Lane stepped forward and his boot hit a bump. A patient lay sprawled on the floor. Leaning down, Lane tapped the guy’s shoulder. He offered assurance that it was safe to rise, just as he spotted a small hole in the fellow’s temple. A rivulet dripped from the opening.
The captain paused beside him. “Stray bullet,” he explained, then plunged into dealing out orders.
Though still dazed, Lane obeyed, functioning robotically. He searched the other tents for survivors, aided the wounded, scoured for salvageable supplies.
Suddenly, an explosion boomed in the distance, trailed by another, and another. A series of detonating grenades. Lane did his best to filter out the noise, the moaning from men around him.
A private soon stumbled into the tent. His eyes underscored the vacancy, the disbelief, in his voice. “They’re gone. Every last one of ’em ... . gone.”
The report gripped the room. Had the Japanese wiped out the Americans’ defense? Or was it the other way around?
“What happened?” The captain cracked the quiet. “Answer me, Private.”
“It was the Japs, sir. When the last of them were surrounded, they stood together. Just pulled the pins and ... blew themselves up.”
Despite how much Lane knew about his heritage, such fanaticism shook his core. As did the possibility that the Allies could actually lose. How do you beat an opponent willing to do anything to win, and who isn’t afraid to die? A country that fully believes that the power of their god won’t allow their defeat?
“Your arm,” a doctor said, pointing to the cut on Lane’s sleeve. Blood soaked the fabric. “You’d better get a wrap on that.”
Lane had forgotten about his wound and only now felt it throbbing. As he waited for a bandage, he gazed down at his jacket, at the mixture of blood—from himself and the Japanese soldier—that would forever mar his uniform.
With dread he realized: He wasn’t sure which blood was his, and which was the enemy’s.
50
TJ stared out the open-air window, every nerve bundled.
“What’re they waiting for?”
“Shuddup, will ya?” a soldier in their barrack shouted in a hush.
“You’re gonna get us all killed,” said another. “Go to sleep.”
It was at least an hour past curfew. The Jap guards executed POWs all the time without cause, but they preferred a reason. Felt more justified maybe.
TJ had been trying for shut-eye. For the past few nights, he’d actually caught some decent if fractured hours. Tonight, though, he couldn’t lower his lids without visualizing Vince Ranieri. The guy had been caught stealing soap. Not a whole bar, just a lousy sliver. He’d been beaten, then rope-tied to a pole, left to face the heat without water, the swarms of mosquitoes eager to poison his blood.
During mealtimes and roll call, prisoners had pretended not to notice him hanging like a wind sock. TJ too had kept his gaze down. Ranieri had asked for it, hadn’t he? Besides, it could have been worse. In three days’ time, Grumpy was supposed to cut him down. That had been the announcement Commander Looney made to the camp. Yet dusk had fallen on day four, and still Ranieri remained on display.
The guy wasn’t a buddy anymore. TJ reminded himself of this as he willed his body to lie on his cot. Rain poured over the thatched roof. He trained his mind to block out all but the jungle’s rustling leaves. His memory lapsed back to his mother knitting a scarf, to summer barbecues and playing tenpins at Jensen Rec. He jumped to another day, saw Maddie and his father at the dinner table, laughing over some semi-clean joke TJ had learned in the dugout. And of course he saw Jo, the peach of a girl he still wrote letters to in his mind. The one he’d lied to by saying he didn’t care.
Pain poked through the thoughts. A sore had formed near TJ’s hip from his bamboo bed. Its deep sting returned him to their reeking hellhole. He twisted to find comfort as the sailor above him ground out a moan. Another prisoner scratched incessantly at fleas. A series of tick-tick-ticks sounded from a rat scrambling for traction.
Again, TJ tried to retreat into his past, but an image yanked him back. Ranieri. Without looking, he could see the shadowed figure bound in the rain. Something told him the airman wouldn’t last out there till morning. He couldn’t say why exactly. He just knew, and that knowledge would eat at him all night—maybe forever—if he didn’t act.
