“All five of us got up there on top of the plane with our Mae Wests on. Had to be twelve-to-fifteen-foot swells, with the Green Hornet sinking fast. We’re all torn up. Bleeding. Dieter can’t speak or focus. Fitz has a bloody gash in his forehead. Hallmark and Meder pull the life raft out, but”—a pained look pinched his features—“wouldn’t you know it? The CO2 malfunctions. The waves come smashing over and wash us off the plane. Bob manages to grab Fitz somehow, but Dieter was gone.”
Meder let out a low whistle. “I was sure we were dead men. I’ve never prayed like that in my life.”
Nielsen nodded. “Same here. Believe me. Once we’re in the water, the three of us try to stay together, but soon their voices fade and I’m on my own.”
Dave shifted his weight. “How long were you out there?”
“I’m sure it took hours—half swimming, half floating. I was in a kind of daze toward the end. I dragged myself up on that beach with the last ounce of strength I had.” He shook his head in wonder. “How Meder got there towing Fitz I’ll never know. You were a real Man of Steel.”
Red crept across Meder’s cheeks. “Any of you would have done the same. Just happened I was the guy who was close enough to do it.”
Nielsen snorted. “It was all I could do to get myself there.”
Meder studied something beyond the cabin wall. “I got Fitz up on that beach, all right. But he was gone.”
The door slots slid open, bringing the conversation to a halt. The guard passed in eight small cups of weak tea. Next came rice balls about the size of crabapples, two for each airman. The slots closed.
Vitty brandished a rice ball. “Tonight’s gourmet fare, gents. Dig in.”
Nielsen lifted his tea cup, pinky extended. “To your health.” He took a swig.
Dave took slow sips of the lukewarm liquid that tasted like grass. He made sure he felt every bit of moisture as it trickled down his parched throat.
Meder bowed his head for a few seconds, then crossed himself.
Smith gave him an incredulous look. “You’re thanking the Lord for this?”
“I’m alive to eat it, aren’t I?”
Smith shrugged. “Alive? I guess you could call it that.”
Dave contemplated this. Ravenous as he felt, maybe a handful of rice was something to be thankful for. He offered a word of thanks to the Lord, then poised one of his rice balls in front of his face. “I’m seeing a wad of dirty rice, but I’m telling my taste buds it’s pot roast.”
Vitty groaned. “Don’t even think about comparing this mush to food at home.”
Dave closed his eyes and summoned the clearest memory he could of the savory taste and rich aroma of Mom’s roast. He took a bite.
Braxton spat. “Ugh!”
Dave opened his eyes. Braxton’s rice ball lay in pieces on the floor, next to the wad he’d spit out. The man was staring at it like it had sprouted legs.
Meder lowered his rice ball from his mouth. “What’s the matter?”
Braxton’s cheeks swelled, his throat worked. “Something’s moving.” He prodded at the rice.
Smith bent for a closer look. “Maggots.”
Dave spat out what he had in his mouth and dropped his rice ball like it burned his fingers. Sure enough, several of the rice grains twisted and wriggled. Bile forced its way up his gullet.
Men cussed all around the cabin—all making the same discovery. Vitty roared an impressive string of foul language. Hallmark looked grim. Smith, visibly deflated.
In the midst of all the hubbub, Nielsen sat very still, his rice ball intact in his hand. He held it up and gazed at it. “This, gentlemen, is protein. Amino acids. Essential for life and health. And I am going to eat it.”
Dave’s gut churned with disgust. “What?”
“You’re kidding,” Meder said.
Nielsen shook his head. “No, I’m not. My body needs nutrients, and nutrients it shall have. I intend to survive this, so when the war is over, I can see to it these monsters get what’s coming to them. Every iota of it.”
Braxton cleared his throat. “I don’t think I’ll last that long.”
Nielsen stared him in the face. “That’s why you will eat the food, no matter how disgusting. If there is a God, we will win—eventually. And I’m going to do what it takes to be around when we do.”
