WARRIORS

by Warriors (retail) (epub)

  “Jones, dear?” Adele came up behind him. Grasped the arm he didn’t realize till then was shaking. “Take me for a walk through town? Maybe it’s time I get acquainted with it,” she said and leaned her head against him a second time.

  That night, they ate at the restaurant Jones had found with the tablecloths. As Jones had predicted, Adele ordered the Crab Louis. But to the waiter, she pronounced it with the hard “s.” Jones corrected her. “That’s ‘Loo-ey,’ honey. It’s French.”

  “Loo-ey,” she said, stretching the vowel. Clearly savoring the way the foreign sounds filled her mouth. “Louis.”

  “I hope you like the food as much as you like the name,” Jones said, typically gruff, but with a shy laugh that made Adele smile. How long since he had seen that smile? Didn’t just miss it while he was away first at Naknek and then Kodiak, but longer. More than a year and a half. Too long. Keep that girl smiling all through dessert, Jones decided—no matter how much it cost—and all along the walk back to their new home. Maybe even surprise her with something nice. Materials for new curtains, mebbe, like she’d been prattling on about the day before—if Kodiak had a store that sold stuff like that. Doubtful. Ah well, he’d make it up to her. For time lost while off with Dad, with Swede. He’d make her okay.

  PART FOUR

  34

  DEPARTURE

  SHIOGAMA, MAY 1952

  Kiyoshi Tsurifune kissed his wife Miki in the Western fashion when he departed from their home with the last of his sea-going equipment. Later they might bow formally in parting, if she were to decide to change from Western dress to a traditional kimono when she would come with Kiyoshi’s parents to see them off. The blending of their two ways, dictated by the occasion, had begun to be natural.

  The fishing ship in the harbor floated with an air of readiness as people began to assemble below. He helped his father up the gangway. Father and son stood aboard, each with legs firmly apart, surveying the deck space around them.

  The crewmen greeted them with respectful bows. For himself, Kiyoshi waved the bows aside and announced cheerfully, “No more of this. We’re now fishermen together.” Indeed, two of the men aboard had served under his command in the field of battle more than a half dozen years before. Happily, he now had the means and authority to employ both brave, reckless Satsumo and quiet, obedient Hito, both of whose fathers had fished for his own father before the war.

  While Father had turned over all concern for ship repairs to Kiyoshi, he had kept for himself the selection of the crew. Every one of them was leaving a family on the quay, whether wife and children or aged parents. Father, in choosing from among more applicants than he could sign aboard, had considered both their youthful strength and their family obligations within the community. All had defended the homeland in some capacity. Father had not forgotten his own dead son Shoji, the heroic Kamikaze pilot, whose marker—lacking the comfort of ashes—he still visited regularly.

  “Hah, see there,” exclaimed Father. Some rust still flecked an underside of the trawl windlass.

  “Ai! I’ll tell the captain to see to it,” declared Kiyoshi. It annoyed him that he hadn’t noticed it himself. Through his own efforts, under the general approval of Father, new paint glowed on most of the superstructure, while belowdecks odors of rust and age had been dispelled and the crew cabins were made habitable. How could this small piece of rust have been overlooked?

  Yet Kiyoshi could take stock without apology. Ever since his trips as envoy to America, the common people in town had treated him with deference. Even the vessel owners, his seniors, now fell silent when he cleared his throat to speak. All forgotten was any failure to die honorably in battle.

  As for the nation itself, some in the big cities were still homeless, sleeping under bridges—as he could see from the train that took him to Tokyo for meetings. But in smaller towns, like his own, there had begun to be food enough at table, so that no one had to pretend to be full so others could be nourished. It was more than a year now since he’d commanded both Miki and his own mother to stop doing this and had with a laugh heaped their plates with more rice and fish than they could eat to make his point—even though to do so he had diminished his own portion.

