket.
The corner of Hiroshi’s mouth turned up. “Okay.”
She led him across the room to a staircase all but obscured by cigarette smoke. “What’s up there?” He instantly knew the answer and felt stupid for asking in the first place.
Even so, she looked back as they ascended with a smile that not only answered his question but helped him negotiate the stairs. His head was whirling and his stomach began to jump, a pang arising that brought a cold sweat to his brow. The question surfaced, “What the hell was in that drink?”
Another smile made it possible for Noyama to finish clumping up the stairs. He lurched down a dark hall and remembered stepping into a dark room.
Her teeth flashed in the dark. She kissed him. She grappled at his shirt buttons... something loud. Shouting. Thunderclaps...
* * * * *
The man in the cream-colored suit pranced up and down the main saloon of the Pompag Bar and Grille. Like a drill sergeant, he bellowed commands while kicking over chairs and tables. Noyama blinked, surprised to find himself downstairs in the main room. He lay on the floor in a corner beside a table. Someone was seated there. He looked up. “Hiroshi?”
“That’s me.” He seemed distant.
“What happened?”
Hiroshi handed down a cup of tea. “Drink this.”
Noyama took the cup in his hands, its warmth making him feel better. He drank and the hot tea ran down his throat, invigorating him. He blinked after his second sip. The Pompag Bar and Grille looked as if the Nineteenth Tora Division had gone back to work. Tables and chairs were upended, pictures hung askew, the mirror over the bar was shattered. The cigarette smoke was gone, but the stench remained. Curtains and drapes had been pulled, windows opened, and late-afternoon sunlight cascaded into the room, revealing a truly dinghy scene.
Noyama sucked in his breath. Four bodies were neatly arranged by the front door, blood running beneath them. “Hiroshi. What is this?”
Just then there was a shout at the top of the stairs. Two soldiers stood, holding a pair of arms in their hands. The man in the cream-colored suit walked to the base of the stairs and bellowed a command. The grunting soldiers picked up the man and braced him against the banister. Actually it was a bloody corpse; bullet holes ranged over the torso. With a shout, the soldiers threw the body into space. It tumbled down the stairs, falling two meters from Noyama: the malado waiter. Nonchalantly, the soldiers quick-stepped down the stairs, grabbed the waiter’s heels, and dragged him over to the other bodies. One of the bodies, Noyama noticed, wore a blood-spattered electric blue dress with slits up the skirt. He gasped, “Is that–”
Noyama rose, picked up a chair, and slumped at the table beside Hiroshi.
“Papers,” demanded the man.
Noyama fumbled in his pocket and handed over his papers. “Who are you?”
Hiroshi kicked him under the table. “Easy,” he muttered.
“Ah, Commander Noyama. I am Major Kurishima, sir, of His Imperial Majesty’s Japanese Army Nineteenth Tora Division . You’re most fortunate to be alive.”
“Why is that?” Noyama sipped again. His stomach began surging, and he knew he was going to be sick.
“They put something in your rum and Coke,” said Hiroshi. “I should have been looking out for it.”
Noyama looked up to the major. “You called me a damn fool, Major?” It was his way of pulling rank, something he wasn’t used to doing.
“That car. A Packard. You were spotted before you were halfway up the mountain. You couldn’t have done a better job of advertising your presenceB better than an electric billboard on the Ginza. They wanted you badly.”
“Why?”
Kurishima righted a chair and sat with them. “For information, of course. That car told them you were an important customer.” His eyes narrowed, and he gave a tight smile. "You were a major target and were to be tortured.”
Noyama nodded to the bodies at the front door and looked at Hiroshi. “Is Nina in that mess?”
Hiroshi nodded. “Six more lying outside. Dragged out and executed. They even shot two cooks.”
Noyama checked his watch, “It’s nearly six. I must find Sergeant Ito.”
Kurishima waved a hand in the air. “Dead. We found his body in the Packard’s trunk. They hadn’t had time to dispose of it.”
Noyama slumped for a moment. He’d liked Ito and was sorry for his loss. Then he said, “I’m due back in Subic.”
“Possibly tomorrow, after we conclude our investigation.”