Watt’s face was grim. “All right, then. I’ll do it if you will.” His eyes changed focus to a point outside the cabin. “For you, Yvette.” He named his tiny daughter.
Dave shook his head. “What would Colonel Doolittle think if he could see us now?”
Meder lifted his rice ball in the air, for all the world as if someone had proposed a toast. “Our fearless leader would appreciate that we’re survivors. C’mon, fellows. Nielsen’s right.”
One by one, the others joined him—except Braxton, whose rice balls had both disintegrated on the floor.
Dave took another look at his. The maggots were unmistakable—squirming, a little larger than the rice grains, with dark spots on the end that had to be their heads. He couldn’t do it. “Here, Braxton. You can have this one.”
Braxton laid his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He shook his head. “Thank you, sir. But no thanks.”
“Geronimo.” Nielsen took a bite. The rest followed his example.
Dave watched the others chew. Morbid fascination took over. Can you taste the little buggers? Can you feel them?
Don’t ask what you don’t want to know. A fresh pang of hunger shot through his belly. He guessed he’d find out for himself soon enough.
Chapter Twenty
Wednesday, December 29, 1948
Osaka, Japan
Evening turned out to be Miyako’s worst time of day. The brothel walls reverberated with tinny music from the bar area and boisterous flirtation everywhere.
She settled in the common room. Its placement toward the rear of the building kept it a little more insulated from the mayhem.
She had to get out of that place.
She crossed to the window on feline feet and slid it open a few inches. Same carved grating in place here as in her room. She threw her weight against it, but it felt as solid as the one outside her window. No surprise. She heaved a sigh and folded her aching limbs beneath her on a cushion by the table, fingers pressed to her ears.
How else could she escape? She looked around the room. Curtains led to the kitchen, which probably had a door leading to the alley. That had potential. The staff might occasionally leave it unguarded. If she watched and waited for the right moment, she might be able to slip out unnoticed. But it would be tough to hang around watching for that moment without looking suspicious.
How about Imai-san’s window? Talk about tweaking the dragon’s own beard.
And she’d seen there was no exit from the garden.
She drummed her fingers on the table. A path would reveal itself if she kept her eyes and ears open. But it needed to reveal itself soon.
Yamada-san strode into the room. She huffed and heaved her girth onto a cushion.
Miyako bowed. “Please, make yourself comfortable. You’ve earned it. Good business tonight, from the sound of it.”
Yamada-san gave a decisive nod. “Very good business, Midori-chan. I think that nice rain might be helping us. Encouraging the men to come in and enjoy some warmth. Join me for a little sake?”
“Hai.” Miyako rose to fetch a pair of glasses from the kitchen. By the time she returned, Yamada-san had produced a carafe of sake from the sideboard. Miyako knelt across from her and poured for them both.
Yamada-san lifted the cup of clear liquid to her lips. “Arigato, child. I understand you came out a winner at Eight-Nine today.”
Word travels fast here in the henhouse. She veiled a self-satisfied smile behind a gracious bow. “Fortune favored me. And my older brother taught me a few things before... Well. But that Noriko, now.” She gave Yamada-san a sidelong glance. “Rumor has it she’s quite the card player, yes?”
Yamada-san glowered. “I know she cheats. I haven’t figured out how.”
“Maybe she does.” She leaned toward Yamada-san. “But between you and me, I’m confident she can be bested.”
Yamada-san narrowed her eyes. “How?”
“Like I said, my brother taught me a few things. But he didn’t teach me this trick.” She watched the lady’s face. This move could be risky if she’d read her wrong. “I can’t guarantee you’ll win every game. No one can. But if we work together”—she gave the older lady a level gaze she hoped exuded confidence—“I can boost the odds for you so you’ll win out over time.”
“What do you mean?”
“How badly do you want to beat her?”
Yamada-san sat back, measured her with her eyes. “Badly enough.”
“All right, then. Here’s what I propose.” A distant sound like rushing water seemed to rise in her ears. “First, we come up with a system of signals. Next, when you see a card, you let me know its number.”