  On the pier, Miki stood with his mother, both holding the hands of his son. The son who carried the name of Kiyoshi’s dead brother. Young Shoji, now nearly six years old, wore his school uniform. The boy had, perhaps, been allowed to leave classes for the occasion. He himself had been too busy with preparations to follow his child’s schedule. Of most importance, the boy stood straight. Strong. Not fat of course. But sturdy.

  Other families had also gathered. Fishermen from the vessel that was about to depart held their children and gazed at their wives in parting. It would perhaps be months before they would all see each other again, depending on the fortune of fish in the American waters that were soon to be opened to their nets.

  One of the boys Shoji’s own age was puny in comparison. His parents had not sacrificed enough during the hungriest years to nourish the growth of their precious young. His own Shoji stood in vigor like the American children he’d seen in Alaska only a few months ago. The cap on his head that was lettered alaska: the last frontier bought for him at the Anchorage airport, sat tilted loose on his head. Too big still, but he’d grow into it. The boy could even say “hello” and “thank you” in English, as coached by his father to the clucking delight of his mother and the admiration of his grandparents.

  Kiyoshi held himself straight while permitting his gaze to travel over his vessel’s machinery and superstructure. The winter months that had passed since his trip to the salmon and crab fields of Alaska had been eventful. A treaty signed by the governments of America and Japan had finally, officially, cancelled all documents of war between the two nations. He himself, as his town’s envoy to the Americans in Tokyo, had helped gain consent for Japanese fishing vessels to enter the waters off Alaska. The waters of the Pacific Ocean off the far Aleutian Islands had been barred to Japan by war for more than a dozen years. Now, even waters enclosed within the Bering Sea and Bristol Bay, which Japanese vessels had never before entered in any number, would lie open to them. And he himself was to voyage across the Pacific Ocean, in a vessel bearing his family’s proud name on the manifest, to participate in the opening.

  Now that the years of struggle had reached a point of recovery, he could watch the progression of events with fresh perspective. America no longer knew whether to keep Japan dependent or to help Japan grow strong. Thanks were due to the new war that now engaged the Americans in Korea for it probably sped the process along. Fortunate also, perhaps—not certain yet—was the fall of China to the Communists three years earlier. No question now that America now needed its old enemy Japan to be strong, for America’s old allies the Russians and Chinese had become feared threats. The dance that his own country played, like that of some maiden stuck between Kabuki warlords, needed to be both bold and cautious, but in either case it no longer needed to be passive.

  Russia indeed was evil. It had grabbed Japan’s own Kuril Islands as war booty, after doing nothing itself to defeat Japan. General Douglas MacArthur, backed by the great American President Harry S. Truman had allowed this. Russia now harvested big crabs off the Kurils and begrudged Japanese re-entry into these waters of their own tradition. They continued to block Japanese interests as they had since the days of the shoguns.

  Clearly America could not afford to keep Japan subservient and defeated. And thus to the advantage of the Tsurifune family, this great nation now needed Japan as its ally. But for that threat of China that America so feared, and for America’s new war in Korea against a communist enemy supported by China, Japan’s fortunes might not have turned so rapidly. Japan had begun to recover, even to prosper, and with it the fortunes of the Tsurifune family company that had seemed completely destroyed.

  And now, beyond his dreams of only one or two years ago, a Tsurifune fishing vessel was on its way to be welcomed into Am
erican waters.

  “He’s arriving, Tsurifune-san and Kiyoshi-san,” said the fishing master as he and the captain joined them. On the quay, the gathering crowd opened a path for a rickshaw that stopped at the gangway. Out of it climbed the priest from the ceremony two days before. With suitable gravity, the priest fitted a conical Shinto hat on top of his head, then straightened and rearranged the embroidered robe that had wrinkled around his open shirt. A man appropriately somber, as he had been two days previous. Leaning on his cane beside Kiyoshi, Father beside him grunted his approval.

  On that afternoon two days before, at the side of the lifeboat that the crew was preparing to lower, Kiyoshi’s father had touched his arm. “I’ll stay here. It’s now for you to assume full authority.”

