I reached up to brush my palms across her breasts. She was braless beneath the tank top, and her nipples distended the fabric. She hissed as I pinched, first gently, then harder. Her hips twitched, pressing her crotch harder against mine.
"Sarita!"
It wasn't quite an orgasm, or maybe you could call it a mini-orgasm. I know I shuddered with pleasure, cried out her name. Whatever it was, it was enough for her to expertly strip me of my shorts and part my thighs with her long-fingered hands.
Then her mouth was on me. She licked and sucked my swollen clit, and that was enough to send me off on a real orgasm, an incredibly long one or maybe a string of them.
She kissed me, her face covered in my juices. Moments later, I was between her legs and returning the favor, two fingers stroking her deep inside as I licked her until she screamed.
After that, we slowed down, stroking and whispering and luxuriating in having all the time in the world to make love. Sometime after that, with a waxing moon high in the sky and stars like you've never seen, we threw half the sleeping bag over us and finally talked.
I admitted I'd thought she was leaving me. She was shocked, protesting until I kissed her quiet just as she had done to me earlier.
"The look you gave me when I was late to your birthday dinner..."
"I was worried about you,” she said. “You'd been working so hard and not eating, and you walked in and you looked so pale and gaunt ... I wanted everyone else to go away so I could feed you and take you home and put you to bed."
"I'm sorry things got so crazy,” I said.
"I'm sorry I couldn't do anything to make it easier,” she said.
Then we both laughed, because we knew we were being silly apologizing for things we couldn't control. We'd find a way to work it out, to communicate better, to take the occasional weekend or even just a day or an evening to reconnect during the most stressful times.
As the embers pulsed orange and hot in the fire ring, I looked up and watched a bat swoop overhead.
And just let myself be.
* * * *
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Send More Japs!
© Robert Buckley
The scrawny captain looked like he'd been pushing papers all his life. Tommy and I held out our hands, but he kept our discharges just out of reach.
"Don't you men understand? They're only going to haul you back in. No one's staying out of this one. Hell, why would you want to?"
"Captain,” I said. “Tommy and I are going home. The Army can come get us after we see our families."
He shook his head and handed us our papers. I glanced at the date: December 8, 1941.
Tommy Gennaro grew up in East Boston; I grew up in Southie. For all we know, we may have traded punches after one of the Thanksgiving games when the micks and wops mixed it up. We ended up in the Army pretty much the same way. A judge said we could either serve our country or serve some time.
Tommy and I met up in some dusty armpit of an Army camp in Texas. He bumped into me in the chow line and said, “Hey, Donovan, you know what sound a toilet makes when you flush it? Irissssssshhhhh!"
I knew it was the start of a beautiful friendship, forged by ever more outrageous insults upon each other's national heritage.
I liked the Army. Tommy did too, but he hid it behind all his belly-aching. The day we were discharged, I left with three stripes. Tommy had two.
We started our odyssey with our uniforms on and our thumbs out. We didn't pay for anything all the way from Texas to Boston. Servicemen used to die along the sides of roads waiting for a ride. Folks would just as soon give a lift to an entire chain gang. That sure changed after Pearl Harbor. People nearly had accidents trying to pick us up.
We made great time. One guy went nearly a hundred miles out of his way to bring us to New Orleans. He even let Tommy sit in back with his teenaged daughter.
In the Big Easy, we drank and ate for free for nearly three days. Folks were falling all over themselves to show us a good time. One old gent brought us to Madame Louret's, where we had our pick of the most beautiful girls I'd ever seen in my life.
Tommy didn't waste any time. He went upstairs with a girl who was a dead ringer for Carole Lombard. I picked a colored girl—the first one I ever had. But she wasn't like any colored girl I'd ever seen before. For one thing, she had green eyes, and long soft, flowing hair, not like a lot of the Negro girls you saw in the South, with tight, kinky curls and funny clothes that reminded you of the kids in the Our Gang shorts.
This girl was long-legged, with a big old behind that swayed and bounced just so sweetly. She was the color of light caramel, and she did things to me I didn't think were possible.