“Damn it.”
TJ jumped to his feet. He reached below the Brit’s cot and snagged the sharpened rock hidden away. The guy started to object, but TJ was already halfway down the stilted barrack. POWs sat up, tapping each other awake. Free entertainment.
He stormed into the rain and splashed through the mud. Didn’t so much as peek at a raised guard tower. When he got to Ranieri, he went straight to sawing the ropes. Thick and damp, they took all the strength his worn body could muster. Ranieri raised his head a fraction, his lip split and blistered. The night’s darkness concealed most of the damage he’d endured. Maybe he’d still die tomorrow, or the day after that. But he wasn’t going to die like this.
“Yamenasai!” The far-off voice alerted TJ that he’d been spotted, yet he didn’t stop. Just one rope to go. He continued as though he were invincible, a ghost. You couldn’t kill a ghost.
The last threads fought him until giving way. TJ reached for Ranieri, the bundle of bones that was once a larger-than-life Italian gunner, and barely caught his torso. Through the guy’s rib cage, TJ could feel a heartbeat clinging to its slow, stubborn rhythm.
“You’re gonna be all right,” TJ told him, wanting to believe it.
Ranieri blinked heavily as raindrops washed his face, soaked his rags. He opened his mouth to speak, but the conversation died with a blow to TJ’s head. It was like something exploded in the back of his brain. When he opened his eyes, he was staring into a vertical pool of muddy water. Drizzle bounced from left to right. The world had tipped onto its side.
A black boot came into view. It connected with his gut, stealing his air. In a haze, he found himself being dragged by two guards flanking his arms. Then they righted his body, ordering him to stand. He strained to recognize the building in front of him. The camp commander’s barrack.
There was only one way this was going to end.
Minutes later, Looney stepped outside, escorted by Dopey holding up an umbrella. The commander wore a kimono, lightweight with a knotted belt. His pajamas. He was like a nun caught without a habit. And this, more than the imminent punishment, captivated TJ. So much so, he nearly forgot to bow.
Although why bother? Whether TJ would be off’d or not wasn’t in question. It was a sure thing, which oddly made it refreshing.
Yeah, fear was there; it was always there. Yet the feeling of nearing a finish line was stronger. A restful reward just steps away.
Grumpy rambled on to the commander, no doubt a recap of TJ’s stupidity. Once Grumpy was finished, a whisk of metal sounded through the rain. A samurai sword being unsheathed.
Two hands shoved TJ onto his knees. His neck tensed, his eyes closed. His trousers drank up the water as he prepared for Cabbie’s fate. Images darted through his mind. Portrait drawings from a high school textbook, of Anne Boleyn and Marie Antoinette. Both were beheaded, just like TJ soon would be. A royal death wasn’t such a bad way to go.
He held his breath, gripped the sides of his trousers. At least it would be quick. He waited for the impact ... that ...
Never came.
Cracking an eyelid, he discovered the commander, a sword in one hand, speaking quietly to Dopey. Miraculously, the mute guard had something to say.
What could they possibly be yakking about? Taking bets on how many swings it would take?
Then Looney declared an order and handed off his weapon. Two guards lifted TJ by his underarms, marching him away. Relief fluttered inside as a reflex, promptly trampled by terror. Death was a welcome visitor—not torture.
“What are you gonna do?” TJ yelled, struggling uselessly against their grips. Eyes glinted from the windows
of barracks. A sea of men watched him go. “Where are you taking me?” He screamed loud enough for the entire island to hear.
Nobody answered.
51
The blur of her surroundings gradually sharpened into walls, a ceiling. Maddie tried to sit up, but nausea rolled over her and flattened her down.
“Take it easy,” a woman said. “Here, have some water.”
Maddie felt a hand behind her head and a glass touching her bottom lip. She sipped the cool liquid, then sank into the cushioned surface. She was on a couch, but not in her house. Mr. Garrett’s farm, she remembered. And perched on the coffee table beside her was her dearest friend.
