Fujimoto stood and began helping.
“What?” called Ingram.
Fujimoto grunted as he wrestled with the bags. “Headwinds. We may not have enough gas to make Kisarazu.”
Lightning flashed, illuminating the passengers. The plane rocked to starboard; the pilot righted it. The passengers stood now, helping pass their luggage aft.
The rating opened the hatch and clipped it back. Wind roared in, chilling the cabin and making Ingram wish he’d brought a parka. Then the rating knelt and began tossing bags into the night.
The others towered over him passing bags. Ingram felt as if he were glued to his seat, blood frozen in his veins. My God. Helen! Not now, after all this. He’d survived the war and now there was a chance he’d end up in the Pacific with the enemy—his former enemy—after all.
“Wait!” Ingram jumped and held up a hand.
They stopped. The rating grabbed his shirt. “Iko, iko!”
Fujimoto said, “We’re losing speed and fuel, Commander. We have to act quickly.”
“Act after you assure me the documents are safe,” demanded Ingram.
Fujimoto shouted forward. Someone shouted back. “All secure, Commander. Don’t worry, it’s as important to us as it is to you.”
Ingram looked forward. One of the civilians held up two oilskin-wrapped packages. Another held up a large mailing tube. Have to go with that. “Okay. Finish it up.”
Two minutes later, the bags were all gone save Ingram’s small bag, which had been unceremoniously plopped on his jump seat.
The rating began securing the hatch. “Hold on,” shouted Ingram.
He unzipped his bag, dug out a foul-weather jacket, rezipped the bag, and handed it back to the rating. In an instant it was out the hatch and gone into the night.
With effort, the rating pushed the hatch shut and secured it. He walked forward and a civilian delegate handed him the two oilskin packages and the mail tube. He accepted them with a bow and then walked aft and sat near the hatch. He looked at Ingram, smiled, and nodded at what lay in his lap. He drew up his knees and hugged the packages close. To Ingram’s surprise, the man flashed thumbs-up.
Fujimoto turned and said, “Thank you for sacrificing your luggage.”
“I’m as interested in living as you are,” Ingram said, wriggling into his foul-weather jacket.
Fujimoto brushed away an imaginary piece of dust. “I don’t think so.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
Conversation stopped as the left engine sputtered, bucked in its mount, then roared back to life.
Jeepers. Ingram checked his watch. They’d been in the air well over four hours. Plenty of time to make landfall in a normal flight.
“My life is over,” said Fujimoto.
Ingram thought about that. Fujimoto’s life is over? So what? He felt the same way. For the past three and a half years, life had been fleeting—a very long, dark, and terrifying path. He’d been scared, speechless, and numb. But that was war, and in a way he had been resigned to it. Now, with the war supposedly over, the threat was gone and he’d just let go, allowing tendrils of peace to seep into his system, giving him a sense of well-being, of finally returning home and being with Helen and Jerry. Now this. No, he’d never get used to being scared. His heart was pounding and his arteries felt as if they were filled with battery acid, electrifying every cell.
“Nonsense. You have a lot to live for.”
Fujimoto waved a hand. “My country is dead. My father is dead. Dead are my two brothers. My mother died in 1936 from cholera. There is nothing left. So . . . when I fill my obligation to you and my country I intend to commit seppuku.”
“What’s that?”
“Suicide. The honorable way.”
The engine sputtered again but caught almost immediately. Strangely, the air became smooth and it was suddenly light outside. Moonglow.
“Oh, hara-kiri.”
“That’s what you call it.”
Ingram pointed to the enlisted rating at the hatch. “Why does he have all the diplomatic stuff?”
“Yakushima is a strong swimmer. Tried out for the 1936 Olympics in freestyle but fell short by two-tenths of a second. Can you imagine? If he had made the Olympics, he most likely would be someplace else, serving in a more honorable position. But for that two-tenths of a second we would not have his services tonight. All our diplomatic material is entrusted to him for safekeeping in case we go into the water.”
“I see.” Ingram looked over to Yakushima.
The man bowed his head.
“It’s the best we can do. I’m sorry,” said Fujimoto. “Should the plane go down, we fear that your people will think it a trick of some sort. That we collectively committed seppuku and destroyed the documents as a gesture of defiance.”