In the morning, we caught a ride with a truck driver who was on his way to Birmingham, Alabama. When I told Tommy I'd fucked the colored girl he looked at me kind of funny.
A while later he said, “Aw, she wasn't colored. She was what they call Creole. It's a New Orleans thing. Yeah, a Creole. She was just a dark-skinned white girl, is what she was."
I shrugged. “If you say so, all I know is she could really 23-skidoo. But, okay, she was really a white girl."
"Creole."
"Yeah, right, Creole."
We made our way through the South, got invited to bars and church dinners, brought into folks’ homes where we were fed like kings by families who laughed at the way “the Yankee boys talk."
We traveled up through Georgia and the Carolinas. In Virginia, we even got picked up by the cops, who brought us over the bridge into Washington. Lots of people were wearing uniforms in that town, but we still made out all right.
We practically got kidnapped by a woman in a big white Studebaker who brought us to a suite in the Willard Hotel. A big party was going on; classy looking guys and dames with backless dresses that you could see right down their ass cracks. It turned out the woman who brought us was married to some senator. He bent our ears about how Roosevelt had plotted to get us into the war all along. Then he invited Tommy and me to bang his wife. He said it was the patriotic thing to do.
And we were just loaded enough to take him up on it. She looked a little like Barbara Stanwyck, and she liked being done from behind while she sucked another guy's cock. So Tommy and I loaded her up and fired her off like a howitzer. Tommy had passed out when she asked me to hit her.
"Huh? Guys from my neighborhood don't hit women—unless they're married."
"C'mon, big brave soldier like you? Afraid to hit a girl?"
I gave her a little light chuck under the chin, but she wanted more.
"C'mon, pansy boy, paste me."
I did to her pretty much what Jimmy Cagney did to that dish with the grapefruit in “Public Enemy.” Then I grabbed Tommy and we staggered out of there. To hell with her, maybe she could get one of the bellhops to smack her.
Tommy and I were so loaded we didn't even notice we had parked our asses in front of the White House. We must have been pretty loud though, because all of a sudden we were surrounded by a bunch of guys in suits yelling at us to get up and show them our papers. I was getting ready to swing at one, when a big black Packard cruised by and pulled into the driveway. The rear window rolled down and a hand beckoned to us.
"C'mere, boys."
Those guys in suits shut up quick, and we tottered over to the Packard. About all we could make out was that jutting jaw and a big grin clenching a cigarette holder.
"Where you headed, boys?"
"Boston, sir."
"Know it well. Ever eat at Jacob Wirth's?"
"Yes, sir, but I like Amhrein's."
He chuckled. “Well, boys, let me buy you your tickets home.” He handed each of us a twenty dollar bill, waved and gave us a big, “So long."
The Packard continued on and stopped under the portico.
One of the guys in a suit said, “All right, soldiers, time to amscray.” He gave us a ride to Union Station.
We bought coach
tickets, but a conductor let us flop in a sleeper that wasn't being used. We didn't wake up until a couple of twin sisters stumbled in at New Haven and announced we were occupying their sleeper. But they were great girls. Tommy and I swapped and compared all the way to Boston.
We were pretty ragged when we stumbled out of South Station. I hopped on the D Street bus while Tommy took the MTA over to Eastie.
My mom almost had a heart attack when I walked in the door of the old triple-decker, but she recovered pretty quick, and she and my little sister set about making a big meal. But I had plenty of cash left over, so I took them to Amrhein's for dinner, and then the owner tore up the check. Life was good, but it wouldn't last.
I got to sleep late, but in the morning, Ma said a couple of MPs were waiting in the parlor for me with my reactivation orders. It was time to go back.
* * * *
I met up with Tommy again at the South Boston Army base. Before we knew it, we were back on a train with about twenty other guys. More guys got on in Connecticut, New York, and Philadelphia, then the train started heading southwest. We figured we were headed for the Pacific, but that was applying logic to an Army situation. I bet they would get us as close to the West Coast as they could before they shipped us to Europe.
