by Dean Hughes
Wally felt the loss of what he had had with Sonbu. When he reached the shaft where the crew had been working, he quickly ate his day’s ration of rice from his bento box, and he knew that was the last he would eat again until the end of the workday. He also knew he would be working harder and longer. He hadn’t realized until that moment how difficult it was going to be to go back to a regular schedule. The idea that this drudgery could still continue for years was depressing. For almost three years he had told himself not to hope, not to expect things to get easier, but the weeks with Sonbu had softened him just enough to make this return to normal seem almost too much to deal with.
Still, he went to work. The kicker certainly did push hard, but he worked hard himself, something most of the supervisors didn’t do. He got up and wedged in the timbers himself, made sure they were placed correctly. His crew carried the timbers and cut them, but he could work wonders with a little handsaw and hatchet in fitting the logs to the shape of the shaft walls. In the course of the day, Kiku began to rely on Wally to work next to him, help support the timber as he worked on it, and then hand up the needed wedges.
Wally didn’t mind that because the work required some thought. He had to watch and be ready, and he had to recognize what Kiku was saying. The morning passed rather quickly as a result, and Wally began to think that things were not going to be as bad as he had feared. But then, just before the midday dinner break, Wally apparently misunderstood Kiku’s command. Wally handed him a wedge, and Kiku threw it back at him. The wedge missed Wally, but the man had thrown it hard enough that it certainly would have done some damage had it hit him. Wally was astonished. The man continued to scream and point, and Wally apparently got the right wedge the next time, but now he realized what he was up against.
During the break Kiku left. Wally wanted to catch a little nap after the hard morning, but he sat down next to Hernandez and said, “I see what you mean about that guy’s temper.”
“No, you don’t. Not yet,” Hernandez told him. “That was nothing.” Hernandez was a marine, and a tough guy. He had managed to keep a little more muscle on his body than most of the men. What he was losing was his hair. He wasn’t going bald in a pattern, the way men usually do, but all his hair had thinned out and grayed, so that he looked unhealthy, like someone diseased.
“What’s wrong with the guy?” Wally asked.
“I think he’s under pressure from his bosses. But he’s worked me over three different times. I mean really beat me up. And I never gave him a reason. When this war ends, I’ve promised myself I’m not going home until I find the guy, and I’m going to kick him until he pleads for mercy.”
“Naw. You won’t do that.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Just because you won’t want to stay and look for him. If we ever get out of here, we’ll just go.”
Hernandez had picked up a little rock. He was fiddling with it, rolling it from one hand to the other, but now, suddenly, he gave it a toss into the darkness. It struck a wall and then rattled onto the mine shaft floor. “We’re going to live with this the rest of our lives, Thomas. The health problems. The attitudes we’ve picked up. You can’t go through something like this and just walk away from it.”
“Maybe. But that’s what I’m going to try to do.”
“Well, sure. But I need to get some revenge on some of these guys–especially Kiku. Right now, that’s the main thing that keeps me getting up in the morning–knowing I’m going to pay him back someday.”
“You wouldn’t kill him, would you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve thought a lot of times that if I could kill him and get away with it–hide his body or something–I would do it. I don’t think I’d ever regret it, either.”
“You might, Hernandez. Once we get out of all this, you might not want that on your mind.”
“I’d take my chances.”
“You know Lewis Honeywell, don’t you?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“He reported me to the Japs once. He got me beat up, really bad. I think a guy like that is worse than these supervisors.”
“Hey, I don’t argue that.”
“When I see him, he always gives me a grin. Sometimes I think I could kill him right on the spot. But I’m trying to let it go. I don’t want to think about things like that.”
“Maybe I’ll kill him for you,” Hernandez said. He lay back and shut his eyes.
Wally did the same, but he didn’t go to sleep. He tried to picture the day that Hernandez had spoken of–when the prisoners were liberated. What would happen then? How soon would he get home after that? What would life be like when he could eat what he wanted, do what he wanted? It was nice to think of working with his brothers perhaps, going into business the way they had talked about: all of them home from the war, all stronger for their experiences and closer to each other. What he didn’t want to be was bitter, plagued with hate all his life.
He finally drifted off for a few minutes, and then Kiku was back, shouting to the men, getting them going.
The afternoon was hard. Wally wasn’t used to pushing himself so long. By late in the day he was exhausted. When a timber had to be pulled down and cut shorter, Kiku’s patience was gone. He was shouting every request, and twice he had not only told Wally what to do but then had shoved him in the direction he wanted him to go.
As Kiku got ready to reset the modified timber, he had the men set one end of a log against the wall, on a fairly steep angle, and hold it steady while he stood on it and placed the timber against the ceiling of the shaft. This was something he had obviously done many times before, and he was adept at it. But now the re-cut timber was slightly too short, and Kiku was furious. He shouted a Japanese word Wally didn’t understand. Wally looked up, unsure what to do. Kiku gestured with his hatchet, apparently pointing to something on the floor.
