by Dean Hughes
“I’ll fix you up with a date,” Mat said. “Of course, she’s studying to be a nurse. You never know, she might meet some wounded soldier by then and nurse him right into holy matrimony.”
Shig nodded and said, “A lot of the girls back home are going to be taken by the time we get back.”
“It’ll even out,” Mat said. “A lot of us won’t make it home.”
Maybe he had meant this to be a joke, but it didn’t feel that way. Shig nodded and so did Yuki. Yuki had begun to think about that possibility lately. In the obstacle course, when bullets were buzzing over his head, the chance of getting hit by one in a real battle seemed anything but remote. What he wondered sometimes was what it would be like to have a bullet rip into his body.
“You know what I’d feel worst about if I didn’t make it back?” Mat asked.
“What?”
“Never seeing my sisters again. My big sisters all babied me when I was growing up, and my little sister—Kimoka, or just Kimi—she was my best friend until I went off to college. I haven’t seen her much in recent years, and I miss her.”
“Do you believe in heaven?” Shig asked. And Yuki knew what he was thinking—another way to see her.
Mat looked at Shig for a long time, and then he finally said, “I don’t know. I’ve always believed in the idea of it. But when I think about getting shot, all that comes to mind is darkness. Just the end of everything.”
Yuki wasn’t sure what he thought about that. He had worried more about pain than he had about darkness. He wondered which was worse. But he didn’t want to continue this conversation. “We’re all coming back,” he said. “We’ll take care of each other.”
They all nodded, all agreed.
When the three were finished with their meal, they got their checks and then stood up to walk to the cashier counter. On a sudden impulse, Yuki stepped to the next table where the family was sitting.
“Hello there,” he said. “We’re in basic training out at the base.” He smiled. “We don’t like the training much, but we appreciate you local people putting up with us while we’re here.”
The three who could see Yuki looked up, obviously surprised. The mother twisted around to see who was speaking. No one could come up with a word to say.
“Are you farmers?” Yuki asked.
The man nodded. He was a thin man, all bone, like so many men who had worked the earth all their lives. His face was burned from the sun, but his forehead was ivory white.
“I grew up on a farm in California,” Yuki continued. “We raised produce and sold it from a road stand near our farm. I know what it’s like to make a living from the land.”
The man nodded again. The young man’s eyes had drifted down to the checkered oilcloth on the table.
“We’re just glad we can fight for our country,” Yuki said. He looked at the young man, who had to be close to draft age. “I guess you’ll be enlisting before long yourself.”
The boy raised his head. “Well . . . I . . . cain’t. I won’t be able to.”
“That’s too bad. Those of us training now are all Japanese Americans, as you probably know. We love our country, the same as all of you, and we’re glad we can do our part.”
The older man nodded one more time but with no more conviction than before.
“My name is Yukus Nakahara. I’m glad to meet you. We hope we won’t be too much bother to you around here. But thanks for welcoming us.” He stuck his hand out, held it in front of the young man. A second or two passed, and then his hand came up. He shook Yuki’s hand, not exactly firmly, and then Yuki offered his hand to the father, who gave him a better handshake.
Yuki nodded to the mother and sister and said, “Have a nice day.”
He had already turned away from the table when the older man said, with a deeply southern accent, “Good luck to yuh, young man.”
Yuki turned back and smiled. “Thanks,” he said. “It’s great to have your support.”
CHAPTER 7
November 1943–June 1944
There were times when Yuki seriously thought he would never leave Camp Shelby. Basic training gave way to war games, and these dragged on all winter. The rumor Yuki heard was that American generals were hesitating to employ the 442nd troops in actual battle. By the spring of 1944, however, the 100th Infantry Battalion was making a name for itself fighting in Italy. These were Nisei soldiers from Hawaii who had quickly become known as the “Purple Heart Battalion” because of their bravery and the unit’s many casualties.
The men of the Four-Four-Two hoped that the 100th Battalion had proved the capability of AJA soldiers—but no orders came and the training continued. Yuki found himself frustrated and angry. The last thing he wanted to do was to spend the entire war training in Mississippi.