“Jo, you’re here... .” Memories of the gal surprising her with a visit came floating through the mist of her mind. “What happened?”
“You fainted on the porch. Guess my news about going pro was too much to handle,” she said with a smile.
Going pro?
Oh, yes ... . baseball. A girls’ baseball league. “You were telling me about tryouts—in Chicago,” Maddie recalled. “About you playing for the ... the ...”
“Kenosha Comets.”
“Right. Kenosha.” The puzzle was reassembling. “How long can you stay?”
“Only till tonight. We’re up against Rockford tomorrow, but with you so close, I couldn’t pass up a chance to see ya.”
“My gosh, a major leaguer.” Maddie sighed. “I’m so proud of you.” As she edged herself up, Jo touched her arm.
“Don’t push it now. Mr. Garrett is out getting the doc.”
“Doctor? That’s silly, I’m fine. It’s this summer humidity. Plus, I’ve been fighting a stomach bug.”
“Well, he’s gonna swing by all the same.” Jo handed her the glass of water.
Maddie obliged by finishing it off despite her discomfort of being fussed over. “So what’s with the new getup?” she asked, diverting.
Jo glanced down and replied with a sneer. “Charm school. Mr. Wrigley’s got it in his head that ticket sales depend on us looking like debutantes. Heaven forbid we don’t raise our pinkies high enough when wiggling a bat.” She blew out a puff of air. “I guarantee they never made Ted Williams walk around balancing a book on his head. And don’t get me started on the dresses we have to wear while actually playing.”
Maddie pursed her lips to contain her laugh, but a portion leaked through. “Anyway, you look lovely.” Although she meant it, the sight would take some getting used to. She’d rarely seen Jo’s hair down, much less in fancy finger waves. Her red-painted lips were a perfect match to the rounded collar and polka dots on her white belted dress. Maybe she would have always appeared this way if she’d been raised with a mother.
“So tell me.” Jo leaned forward. “What’s the latest scoop with Lane’s mom? Any good knockdown drag-outs lately?” A devilish glimmer shone in her eyes, a trademark of the Jo Allister that Maddie knew.
“Nothing to report that I can think of.”
“Aw, tell the truth. She’s out hanging laundry with Emma. I swear she can’t hear us.”
“No, really. It’s actually been ... nice.”
Jo arched a brow, skeptical at first, then impressed. “Wow.”
Considering where Maddie and Kumiko had started, wow was an understatement.
“In that case,” she said, moving on, “what about Lane? Anything new?”
Maddie shrugged. “Not much. He’s still traveling with a Marine unit in the South Pacific. I wish he could tell me more, but the darn censors ...” Then again, it was probably best she didn’t know what risks he took on a daily basis.
Jo countered the notion. “No matter what he’s up to, I’m sure he’s being careful. The fella has lots to come home for.”
Grateful for the offering, Maddie smiled. But it turned heavy when Jo’s gaze dipped to her polka-dotted lap. She fidgeted with a loose thread, balled it between her fingers. Something else was on her mind.
Maddie thought to inquire about her brothers, three of them Army men, when Jo asked, “Any word about TJ?”
Ah, yes. Maddie should have guessed.
“All they say is that they’re still searching,” she said, then added with certainty, “He’s going to make it through fine though. I know he will.... After all, TJ has a lot to come back for too.”
The pointed remark, naming Jo among those incentives, raised the gal’s eyes. For a second, she looked like she might deny the connection—which Maddie had sensed even before he’d come home on leave. Any boy and girl that annoyed with each other were destined to be a couple.
Jo’s body suddenly slumped. “TJ sent me a bundle of letters,” she admitted. “All of ’em came at once. Before I could write back, I got one more. Told me to take a hike. Not that it matters. We’re completely wrong for each other anyway.” The phrase sounded worn, as if used repeatedly on herself.
Maddie’s agreement would be no less convincing. Instead, she cited a universal truth learned from Jo. “Boys are imbeciles.”
“Dumbbells,” Jo muttered.