Wally looked down and spotted a wedge, and he assumed that’s what Kiku wanted. So he grabbed it, stepped close, and then reached up with it. As he did, Kiku suddenly lashed out with his foot and kicked Wally in the face. Wally spun away, grabbed his cheekbone, and knelt to the ground. And then, suddenly, he lost control. He came up in a rage, his mind on fire. He took a step back toward Kiku, and he reached for that boot that had struck him. He fully intended to jerk Kiku off that log and kill him. But in that instant, as he was reaching, his better judgment took over. His hand stopped, halfway to the boot.
As Wally stopped himself, he looked up, and he saw the terror in Kiku’s eyes. The man was in a vulnerable spot, balanced as he was. Wally could have given one hard tug on his foot and put him on his back on the floor of the mine, perhaps with his head cracked open.
Wally stood with his hand still suspended in the air. Kiku seemed frozen. The two stared at each other, reading one another’s thoughts. Wally knew already that he was in trouble. He thought of going ahead with his intention, since he had revealed it anyway, and the mere gesture might have already put his life in jeopardy. But he told himself he couldn’t do that. He didn’t know whether he was frightened to do it or unwilling to take a life. Either way, it wasn’t something he could do. But his heart was pounding in his ears. He knew he had come within a few inches of killing a man, or at least making the attempt.
Kiku climbed down, and now Wally expected his punishment. If Kiku didn’t beat Wally, he would probably go for help–to make certain Wally had no chance to fight back, or that others of the crew wouldn’t help him. But instead of approaching Wally, he walked to his tools, which were spread out in front of his tool box. He picked up the wedge he wanted, and he held it up. Then he spoke in Japanese, perhaps instructing Wally, or maybe explaining his anger. There was no telling. But he did seem to be making peace.
It was a strange moment. Kiku gave his little speech, and then he climbed back onto the log and went back to work. Hernandez looked at Wally and nodded, as if to say, “You just got away with one.”
The next day Kiku called Wally’s number ag
ain, and during the shift he didn’t curse as much, didn’t kick at all. Wally didn’t want to admit it to himself, but he liked the fear he had apparently created in the man. He felt more power than he had known throughout this ordeal, since the day he had first been knocked down and searched by the soldiers who had taken him prisoner, back in the Philippines. He had some of his pride back, and he savored the feeling. If it was sinful pride, it was far too satisfying to let go.
***
President Thomas enjoyed the General Authorities who came to his quarterly stake conferences. He loved having them in his home for dinner between the morning and afternoon sessions. He was especially pleased this time, because his friend
J. Reuben Clark, first counselor in the First Presidency, was visiting. The two were active in the Republican Party together. President Clark didn’t campaign or even make public statements on partisan politics, but he and President Thomas had talked several times that fall about the need to elect Thomas Dewey and remove President Franklin D. Roosevelt, who–in their view–was guiding the country toward socialism. As it turned out, however, Utah had not only voted overwhelmingly for FDR, but the voters had elected all Democrats to state offices once again. Herbert Maw had faced a tough test from J. Bracken Lee, but after days of counting and recounting, Maw, a Democrat, had come out on top, and Elbert Thomas, another Democrat, had been re-elected to the Senate. This was really the first time President Clark and President Thomas had had the chance to commiserate with each other. “What we have is a one-party state,” President Thomas complained. “And I just don’t think anything good ever comes from that.”
But Bea Thomas had obviously heard enough. “Now you two, don’t get started again,” she said. “I voted for Roosevelt–as you well know–and I think I did the right thing. Plenty of the Brethren agree with me too. So if you want to criticize the president, do it on your own time. I didn’t cook this dinner so I could sit and listen to a couple of hard losers.”
President Clark was a big, meaty man. When he began to laugh, he set the dishes on the table rattling. “I can see how much authority you have around this house, Al,” he said. “About like I’ve always had in mine. Now that Lute’s gone, my daughters tell me what to do.”
“Well, Luacine was always a little gentler than I am,” Bea said. She glanced at President Thomas, and he knew what she was thinking. The two of them had had some serious talks lately, and he had realized some things about himself that he had never suspected before. He had promised to make some adjustments, too, but it wasn’t easy for him.
“You only knew one side of her,” President Clark said. “When she got her back up, I always knew it. That’s when I had to be a real diplomat.”
President Thomas knew enough about Sister Clark to know there was some truth in that. Luacine had died in August, and President Clark had suffered from the loss. But he wasn’t one to say much that sounded like self-pity. He was a man who liked to laugh, and he could be tender at times, but in public, he rarely spoke about his personal life.
“Well . . . I respect my husband’s authority,” Bea said. “I always do exactly what he tells me–whenever he’s right.”
Everyone laughed again, but it was LaRue who flashed her pretty smile and said, “President Clark, I think you can see that the women in this house aren’t afraid to think for themselves.”
President Thomas didn’t mind Bea spouting off a little–mostly in fun–but he was not pleased at all that LaRue, at her age, would speak so arrogantly to such an important man. President Thomas had agreed with his wife to be more patient with LaRue, but of all his children, she was turning out to be the greatest test of his self-control.
