“Meet Leroy,” Sweet said. “Your skipper.”
Leroy nodded and helped us find spots for our gear. He was maybe an inch taller than me, and his skin was burned leathery brown by the sun. He had a craggy face, spiky black whiskers, and a powerful odor. But he seemed like an okay guy. He smiled a lot.
When everyone was jammed aboard, Leroy fired up the engines, unhitched the dock lines, and walked the boat out of the harbor. That was one of the best moments I'd had since I joined the U.S. Army.
I stood facing the breeze, sucking in thick, salty air. Chee, did it feel good to be on a fishing boat again.
Sweet settled in a spot near the wheel, by Leroy. He sat with a sigh, leaned his head back, closed his eyes.
“Hey, Eddy, look,” Cobra said, glancing back at the MPs on the dock. “Don't matter where we go, ah? Same like always.”
I shaded my eyes and saw people emerging from dark places in the buildings—fishermen and dockworkers coming out into the sunlight to watch our boat head out to sea.
“Lieutenant,” PeeWee said, “where we going now?”
Sweet peeked open one eye, smiled, and went back to sleep.
Soon a long, low island appeared on our starboard side.
Leroy said, “This here water's what we call the Mississippi Sound. As you can see, it's kind of muddy. That's from the rivers. The water in the sound is brackish, fresh from the rivers, mixed in with salt from the other side of the island. On that side you got your Gulf of Mexico, and that's all salt.”
“This island got a name?” Chik asked.
“Yep, Cat Island. French named it. They found raccoons there and thought they was giant cats.” He chuckled.
Cat Island ran east to west and looked to be about three miles long—an island of tall trees and thick jungle undergrowth. The shore was a thin line of sand and marsh grass. Nothing else. No people and no houses, as far as I could see.
We watched it slip silently by.
Ahead, another island grew up out of the water. Flatter. Looked like a sandbar, with a lighthouse and a huge fortlike thing on it. Way down at the other end, tall trees stood hazy in the purple distance.
Leroy motioned toward a long pier fingering out into the water. The big fort was at the end of it.
“This island here's called Ship. That there is old Fort Massachusetts, built back in the Civil War. After the war, it was used as a quarantine station for yellow fever.”
Leroy throttled down and headed toward the pier. The lighthouse was off to the left, about a quarter mile down the coast. Just beyond the fort were a couple of shacks.
That was it. You could walk from one side of the island to the other in five minutes. All of us were standing now as Leroy eased the boat alongside the pier.
Sweet grinned. “Welcome home, miserable grunts.”
Cobra spat over the side, his face shiny with sweat. “Look like one big wave could roll right over this island.”
“Shuddup,” Chik said. “Now you put that thought in my head.”
“Or maybe an earthquake could sink it.”
“You'll be okay,” Leroy said. “Only time to worry is if there's a hurricane.”
“Thanks,” Chik said, scowling. “I feel better now.”
But today the ocean was as flat as a puddle.
Sweet jumped off and secured the dock lines. We tossed up our gear and climbed off. I took a deep breath. Wow—a paradise. All we needed were a few trees to sit under, maybe a couple of hammocks.
“Ho, look!” Chik said.
In the shallow water off the pier was a school of fish, right below us, with their torpedo-shaped backs lounging in the quiet water. Everyone crowded around to see—except Sweet, who was already heading up to the shacks.
“White sea trout,” Leroy said.
“Man, I could catch fifty at one time,” I said. “If I had my net.”
Cobra scoffed. “What are you fools talking about? You think they brought us here to go fishing?”
Chik stared at him. “What's wrong now? This ain't so bad to me.”
“What you think we doing here?” Cobra said.
Chik shrugged.
“That's right, you don't know, and Ricky don't know either, do you, Ricky?”
“Nope.”
“Don't it seem strange that Sweet won't even tell another lieutenant what's going on?”
“Maybe it's top-secret,” Chik said.
Cobra threw up his hands. “I give up.”