Then in March the order finally came, and in April the Second and Third Battalions of the 442nd were transported to Virginia and shipped across the ocean from there. All his life Yuki had longed to see the world, but tossing on the ocean was not quite the pleasure he had expected. He and Shig were both sick for a few days before they became accustomed to the motion. After that, it was the tedium that bothered them, as the ship convoy zigged and zagged to avoid detection by German U-boats. Yuki felt the distance, too, as the ship took him farther and farther from everything he had always known. What lay ahead was “the war,” which had always been a vague sort of concept, not a reality. He wondered what actual battle would be like. He never told Shig, or anyone else, but he was becoming increasingly worried that he wouldn’t be as brave as he wanted to be.
More than three thousand Nisei soldiers eventually arrived in Naples, Italy, where they were attached to the army’s Thirty-Fourth Infantry Division, which was made up of more than ten thousand white soldiers. Whites and Nisei would not be integrated into the same units, but they would fight in the same campaigns and support one another.
After a few days of specialized training, the men of the 442nd were transported by ship and truck northward along the coast of Italy. They marched the last miles, until they approached the German line of defense in the central part of the peninsula. Yuki felt the tension as the men neared the battlefront. They still joked—some even bragged—but not with the ease he had seen before.
Italy had entered the war as one of the three Axis powers, along with Germany and Japan, but almost a year earlier Italian forces had been overpowered by Allied troops—Americans, British, Canadians, and others—and had surrendered. Still, the central and northern parts of Italy were occupied by German troops. Yuki had read about the war in Italy in newspapers, listened to the talk on board the ship, and received briefings from his officers. What he understood was that the Allies were steadily pushing toward Germany. Russia was attacking Germany from the east, and in recent days a huge Allied force had landed on the coast of France in what was being called the “D-Day” invasion. Germany was now being pressured from all directions, but its soldiers were fighting desperately, with no sign of capitulation. The campaign through Italy was proving difficult, and as Allied troops pressed higher into the mountains, the fight was becoming ever more bloody.
By late June, the Four-Four-Two was ready to enter the action. Yuki had trouble sleeping that last night before their first attack. He had heard the sound of artillery by then, miles away, and he had even glimpsed men in bandages being trucked back from the front. The war was finally turning into reality, but it was still hard to imagine that he might fire his rifle at the enemy in the morning—and be fired upon.
He eventually drifted into a sort of half sleep, shortly before he heard the voice of Fred Koba, his platoon sergeant, outside his tent. “Roll out, men. Get something to eat. We’re moving out in an hour.”
Sergeant Koba was an experienced military man, having served in the army for many years before the war. He was no bigger than Yuki, and he was not forceful or loud, but he knew the men in the platoon from their training back in Mississippi. He could be stern, but there was also a fatherl
y quality about him. He was not in charge of the platoon, but Yuki had noticed that Lieutenant Freeman, the platoon leader, depended on Sergeant Koba as more than an assistant. Everyone trusted that it was Koba who would know what to do when the action started.
The men got ready quickly. Yuki had the feeling that no one had slept well. The battalion support unit had already prepared a hot breakfast, but Yuki couldn’t face the powdered eggs and Spam. He ended up eating only a little toast with a cup of coffee.
Lieutenant Freeman talked to the men briefly. “Fox Company will move out first,” he told them. “E Company will be on our right flank, and G Company in a support position. Remember your training. Follow commands.”
The men in Second Platoon liked the lieutenant. Yuki knew that they all connected better to Sergeant Koba than to him, but Lieutenant Freeman was one white officer who respected his AJA soldiers. He was a lanky guy, over six feet tall, slim, and light haired. One of the men had joked that he was like a giraffe in a herd of ponies, but Yuki liked that he wasn’t overly impressed with himself. He wasn’t a lot older than most of the men he was leading, but it seemed to Yuki that he was in control of himself, that he wouldn’t lose his head when bullets started to fly.