Noyama weaved to his feet. His stomach lurched and he sat. “It has to be now. Today, Major.”
Kurishima looked at Noyama, his face a blank wall.
Noyama said, “Or would you prefer to speak with Admiral Kurita about it?”
Kurishima blinked. After a moment he said, “I’ll look into it.” He stood and moved off toward the front door.
There was an urgent rush in Noyama’s belly. “Where’s the head?”
Hiroshi nodded over his shoulder.
Noyama sprang to his feet, knocked over the chair, and ran into the lavatory, just barely making it into a stall.
He walked back ten minutes later, somewhat unsteadily but feeling a little better. He sat beside Hiroshi, sipped tea, and asked, “You all right, little brother?”
Hiroshi said nothing.
“While I was in there, I found this in my pocket.” He pulled out the small box Hiroshi had stuffed there. He opened it, finding an intricate glass replica of two red apples surrounded by green leaves intertwined with a clear glass filigree. “It’s beautiful. Thank you. Funny thing. I had two real apples from our larder to bring up to you, but they turned rotten.”
“Doesn’t matter. Please give that to Mom. But I want all of you to enjoy it.”
“Okay. You said Nina’s father was a glassblower? Did he do this?”
Hiroshi nodded. Tears ran down his cheeks. “You wonder why I’m in the Shiragiku. You want me to get out? To leave my friends? To embarrass my family? My country? That clapped-out major is right,” he yelled pointing. “You are a damn fool.”
Silence descended as Hiroshi shouted and waved about the room. “You want your homeland to become like... this? A whorehouse for American occupation armies? You want them to put Mom to work in a whorehouse? Dad in the coal mines? You and me repairing their fancy cars? Is this what you want?” he yelled.
“Hiroshi –”
Again Hiroshi yelled “I can’t stand the thought of this happening to my home. No, I’ll not have it. I’ll not have Americans raping our women. What I’m doing is the only way left.”
Major Kurishima walked up.
“So bastards like this can keep torturing people,” said Hiroshi nodding at Kurishima.
“No,” said Noyama. “We’ll take care of Kurishima and their garbage.”
“Commander Noyama... “, Kurishima said.
“All right, little brother,” said Noyama. He reached across and grabbed his hands. “All right.” They embraced. “I’ll probably be right behind you.”
Kurishima said softly, “Admiral Mikawa has sent specific instructions for your return. We will assign a driver and a scout car to escort you down the hill.”
Noyama hugged tighter. “And thanks for those damn apples, you little fool.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
21 September, 1944
Westbound X 4293
Southern Pacific Freight Yards
Sparks, Nevada
“How are you, young man?” Milo Lattimer reached down with a beefy, callused hand.
Captain Alexander Collins, U. S. Marine Corps, accepted the hand and swung aboard the caboose’s rear platform. “Thank you, sir.” He grabbed a rail to steady himself. His arm was in a sling; he moved stiffly, and he had dark pouches under his eyes.
“Are you all right?” asked Lattimer.
Collins gave a thin smile. “Me? Yeah. Never better. Just a bumpy hop on a bug-smasher over the mountain this morning. And to tell the truth, this is my first outing since I was in the hospital. Besides, couldn’t sleep last night. Painkillers kept me awake.”
“Well, let’s hope you have a comfortable ride over the hill. We’ll put you on the right side.” Lattimer waved through the caboose door. “Our brakeman is forward right now. He’ll join us when we start up the hill.” He looked at the young marine. “I hear they call you Nitro?”
“Please do that, Mr. Lattimer.”
“Milo.”
Right, Milo.” Nitro walked into the caboose and took a seat. Fortunately, the cupolas were located on the sides, meaning he wouldn’t have to crawl up top.
There was a loud squealing noise from a walkie-talkie lying on a table. “Ach!” Lattimer reached over, clicked it, and then reached up to a cord running the length of the caboose. He yanked it twice; an air horn mounted atop the caboose bellowed.
Slouching in the opposite cupola, Lattimer checked his watch and said, “They’re ready, so am I.”
Couplings clanked down the line as Ben Soda Whiskers opened his throttle, feeding steam to the enormous pistons powering the AC-10's drive wheels.
