Under the Blood-Red Sun

by Graham Salisbury

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 - The Flag

  Chapter 2 - Crazy Boy

  Chapter 3 - Mose and Rica

  Chapter 4 - The Emperor

  Chapter 5 - The P-40 Tomahawks

  Chapter 6 - The Crowded Sea

  Chapter 7 - Black Zenith

  Chapter 8 - Thunder on the Moon

  Chapter 9 - The Butcher

  Chapter 10 - Sunrise at Diamond Grass

  Chapter 11 - Jackhammers

  Chapter 12 - Messenger Birds

  Chapter 13 - Rumors

  Chapter 14 - Red

  Chapter 15 - Shikata Ga Nai

  Chapter 16 - Mari

  Chapter 17 - Sand Island

  Chapter 18 - Tough Guys

  Chapter 19 - The Kaka’ako Boys

  Chapter 20 - Lucky

  Chapter 21 - The Katana

  Chapter 22 - Not Far From Pearl Harbor

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  In Memory of

  Henry Forester Graham, USN

  Guy Fremont Salisbury, USN

  And in Honor of

  the Men of the 100th Infantry Battalion

  and the 442nd Regimental Combat Team

  of World War II,

  United States Army

  Mahalo nui loa to

  Lani Teshima-Miller, Hank Arita,

  Thurston and David Twigg-Smith,

  the news library of The Honolulu Advertiser

  and The Honolulu Star-Bulletin,

  and the University of Hawai’i and Hawaii State

  Library Hawaiiana collections.

  The Flag

  It all started the day Grampa Joji decided to wash his precious flag of Japan and hang it out on the clothesline for the whole world to see. It was almost as big as the canvas tarp Papa used on his boat when it rained.

  It was early September, 1941, just three weeks before the Yankees and the Dodgers started the World Series. A Sunday. Mama’s day off. No breeze. The clouds, like giant white coral heads, hovered out over the ocean far beyond Honolulu harbor. In that kind of weather you stayed in the shade, at least if you were as smart as my dog Lucky, who lounged in the cool, weedless dirt under the house.

  But anyway, Grampa scrubbed that flag clean. Usually, my friend Billy Davis and I thought it was pretty funny when he did something strange like that—like wash a flag, or take a bath in the stream, or laugh hysterically at Laurel and Hardy movies. Once, we got thrown out of a theater because Grampa kept on laughing, laughing, laughing, even when everyone else was quiet. Billy and I were nearly crying, Grampa was so funny. Grampa got mad and chased us. He was pretty tough about showing respect for your elders.

  But a Japanese flag hanging out in the open like that was nothing to laugh about.

  “Hey, Grampa,” I yelled as I came up the dirt path through the trees. “Take that thing down. What if somebody sees it?”

  Billy was with me. We’d just gotten off the bus from a trip downtown to play baseball. I threw my catcher’s mitt on the ground and started walking faster. Grampa stood in front of his flag like a fisherman showing off a big one.

  The white flag had a red ball in the center, with red rays like searchlights shooting out from it. Grampa waved his hand toward the clothesline. “Hey, busta, good, nah? Confonnit!”

  “No! Not good! How many times do we have to tell you? This place is American, not Japanese. American. Didn’t you hear what Papa said? Too many Japanese around here, that’s what a lot of people think.… They don’t need to see that flag to remind them.”

  I brushed past him and pulled the wet flag down. It soaked my shirt. Grampa’s eyes got big, like he was so surprised he didn’t know what to do.

  “Papa’s worried enough about what the Hawaiians think of us, and what the haoles think of us,” I said. “We don’t need anyone to think we’re anti-American too. There’s a war going on, you know. And Japan isn’t making any friends around here. Papa told you that already. Don’t you remember?”

  Grampa narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists. His face turned red and his lips bridged into a fish-scowl. “You Japanee!” he said. “Japanee!”

  “American,” I said. I took a step back and shoved the flag up onto the porch. “No good, Grampa. No good at all!”