Yuki tried to breathe in some of that self-confidence, but his hands were shaking so badly that he had to tuck his thumbs into the straps on his backpack to keep them still. As daylight began to break, the troops moved out, and it felt better to get going. Yuki was careful, watchful, and after a mile or so of walking, he had calmed down a bit. The area was flat, all open fields and pastures. There was nowhere for enemy soldiers to hide except in a few scattered farmhouses, but Yuki wondered what sort of artillery might be taking aim from the distant hilltops in front of them. Still, by ten in the morning—ten hundred hours, as the military called it—he had seen no sign of Germans. The company had passed some burned-out Sherman tanks and German Panzer tanks, and that had reminded Yuki that the war really was close, but the day was clear, birds were flying about, and a few clouds were scattered across a blue sky. It was hard to believe that a war was waiting up ahead.
Shig had hardly spoken a word all morning. Yuki finally said to him, “If we’re going to engage the Germans, I’m thinking it’s going to be in those hills we’re coming to. That’s where they’ve probably set up their MLR.” That MLR—main line of resistance—was what the company had been ordered to locate. It was the front line, where the battle would begin.
Shig nodded.
“We’ll be all right.”
“Yeah. Sure.” But Yuki could see behind Shig’s little round eyeglasses that his eyes were tight and a little too focused. He finally had a uniform that fit him, and he had shown himself to be as “big” as any of the men when it came to carrying out training drills, but he was stiff this morning, no doubt scared the same as Yuki.
Still, he and Yuki marched steadily ahead with the others. All morning Yuki had been hearing the growl of artillery fire, but the sound was increasing, sharpening, and the hills were no longer far off.
Sergeant Koba worked his way down the line and spoke to the squad leaders. Yuki heard him tell Sergeant Oshira, Yuki and Shig’s squad leader, “If we get fired on, keep your men together. Listen for the lieutenant’s command.”
Sergeant Oshira led two fire teams in his squad, eight men, all of whom had become close friends in the last year. “Sarge,” as the men usually called Oshira, was Hawaiian, but like Koba, he had been in the army before the war broke out, and he used Pidgin only when he joked with the buddhaheads. He was a small man, slightly built, but he was wiry. Once, in training, a recruit had lost his temper and challenged him. Sarge had used a judo move and the young soldier had landed on his back, stunned.
Mat Matsumoto was the leader of another eight-man squad. He was friendly with Yuki and Shig, but he was not so casual as he had been back at Shelby. Mat had told Yuki and Shig the night before, “Everyone tells me that the first time in battle is the most dangerous—since new troops don’t know how to look out for themselves yet. Don’t take any chances. Just follow what your leaders tell you.”
Yuki was walking rather easily now, not observing everything as carefully as he had early that morning, but then his eye caught a motion on the ridge of a low hill a few hundred yards ahead. There was a farmhouse on the hill, and Yuki thought a farmer must be driving about on his tractor. But suddenly a muzzle protruded from behind the house, and then a tank swung into view. “Tank!” someone shouted, and everyone halted. They all stood as though locked in place. There was a bright flash from the muzzle, a puff of smoke, followed by a deep thump. Yuki knew a shell was on its way, even heard the whistling sound, but his brain didn’t let the danger register. Not two seconds later, there was a huge explosion among the men up ahead. Dirt and debris flew in all directions and someone screamed in pain.
The men scattered off the road. Some clambered up an incline on the right side; others flung themselves into a little drop-off to the left.
Yuki dove toward the ditch and flattened himself in the long grass just as another crash shook the ground. He heard more screams. Someone rolled over him, as more men tumbled down the hill. Yuki pressed his body against the earth. Another high-pitched buzz was sounding. He gripped his hands over his helmet, pulled the liner tight against his head as the explosion shook his body and sucked the air from his lungs.
Nothing followed for a few seconds, and Yuki raised his head just enough to see where Sergeant Oshira might be. He had no idea what he should do next. There was nowhere to hide and seemingly no way to stop the barrage. The tank could just keep firing until the whole company was wiped out.