Ingram thought about Japanese trickery from Pearl Harbor to Okinawa. But he put it aside and said, “I don’t know about that, but there is something you should know.”
In the dim moonlight, Fujimoto’s eyes were dull.
Tell him now. What does it matter? If we crash, he’ll die happy; if not, then maybe I’ll have his cooperation. “You do have something to live for. Your brother is alive.”
“Yes.” He brushed it off as if Ingram were telling a bad joke.
“Seriously. Lieutenant Kotoku Fujimoto of the Imperial Japanese Marines is the brigade commander at Toro Village on Karafuto.”
“What is this?” Fujimoto’s voice fairly boiled. He sat up straight, his lips curled.
“I need you to go up there with me tomorrow and get him out. And somebody else,” said Ingram.
Fujimoto spat, “How dare you? After what I tried to—”
The port engine sputtered. Then it quit. Then the starboard engine stopped as well. The only sound was wind whistling through the airframe, a sound somehow louder than the roar of the engines had been. Someone in the forward part of the plane shouted. The bomber took a down angle. But it was a smooth descent, with the light seeming to get a bit stronger.
People babbled. Someone moaned. A civilian tried to rise in his seat, but another, a dark hulking shadow, pulled him down and yelled at him.
Ingram braced himself against the bulkhead and pulled his seat belt strap as tight as possible.
Fujimoto turned and said in a near-conversational tone, “Were you joking?”
“Not in the least.”
“Then you have made me very happy.”
Ingram looked at Yakushima, then at the shrapnel hole. Whitecaps whizzed past. The ocean loomed close. Then closer.
The G4M2 hit and bounced. They were airborne for three luxurious seconds, then they bounced again; and hit hard. The plane slewed to a grinding stop on the right wing. Water gushed over the top of the fuselage.
Immediately, water sloshed in the cabin. Everyone shouted. They jumped up at once. Yakushima popped the hatch. Clutching the documents, he catapulted out and disappeared into the night.
Ingram unbuckled and stood. Water swirled around his legs. His knees! Get out!
A general shoved Ingram back into his seat and pushed past. Fujimoto pulled him up. A screaming civilian tried to climb over them. Fujimoto elbowed him in the face and then shoved Ingram out the door.
Hands grabbed him as he pitched out. Yakushima. What the hell?
Yakushima was upright, water sloshing around his thighs. With a smile, he eased Ingram forward to sit on the wing.
Bright moonlight. Land. The beach was twenty yards away. Small waves lapped onto the sand. In the distance were a few houses, one with a light in the window. And beyond, Ingram made out a sight not available to Americans for the past three and a half years: moonlight glittering off the snow-capped peak of Mount Fuji.
The plane rested in light surf. Son of a gun. Might as well be in Malibu.
Fujimoto sat beside him. They watched as the rest of the open-mouthed passengers piled out.
The two pilots exited the cockpit hatches, slid down the wing, and mingled with t
hem. Soon everybody pumped the fliers’ hands, laughing and babbling at the same time.
Miraculously, a flask was produced and passed around.
It came to Fujimoto and he took his swig, “Ahhhh. It’s been awhile.” He offered it to Ingram.
“Thanks.” Ingram took a drink. Pure fire. The brandy burned gloriously on its way down, shoving aside demons. He passed it to one of the pilots. With a grin, the pilot bowed and tipped the flask toward each of those gathered around. Then he raised it to his mouth. An admiral began chanting, then two of the generals. Soon all were chanting as one pilot and then the other chug-a-lugged the remaining contents.
Fujimoto looked at the star-speckled sky. “Perhaps a new beginning, Commander.”
Chapter Eleven
21 August 1945
San Pedro, California
“Noooo!” Helen sat bolt upright in bed. Her skin was clammy; her nerves jangled. Instinctively she reached for Todd. Not here. VJ day was five, no six, days ago. She wanted Todd. Come home. It’s time.
For a brief moment a warm feeling seeped through her. Maybe he was here. He’d just gotten up to make the coffee and was plowing around in the kitchen, clanking the dishes, filling the percolator. And yet, he’s not here. She thumped the bed’s left side just to make sure. No, not here; not yet. She grabbed his pillow, hugged it close, and lay back.