The consist for westbound X 4293 was relatively short today, only forty-six cars. But twenty-six were flatcars, each carrying an M4A4 Sherman tank that mounted a seventy-six millimeter cannon. What fascinated Lattimer was that these Chrysler-built, Pacific-bound Shermans were fitted with two large air ducts. The tankers had told him that this was for fording waters up to six feet deep. Lattimer made a mental note to put that into his next dispatch for Lorena. He’d do it now, but this young marine sitting across from him had quick eyes. Even though he was tired, Collins missed nothing, Lattimer could see. Too bad he didn’t die when Lattimer had shoved him out the boxcar three weeks ago. And now Sabovik was up in the cab with Soda Whiskers and Collins was back here. He would have to be careful. What worried Lattimer was that they were here for a reason, and he racked his brain to determine whether he’d tipped them off. Lattimer leaned over. “Coffee, Captain Collins?”
“Don’t forget, it’s Nitro. And yes, thank you. Black, please.”
The caboose lurched over a crossing as they picked up speed. Lattimer looked out the window and grinned. “Soda Whiskers is racing that damn chicken farmer again.”
Nitro looked across. “Damn fool. Someone’s going to get hurt.”
They flashed past the road-grade crossing. All they could see was a trail of dust and chicken feathers in the wake of the stake truck. Popovits Farms had won this race.
Lattimer poured and han
ded over a cup. “Maybe a few chickens to get hurt, hmmmm?”
“Thanks,” said Nitro. He sipped. “Ahhhh, good stuff. You railroad guys live okay. And this sure beats the hell out of riding in the engine.”
“Put up your feet. Make yourself comfortable.”
With a groan, Nitro lifted his legs and stretched. “Um. Swell. Thought the caboose would be rough riding.”
“Some of them are,” said Lattimer as he sat opposite and reached for a large black valise.
“Whatcha got there?”
“Train orders. Don’t you know? This is a railroad. Worse than the Navy. Paperwork never ends.”
“Ummmm, we doing okay?” asked Nitro, his eyelids drooping.
“Perfect.”
Three minutes later, Lattimer glanced over to see the captain’s head pitched back on the cushion, eyes closed, mouth wide open. He reached over and caught Collins’s coffee cup before it fell on the floor. Amazing. The young man had fallen asleep so quickly and now he was snoring, his head lolling back and forth as the train jostled.
So much the better. Lattimer looked out the window seeing the CALVEDA sign flash past; they had just crossed into California. The engines, two AC-10s in front and two more about two-thirds of the way back, were really working now, their massive steam chests chuffing almost in concert as they ground their way up the hill toward Truckee and the Donner summit. After a long and careful glance at the Marine, he bent over to work at his train orders. Except, he turned his back slightly to Collins; he wasn’t working on train orders at all...
* * * * *
Her name was Lorena Ortiz and he’d only known her for six months. They’d sent her two weeks after Anna Thiele had the temerity to choke on a chicken bone and die. Anna, a forty-seven-year-old spinster, had clerked at the local title insurance company. Lorena, on the other hand, worked as a housekeeper and short-order cook at the Atwater Hotel over on Vermont Street, a clapboard flophouse frequented by railroaders. Where Anna was bookish and withdrawn, Lorena was outward and displayed a hot Latin temper. Anna had dressed in black muslin dresses and wrapped her hair in a tight bun. On the other hand, Lorena wore a starched-white uniform drawn tight at the waist, the effect provocative. Where Anna spoke in a low, measured tone, Lorena purposely smashed her phrases, faking an accent in a delightfully husky voice. But Milo knew Lorena was putting it all on. Her eyes sparkled when she shook her head no to a question; Lorena understood English perfectly. Even though she was regarded as the town’s punchboard he loved her and hated her at the same time. He loved her since she was such a deep, hot-blooded, tender, caring woman who made him feel extraordinarily alive, especially when they were making love. He hated her because she threw caution to the winds, didn’t look for anyone following during her trips to San Francisco, and spent money faster than a Texas oilman.
A CALL TO COLORS: A NOVEL OF THE BATTLE OF LEYTE GULF Page 27