And then Yuki saw Johnny Fukumoto—a guy from the heavy weapons squad, but a kid his own age—scrambling onto the road. He knelt down about twenty yards ahead of Yuki and dropped a mortar plate onto the ground. He set up a mortar tube quickly, and then he looked through the sight and twisted a knob. He needed an assistant to load and fire, needed a forward observer to be accurate. Yuki was sure he was going to die out there. But Fukumoto dropped a shell into the tube, ducked, and covered his ears, and Yuki heard the hollow thunk as the round fired.
Almost simultaneously, a shell from the German tank struck on the high side of the road. But Fukumoto didn’t run for cover. Yuki watched as he loaded and fired a second mortar. At the same time, another shell from the German tank was screaming through the air. The explosion burst directly in front of the mortar tube. Yuki saw Johnny flip into the air, cartwheel, and then slam to the ground. His shoulder collapsed under him and he folded onto his side. He seemed to deflate, lose shape, and he made a wet, sucking sound as he tried to breathe. He grabbed his neck with both hands and blood oozed between his fingers. The gurgling noise—the hoarse, vibrating sound—was sickening. Yuki ducked his head, pulled his helmet tight again. He thought he should help Johnny somehow, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t get himself to go out on that road.
The gurgling lasted only half a minute, but each gasp was like a knife stab to Yuki. He told himself over and over to get up and help the guy, and he almost did, but the sound gave way to choking and suddenly stopped.
Yuki had always known that friends of his would die.
But he hadn’t known.
His brain didn’t want to accept the idea. “The tank’s moving back,” someone shouted. But Yuki still couldn’t move.
Sergeant Koba was yelling by then. “Get up! Get going. We’ve got to get away from this road.”
Yuki tried to get up, thought he was about to do it. But nothing was happening. His body wanted to stay on the ground.
“Charge that farmhouse! Make it up that hill.”
Charge toward the farmhouse? Yuki had expected a command to fall back. But he heard men scrambling to their feet, glanced up to see them moving, and his muscles finally responded. He got up. He didn’t know where Shig was, where his squad was. There was still dust in the air from the explosion, and chaos was all around him—men scattering more tha
n charging. He wasn’t sure where the farmhouse was, not even the hill, but he felt men moving around him, stayed with that flow of motion, and before long he could see the hillside.
And then the whistling sound was filling the air again. Yuki dropped onto his chest before the blast hit farther up the hillside. The tank could still fire, or maybe there was another one. And there was something new: popping sounds, in bursts. Machine-gun fire. Yuki flattened himself, clung to his helmet again, expected at any moment to feel pain cut through his body.
“Keep moving! Keep moving!” Sergeant Koba was shouting. “You’ll die out here if you don’t keep moving.”
That made no sense to Yuki. He couldn’t stand up with bullets in the air.
But some men were up, and then Shig was next to him.
“Get up, Yuki!” he was yelling. “Get up!”
Another couple of seconds passed. It was just time enough to think that he couldn’t do it. But then he did. He jumped to his feet and charged up the hill. There was one more explosion, and more machine-gun fire—the buzz of bullets in the air. But he kept going, climbing hard. He had lost sight of Shig, didn’t know who was next to him, but he kept his eyes on the farmhouse and he kept going.
Up ahead, Yuki saw an explosion, and then two more, and he dropped down again. But he knew at the same moment that these explosions, this debris, had silenced the machine gun. Some of the men in his company had gotten up the hill far enough, must have tossed grenades into the machine-gun emplacement.
From somewhere, Lieutenant Freeman’s reedy voice was shouting, “Get to the farmhouse!”
Yuki got up. If he could make it up the hill, hide behind the solid rock of that farmhouse, he would be safe, he thought. He kept running hard, and when he made it to the house, he dropped down next to it, pushed his shoulder against the base of the wall, and then waited to see what would happen next.
“The tank’s gone,” someone said—someone breathing as hard as he was.