“What I did?”
“Nothing. Let's go.”
We lugged our gear to the shacks. We had enough food and fresh water for a week or so.
Sweet waited for us at the biggest shack, holding the screen door open. “This way, gents.”
The place was dusty and crawling with small black spiders. There was a kitchen, a small room for supplies, and one big room with folding spring-frame cots and thin brownish mattresses stacked against one wall. Blankets, sheets, and pillows were heaped under a tarp in a corner. There was a small woodstove, with a pile of wood out back, and running well water that smelled like a swamp in the kitchen. I couldn't imagine drinking it. Outside was a latrine with a shower.
“Get set up and make yourselves at home,” Sweet said. “I'm going over to Gulfport with the skipper. Someone will be back with your orders in a day or two. Until then, Lieutenant Kondo's in charge.”
“But sir,” I said. “What are we doing here?”
Sweet opened the screen door.
Ricky Kondo stared at the floor, the muscles in his jaw working, looking like he wanted to strangle Sweet.
Sweet winked. “Sayonara.”
The door slapped shut behind him.
Ricky Kondo put his hands on his hips. “Could be worse, I guess. Let's get this place cleaned up.”
Hot Dog and Koji, a guy from Molokai, were assigned to do all the cooking. Golden Boy became our censor; he would make sure that the letters we wrote didn't give our location or assignment away.
“What?” Chik grumbled. “You mean he going read every letter we write?”
“Every last one,” Ricky Kondo said.
Golden Boy wagged his eyebrows. “No worry, Chickaboom. Nobody but me will ever know.”
“Ain't right,” Chik spat. “I going read yours, then.”
“No hold your breath, son.”
I did my work as fast as I could, wanting to get outside and look around. “Hey, Chik,” I said. “How's about we go check inside that fort?”
“Naah, I going take a nap.”
I asked Cobra, but he'd found an old bamboo pole and was heading out to do some fishing.
“I thought you said we wasn't doing no fishing here,” Chik said.
“Changed my mind.”
“Pfff,” Chik said, shaking his head. “You something, you know?”
I thought, I just might like this place.
Leroy came back four days later. By then we were as sunburned as a bunch of kids who didn't have enough sense to start looking for shade. This naked island baked—the only shade was inside the barrack.
Still, we had fish galore and plenty of fresh air. Even Cobra was his old self again. But we couldn't shake that unsettled feeling, wondering why we were here.
When we saw the Sugar Babe heading toward us, we all went down to the pier.
Leroy walked the boat in and tossed up a line. The Sugar Babe rose and fell gently, engine rumbling low.
“Morning,” he said. “I'm here to bring y'all over to Cat Island today. Some men are waiting for you.”
“What men?” Ricky Kondo asked.
“Couple guys I never met before. Just dropped 'em off. Oh…they said bring your boots.”
We went back and shook the bugs out of our boots and returned to board the Sugar Babe. Only Hot Dog and Koji stayed behind, because all they had to do was cook.
Leroy sure hadn't lost his appetite for talking. He didn't smell any better, either. But I liked him.
“Don't y'all worry none,” h
e said, easing the Sugar Babe away from the pier. “You're gonna like Cat Island. Used to go fishing there. Then the war broke out and the army told folks to stay away. They got kennels there, you know. Topsecret, I guess.”
“Kennels?” Chik said. “Like for dogs?”
“Dogs on Cat Island,” Leroy said, grinning. “Ain't that a hoot? They was all somebody's house pets, those dogs. Then when the war broke out their owners volunteered them for the army, just like you boys was volunteered, huh?”
“Yeah,” Chik said, “but some dumb guys joined up on their own.” He winked at me.
I shook my head.
“Hey, be nice, Chik,” Ricky Kondo said.
“What? You joined up, too?”
“Yep.”
“Shee, hard to believe.”
Leroy chuckled at us.
