by Peter Albano
Located in the aft part of the island, the gleaming-white ward was a large compartment with thirty beds. Twenty-three were filled: twenty-two occupied by burn casualties while the twenty-third held the American, Captain Kenneth Rosencrance, who had a festering wound on his right buttock and had just been stretched out on his stomach in the bed next to the sleeping flyer, Lieutenant Taku Ishikawa.
Eiichi disliked treating burn patients. Unlike many injuries, pain was omnipresent and the patients pathetically helpless, whining, moaning, unable to take care of their own body functions. And the wounds were hideous — the destroyed flesh of the third-degree burns refusing to heal, the smell of rot coating the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat. He had studied — pored over stacks of medical literature. He had ordered the latest medications, loading the medicine carts with the most modern drugs; silver sulfadiazine, mafenide, biobrane, and analgesics. His orderlies were busy under the cradles incessantly smearing silver sulfadiazine directly on the burns, wrapping the zones of stasis in saline soaks and then, a few hours later, peeling off the soaks and dead flesh with them. Then the treatment was repeated.
The latest subclavian and intravenous lines were in use everywhere and his men were even applying the new San-Ganz catheters to patients who were showing signs of weakening cardio-pulmonary functions. The fluid demands of the patients was astonishing, the I Vs pouring huge quantities of the new Parkland formula, colloids, dextrose and water into their veins. Those with lips and the ability to eat were force-fed eggs; sometimes as many as thirty a day.
But some would die despite his efforts and others would live because of the new drugs. But their lives would not be worth living. Flesh and cartilage succumbed to heat first, bone last. Several had their ears and noses burned completely off, faces vulgar masses of hardening eschars. One had his penis burned off, two had stumps for hands and feet.
He disliked administering analgesics. Still, he prescribed large doses of morphine for the dying. Frustrated, he could only make their entry into the Yasakuni Shrine as painless as possible by ushering them into the lotus land of drugged stupor. It was so ironical — the dead would be cremated after they had already been burned to death. He was in an evil mood.
“Hey, man, my ass hurts!” Kenneth Rosencrance shouted suddenly.
“Just think,” Horikoshi muttered, “you’re an asshole with two assholes.”
The exchange awakened Lieutenant Taku Ishikawa. Turning his head, he stared directly into the green eyes of Kenneth Rosencrance. “Who are you?” Taku asked.
“What the fuck’s it to you, slant?” Rosencrance retorted with the arrogance of a condemned man.
Shaking his head, Taku brought himself up on his elbows. “You are ‘Rosie’ Rosencrance. I saw you outside Flag Plot.”
“Don’t call me ‘Rosie’, Ishikawa.”
“You know my name.”
“It’s on your chart, slant,” Rosencrance rolled to his side and stabbed a finger at the foot of Taku’s bed. “I’m a real Mike Hammer.”
“Don’t call me ‘slant’.”
“Up yours.”
“Come, come, gentlemen,” Eiichi Horikoshi soothed laconically. “You are not well enough to kill each other, yet.” He waved a hand in a semicircle. “The products of your gallant activities always find a way here.”
A young man under a body-length cradle and swathed from head to foot in bandages and with a half dozen tubes jammed into veins and every available orifice, shrieked suddenly, the high keening sound of a boiler relief valve under high pressure. Occupying the bed next to the American, the screams blotted out the conversation.
“For Christ's sake, shut that son-of-a-bitch up,” Rosencrance shouted.
“A quarter grain of morphine — stat, Takeda,” Horikoshi shouted at an old orderly standing behind him. Grabbing a hypodermic syringe, Takeda injected the solution into one of the tubes. Immediately, the mass of bandages quieted.
“He will not last long, sir,” Takeda said softly.
“Good! One less Nip to kill,” Rosencrance chuckled.
Straightening, the old doctor glared down at the American. “Captain, if you do not cleanse your mouth and change your attitude, I will perform a colostomy on you and throw you back in the brig.” Gesturing to an armed guard standing next to the room’s only door, he opened his mouth to speak, but before he could continue, he was interrupted by shouts from the far end of the ward.