  Grampa’s face grew redder. He shook his fist at me. “Whatchoo think you? You Japanee. Japanee inside. Like me, like Papa.”

  “Criminy,” I said, walking a wide path around him. “This isn’t Wakayama, you know. This isn’t Japan. This is America, and you’re going to get us in a lot of trouble with that stupid flag.”

  Just then Mama came out of the house. She didn’t look too happy to be bothered on her only day off, the day she used to mend everybody’s clothes. “Nani-yo? Whassamatta out here, Tomi? What you doing?”

  “Grampa got the flag out again.”

  “Ojii-chan. He is ojii-chan.”

  “Same thing,” I mumbled.

  Mama frowned at me, then at Grampa. My little sister, Kimi, peeked around Mama’s apron, then inched back out of sight when she saw Billy. She was afraid of him because he was so tall. He was only thirteen, like me, but almost a head taller. And he was white, a haole. But most of all, Billy was kimpatsu—with yellow hair. Grampa said in Japan it was a freak of nature to have yellow hair, but I never told Billy that.

  In Japanese, Mama said, “Can’t you listen to your grandson, ojii-chan?” Then in English, “Mr. Wilson no like that kine … we could lose this house!”

  Grampa started to say something to her in Japanese, which he always went back to when he was too mad to think.

  “English,” Mama said.

  Grampa squinted at Mama. English was okay for me and Kimi, but for him it was no fun. He tried to learn it by listening to the police on the radio, but still wasn’t picking it up very well. Poor Grampa. I felt sorry for him sometimes. But Papa said, “Too many people worried about Japanee … speak Inglish,” or “Speak ’merican.” Lucky for me, because my Japanese was about as good as Grampa’s English.

  Mama and Grampa glared at each other.

  It drove Grampa crazy that Mama was so stubborn. He was always telling Papa he should teach her more respect. “She shame you,” Grampa said. “She shame the family.” But Papa just let Mama be herself.

  She wagged a finger at Grampa. “You don’t fool me.… I know you understand.” Mama dragged up the sopping, crumpled flag, and went on with her warning in Japanese.

  “Confonnit,” Grampa said. “Kuso.”

  “Ooo, Grampa,” I said. “No need to talk nasty.”

  Mama shook her head. Then she noticed Billy and nodded. “Billy-kun.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Nakaji,” Billy said, then looked down and punched his baseball mitt.

  Mama hauled the flag into the house with Kimi sticking to her apron like a tick.

  Grampa started over to me
. His long-sleeved khaki shirt, buttoned to the neck, and his wrinkled khaki pants made him look like he was one of those Pearl Harbor navy officers. His eyes said he wanted to wring my neck.

  I backed away, and started running. Billy sprinted past me, heading through the trees toward the field where Papa kept his pigeons.

  Ever since Grampa had to stop fishing with Papa because of a stroke, he’d been as snappy as a grouchy old dog. But his stroke didn’t cripple him one bit. He followed us, walking at first, then faster. I ran past Billy, who laughed and tried to grab my shirt. “You coward,” he said.

  But Grampa went back to the house.

  Luckily for Papa he was out fishing and wasn’t due back for two more days. But Grampa would tell him, all right, and the story would be much bigger by then.

  “He’s so dumb, sometimes,” I said.

  “What would he have done if he’d caught you?” Billy asked, the two of us now down to a walk.

  “Probably crack my head. Who knows with him?” Who could tell what he was thinking about anymore? Hanging his flag on the clothesline was as good as flying it from a pole.

  Grampa knew Papa was worried. But then, Grampa was issei, first-generation Japanese immigrant, and looked at things in a certain way. The Japanese way—which was stern and obedient. He just wanted to work, and be honest. Like he did in Japan, where he was a fisherman. Nobody ever bothered anybody else. If somebody over there accidentally hurt somebody else, they’d make up for it, no matter how long it took. And if they died before they made up for it, then their descendants would take over. Grampa wanted me to think like that, he wanted Papa to beat me into “a boy of suitable devotion.” Sometimes I thought he had a point. The old way was fair and honorable, which was good. But it was so inflexible. Jeese. Who knew what to think?