Then his face went grim. “You boys are lucky, though. Over in Europe kids like you are dying by the truckload. Civilians, too. I just read that the Nazis have killed more than a quarter million people in occupied Europe.”
We fell silent, the number staggering.
It's where we should have been, fighting over there, helping those people, I thought.
Mississippi broke up in heat waves on our starboard side. We gazed at its long coastline until Leroy changed the subject.
“See right where that big white warehouse is? That's Gulfport, where I come from. And down back thataway is Biloxi. I'd be glad to show you boys around if you ever get some shore leave.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That would be good.”
A half hour later we were running parallel to Cat Island. On the east end was a branch of white beach that sat on the island like the head on a hammer. The long handle was all jungle.
Leroy squinted toward the marshes and tall trees on shore. There were no piers or buildings or people.
“I'da took y'all to the far side where there's a pier, but I can't let you off there. It's a whole lot easier, but they said I got to let you off on this side. Still, it's shallow, and I can get in close enough for y'alls to wade ashore.”
The rippled-sand bottom slipped by no more than three feet below. The water was the color of rust.
Leroy swung the wheel around when he spotted two men in the trees along the shore.
The Sugar Babe inched closer. Leroy shut the engine down and dug up an old anchor. He grinned and nodded to the port side. “Don't mind those visitors, now.”
A pack of twenty or thirty stingrays swooped toward the boat. “Cow rays is what those are. All's they are is curious. They won't bite, nope.”
Shig cringed.
Chik said, “You want us to step into that?”
“Sure. They'll make a space for you.”
Cobra grabbed his boots and tied them together by the laces. He tossed them over his shoulder and slid into the water.
The cow rays scattered.
Cobra, thigh-deep, looked up at us. “Jump in, cowards.”
On shore, the two men waited.
One by one we dropped over the side with our boots and slogged toward the island, cow rays sailing around us.
The warm water felt good, sucking my pants up against my legs. Soft sand squirted between my toes.
One guy waved as we approached.
Major Parrish.
Up on the sand, fiddler crabs raced away under our feet, their pinchers open, ready to fight. Rotted stumps stuck up along the shore, a dense jungle just inland.
“Welcome to Cat Island, men.”
Major Parrish turned and motioned to the white-haired man behind him. The guy wore a uniform with no insignias, brass, or stripes. He was red in the cheeks and had wild blue eyes.
“This is Franz,” Major Parrish said. “He's Swiss.”
Franz nodded.
We mumbled hello, standing in a semicircle, half of us ankle-deep in the water.
Somebody's got to explain something soon, I thought. This is getting crazy.
“I apologize for all the secrecy,” Major Parrish said, as if he'd read my mind. “But it had to be that way. What you'll be doing here is experimental, and secret.”
He looked down at his boots.
Buying time, I thought.
He rubbed his chin and looked up. “A few months ago a German sub popped up off Long Island, New York. A small platoon of highly trained spies and saboteurs with explosives and detonators came ashore in an inflatable boat. It was foggy, and they were well hidden.
“Several days later it happened again off the coast of Florida. Four more enemy agents came ashore. Fortunately, the FBI captured all of these men before they could do the damage they had in mind.
“We have thousands of miles of coastline, and to protect all of it is just about impossible. But we must. And to do this we need the most alert sentries we can find. We also need them where we're fighting in the jungles of the Pacific.”
Major Parrish paused. “That's why you're here, men.”
Sentries? That's why we're here?
Why not? I thought. We know about the coast, and the ocean. But why here? We could have done this at Camp McCoy. And why only us? They need way more than twenty-five guys; twenty-six if you count Lieutenant Kondo.
Cobra stared at the sand, his hands on his hips. I could almost hear his bad thoughts.
Major Parrish went on. “This might be called Cat Island, but there are no cats here. There are, however, dogs—U.S. Army war dogs—and these dogs are going to fill that need.”
Now I was really confused.