Early morning light crept into the room. A glance at her alarm clock told her it was 6:17. Whoops. It hadn’t gone off. She picked it up and found she’d forgotten to wind the alarm last night; it was set for six o’clock. She cranked it up for tomorrow, then set the clock down and stared at the face.
Where are you, darling? Be well. Be safe. Come back to us soon. I love you. Then she said the Lord’s Prayer and added a blessing for Todd.
A screech from the baby’s room: Jerry. With a sigh, she got up, put on a robe, and looked out the window: bright sunlight caressed their Alma Street house. Another hot one today.
The Fort MacArthur Infirmary was busy as always. Patients still flooded in from the Okinawa and Iwo Jima campaigns. Plus there was a residue of hard-case GIs from previous campaigns dating back to 1942: burn cases were the slowest to heal, and those needing prosthetic limbs.
Ward 6 was a special area for those who couldn’t cope. Some called it combat fatigue; some called it cowardice. The seriously wounded said nothing against the patients in Ward 6. Sometimes they commiserated. The brain, the mind, has a right to be wounded or ill, just like the stomach or a decayed tooth. All needed professional help.
Many in Ward 6 feared change, especially sudden change—a loud sound, a flash of light, an unseen voice. Some trembled at unexpected phenomena such as wind or rain rattling the windows, especially at night. Lightning and thunder were the worst for these GIs. They pulled the sheets over their heads. Other things rattled their nerves. A door opening down the hall sending a sudden shaft of light bursting into the room evoked a stark recollection of a grenade or a bomb explosion or a fuel tank going up.
Late that afternoon Helen lay on the floor beside Cpl. Eddie Bergen’s bed trying to coax him out. He’d been in the courtyard enjoying the sun when a fog clamped down on San Pedro. Eddie had walked inside, crawled under his bed, went fetal, and closed his eyes.
Helen recalled his record. Eddie was a tanker, a 75-mm gun loader on an M-4 Sherman tank crawling around Okinawa. The Japanese had taken out roughly half the tanks on Okinawa, and Eddie’s tank fell unfortunately into that category. The 30-ton M-4 had clanked up to a cave entrance and began to train the mount inside and blast away. Instead, it hit a land mine. The charge was so powerful that it blew the Sherman on its back, leaving a six-foot-deep crater. Eddie was shaken but relatively uninjured. The tank caught fire, but Eddie scrambled up for the belly escape hatch, somehow making it out first. But he didn’t jump. With Japanese bullets clanking all around him, he reached in and pulled out Steve Marcus, the machine gunner. Then Eddie pulled out Rich Casenilli, the driver. He had both of the tank commander’s wrists when a 7.2-mm round caught him in the butt and knocked him off the tank. He started to scramble back up, but ammunition began cooking off inside. They had to drag him away. The tank commander, Sgt. Orville Diggs, one of his best friends, was incinerated as those rounds went off. In tortured dreams, day and night, Eddie heard Orville’s screams as the tank went up—first the gas, then the ammo. He slept in fits, getting a few minutes, maybe a half hour, at a time.
Drugs didn’t help. Orville Diggs’ screams came back the moment Eddie nodded off. They’d sewed up Eddie’s butt and shot him with the new miracle drug, penicillin. The wound healed nicely. But wonder drugs couldn’t heal Eddie’s mind.
Eddie stretched out: a good sign. It meant he was about ready to come out and return to the real world.
“Hand me a cigarette?” Eddie asked. Eddie smoked like a forest fire. It was Helen’s best weapon.
“Come on out and get one, Eddie.” She took a Lucky from the top of his bed stand and waved it.
“Aww, come on,” he pleaded.
“Eddie, you’re sweating,” she said.
“Hot under here,” said Eddie.
“Fire hazard under the bed, Eddie.”
“Please?”
“And look at this.” She waved a Donald Duck comic book before him. Donald Duck was what had lured him out last week when the hospital commander, Colonel Ledbetter, marched in with six men, drew them to attention, and politely stood by while Helen coaxed Eddie from underneath the bed. He crawled out, stood, and wrapped his arms around himself as if he were in a straitjacket, then jumped under his covers and went fetal again. A moment passed. Colonel Ledbetter gave a polite cough and then he and his staffers gathered around Eddie’s bed. Among them was Sgt. Melvin Letenske, Colonel Ledbetter’s adjutant.