“Doctor! Doctor Horikoshi!” an orderly holding a telephone shouted from the door of the ward's small office. “There has been an accident on the flight deck. You are wanted at the aft elevator, immediately.”
Hastily, Eiichi wheeled on his heel and hobbled down the long aisle. “Do not forget what I told you. A colostomy,” he threatened over his shoulder as he grabbed a small black bag, walked past the guard and pushed his way through the door.
“What the fuck’s a colostomy?” a chastened Rosencrance muttered.
“They sew up your asshole, put a tube in your gut, and you shit in a bag,” Taku Ishikawa said, chuckling.
“That old fart would do that?” Rosencrance said with a tremor in his voice.
“I’ll guarantee it.”
“Jesus.” The American eyed Taku through narrowed lids. “You and I tangled the other day over Tokyo.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard. You’re a real hotshot.”
“I would like to do it again.”
“Not as much as I would. Your ass is worth fifty Gs to me.”
“You fight only for money?”
“I don’t like Kikes and I laid some of that bullshit on the admiral. But it’s the green that counts.” The American thought for a moment. “Can you think of a better reason?”
“Honor. Pride. The Emperor. The code of bushido…”
“Your code of bullshit, man. Codes don’t buy booze, broads.”
“Your altruism is impressive,” Taku said sarcastically. “Obviously, you aspire to great philosophical heights.”
The American drummed his mattress. “That dude with the red cowl and the green hood is good.”
“Commander Yoshi Matsuhara.”
“Yeah. I tangled assholes with him. He creamed my wingman. Good damned pilot, too — for a Polack. But I got your buddy good. A burst in the wing.”
Taku stared at the hard lines of the American’s face. Thoughts of his attack on Yoshi Matsuhara, his cries of “Coward,” during the staff meeting rushed back. He felt his skin warm and a knot of anxiety welled in his throat. “You damaged him?”
“Damn near shot his wing off.”
“He was not capable of combat?”
“Shit, man, he wasn’t capable of flying,” Rosencrance said. “Didn’t he bail out?”
“No. He landed on the carrier.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Next time I’ll snuff him.”
“Next time! What makes you think there will be a next time?”
“You mean I’m due for a hair cut down to the clavicle. Why didn’t they chop me the other day when they sliced Takauji Harima and Salim al Hoss?”
“The admiral’s mind works in mysterious ways. He must have something interesting — something inventive in store for you.”
Obviously agitated, the American stirred restlessly, focused his eyes on Ishikawa’s face. Taku stared back and suddenly found eyes that were the raging eyes of a trapped tiger, a fierce bird of prey, a cobra poised to strike. Hell was there and so was murder. There was no fear. The voice was suddenly deep and rasping, a stew of rocks and sand. “You married?”
Taku was on guard but the question seemed innocuous enough. “My wife is dead.”
“You guys are robbed.”
“Robbed?”
“Yeah.” An evil sneer spilled across the cruel face like a surge of dirty water. “Nip broads got no tits and I hear their pussies are cut on a crazy angle. How did you fuck her, on a bias?” He convulsed with laughter.
Taku felt his skin tighten and
prickle. Hot oil spread in his guts, charging his veins with a rush of quick blood. His face was carved by rage into an ugly mask, all hard, deep, slashing lines. Despite the tenderness of his wound, despite the cumbersome soak, despite his weakness, he leaped from his bed, ripping the IV from his left arm. There was no pain, just a warm trickling down into his palm and off his fingertips. Rosencrance was standing, too, fists balled at his side, laughing derisively.
When Lieutenant Brent Ross entered the sick bay, he was greeted by a roar of anger from the far end. Brushing past a seaman guard armed with a holstered Otsu, he began walking toward the disturbance. A livid Taku Ishikawa stood facing a sneering, chuckling Captain Kenneth Rosencrance. Both men were in short hospital gowns. Ishikawa’s left leg was bandaged from hip to ankle and blood streamed down his left arm. He was obviously weakened by his injury, swaying, favoring his burned leg. The seat of the American’s gown was stained with blood and lemon yellow pus.
