Fiends of the Rising Sun

by David Bishop

  Hitori bowed his head, picturing the face of his young wife, trying to imagine what his infant son must look like. He would weep for them another day. "Yes, my lord, I will do it, for my family, my country and for you."

  "Thank you. Few will ever know the truth of the sacrifice you are making, but we believe it is for a higher cause and all will be well." The emperor took a deep breath, his shoulders slumping. "It is good that you enter into this devilish pact of your own will, with the best of intentions. Remember that in the dark times that lie ahead. You do this for the noblest of reasons."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "There is one more thing we must ask you to do for us."

  "Yes, my lord?"

  "Always remember where your true loyalties lie. No matter what this monster says to you, no matter what temptations Constanta may offer, always remember you are one of us. Zenji Hitori is a true servant of the Japanese Empire, and he always will be. Constanta may lay claim to your soul, but we own your heart."

  FROM: Military Police Sergeant J. M. Hook, Honolulu City Station.

  RE: Incident at Tokyo Joe's Bar and Grill.

  Multiple reports detailing a disturbance of the peace at the above-named establishment were received at around eighteen hundred hours. Due to the number of reports received and the suggested level of disturbance indicated by these reports, it was decided prudent to send all available MPs to the scene. Upon arrival, the nature of the disturbance was ascertained. It proved to be a free-for-all within the establishment, involving men of all ranks and services. A brief assessment of the situation adjudged there to be significant property damage in addition to the violent conduct, and swift action was deemed necessary.

  Half the detail of MPs was despatched to the south side of the establishment and entered from the beach, while the rest of the men entered from the street. Upon securing both access points, those engaged in violent activity were given ample warning to cease and desist all such activity. This warning went unheeded and direct action was required.

  Appended is a listing of all those arrested at the scene of the affray, along with notes about the nature of their individual offences. When possible, specific culprits were singled out as ringleaders. They were subdued with all necessary force. A list of those still receiving medical treatment is appended, as is a summary of the injuries sustained by MPs in the course of this action.

  It is suggested that all servicemen be banned from this establishment for the next few weeks, to allow tempers to cool. It seems the incident stemmed from a dispute between marines stationed on Oahu and men of the visiting 200th Coast Artillery. In the view of the fact the latter company is due to depart Honolulu tomorrow, it is believed reprisals are unlikely in the future, but all precautions are being undertaken.

  End.

  THREE

  Walton wasn't sure who threw the first punch that transformed Tokyo Joe's from a peaceful establishment into a miniature warzone, but he suspected Paxton had something to do with it. The two of them and Maeda had stayed in the bar all afternoon, sampling almost every kind of food and drink available. For the first time since joining the marines, Walton found he was relaxing. The sound of waves lapping on the nearby beach blended with the strumming of the resident Hawaiian band in one corner of the bar provided a gentle underscore to the hubbub of happy customers.

  Walton knew he could never keep up with Maeda and Paxton's intakes. They were older than him, and knew far more about the ways of the world. So he persuaded Kissy to make sure every second drink he got was unadulterated juice; fruit punch without the punch, so to speak. But his legs still felt as if they'd been replaced by rubber bands when the complaints of his bladder became so urgent they required immediate relief. The young marine got up and staggered, lurching sideways into a neighbouring table where three army recruits were sitting. The nearest of them was a bloated, red-faced slob with thinning hair and a greasy moustache. He sprang to his feet, anger in his eyes and spittle flecking his lips. "Hey, you gonna watch where you're going, or do I have to rip you a new one?"

  "Sorry, I'm sorry," Walton slurred, struggling to keep from giggling.

  "What, you think this is funny?" his belligerent accuser demanded. The two soldiers with him tried to persuade their angry comrade to calm down. A young Hispanic trooper with a friendly face tugged at his colleague's sleeve.

  "Hey, Buntz, there's no need to get mad; he apologised, okay?"

  "No, it's not okay, Martinez! And keep your nose out of my business!"