While Helen stroked Eddie’s head and held his hand, Colonel Ledbetter read the citation awarding Cpl. Eddie Bergen the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart.
Eddie teared up.
Colonel Ledbetter became misty-eyed too, and had to fight his way through the rest of the citation. Finally, it was over. He thrust out his hand. Letenske handed the medals to him. The colonel took a step toward Eddie’s bed. But Eddie cringed, again drawing his arms around himself. Judiciously, Colonel Ledbetter pinned the medals on Eddie’s pillow. Then Ledbetter stepped back, congratulated Eddie, saluted, and marched out with his staffers.
The last man was no sooner out the door when Eddie lit up a Lucky Strike and grabbed his Donald Duck.
Others said Helen was being too easy on Eddie. Even Dr. Raduga, the psychiatrist, advised her to tone down her commiseration. But Helen knew what Eddie was going through. Nightmares brought it all back. She had endured capture by the Japanese, and torture; the cigarette burns were still evident on her legs and the balls of her feet. At times, those horrible nightmares swirled in her sleep: Corregidor, Malinta Tunnel, Japanese artillery pounding mercilessly around the clock, sewer lines stopped up, one-third rations, no medical supplies, no anesthetics, amputations on screaming patients, their vacant eyes, the hopeless, ravaged eyes of the dead. But Marinduque Island, where the Kempetai had captured and tortured her, was far worse. She saw what they did to the Filipinos: the senseless and wanton raping of young women, hanging men upside down over a bonfire and laughing at their screams. At times she still felt like crawling into a hole. Todd had had it just as bad. Yes, she knew what Eddie was going through.
Again Helen waved the Donald Duck comic. “It’s brand new. There’s a new guy, Uncle Scrooge.”
“Hell, yes.” He smiled and reached.
She drew the comic book back. “Out here, Eddie. You know the rules. No reading under the bed.”
Eddie crawled out, almost like he was scrambling through the hatch of his M-4.
He’s nimble today.
Eddie stood to his full five-foot six-inch height. “Any more of that cake left?”
“I think so. You want some?”
“Yes, please, Mrs. Ingram.” He too
k the comic book with one hand and lit a cigarette with the other.
“On its way.” Helen headed for the kitchen. She looked back just as she walked through the door. Eddie had taken a chair by the window. The fog had cleared, and full sunshine cascaded through the blue smoke hanging over Eddie. Helen watched as he settled down with his comic book. That was a first.
In the kitchen, she wolfed down half a slice of the chocolate cake, grabbed a piece for Eddie, and then headed back.
Sergeant Caparani stuck his head out his door as she went by. “Captain, can we see you for a moment, please?”
She stopped. “Okay.”
“In here please, ma’am.”
A man in Army fatigues sat before Letenske’s desk. His nametag said Watson, but he bore no sign of rank or service affiliation.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“Are you Captain Helen D. Ingram?” the man asked. He snapped open a briefcase.
“That’s correct.”
“And you have ID?”
All Helen had was Eddie’s cake. “No. It’s back in my ward. Today it’s Ward 6.”
Watson said, “Well, then. You wouldn’t mind—”
“What do you need, Mr. Watson?” Helen asked briskly.
Letenske said sotto voce, “I think he’s a courier, ma’am.”
Helen tensed. A damned courier. That could mean new orders or some other official correspondence that could transfer her out of here. Which she didn’t want. Suddenly, she knew exactly how Eddie felt. Never disrupt the status quo. Just let me remain here and greet my husband when he returns home. I can’t move. I don’t want to move. I won’t move. She thought about Eddie and crawling under her bed at home and taking a comic book with her.
With a nod to Letenske, Watson asked, “Are you going to get your ID?”
“We’ll vouch for her, Mr. Watson,” said Letenske. He nodded to the inner door. “Of course, you’re welcome to speak with Colonel Ledbetter. But you’ll have to wait. He’s in surgery right now.”
Watson blinked and made a decision. “Very good. If you’ll sign right here, ma’am?” He handed over a clipboard.
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