Fatal Incident

by Jim Proebstle

  Camp Irwin was a military reservation of approximately one thousand square miles and previously known as the Mojave Anti-Aircraft Range. The desert setting made it a logical training site for many who were shipped off to the conflict with the Germans in North Africa. From here, Robert would take a Piper shuttle north of the Mojave Desert just skirting Death Valley toward the east, to a makeshift airstrip near Independence.

  The thermals from the desert and the nearby Sierra Nevada Mountains made for a very bumpy ride. At one point, Robert hit his head on the ceiling of the cockpit from a sudden air pocket drop. Despite his experience in the air, however, the nighttime flight added additional stress. The airstrip was an unmanned facility in the middle of nowhere with tumbleweeds blowing across the runway and one area-light on a pole for visibility. Robert could see a second set of lights flick on from a car parked alongside the runway as they made a trial pass over the strip before circling and coming in on a final approach. A driver from the Relocation Center had been scheduled to pick him up for the short thirty-mile trip south.

  “You okay with this landing, Captain?” Robert asked, his first words to the pilot in the last hour.

  “Yeah. You see that flat shadow to the right of the headlights?”

  “I guess.”

  “That’s the airstrip. You’ve got to have a little faith for this landing to work. Don’t worry. It’s not my first.”

  Later, the pilot and Robert shook hands as he gathered up his bag from the back of the plane.

  “Good luck,” the pilot said quietly. “I hope you find what you came for.”

  Robert nodded soberly.

  “You must be PFC Endo,” the driver said as Robert walked up to the car with his duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “Not many people take that ride if they don’t have to.”

  “I’m in the army’s air force, assigned to the Air Transport Command in Alaska,” Robert said. “I can say with experience that this strip here ranks as the loneliest I’ve ever seen.” Other than the initial polite exchange, the forty-minute ride to the center was quiet. Robert

  concluded the driver was probably familiar with his situation and reason for the visit. Why make the guy uncomfortable, he thought, by talking about the obvious. By the time they reached Manzanar, snow was being driven across the narrow road out of the mountains to the west. On a good day, the weather was quite pleasant, but, unfortunately, the intense desert heat during the summer and vicious mountain storms during the winter made a “good day” hard to come by. The security guards were in heavy wool coats with collars pulled up and scarves wrapped tightly around their necks, all-in-all not happy to leave their warm posts.

  “These early winter blizzards can be a son of a bitch,” the driver commented as he pulled up to a bleak barrack with tarpaper siding that was to be Robert’s home until he left the following afternoon.

  “The sarge will meet you here for mess at 0600. Anything you need, you tell him.”

  “This sure ain’t the Top of the Mark,” Robert said rhetorically, referring to the nineteenth-floor, glass-walled cocktail lounge of the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco. Inside, the floorboards creaked with each step and allowed a bone-chilling draft into the room. A cot with a sleeping bag, a stained porcelain sink and toilet, and a naked bulb for light in a wall fixture above the cot was all the room had to offer. He fell into bed exhausted from traveling and the stress, knowing that this trip would be hard on everybody.

  The next morning, Robert was shocked when he saw how desolate and foreboding Manzanar truly was. His reaction came primarily as a byproduct of defeated expectations, for he had read glowing reports in the Manzanar Free Press about “a successful adaptation to the cultural conditions achieved through a community of involvement in this fast-growing town.” He could see the newspaper pictures and headlines—“Beautiful Communal Gardens,” “Comfortable Living with Good Medical Care,” “Safe Environment.” Propaganda! he screamed silently. The rest of the country may be okay with Roosevelt’s little executive order, but they’re not standing here freezing their butts off in this hellhole.

  “I’d like to see where my parents are living,” Robert stated to the sergeant over breakfast.

  “Not going to be able to do that, soldier, as the barracks are off limits. Doesn’t make any difference, anyway. Your mother’s been quite sick. She’s in the hospital, so I’ll take you there.”