A loud-mouthed private by the name of Kelso was driving everyone nuts about how many Japs he was going to kill. “I'll roast their little brains inside their ugly skulls,” he said.
I had to wonder how a guy came up with an image like that. He didn't say if he was going to eat them too, but I wouldn't put it past him. But it was Kelso who picked up the jackswop that we were on our way to Arkansas.
"God damn it!” he fumed. He was always bitching about something, but our ears perked up when he said, “They're sending us to be some kind of fucking jail guards. Damn, I want to fight."
"What the hell are you talking about?” Tommy growled. “Guards?"
"Yeah, for Japs. Can you fuckin’ believe that?"
"Malarkey!” A guy from the rear shouted. “We ain't even captured any Japs yet."
"I got it from a corporal who read it off a copy of orders when he was looking over the colonel's shoulder. We're gonna be babysitting Japs."
The whole car went quiet. I said, “Aw, that's for the birds. He probably misread it. Besides, we're getting our asses kicked pretty good. How many Jap prisoners could we have?"
Kelso exploded. “Hey! The only reason the Japs are doing so good is that they got help."
"Huh?"
"Yeah, someone tipped the sneaky little rats when to hit us. Anyway, look what happened at Wake Island. They nearly got their asses wiped by those Marines. How'd you like the CO saying ‘Send more Japs!’ like he couldn't kill enough of them. Oh, baby, that's what I want, a crack at those little yellow monkeys."
Send more Japs? Wake Island got overrun because we couldn't even organize a half-assed relief expedition. That shit was good for public morale, but any vet knew the last thing those poor bastards needed was more Japs. I looked at Kelso and shook my head.
But then we arrived in southern Arkansas and got marched to a camp. We thought it was an up-overnight Army camp, but then we saw the buses—whole convoys of them—and civilians getting off with luggage. Families, it looked like. Goddamn! They were all Japs.
We formed up and our captains read our orders. FDR had decided to round up anyone of Japanese ancestry on the West Coast and lock them up in camps like this all over the West. It was being done for their safety, but we knew the real reason. People just didn't trust them.
Contractors were still working on the barracks where these people were supposed to be kept, and they looked damned flimsy. It was winter, and I thought the wind could blow right through them. The area was scrubby pine and dusty. A small stream ran just outside the perimeter.
We were marched right past the civilians. Jesus, they were a sad lot. The men's shoulders were hunched, and most of the women were crying. Maybe they thought we were going to shoot them. The little kids clung to their mamas, and I swear you could see a collective tremble go through the entire line.
We got settled into our barracks and got read the riot act. No fraternizing with the “detainees.” Yeah, they didn't call them prisoners.
The next day, I was ordered to the intake and interrogation office. I just couldn't see these people giving us trouble. Most of them bowed when they approached an officer or private soldier. But while they all seemed meek, a few glared like they knew one day they'd even the score.
A little old guy showed the captain a Bronze Star he got in World War I. I guess he thought it would buy his ticket out of that rat trap. The tears poured down his cheeks when he was assigned a berth in the bachelor barracks.
It went on like that for hours. Names were checked and barracks assignments made. Then there was a slight commotion. It looked like one of the dads was having an argument with his daughter. You didn't have to understand the language to know it was your typical family argument.
The girl was tall. Well, tall as compared to most of the girls. She was maybe five six and curvy. I mean this girl had more curves than Lefty Grove. She wore a baseball—Dodgers—cap, but her long black hair poured around her shoulders like a shiny shawl. It looked like she was doing the talking for her family.
"Name?” the captain ordered.
"Mickey."
He went down the list. “M-I-K-I?"
The girl rolled her eyes and tilted her hip. “C'mon, don't you know how to spell Mickey? Like Mickey Mouse, for Pete's sake."
The captain was steamed. “What's your Japanese name?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm an American."
"Now, see here..."
"Don't you wag your finger at me, you maroon!"