  Kiyoshi now knew for certain that his time had come. Not only was he to be responsible for the physical welfare of Tsurifune vessels but also for their spiritual fortunes. For a moment he felt the panic of uncertainty. Then, in a voice of firm authority, he stated, “As you wish.”

  He stepped into the lifeboat along with his fishing master and captain. When he nodded, the coxswain half-bowed in return and pulled the cord to start the outboard engine. Soon they were traversing the harbor out to open water, then toward a low island rising far enough away that only the tops of trees spiked its silhouette.

  In the harbor they passed smaller vessels that pursued a harvest far removed from the one he was chasing. Most were open wooden boats with only a single fisherman arranging the net or with a wife at work beside him, both with faces hidden under traditional conical hats. Neither party acknowledged the other.

  A larger open boat carrying crew to the village set net slowed speed to give their own boat way, and Kiyoshi felt the eyes of the set net crew following them. All these were now older men, left behind from the days of starvation after the war when he himself had gone out to help pull a meager catch. Some he recognized with a nod. From the old-fashioned bows they returned, they acknowledged his change in status.

  Younger men had now found other ways to live. The Tsurifune far-seas vessel had hired only the youngest of former crewmen for the voyage. So it was.

  “We must face toward the future, Father,” Kiyoshi had declared at the time, not without sadness for the decision.

  “Yes. Yes.” Father’s acquiescence had been equally sad.

  Their lifeboat passed the anchored fleet of steel high seas vessels like their own. These were still idle, but soon would become active again when America had opened its fishing waters fully. On one, where men were chipping rust, work stopped and faces followed their own boat’s course. Kiyoshi knew what they were thinking. If his own vessel succeeded in the Alaska fishing grounds, their ships could follow.

  When they entered a short patch of open water between the mainland and the island, waves lapped and the boat’s bow sent up spray. The coxswain slowed the engine, although his passengers, scorning such mere spurts from a sea they would soon encounter in full force, had faced into the droplets of water without flinching. Pines on the island took individual shape as they neared. Before long, the boat was tied to a small pier. The party climbed up to the temple through a path overgrown by roots and heaped with brown needles.

  The temple needed repair—that much was clear enough. There were not just the pine needles to be swept clear, but rotted posts needed replacing, and the carved entrance required fresh gilding. Even the wooden guarding statue of Ebisu the deity of fishermen—who held a fish in one hand—was weathered to the grain on top his head and was missing part of his chubby side. How long had it been since more than small coastal boats had needed a blessing? With overseas waters now opened again, it would become Kiyoshi’s own responsibility as a town leader to see renovations were made. One more duty. Better indeed that he hadn’t killed himself foolishly in the cause of a lost war.

  Indeed the priest himself, although vigorous in body, appeared shabby and unprosperous. He scampered up the hill wearing torn pants, with sandals flopping, and quickly donned a patched robe embroidered in patterns of faded silk. Kiyoshi explained his mission while adding a few more yen to the donation than Father had instructed him to give. Inside the temple, they knelt at the altar, while the priest approached the shrine, the ship’s omamori plank in his hand. What is my job here? Kiyoshi had wondered suddenly. What had Father done? Now, instead of only hearing about it, he was part of the ceremony itself.

  It turned out that all he’d needed to do was to receive a freshly-blessed omamori and to bow with it before the altar when instructed. At length the priest declared, “It has been blessed so that your vessel will have safety and good catches. Place it securely in the vessel’s shrine. I’ll come there on the day of departure to ensure and complete the ceremony.”

  The priest ascended the gangway. After exchanging respectful bows, Tsurifune father and son led the priest to the wheelhouse. Kiyoshi opened the door of the shrine mounted on the bulkhead. Inside, newly purchased, were a miniature temple, a gilded bell, and filigreed lamps flanking a cup, along with a large bottle of sake and a leafing branch. The fishing master and captain had also followed to the wheelhouse. They crowded back against the box of new electronic equipment called “radar,” careful not to jar it. The priest waved the branch over their heads, and they respectfully clapped hands to draw divine attention.