Yamada-san jerked up straight and frowned. “And what makes you think I would agree to such a thing?”
Miyako gave her a quick bow. “Please pardon the offense! I’m sure you wouldn’t, under ordinary circumstances. But I thought, since you’re sure she cheats—”
Yamada-san sniffed. “Which she does. Well, go on.”
“Then, based on what I know about the cards you’ve seen and the cards I’ve seen, I signal back. Tell you whether to stand or draw. Together, we have better information than she does, and we make better decisions.”
“I suppose it could work.” The words crept out.
“Not to win every game, of course. But over time.”
“The signals would have to be subtle.” Yamada-san pinned her with a direct gaze. “What do you expect to gain by this, ah?”
“I’m not interested in the winnings. Let’s just say I’m hoping you’ll do me the honor of a small favor.”
“Oh?” Yamada-san’s eyebrows lifted. “What would that be?”
The rushing sound in her ears was less distant now, but she did her best to sound casual. “I need to leave the Oasis for a few hours. A little urgent business I need to take care of in the next day or two. I’m not sure which night yet. Do you think you could arrange that for me somehow?”
“That will be quite difficult.” Yamada-san sucked in her breath, then pressed her lips into a thin line. “How do I know you’ll come back?”
Miyako summoned all her wide-eyed innocence. “I need the money for Papa-san.”
Yamada-san still wore that measuring look. “I should be able to come up with something, if you show me that this ruse of yours can really help me beat her.”
Miyako bowed. “I’d be honored if you’d consider it.”
Yamada-san went quiet, brows knotting.
Miyako lapsed into a musing voice. “Can’t you picture her face when she loses?”
A slow smile broke across Yamada-san’s lips.
“This will be fun. I promise. We can work out our signals tomorrow.”
“I’ll find you later this evening. But”—the old courtesan swigged her sake and stood, pinning Miyako with a glare—“don’t be baka enough to think you can pull anything over on me.” She bobbed a curt bow and left.
Miyako finished her sake next to the brazier, running calculations in her head that made her gut go sour. What she hadn’t told Yamada-san was that all her machinations would improve the woman’s odds only slightly.
It doesn’t matter whether I actually help her win. As long as she wins.
This was going to take some intervention from the ancestors.
19 June 1942, Shanghai, China
61 Days Captive
It seemed the airmen had won themselves some sort of grudging respect. For the rest of their three-day journey by sea, apart from pushing what passed for food through the door, the Japs left them alone.
But once they docked, the guards from the ship handed them over to another unit, and it was back to business as usual. There was a night transfer through the city of Shanghai to a dingy basement prison. The Japanese warehoused the eight of them together in a cage-like enclosure in a basement room. Bamboo poles served as bars. A dim bulb in a filthy glass fixture above the stairs kept the room in perpetual twilight.
They wasted away in that hellish cage for several weeks—torrid summer weeks. The heat was unbearable.
One day, mid-morning, Dave lay curled up in a corner of the cage, doing his best to keep out of the other men’s way so he could rest. It had been his and Watt’s turn to stand watch the night before, which was a joke, since neither of them was up for much standing. But the men had organized a system to have a pair of watchmen around the clock. The watchmen had two essential jobs—keep the rats off the sleepers and help Hallmark get to the latrine. He was too weak with dysentery to get there on his own.
Japanese voices sounded from above. A dozen guards trooped down the stairs—not the usual trio who delivered their so-called meals. The lead guard produced a key ring. The others clustered behind him.
Nielsen shot him a look that asked what’s this?
Dave shrugged, his pulse quickening.
“Horyo. Koi.” The man opened the door to their cage, gestured at Smith, who was closest to him, then at the floor at his own feet. The guard behind him jangled a pair of handcuffs.
“Oh, no you don’t.” Watt stood. “Where are you taking Smith?”
The guard made a sweeping gesture, this time incorporating them all.
“Transfer?” Meder muttered. “About bloody time.”
Dave dragged himself to his feet. The men around him did the same—except Hallmark, who groaned and stirred. A fly lit on his eyelid. He was too listless to brush it away.