The captain started to get up, but the colonel put his hand on his shoulder. Meanwhile, I was trying real hard not to grin.
Col. Grayson asked, “Please, Miss—your family name?"
"Yamura."
The colonel traced the list with his finger. “Ah—would you be Michiko Yamura?"
"Yeah."
The colonel nodded his head. “Mickey, huh?"
He turned to me. “Sergeant, escort this young woman to interrogation room B."
"Huh?” the girl protested.
I stepped beside her and pointed the way to the room. Her family called after her, and she turned briefly to try to calm them.
"You like the Dodgers?” I asked, but she said nothing.
"Too bad there aren't any West Coast teams,” I continued. “You're from California, right?"
She turned on a dime to face me. “Hey, buddy, you writing a book or something?"
"I dunno, maybe."
"Well, leave my chapter out."
The colonel followed us into the room. A couple of types I recognized as Army intelligence and a suit—probably FBI—were already there.
They told her to sit, and then the AI guy said, “Michiko Yamura, your pilot's license has been revoked."
"What? Damn, what for?"
"You flew for Yoshi Crop Dusters?"
"Yeah, for my uncle. Why did they yank my license?"
"Because, Miss Yamura, your aircraft on numerous occasions violated government airspace. You were observed dropping papers over military facilities in San Francisco. Do you deny that?"
"Big deal, so I buzzed the Army base a few times."
"Maybe you were trying to record the prevailing wind currents with those papers."
"Why would I want to do that?"
"It would come in very handy for a bombardier."
"Oh, for crying out loud, what a lot of baloney. Besides, I wasn't throwing papers, I...” She stopped short, her features frozen in an expression of guilt.
"Yes, Miss Yamura? If they weren't papers, what were they?"
"Ah, nothing."
"You'd better come clean, young lady."
"I ... I ... Okay, gee ... They were my undies."
You could have heard
a pin drop in that room. The AI guy's jaw fell open like a trap door. The girl blushed fiercely.
"Excuse me, Miss?” the colonel said in a gentle, fatherly inquiry.
"You know—panties. Gee, you guys have heard of girls’ panties, haven't you? And, it wasn't as if they were new. I'd pretty much worn them out. Gee."
The colonel swallowed hard. “Miss, why would you toss your ... underthings ... out of a plane over an Army facility?"
The girl stared at her feet. “I used to like to fly over when the guys were formed up at attention then watch them break ranks and try to snatch them. It was funny, that's all."
The AI guy spoke up. “Weren't you pursued by a pair of fighters after one of your ... panty runs?"
"Aw, those guys and I were just playing,” she said. Then she grinned. “They didn't think I could dogfight in that old biplane, but I gave those P-40s a run for their money. It was fun. Hey, they knew I was a girl. They were having fun, too."
Everybody huddled for a bit. I stood in the corner like a good soldier, but I allowed myself a grin while everyone's back was turned. The girl turned and caught me. At first, she looked sore, but then her lips curled into a grin, too.
Finally, the colonel said, “Okay, Miss Yamura, you may return to your family."
"But, what about my pilot's license? Hey, this isn't fair! I was born in this country. I want to do my bit, too."
The AI guy sneered, “The Army Air Corps isn't taking on female pilots, especially..."
"Especially what?” If looks could kill that AI guy would have exploded into smithereens. He just waved her toward the door.
I walked her back to her family. She was proud, and trying real hard not to cry.
* * * *
Any time something was popping up at camp, I could expect to find Mickey Yamura in the middle of it, and somehow she got the idea that I was the go-to guy in the camp. I guess it started the day she collared me about getting some wood for the stove in the camp classroom.
"The kids are freezing, for crying out loud,” she complained.
"Yes, ma'am."
I put the guys to work chopping wood as a regular detail after that. Then she came around sniffing for more text books. I had to go to the colonel for that. He made arrangements with some of the towns around the camp to send in some old ones. He really had to plead for that, because people who lived around the camp didn't start out being sympathetic to the enemy.
Coming Together: At Last, Volume Two Page 23