  Martinez held his hands in the air, as if surrendering. "Have it your own way if you want, Buntz. I was just saying the kid's said he was sorry."

  "That's right," Walton slurred, unable to get the sloppy grin off his face.

  "I notice you keep smiling at me. You think I'm funny?"

  "No, not at all."

  "You better not, or else I'll teach you what is funny!"

  "Absolutely," Walton agreed, nodding slowly. By now his brothers in arms had noticed the argument brewing and decided to get involved. Paxton was up and out of his chair, his hands clenching into fists, while Maeda was also rising from his seat, ready to step in if required.

  "Hey, Flinch, is that guy giving you a hard time?" Paxton growled.

  "Not at all," the young marine replied. "He's been a perfect gentleman." Walton staggered away, squinting his eyes in the hope of getting his blurred surroundings into some sort of focus. He bumped into a surly Japanese man emerging from a side door bearing the word HEAD. "'Cuse me, is that the way to the bathroom?" The man didn't reply, just nodded wearily before walking away towards the bar. "Thank you," Walton called after him.

  The youthful marine emerged several minutes later to find a massive brawl in progress. A bamboo stool flew past his face and smashed against the nearest wall, splintering apart on impact. "Did I miss something?" he asked nobody in particular. "I thought we weren't supposed to fight in here."

  Maeda appeared beside him, grinning cheerfully. "Hey kid, there you are, thought I'd lost you!" He ducked beneath a swinging right hook from a snarling soldier and deftly kicked his attacker in the groin. The unhappy soldier went down with a groan and stayed down, nursing his crushed pride.

  "What happened?" Walton asked. In front of him sailors, marines and soldiers were beating seven kinds of hell out of each other, using tables, chairs and stools as weapons to supplement their fists, foreheads and feet.

  "That guy you bumped into tried to kiss Kissy," Maeda replied. "Paxton's kinda sweet on her and, well, you can probably guess the rest. Never get between a man and the woman he lusts after, that's my advice." An unfamiliar marine flew between the two of them and smacked into the wall. He slumped to the sandy floor, out cold long before his body had stopped moving.

  "What should I do?" Walton wondered.

  "Punch anybody that tries to punch you," Maeda said with a grin, "but try to punch them first." He rubbed his hands with glee. "You ready for action?"

  "I guess so."

  "Then pick your partner and let's get started!" Maeda jumped on top of the nearest table and dived straight into the middle of the carnage, taking several men down with him in the process. Within moments he was gone, swallowed by the chaos, another body battling for supremacy in the middle of the mayhem and madness.

  Walton was about to follow Maeda's example when a strong hand clasped his arm. "I wouldn't if I was you," a deep voice whispered in his ear. The young marine twisted around to see three men leaning against the wall nearby, all dressed in naval pilot's uniforms, content to watch the brawl without getting dragged into it.

  "But my buddies are in there," Walton said, gesturing at the mass of flying fists and bruised flesh, "somewhere."

  "Trust me, the MPs will be here any minute. Once that happens, you don't want to be in the middle of that mess," the nearest pilot advised. His jaw line was so chiselled and his eyes so blue that he looked like he'd stepped off a navy recruiting poster. The pilot offered to shake Walton's hand. "My name's Richards, b
y the way, Lieutenant Charles Richards, but everyone calls me Chuck."

  "Err, Walton," the marine mumbled, "David Walton. Everybody calls me... David Walton, I guess, except for Paxton, he keeps calling me Flinch." Another body went flying past, startling Walton.

  "I can see where you got that nickname," Richards laughed, before jerking a thumb at his fellow pilots. "This is Ensign Ramon Marquez and Lieutenant Peter Taylor, but we call 'em Skid and Bravo. We're all off the Enterprise."

  "How come you're not fighting?" Walton wondered.

  "Captain's orders," Marquez replied. He had a drooping moustache, black hair slicked back, and a pock marked face. "We get caught fighting again and we're grounded, no flying for a week."