President Clark chuckled and said, “Well, that’s as it should be. There’s nothing wrong with women–even little girls–thinking for themselves.” He winked at LaRue. He ate some of his potatoes and cut off a rather large piece of roast, which he chewed up quickly. Then he said, seriously, “Bea, tell me about your family. Have you managed to deal all right with your loss? Al tells me that he does all right with it, but I’m wondering what you’re feeling.”
“Al always thinks about everything from a religious point of view. He looks at the eternities and tells himself that he’s only lost Gene for an instant in time. I hear him say that, and I think, ‘Then why does it feel so long?’ Some days I just want my boy back, and that’s all I can think about.”
“What about the young woman? Wasn’t Gene engaged?”
“Not exactly. But they had an understanding. So it’s been very hard for her. She’s started dating a little, but there aren’t many boys her age around right now, and she hasn’t met anyone she’s interested in. She works for us, and I’m not so sure that’s the best for her anymore. She probably needs to break away from us and forget about the life she thought she was going to have.”
Beverly had been sitting quietly all this time, eating little, dabbing a bit at her potatoes. It was easy to forget she was there. But now she said, “I don’t want Millie to marry anyone else. I want her to marry Gene–in heaven.”
President Thomas saw a softness come into President Clark’s face. Beverly was sitting next to him at the dining-room table. He touched her arm with his big hand. “I’m sure you do feel that way,” he said. “But be a sister to her, no matter what she decides to do.”
“I will,” Beverly said, her voice little more than a whisper. She had put on a white apron to protect her pretty green church dress. It looked like a pinafore, and it made her look younger than she actually was.
President Clark continued to pat her arm, but he looked back toward President Thomas, and then at Bea. “Everywhere I turn, I meet young widows, or girls like this Millie–ones who were waiting for a boy who isn’t coming back now. It breaks my heart. It’s one of the horrors of this war–the loss of all this priesthood, boys who might have stayed home and been good fathers and Church leaders.”
“How’s your daughter doing?” Bea asked.
“Louise? Well, not bad. She’s certainly a blessing to me. I don’t know what I would do without her. But I’m certain that mortality looks very long to her right now. She misses Mervyn, of course.”
Mervyn Bennion, Louise’s young husband, had been killed in the attack on Pearl Harbor. Louise now lived with President Clark in his house on D Street in the Salt Lake “avenues.”
“How can anyone ever measure the damage this war has done?” Bea asked.
Everyone knew that President Clark had taken a stand against the American involvement in the war. He had spoken out against it openly and publicly. Even after the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor–and his own son-in-law had been lost–he had continued to argue that peaceable negotiations were possible.
“I’ve read estimates that fifty million people in the world have already died,” President Clark said. “But that doesn’t start to measure what we’ve lost.”
“But could we have avoided it?”
“I don’t know, Bea. I still believe we could have stayed out of it. But my dear friend David McKay disagrees with me, and so does most everyone else. What I keep asking myself is whether the world is ever going to learn to deal with problems in some other way. I’ve devoted my life to the idea that nations ought to be able to negotiate and not resort to combat.”
“How can you negotiate with Hitler?” LaRue asked, and there was a tone of challenge in her voice that once again embarrassed President Thomas.
President Clark was silent for a time. Finally he said, “I’ll just say this, LaRue. Hitler has more to answer for than anyone else in this whole mess. But in a war of this scope, no one’s hands are completely clean.”
“I don’t see what–”
“LaRue, that’s enough,” President Thomas said.
But President Clark gave his head a little shake, the flesh under his chin quivering as he did. “It’s all right,” he said. He looked across the table at LaRue. “Every nation involved in this war is killing civilians, and doing it o
n purpose. The Allies are bombing German cities into oblivion, killing vast numbers of people. I’m ashamed of that.”
LaRue nodded, seeming impressed by the solemnity of President Clark’s words. It was President Thomas who said, “But Hitler was the one who started killing civilians.”
“For me, that doesn’t change a thing,” President Clark said. “Nothing is more brutal than war, but there’s also nothing more brutalizing. We’ve given up some of our national honor by stooping to such behavior. We’ve lost our sense of morality, and no one even seems to notice. I hear nothing but praise and enthusiasm for what we’re doing. I just don’t understand it.”
Everyone was silent for a few seconds, and President Clark seemed to sense the awkwardness. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m only speaking for myself. It’s not something any of you have to agree with.”
President Thomas said, “Let me ask you this, President. I got a long letter from our son Alex this fall. He talked about some of the things you and I both told him before he joined the army. What I hear in his letters is that he’s disappointed with himself. He told me he felt he was doing all right as a soldier, but he felt very little of the Spirit of God within him. I haven’t known what to tell him. What would you say?”
For a time it seemed as though President Clark hadn’t heard. He was a vigorous eater, and he had begun to eat again. He was now going after the slices of roast on his plate, the potatoes and gravy. After a time, however, he put his knife and fork down, and he said, “Al, I think we asked too much of him. I know I told him to try to keep the Spirit, but I don’t blame him if he finds it difficult. Killing–or trying to kill–ought to bother him. Alex knows the German people, knows he’s shooting at young men he’d rather teach the gospel to, sit next to in church. I’m glad he takes no joy in it.”
“But what’s the war going to do to him?”