  As they drove across the center’s square mile of wooden barracks in the blowing snow, Robert grew heartsick as he reflected on his parents’ beautifully landscaped little home on San Francisco’s west side and what pride both took in its presentation of flowers and perfectly manicured little garden.

  Robert bowed upon seeing Endo-san standing in the ten-foot-square waiting area of the hospital. It had been almost a year and a half since his parents were sent there, and longer since Robert had seen his father, whose demeanor was that of a beaten man—emotionally, not physically. The spark that used to be in his eye when he played with Robert as a boy was gone. There was no smile at all, only hidden desperation he hoped his son wouldn’t see.

  “You don’t look well, Father.”

  “They treat us well, but our age makes it hard for us to adapt,” Endo-san replied while gesturing to the winter gale outside. “Your mother has had it harder than most.” He lowered his eyes, and his shoulders shrugged as if to say “it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “What’s wrong with mother?”

  The sergeant intervened with his reply: “Some have had the bad fortune of contracting a difficult strain of pneumonia.”

  “I was talking with my father!” Robert glared at the sergeant, akin to the way a hostile inmate would look at a corrupt prison guard. In truth, the sergeant wasn’t at fault, just trying to be helpful. He clammed up out of respect while returning the stare.

  “It’s nobody’s fault,” Endo-san said. “She’s been coughing sputum for months. Also, a constant fever offset with teeth-chattering chills. We’re most concerned, though, about the chest pains and shortness of breath. She’s not well, my son, and I don’t want you to be shocked when you see her.”

  The men walked onto a ward of twelve women, all suffering from various maladies. When they stopped at the foot of the third bed, Robert was indeed shocked, as he doubted that he would have recognized his mother on his own. The woman in the bed barely dented the white sheets and obviously had been experiencing nausea and vomiting from the stains and smells. She was hooked up to an IV for fluids, and upon questions about her chart’s notations, Robert understood that frequent bouts of diarrhea with rapid heartbeats were also a problem.

  “Mother. Mother … it’s me, Robert.” He leaned over and grasped her hand while rubbing her forearm in a soothing manner. He heard the desperation in her fast breathing. It was like the very act of staying alive exhausted her.

  “Can you hear me, Mother?” He asked firmly to attract her attention.

  Her almond eyes barely opened, and the vagueness in her expression told Robert that she was confused. “How long has she been like this?”

  “For about one week now,” Endo-san replied. “She is the flower of my life, and I don’t believe she has the strength to make it through another bout of this pneumonia. This is her third one.”

  Robert spent the rest of the day at bedside with his mother and father. In actuality, he felt that she improved as the day progressed, so much so that their conversations reminded him of being at home. She smiled and rubbed his hand and gestured to give him a kiss on his right temple. The encouragement helped Robert, as he knew his time was drawing to a close. He would have to leave after dinner, as his orders called for his return to Ladd in a week. The farewells for all three of them were extremely hard because they were all certain that this time together would be their last.

  “Here’s a list of the places where I’m staying until I get back to Fairbanks, Father, if you need anything.” Robert’s f
ocus on the logistical aspect of the departure helped him hold his emotions inside. He kissed his mother and embraced his father before leaving.

  The winter storm had subsided late that afternoon when he departed Independence, which made for an easier flight to Camp Irwin. The Santa Ana winds in Barstow, however, delayed his connection on a troop plane to San Francisco until the next day. His thoughts were filled with emptiness for his parents’ future, despite the flicker of hope based on his mother’s improvement that afternoon. It was all he could do to contain himself with the anger he felt for a country that could do this—his country, their country!