  "I'm not losing my privileges for anyone," Taylor sneered. He had dark hair, brooding eyes.

  "Bravo is our team player," Marquez quipped.

  Before Walton could reply, a cacophony of harsh, penetrating whistles cut through the chaos, bringing a halt to the bar brawl. Everyone inside Tokyo Joe's stopped hitting each other and turned to look for the source of the ear-piercing sound. A phalanx of grim faced military policemen were standing at both entrances to the bar, a dozen blocking the way out to the street and another dozen cutting off any escape to the beach. One of the MPs stepped forward, his face cherry red with anger. "This is over! Each and every one of you is under arrest! You've brought disgrace on our units, disgrace on your country and disgrace on yourselves. You've got thirty seconds to-"

  He never finished the sentence. A bamboo stool, thrown by unseen hands, smacked into the side of his head. That brought a roar of approval from the heart of the brawl. Within moments the fighting resumed, but now the unruly warriors had a new target: the MPs. All those who had been busy beating each other senseless joined together to attack their common enemy. If such a thing was possible, the first brawl had been almost benign, the chance to let off some steam. This fight was serious. The MPs waded into battle, using their truncheons to bludgeon a way through those nearest to them. In less than a minute, the floor was awash with blood and teeth, as skulls were cracked and bones broken.

  Walton saw his friend Maeda knocked senseless by a military policeman with sergeant's stripes. But the MP kept beating Maeda even after the marine was out cold.

  "Hey, you can't do that!" Walton shouted.

  The sergeant grinned at the young marine. "You want some too?"

  Richards stepped between them, putting one hand on Walton's chest to hold the youth back. "This guy's innocent, sergeant. I've been in here since before the brawl started and he hasn't thrown a single punch, okay?"

  "If you were in here before the fighting started, why didn't you stop it?"

  The pilot laughed. "Are you serious?"

  The MP advanced on Richards, slapping his bloody truncheon in the palm of one hand. "You bet I'm serious, flyboy. It was your duty to stop this."

  "Yeah, right!" Richards looked over his shoulder at Marquez and Taylor. "Can you believe this goon? He actually believes-" The rest of his words were cut off by the MP's truncheon smacking across his face. By the time Richards hit the floor, Walton and Marquez were laying into the sergeant, raining blows down on him. The last thing the young marine could recall was hearing a high-pitched whistle behind him. When he turned to see the source of it, a fist flew into his face. After that there was only pain and darkness.

  Father Kelly was lost. Since leaving the cathedral he'd been wandering around downtown Honolulu, failing to find a way back to the docks. It was embarrassing, getting lost in a city so small compared with his native Chicago. In truth, he wasn't trying that hard, as his mind was still replaying the conversation with Bishop Sweeney. The priest was so deep in thought he came close to being run down by a convoy of jeeps transporting MPs. Father Kelly realised his jeopardy at the last moment and threw himself out of harm's way as the vehicles sped past. The men inside them looked grim faced and ready for war, making the priest grateful he was not their target.

  A thought occurred to him, sending a shudder up his spine. Private Martinez was out on the town with Wierzbowski and that disreputable slob Buntz. Those two could start a fight in an empty field, and Father Kelly had little doubt that Martinez's feelings of loyalty to the regiment would drag the young soldier into the melee. He strode off in the direction the jeeps had taken, though they were long gone by now, swallowed by the press of traffic and pedestrians. Fortunately, the MPs did not go much further before abandoning their vehicles and racing into a bar and grill near the beach.

  The priest found the jeeps a few minutes later, outside a ramshackle building bearing the name TOKYO JOE'S. He didn't bother going inside to see what was happening, it was all too evident from the sound of fists on flesh and the cries of men being hurt. Father Kelly made the sign of the cross and offered a silent prayer heavenwards that Martinez had the good sense not to get involved with senseless brawling. Moments later Martinez appeared in front of him, having been thrown out of a grease smeared window, on to the street. The private scrambled to his feet, brushed himself down and made as if to go back inside.