  Billy and I both looked behind us at the same time, just to be sure Grampa was really gone. My house stood silently peeking back at me through the trees, a square box painted dark green. It sat on stilt-legs, about four feet off the ground—stilts to keep the rats and bugs out. It was the only home I’d ever known, and I loved it. I loved its silver-painted corrugated iron roof, which slanted down into gutters that flowed into the round water tank in the back. It made nice sounds in the rain. The only water we had was what we caught off the roof. Not like Billy’s house, where they had water pipes from the street, and a bathroom inside the house.

  “Hey,” Billy whispered, quickly moving off the trail into the trees. His blond hair glowed where the sun hit it, but mostly he was in the shade. I crept up behind him and looked out through the trees at the grassy field.

  Billy’s brother, Jake.

  And with him, Keet Wilson, the crazy boy, peeking into one of Papa’s pigeon lofts with a stick in his hand.

  Crazy Boy

  Keet slapped the side of one of Papa’s lofts with the stick. He laughed at the racket the birds made inside. I think he knew we were watching him.

  Heat rushed over my skin in an angry wave. The only rest Papa ever got was when he spent time with his pigeons. And I was the one he trusted to take care of them when he was out working on the boat.

  If Keet hurt those birds …

  My hands started to shake. I wanted to punch him in the face.

  No! Don’t think like that! Don’t disgrace us, Papa said. I could hear him as if he were standing next to me. Don’t cause trouble and bring shame to the Nakaji name again! Papa was so worried about losing face.

  Keet scraped the side of the loft with the stick, then stuck the point through the chicken-wire door and twirled it around. My jaw hurt, I was clamping my teeth so hard. Even Papa’s warning couldn’t keep me from feeling like fighting, sometimes. I didn’t care if Mama was the Wilsons’ maid.

  “He knows we’re watching him,” I said.

  Billy frowned. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “No. I can’t just let him do that.”

  I took a deep breath and started out into the sunlight. One thing was sure—if Keet Wilson wanted to go crazy, no one could stop him, not even Billy’s brother, who was bigger than all of us. When Keet got mad, he couldn’t even stop himself. Not until somebody got hurt.

  “Well, if it isn’t your punk brother and the fish boy,” Keet said to Jake as we got closer. “Hey, Toe-mee-ka-zoo, your birds are bored. They need a little excitement.”

  That is the one thing I cannot accept from you.…

  I stood next to Billy, who was tall enough to look directly into Keet’s eyes. Jake waited off to the side, watching. He never said much to anyone. As far as I could tell, Jake was the only friend Keet had. Billy said Jake only did things with him because there was no one else around.

  Keet stared at me and tapped the loft again. A curtain of brown hair hung over his left eye. Two fake army dog tags hung out of his shirt on a silver chain. He liked to brag that they were real, but I knew from Billy that Keet’s father had them made up as a birthday present.

  “Please,” I said. “Don’t … you’ll scare them.”

  Keet hit the side of the loft harder—Whack! Whack! Whack!

  The pigeons went wild, crying out, flapping their wings. I wanted to pound Keet into the dirt. If you are troublemaker, then I am troublemaker … I am bad father, bad family. I no teach you to fight in the dirt like dogs! If I tangled with Keet, Papa said, Mr. Wilson would fire Mama and kick all of us off his land.

  “Cut it out, Keet,” Billy finally said.

  Keet smiled, and poked Billy in the shoulder with the point of the stick. “Hey, Jake … maybe your stupid little brother didn’t see what we saw.”

  Jake frowned at Billy.

  Whack! Keet hit the loft again.

  This time Billy threw down his mitt and tried to grab Keet’s arm.

  Keet dropped the stick and slammed Billy in the chest with the palms of his hands. Billy went flying to the ground. Under the short grass the sun-baked earth was as hard as cement. Billy’s breath exploded out of him.

  Jake grabbed Keet from behind. “That’s enough.”