“The dogs are here under the direction of the Quartermaster Corps. Your particular mission will be to help prepare them for use in warfare. They will be trained as messenger dogs, scout dogs, sentry dogs, suicide dogs, and attack dogs. Franz is in charge of the program,” he said, turning toward the Swiss guy.
This is great, I thought. I liked dogs.
“Major,” Ricky Kondo said. “I hope you understand that none of us ever trained dogs before.”
Major Parrish shook his head. “No, no, Lieutenant, the trainers are from the Quartermaster Corps. They're called handlers, and they're already at work here. You're going to… help them.”
Shig said, “Sir, how come you didn't set us up on this island, then? Would be easier.”
Major Parrish nodded. “Franz thought it best to keep you separated from the dogs. You see, each handler has been developing a relationship with his dogs, taking them through a sort of dog boot camp. Now the training gets more serious. Now they need you, and your part is very important, so important that they can't proceed without you. But it's imperative that you not be around the dogs when you aren't working with them. They only answer to their handlers, and it would confuse them to see too much of you. Is that right, Franz?”
Franz nodded. “Precisely.”
Major Parrish hesitated. “You see, men… you are here to represent the enemy these dogs will encounter in the Pacific. We're going to train them to find you by your Japanese scent. You're not the trainers… you're… you're the bait. We're going to teach them to smell you, track you down, and attack you.”
Something blew inside me.
Bait? We were nothing but bait?
In the dead silence I staggered.
“They're not going to hurt you, of course,” Major Parrish went on. “We're going to simulate it, but rest assured, no one's going to get hurt.”
It was the Red Hibiscus all over again. Take it out on the Japs.
A muscle in Cobra's cheek twitched, his unblinking eyes fixed on Major Parrish.
Pop. What should I do?
Then I thought, No, I could never tell him. Dog bait.
What was worse was, the news was coming from Major Parrish, who I had trusted.
“Listen,” Major Parrish said. “It's not as bad as it sounds. At first, all you're going to do is hide in the jungle and let dogs find you. Those of you working with the attack dogs and sentry dogs may have to wear some protective gear after a while, but that's about it.”
Cobra glanced at me, jaw tight, muscles working.
I shook my head slightly.
“The important thing,” Major Parrish went on, “is that if these dogs can be trained to smell the enemy, and to attack them on command, they might save our soldiers' lives.”
Our soldiers? Who were we? Nothing but raw meat?
Franz stood with his chin on his chest and his arms crossed.
Major Parrish went on. “This program has been authorized by President Roosevelt, and I expect you as U.S. Army soldiers to do your job and do it well. I know you will, and that's why I handpicked each one of you for this assignment.”
Mr. Parrish! I shouted in my head. I thought you respected us!
“Follow me,” he said. “I'll show you the dogs.”
Waist-high grass reached in over a sandy trail that took us toward the interior.
Bait.
The word banged around inside me trying to find a place to settle. Fire brewed in my veins. I knew Cobra felt it, too, heat fanned by wild winds.
Between the pines and scrub bushes, palmetto trees sprouted like bursting fireworks. Wiry gray oaks wore branches bearded with moss.
We came to a pond. Long marsh grasses crowded the edges. The water was so still and clear, you could see the shadows of surface bugs on the bottom.
Major Parrish stopped. “Be careful in bayous and waterways like this. There's alligators on this island. They like to hide in the long grass.”
We edged the pond carefully.
The trail ended at the Quartermaster camp, where hundreds of tidy dog kennels lined up on cleared ground, wooden boxes with chicken-wire doors.
Men tending the dogs stopped and looked up as we approached. To the left, tents sprawled into the trees.
For the first time, the Swiss guy spoke to us.
“On the days we need you, that same boat will pick you up and drop you off where it did today. You will hike in and wait here. Your handlers will meet you and tell you what to do. But this is as close as you will ever get to the kennels. Everything beyond this point is off-limits. To these dogs you will never be a friend. You are the enemy.”
Eyes of the Emperor Page 8