  "Oh no you don't!" the priest insisted, grabbing the young soldier's arm.

  "Father? What are you doing here?"

  "I could ask you the same question, my son."

  "Buntz and Wierzbowski are still in there. They need my help!"

  "I see, and how many MPs did you see enter that bar?"

  Martinez shrugged. "I don't know, ten, maybe a dozen?"

  "I counted at least twenty, if not more."

  "Then Buntz and Wierzbowski definitely need my help."

  "They'll be fine without you. One man more or less won't make any difference. Besides, even I know fighting MPs is fighting a losing battle."

  "You can say that again!" Martinez agreed. "Those guys fight dirty."

  "They have right as well as might on their side, Juan. You go back in there and you'll find yourself under arrest. Do you want to spend the rest of the voyage to the Philippines confined to your cabin or stuck in the brig?"

  "No, but I-"

  "No buts, you're staying here, with me."

  A surly MP emerged from the bar, a bloody truncheon in his right fist. He saw glass from the broken window in front of Martinez and marched straight towards the private. "You! You're the one I threw out of that window!"

  Father Kelly raised a hand in protest. "Actually, I believe you may be mistaken about that, my son."

  The MP glared at the priest, his snarl softening a little when he saw the ecclesiastical collar. "Stay out of this, father; it's between me and the boy."

  "You're not suggesting I'm lying, are you, my son?"

  "Well, no, but I saw-"

  "You called me father before. That tells me you were raised a Catholic."

  "Yes, but that's-"

  "So you must know a priest would never lie, would he?"

  "No, of course not, but-"

  "So I must be telling the truth, mustn't I?"

  The MP's mouth flapped soundlessly, unable to formulate an answer.

  "Therefore, this young man cannot be the soldier you threw out of the window, can he?" Father Kelly gave Martinez a sly wink, unseen by the MP.

  "But he's got glass in his hair."

  "I beg your pardon?" the priest stammered.

  The MP walked across to Martinez and pulled two fragments of broken glass from the private's curls. "See? How could he have glass in his hair unless he was the person I threw through that window?"

  "I was sitting under the window when another soldier came through it," Martinez volunteered when Father Kelly had no answer to the question. "Some of the glass must have fallen on me, but I didn't notice because-"

  "Because another soldier had just been thrown out of the window above you," the priest said, completing the sentence. "I did see somebody in uniform running off before. Sadly, I didn't get a good look at his face."

  The MP rested his fists on his hips, glaring first at Martinez and then at Father Kelly.
"That's the story you're sticking to, is it?"

  "It's not a story, it's the truth," Martinez replied. "You wouldn't call our company chaplain a liar, would you?"

  More MPs emerged from Tokyo Joe's, shoving semi-conscious prisoners ahead of them. The sounds of fighting in the bar had subsided and the mopping up was underway. One of the military policemen called for help from the MP standing staring at a priest and a private. That was enough for their accuser, who admitted defeat. "I'll be watching you," he warned Martinez.

  "And the good Lord will be watching over you," Father Kelly replied.

  The MP stomped away, muttering obscenities under his breath.

  "Thanks, father, you're a lifesaver," Martinez whispered.

  "I wish that were true," the priest said. "Still, I hope you'll take a lesson from this. Buntz and Wierzbowski may be older and more experienced than you, but that doesn't automatically make them any the wiser. Right now they're probably under arrest and no doubt nursing a few bruises."

  As if to prove Father Kelly's point, another MP came out of the bar and grill, pushing a battered Buntz ahead of him. Moments later four burly MPs burst out into the street, each of them holding on to one of Wierzbowski's flailing limbs. He was still fighting, still raging against them. It took the intervention of two more military policemen to bring him down, clubbing the soldier over and over with their truncheons until he crumpled on the sidewalk.

  "I see what you mean, father," Martinez said. "But won't lying to that MP get you in trouble with the big guy upstairs?"

  "Having to confess twice in one day won't kill me," the priest sighed.