IVs rocked and tubes fluttered as patients turned their heads curiously. Striding hurriedly toward the combatants, Brent heard shouts and footsteps behind him. The old orderly, Shingen Takeda, was on his heels bawling, “Fools! Fools! Enough! Into your beds!” The seaman guard hurried behind him, too, boots thudding on the polished linoleum.
But Ishikawa and Rosencrance were out of control. They heard nothing. Saw no one except each other.
“Leave him alone, Rosencrance!” Brent shouted, breaking into a run.
Taku moved first, lashing out with a vicious chop to the throat. If the burly flyer had had all of his strength, the blow would have been disabling; if not fatal. However, the American twisted with the weak attack and the blow thudded into the hard sinew of his shoulder and grazed his left ear instead of cracking his windpipe. Retaliation was quick, a fist the size of a small stump catching the Japanese on the ear and cheek, catapulting him upward and backward, crashing into a metal bed table, pitcher, glasses, water, medications, pencils and lamp flying and clattering to the deck. Stunned, the Japanese flyer hurtled against the wall and then slid down until he jarred into a sitting position, glazed eyes fixed on his opponent. Then, gripping his bed frame with one hand and pushing on the deck with the other he tried to rise.
The American prisoner whirled, faced Brent who approached slowly and deliberately, fists at his side. “Well, well,” Rosencrance jeered. “My ol’ buddy — the All-American boy.”
Shingen Takeda tried to restore order. “I won’t tolerate this. Into your beds — both of you.” He attempted to move past Brent, but Brent restrained the little man with one arm.
“Tolerate this, asshole,” Rosencrance said, extending a single finger.
“You’re nothing but slime, Rosencrance,” Brent said, moving closer, fists balled. He felt fury stir and every nerve in his body screwed up to the snapping point. The muscles of his shoulders and arms tightened up and knotted, the sinews of his neck stood out starkly, corded into the heavy bone of his jaw.
“Captain Rosencrance, I have orders to guard you. I’ll be forced to return you to the brig if you do not obey Orderly Shingen Takeda,” the guard said, trying to push his way to the front. But Brent held him back, too.
“Please, Lieutenant Ross, let me do my job,” the guard pleaded.
“What’s your name?”
“Seaman Second Class Shosetsu Yui, Mister Ross.”
“I’m the ranking officer present and I order you to resume your post.”
“But, sir…”
“Obey your orders, Seaman Yui.”
“Yeah, man,” Rosencrance laughed. “Be cool. Haul ass.”
“Mister Ross,” Orderly Shingen Takeda said harshly. “I am the top-rated medical orderly present. I command this medical facility. You are a line officer — you have no authority here.”
Brent gestured angrily, “Your command is out of control. In accordance with standing orders in any navy, I take command.”
“Under protest, sir.”
“Very well, Takeda. Put it in writing.”
“Yeah, man, put it in writing,” Rosencrance said, obviously enjoying the proceedings.
“This is my fight,” Taku said, slowing coming erect. Ignoring Taku Ishikawa, Brent turned to Rosencrance. “We have something to settle, Captain,” he said evenly, the blue of his eyes as hard as gun metal. He gestured, “You’re wounded.”
Rosencrance’s green eyes narrowed. “Nothin’ ol’ buddy. I can take care of you.” His face softened with a disarming smile. “I’d like to try you before the admiral…” He drew a single finger across his throat. Without warning, a huge, wide-open hand lashed out, catching Brent squarely on the cheek with a slap so hard the lieutenant’s teeth clashed together leaving a salty taste in his mouth and his vision flashed with stars. “Want more of it? Huh? More of it, ol’ buddy?”
“It is not your fight!” Taku shouted.
“It is now,” Brent growled, a familiar hot flow infusing his veins, speeding his heart and breath. He gestured to the end of the ward where seven empty beds were clustered. “Be my guest, Captain.”
“My pleasure, Lieutenant.”
Ignoring Takeda’s protests, the two men walked to the end of the room followed by dozens of eager, curious eyes. Taku sat on his bed heavily. Shingen Takeda rushed to the office and grabbed his phone. The guard stood stoically at the door.