Meder knelt and shook Hallmark. “Time to go, buddy.”
The lead guard’s face darkened. “Hayaku.” He waved the guards nearest him into the bamboo enclosure.
Two of them took Hallmark’s shoulders. A third pushed Dave aside and grasped the invalid’s knees.
Dave filed toward the door, Nielsen and Meder moving with him. He stepped over the threshold and held his wrists out for the cuffs.
Whatever came next, it had to be an improvement. If it didn’t kill him.
The guards brought them out to a trio of military trucks. A soldier had to bring a stretcher for Hallmark and the convoy moved.
It’d been weeks since Dave had seen anything besides a prison wall. He craned to look past the guards for a glimpse of landscape.
Each time they slowed, his muscles tensed. Was this his moment? How hard would it be to leverage himself across the guards’ knees and vault through the opening at the back of the truck’s canvas cover? Roll when he hit the road and come up running. Escape into the twisting alleys of the city or—a few minutes later—dive into the gracefully terraced wheat fields and disappear. Then he’d be on to Chungking and back in the fight.
And finally doing something to be the hero Chen and Pete died protecting. And to get back to Eileen.
Then sunlight would glint off the sharp edge of a bayonet and the fantasy would melt away, leaving nothing but black despair. He’d be back on a hard bench seat in a stifling truck. With several Japanese rifles separating him from freedom. And more in the trucks behind them.
After an hour or so, a guard tower manned by soldiers loomed to his left, like a giant spider on spindly wooden legs. An all-too-substantial wall—ten feet of cinder-block topped with four lengths of forbidding barbed wire—obscured the last glimpse of golden field and the Shanghai skyline in the distance.
The truck halted. A pair of Japs jumped off and used their rifles to gesture the prisoners out of the trucks.
The guards directed them into a featureless cinder-block building. Unsteady legs took Dave up three cement steps and through a doorway.
Dozens of Japanese thugs crammed the room. They bristled with weapons—rifles, bayonets, swords. A long table stood on a raised wooden pla
tform along the far wall. Five men in flowing black robes sat behind it. Judges, it seemed, who studied the prisoners like lab animals, their faces impassive.
We’re on trial? A shudder ran up Dave’s spine.
Guards used their standard rifle-butt persuasion to get the prisoners into a line facing the judges. Watt and Nielsen lay Hallmark’s stretcher on the floor. Flies covered Hallmark’s exposed skin. Vitty wobbled a little where he stood.
The judge in the center—the one with the deepest wrinkles—pounded a gavel. The curls on his ridiculous Dickensian wig bobbed. Those wigs more than offset any dignity the judges’ robes might have given them.
A kangaroo court if there ever was one.
An expectant hush filled the room. The judge with the gavel adjusted his glasses and glowered at them. He started a lengthy speech in Japanese. A meaningless torrent of syllables. Like the “confession” Dave signed, he didn’t understand a word of it except his own name.
Waves of fever had him alternately beading with sweat and convulsing with shivers. It was all he could do not to keel over.
Stand straight. Be a man.
“Are we on trial here?” Watt spoke up from somewhere at the far end of the line. “What’s the charge?”
“Horyo. Damare,” the Jap thundered.
Watt’s voice rang through the room. “What’s your evidence? Where’s our defense? Are we on trial?”
Guards swarmed Watt. A rifle butt bashed into his kneecap with a sickening crack.
Dave cringed, feeling the blow like it had landed on his own body. Watt did what Dave should have done—dealt with the threat to the men. Dave had been too focused on his own misery.
The chief judge stood and stared along the line of them. “Damare. Damare.” He waited for the commotion in the room to die, then resumed his speech.
Dave couldn’t shake his feeling of disbelief. This trial was a travesty. A joke. But their lives might hang on its outcome. And unlike Watt, he hadn’t had the presence of mind to lodge an effective protest. For himself, or for his men.
He looked at the judges’ impassive faces and the sick feeling returned. It made no difference. The thing was rigged.
The Plum Blooms in Winter Page 18