  He found a quiet, relaxing corner of the bar at the Mark Hopkins Hotel that would keep him clear of the soldiers, primarily new recruits, who celebrated and carried on much to be expected. With the dimout order lifted the first of November, he ignored the others and stared out at a city that was desperate to show off its lights. The sensational lounge in the sky with 360-degree views of San Francisco had become famous overnight. Servicemen would buy and leave a bottle in the care of the bartender so that the next soldier from their squadron could enjoy a free drink; whoever had the last sip would buy the next bottle. The soldiers gathered before shipping out for one last toast to the Golden Gate Bridge, believing that the bridge was good luck and would bring them home. Story had it that as the soldiers sailed off under the Golden Gate during the day, wives and sweethearts would draw together in the lounge’s northwest corner, where they would tearfully gaze out the windows to watch them go. It had become known as the Weepers’ Corner.

  “Hey! Look what we got here!” an Irish recruit slurred drunkenly out of nowhere. “It’s a real live Nip. What the fuck’s he doin’ here?” he said, motioning to his comrades in the direction of Robert. “Shouldn’t you be in a prison for people like you?” the drunken soldier said in a mock tone while directing his glass toward Robert, bringing him to the attention of his cronies.

  Robert’s hot button was hard-pressed. He leapt off his stool and head-butted the soldier completely by surprise. The soldier’s draft-beer glass was launched vertically, covering his friends with its contents. Within seconds, blood spewed from the man’s nose. The three others with the man erupted in retaliation against Robert, descending on him from all sides. “That’s what they did to us at Pearl … you sneaky bastard,” one of the men said as they kicked and beat Robert senselessly. Luckily, the MPs in the bar were quick to stop the assault, but not before Robert sustained a broken nose, two cracked ribs, and bruises everywhere.

  As the first to throw a blow, Robert was put into cuffs and hauled outside for his own protection and to shut down any thoughts of a brawl from erupting further. In the hall of the hotel, the bartender joined the MPs and Robert as they had him spread-eagled against the wall. “Listen, officer,” the bartender interjected. “This guy didn’t do anything that any one of us wouldn’t have done. It pissed me off, too, when I heard that jackass make the comment.” Once the bartender explained the comment, the MPs began to realize that Robert was a bit of a fall guy here and took the cuffs off.

  “I’m not so sure I agree with how you handled this situation, soldier, but it’s not fair for it to go on your record either,” the MP in charge said. “Get that nose fixed and cool off. Walk away next time!”

  “I’ve fixed a few noses over the years,” the bartender offered with a friendly smile. “It’ll save you a trip to the hospital, if you want.”

  “Sure, why not,” Robert replied. After waiting a few minutes, the man returned with two twelve-inch wooden dowels, each about a quarter of an inch in diameter.

  “Hold on,” he said, holding both dowels in his right hand after inserting one a few inches into each nostril. With a quick snap of his wrist the bones were back in place.

  “Damn. That was worse than the boot!” He rubbed his nose on both sides, checking to feel if everything was aligned. “Thanks for helping, I think.”

  “The hospital would have been worse.”

  “I’ll be on my way then.” The two men shook hands, and Robert left for an inexpensive, out-of-the-way hotel he had planned to stay at not far from the wharf.

  Early that next morning Robert heard a knock on his door. It was a Western Union agent. “Telegram, soldier,” the agent said as Robert opened the door. “Holy shit. You don’t look so good. You alright?”

  “Thanks. Yeah, the worst is over.”

  The door closed and Robert opened the telegram, wondering how anyone knew where he was. Once he saw Endo-san’s name he remembered the list of places he left a few days earlier.

  November 30, 1943

  Robert. Your Mother died quietly in her sleep the night you left. The doctors say it was heart failure. Your visit meant so much to both of us. Help to end this awful war.

  Your Loving Father

  Robert had never been good at relationships. He was jealous of the soldiers leaving girlfriends and wives that would miss them—jealous of people who fit in and didn’t have to fight racism, which made him feel less significant and unimportant. He was jealous of people whose mothers didn’t have to die in some god-forsaken desert. But more than the jealousy, he was angry! Angry that his adoptive mother, the only woman who loved him, was taken from him.