Reaching the end of the ward, the antagonists stopped in a wide area with empty beds on both sides of the aisle. Rosencrance whirled, lashed out. But Brent was ready, stepping back lightly like the trained athlete he was, yet the fist still grazed his jaw.
Brent had been in many fights in his lifetime. At first, as a little boy stung by an opponent in a sporting event. A quick flurry of fists and it would be over. He never lost. Then came the Arabs — two in the Tokyo alley the first time he met Sarah Aranson. Surprised in the dark and fanned by terror, an atavistic fury had seized him burning clean the last vestiges of civilization. He had become a trapped animal and the only drive had been to obliterate. He remembered crippling one and plunging the broken bottle down into the other’s face until there were no eyes, nose or any other discernible features. He had fought in the same mindless, animalistic way against the assassin on Oahu, beating the man with a three-pound pipe wrench until his face, too, resembled newly ground beef. And now he stared into Rosencrance’s icy green eyes and the adrenaline flowed, charging his veins with that familiar urge to destroy, to annihilate.
But the American was formidable. Obviously not weakened by his wound, the man was shorter than Brent, but wide, broad and muscular. And he was condemned; a man with his life already forfeited. Why not hurt Brent? Kill him if he could.
As the two big men circled, fists balled and held up in the classic American style, Brent heard footsteps. Taku Ishikawa, two other patients, five orderlies and
the guard had moved down the aisle, standing close, eagerly following every move. Both men made small concessions to conventional boxing, rights guarding chins, lefts held high and moving menacingly like clubheaded cobras. But the space was too small, the men too big for fancy footwork. It would be a brawl.
“I’m going to clean your comb, ol’ buddy,” the flyer said, squatting low. “You’re nothin’ but a white, six-foot-four-inch, Jew-loving Jap.” The fist flicked out. Brent parried with his left easily. They began to circle.
“You get fifty Gs for me, Rosie?” Brent baited.
“You’re on the house, ol’ buddy. For free — for kicks.”
“Come and get it, Rosie.”
Brent was never deceived by an enemy’s eyes, always watching an opponent’s feet for his clues. He saw the weight shift forward. The right fist shoot out like a catapulted boulder. Brent ducked hard to his left, brought up his right, shifting his own weight from right foot to left at the same time. Rosencrance’s punch jarred the side of his head, glancing upward and brushing his ear as Brent rolled with it, his own right crashing into the big man’s nose.
Cartilage broke with the sound of
a heavy boot crushing twigs, mucous, spittle and blood flying. Exulting, the young lieutenant stepped closer, swinging his left in a punch aimed for the jaw. But he was facing an experienced brawler. Although staggered by the blow to the nose, Rosencrance ducked under the swing, trapping Brent in the circle of his massive arms. Both men freed one hand, punishing the other in the ribs and midsection. Brent could hear Rosencrance’s breath coming hard in his ear, short, mucous-addled gasps that sprayed his ear and cheek with spittle. “I’m going to kill you, you son-of-a-bitch. Kill you.” Rosencrance gasped.
Unable to do serious damage at close quarters, the men broke apart almost as if by silent agreement. All pretenses of boxing vanished. The space was too short, the men too big and the fury too great. Streaming blood down over his lips and off his chin, Rosencrance swung from the heels with a hail of blows like the barroom brawler he was.
Counterpunching, weaving and ducking, Brent Ross felt painful impacts on his shoulders and arms. Then a powerful blow to the head and black curtains dropped across the back of his eyes and comets flashed across his retinas. Shaking his head, Brent lashed back, felt ribs yield and crack under his fists and heard breath explode. Another punch to the forehead opened a streaming wound above his enemy’s left eye. Every time he hit the flyer, blood and sweat flew. And he could hear shouts, excited screams from the onlookers.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a battering ram caught Brent on the point of the chin and he felt himself propelled backward, blackness filled with exploding lightning bolts blanking his vision, the force of the punch jarring him so his teeth clashed together and he bit through his own tongue, the taste of his own blood thick and metallic. His legs became rubber and his knees collapsed as he tumbled backward, crashing into a bed which fell apart under the weight, as Rosencrance, shouting triumphantly, leaped on top of him.