  Keet shoved him off, crazy-eyed, ready to fight even his friend. Billy tried to stand, but couldn’t. He fell over, then rolled around with wide, terrified eyes, his mouth half open, trying to breathe. Jake bent over him and sat him up, then slapped his back.

  I stood frozen, watching Billy. Tears filled the edges of his eyes. Breathe, Billy … breathe!

  At last Billy started gulping in big breaths, like he was sobbing. The tears rolled down his face. He wiped them away, then bent over on his knees. After a minute or so he stood, slowly, not looking at anyone.

  Keet put his face an inch from mine. I saw small red lines on his eyeballs. “You think I’m stupid, fish boy? You think I don’t know what goes on around here?” A speck of spit hit my lip when he said stupid. “What are you flying that Jap flag over at your house for?”

  I stared at him without answering.

  He shoved me, and I fell back a step. “Maybe I’ll tell my father about it,” Keet said, suddenly fake-nice. “How about that?”

  “No,” I said. “No … it won’t happen again.… I promise, it won’t.”

  Keet smiled. He tapped the side of my face with his fingertips. “Good boy,” he said, pausing to study me. Then he added, “I’ll be watching.”

  Humiliation swelled in my throat. I squeezed my fists.

  Keet shoved me away and opened the loft door. He whacked the stick around inside, hitting the walls and the pigeons. You could hear the birds banging around, running into each other. Keet finally pulled the stick out.

  One by one the pigeons burst through the door and swooped up, dipping and rising, filling the clearing above the field. All seventeen of Papa’s racers disappeared over the trees in less than a minute.

  “There,” Keet said, watching the last bird vanish. “That’s what they needed.”

  “Billy,” he said. “Come here.”

  Billy didn’t move. Keet glared bloody swords at him.

  Slowly, Bil
ly walked over.

  Keet put his arm on Billy’s shoulder. “Listen … I want you to stop hanging around with this Jap. It’s disgusting to see you two acting like friends.… It makes me sick.”

  Billy stared at the ground. Keet grabbed his jaw and squeezed his mouth. “You hear me?”

  Billy rolled his eyes over toward Jake.

  Keet jerked his head back so Billy’s eyes were level with his own. “You better think long and hard about where you stand, little punk.”

  “Let’s go,” Jake said.

  Keet let go of Billy. Blurry red marks swelled on Billy’s cheeks.

  Jake grabbed Keet’s arm. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  Keet looked at the hand on his arm, then glared up at Jake.

  Jake blinked, and let go. “Come on,” he said, barely whispering.

  Keet kept glaring, then turned away and spit.

  The two of them slouched off into the trees like a couple of cocky sailors down on Hotel Street.

  “Hana-kuso,” I whispered. I punched my fist and went over to check the loft. The wire on the door was bent. It could have been worse. Keet could have knocked the loft off its legs. I put fresh grit and feed into the feeder and whispered calming sounds to the nervous pigeons in the other loft.

  No birds anywhere; not even doves or mynah birds specked the light blue afternoon sky. The pigeons were long gone, probably racing out over the sea by now. But they’d be back.

  I went out into the middle of the field where the sun swarmed around in the grass, my anger now melting down into a small, private shame.

  It was quiet with only me and Billy there. Just the muffled hiss of the small irrigation stream that ran between Billy’s house and mine. I lay down in the grass and gazed up at the sky. What was I going to say to Papa if Keet did tell his father about the flag? He could tell the story any way he wanted to. He could even say he asked me nicely to take it down and that I refused.

  It was hard for me to believe that Keet and I were once pretty good friends.

  I was about nine at the time, and Keet was eleven or twelve, back before Billy moved here from the mainland. I used to follow Keet around because he was older and knew a lot of things I didn’t. Like how to call his dog with a whistle you couldn’t even hear, or how to shoot a BB gun. And Keet was the one who introduced me to baseball. He even gave me one of his mitts so we could throw to each other, the same mitt I still used. Keet’s name was written on it in fading black ink that I couldn’t rub off.