“Morons.”
“Pinheads who think burps and farts are the funniest things on the planet.”
A brief pause, and they both giggled. Maddie welcomed the release until meeting a fresh surge of nausea. She grabbed her middle to slow its flip-flopping and lay back down.
“How long have you been sick for?”
“I don’t know. A week or two.”
Jo crinkled her nose and said, “Maddie, this is probably a silly question, but—you wouldn’t be pregnant, would you?”
“What? Gosh, no.”
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Lane hasn’t even been around since ...” As she leafed through her mental calendar, it occurred to her that her monthly cycles hadn’t resumed. They’d first waned then disappeared at Manzanar, which a doctor had attributed to her stress and change of food. But three months of farm life had proven calming. With weight regained from hearty country meals, her body should have settled by now.
Unless her waistline, like her appetite, had been increasing for another reason—
“My God,” she said. “I am pregnant.”
A broad grin overtook Jo’s face. “Holy mackerel!”
Maddie’s hand went to her stomach. Could this be happening?
If the assumption was right, she would soon have a family of her own. Although they were separated for now, she had a husband she adored. From a perfect night together, they’d conceived a baby. A tangible, undeniable symbol of their love. It was an enormous step toward regaining what Maddie had lost and obtaining what she had always wanted.
So why, instead of joy, did she feel only a cold rush of dread?
52
After an hour of Lane’s pleas over the loudspeaker, the Japanese holed up in the cave had yet to surrender. They were surrounded by Marines, in a dense island jungle, with nowhere to go. Their stubbornness would end only one way if Lane didn’t succeed.
Sweat dripped from his helmet and slid down his back. He breathed against the humidity and launched into another appeal.
“Enough,” Captain Berlow barked, marching onto the scene. Daylight polished his bald head to a shine. A full cigar, squeezed between his teeth, remained unlit as always. “Sergeant Schober!”
“Yes, Cap’n.”
“Do what you need to do.”
With a hint of reluctance, the NCO acknowledged the order.
Lane strode over to meet Berlow. “Please, Captain, just give me a little more time. I’m sure I can get them to come out if—”
“They had their chance.” His gruffness hadn’t let up since Lane’s arrival to the Solomon Islands. It was clear Berlow wasn’t the one who’d requested a Nisei interpreter to be attached to his unit. And he afforded the same value to diplomatic talks.
“Sir, I’m asking you to reconsider.”
The man gazed toward the cave, gnawing on the end of his cigar. Not in a contemplative way, more like an irritated grind.
“I’ll go in.” Lane’s words tumbled out before he could stop them—as he surely should have. Cave flushing was a treacherous task for anyone, much less for men viewed as “traitors” by those dwelling inside.
Berlow turned slowly to face Lane, and the suggestion of a smile rounded his cigar. The possibility that Lane wouldn’t return appeared an enticing thought. “Hang on, boys,” he shouted without breaking from Lane’s eyes. “Let’s ... give them one more chance.”
Lane snagged a flashlight while weeding out sprouts of regret, and treaded up the rocky slope. For protection, he took only a knife, aside from the thousand-stitch belt he wore daily beneath his shirt. His mother’s gift likely had nothing to do with his surviving the banzai attack, but carrying a charm couldn’t hurt.
As he scaled the mountain to reach the cave, he yelled upward to announce his peaceful approach. There was no reply, no indication he wouldn’t be shot on sight. He glanced over his shoulder. A dozen Marines watched with interest. Though most had been civil to Lane, some even friendly, their air of uncertainty was as constant as the tropical heat.
If he pulled this off, he just might save lives on both sides, and gain a little trust.
At last, he reached for the lower lip of the cave. With caution, he hoisted himself up and onto his knees. The barrel of a pistol, just as he’d expected, waited to greet him.
“My commander,” Lane began, then amended, “our shogun has sent me to speak with your superior.” He chose his Japanese words with purpose, kept his gaze considerately low. For the first time ever, he was thankful for his mother’s insistence that he speak her language properly.
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