  Kiyoshi followed his father’s example. At first he participated with detachment while wondering what the Americans back in Alaska would say of such a ceremony. But suddenly he clapped with fervor—in case there were indeed gods paying attention. Not all can be explained by Western logic, he thought.

  The ceremony ended. As Kiyoshi prepared to pay, Father stepped forward with his old authority. He gave generously, or so it appeared from the way the taciturn priest smiled before tucking the bills into a pocket beneath his robe.

  “I’ll stay,” said the priest. “To bless the vessel as it leaves, then, if you wish.”

  “That is our wish,” said Father. He spoke with his former upright power, as he had not spoken for years. Turning to Kiyoshi, he demanded sternly: “My son. Is your vessel ready for departure?”

  Kiyoshi glanced at the captain and the fishing master for a hasty confirmation and then declared as if addressing a commander: “Tsurifune Vessel Number One, the Shoji Maru, is ready, Father. At your permission.”

  “Not my vessel today. But as I announce for all to hear: yours!” There was a murmur among those watching as Father bowed, not with a usual paternal nod, but low—as to a superior. “Go to restore the fortune of the family Tsurifune, that your own son may inherit, and his son after. I myself shall stand below with the women, and with the grandson you’ve given me to replace the heroically dead Shoji, your brother who has joined the spirits.” Kiyoshi had no recourse but to bow equally low in acceptance.

  Soon after, the vessel’s hawsers were thrown from the bollards. Ashore, the watching families tossed streamers of colored paper to their men at the rail, while holding tight to the other end themselves. As the engines churned a wash from the propeller astern and the vessel moved slowly away, the streamers pulled taut. One by one, the loved ones ashore let go. Bands of yellow, green, and red paper flapped free and trailed in the widening stretch of water until the men at the rail slowly pulled them in.

  Kiyoshi watched the figures of his family grow smaller. His fingers held especially to a white streamer that Miki had helped throw from the hand of their son.

  35

  FACTORY FLEET

  The sea voyage to Alaskan waters took more than a week. En route, the waters of the wide Pacific Ocean seldom generated waves smaller than six feet high. Sometimes seas swelled above eye level—even from the upper deck of the wheelhouse. They rose higher yet during the few hours of a storm, when, in each wave cycle, the decks dipped from port to starboard and any unattached objects clattered loose, while the vessel’s bow cut into roiling water that flew in spray against the wheelhouse windows.

  “A calm passage. Every
day of it,” observed the captain, Shiju Tanaka. In days before the war he had seen this ocean through true storms, and he wanted his experience to be known. “It’s nearly June by the calendar, Tsurifune-san,” he declared, showing his teeth in an ingratiating smile. “Let me tell you of real January seas in waters like these.”

  “Ah? Perhaps you’ve forgotten,” rejoined Kiyoshi, working to hide his annoyance. “You haven’t been permitted to fish far-seas Pacific Ocean for—how long?” He stared through the wheelhouse window at a blackening sea that swelled past at a height high above his head and struggled to remain upright—as befitted a vessel owner. The vomiting had stopped three days ago, but as yet, food scarcely stayed quiet in his stomach. Had he fallen so out of rhythm with the sea? He who had endured a typhoon out of Okinawa only seven years ago?

  Captain Tanaka, who had once served on one of his father’s three fishing vessels, had subsequently risen to command of a small vessel in the Japanese Navy. His face was now lined from squinting at the sun, and his once-easy laugh had been replaced by that nervous grin that was perhaps appropriate for the gravity of his present position. After returning from the war, Tanaka had called on Father and declared himself able to be not only a captain, but better: a fishing master. Father had told him that such a promotion came only with proven judgment. In truth, two of Father’s old fishing masters—men he knew could judge the whereabouts of a good catch—had also come to ask for employment long before any of his vessels were in condition again.