  CHAPTER 18

  After the San Francisco incident, Robert decided to spend the last two days of his leave in Anchorage with his only real friend, Cricket. Surprise visits, however, were not high on Cricket’s list, and he was cautious of spending too much one-on-one time with Robert.

  “You could’ve called,” Cricket said as they walked into the mess hall for lunch.

  “Yeah, but all this stuff is just too much to handle,” Robert said after explaining his visit to his parents, his mother’s death, and the fight at the Mark Hopkins. “It wasn’t until I was on the flight here that the thought of spending the next two days with you made sense. Besides, it’s been a few months.”

  “I understand, and I’m very sorry, but … well, you know, everything’s so visible here.”

  Robert always felt that his lack of interest in girls while growing up was a byproduct of his introversion and shyness. He couldn’t put two words together when talking to a girl, and, quite frankly, would rather walk on the other side of the street than make eye contact with a creature of the opposite sex. It was later, however, as the equipment manager for the boys’ junior varsity basketball team while a sophomore, when he noticed an interest he couldn’t explain. He was privately embarrassed and horrified. He had heard the older boys talk about “queers and homos,” but had no real-world attachment that put their comments into a context that made sense. Yet, he couldn’t explain these locker room feelings he would experience, particularly around a kid named David. He didn’t know David. He hadn’t even met David until he became the manager. In addition to his physical reactions, Robert developed an emotional yearning around David, an aching that left him wistful and vulnerable. Convinced that his reaction was a deep-seated sickness and one that would not do well being discovered by others, Robert quit the manager’s job, desperate to protect himself from ridicule. He climbed further inside an emotional barricade that lasted throughout high school.

  “But you’re the only one I can count on. I just don’t want to be alone. Not right now.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “A little out-of-the-way place on the edge of town—the Vista Motel. It has housekeeping cabins with separate entrances. Mine’s number 21.”

  “I’ve got a full load of work this afternoon. I’ll try to be there by 1800, but only if we eat in.”

  “No problem. I’ll pick up some stuff. Thanks, Cricket, this means a lot to me.”

  Vladimir had planned this trip to Anchorage at the last minute. And, since he had three new pilots leaving with P-38s soon, he thought he would get clearance for a final check-out with his men and make a visit to Cricket to review their compliance with procedures. An open communication line with Cricket, he thought, would be good. Cricket
’s knowledge of the movement of every plane, pilot, and military passenger in Alaska would be invaluable intelligence if Vladimir could access it. On his way to the flight operations center, he saw Cricket across the street in the mess hall parking area talking with Robert. He was surprised to see Robert and was about to approach when the men parted company—Robert giving Cricket a very brief and different sort of pat on his backside.

  Vladimir instinctively turned away to avoid being noticed. He waited for ten minutes or more before entering flight operations.

  “Officer Mason, how’s life?” Vladimir asked Cricket in his heavy accent while exhaling a billow of cigarette smoke. The two men interacted regularly because of the frequent traffic of Russian pilots, and while Vladimir always called him Cricket when having a beer, it was always Officer Mason at flight ops. They had a decent working relationship, as Vladimir made every effort to be a good guest.

  “In a minute, Vladimir, after I finish these flight schedules,” Cricket responded distractedly, holding the palm of his hand out to forestall any further comments.

  Vladimir looked around the ops room while waiting—not much but a sparse office area with a bench for no more than two or three people and a counter separating all visitors from Cricket’s work area. The chatter from the Teletype with incoming instructions and requests for flight plans echoed off the linoleum floor. For the most part, pilots simply got their flight plans and maybe engaged in some social interchange before leaving, so this arrangement was adequate. The windows were single pane and sure to frost up in the winter, making the potbelly stove in the corner a real necessity when the temperature dropped—commonly below zero. A cord of hardwood had been stacked neatly outside, suggesting that a weather forecast had already been posted.