Noyama and his father walked down Route 1 toward town, Noyama hobbling to keep up with his father. Masao looked back to see his son’s cheeks puffed, his face a bit red. “Say, what’s wrong?” He stopped, his hands on his hips.
“I’m fine, Father,” said Noyama. “Just a stiff leg from a long train ride.” He hadn’t told his parents about the severity of his wounds at –Bougainville. Only that he’d been removed from flying status and bumped upstairs, working on a flag officer’s staff.
“What is it you’re not telling me?” he asked.
“Can it wait until we get home?”
“As you wish.” There was an edge to Masao’s voice as he fell into pace with his son.
Realizing he’d handled it badly, Noyama asked lightly, “Aren’t you working today, Father?”
“They’ve given me the day off in your honor.”
“That’s very nice, Father,” Noyama said, as he took in Mount Kazan to their right, Mount Rokujo to their left. “And ahead was Mount Otawa with the ancient Kiyomizu Temple and its wondrous, meticulously kept grounds. Oh, how he wished he could play again here in springtime: tumbling down the grass slopes, Hiroshi giggling, Masao pushing them along faster.
They turned up a lane and were soon at the modest four-room wooden structure where he’d grown up. He’d no sooner kicked off his shoes than his mother, Mishoko, stood before him. He leaned down to kiss her and was surprised by the severity of her hug. “We miss you so much,” she said. Then she stood back, cupped his jaw, and examined his face. “You’ve been hurt. What is it that you haven’t told us.” Her voice had that penetrating effect he’d known as a child. Except this voice held no contempt or admonition or threat of punishment: only compassion.
“Oh, Mom, it wasn’t–”
Someone moved behind her. “Hiroshi,” Noyama fairly yelled and wrapped his arms around his little brother. Pounding each other’s backs, Noyama finally stepped back and grinned, “Look at you. “An ensign in the navy. “And here: pilot’s wings. I didn’t know, Hiroshi. How did you qualify so quickly?”
“At age nineteen, Hiroshi Noyama had graduated from Etajima Naval “academy after just two years. From age four, he had buzzed through the house with wooden gliders and other flying contraptions, wanting to be a pilot. “They jumped me over a bunch of kids because I had the best eyesight and best coordination. “And if you don’t watch out, they’re going to jump me over you, make me a full captain so you’ll have to salute me! Finally, my big brother paying the respect he owes me. Hah!” He thrust a fist in the air.
Father and two sons laughed. –But Mishoko still wore her sober expression. “I see it in your face, my son. Tell me what happened.”
Noyama said, “Make you a deal?”
Michiko’s eyes narrowed, “Don’t forget who you’re talking to.”
“I’ll never do that, Mom.” He hobbled over to a chair and sat heavily.
"Uhhhh.”
Masao and Mishoko sucked in their breath.
Noyama massaged his leg and looked up. “–buck up, you people. This is a present from “Admiral Halsey and his boys over –Bougainville. I jinked right when I should have jinked left. “ P-38 got me. –But I got the plane back to –Buin. You should have seen the holes. Damn thing never flew again.
“Here, Mom.” He handed up the package. “Present from “Admiral Kurita. Two ducks for dinner tonight, all plucked and dressed. “ll you have to do is pop them in the oven. “And these ducks are fatted, right from the Emperor’s “Aviary.”
Mishoko kneeled before her son and threw her arms around him. “My two boys together, I can’t believe it. “A special dinner, a special moment. Please thank the admiral for us.”
“It’s okay, Mom.” She wouldn’t let go. The others sat.
“Please talk some sense into your brother,” she said in his ear.
“What is it, little man?” he called across the room to Hiroshi.
“What, me?” he replied. “Just going into advanced training soon. Dive-bombers. Can you imagine that? Four thousand meters and then you push over” – he gestured with his hands -- “vrooom. There goes an “American tank. Oops! –Big mistake. I hit Imperial army headquarters instead. Too bad. –Back to primary training.”
Noyama and Masao laughed while Mishoko stood and accepted the packages. “I’ll do your deal. We’ll have a nice dinner, then it’s off to the Suji’s for therapy.” She referred to Sujiyama’s Onsen – public bathhouse. “Something tells me you’ve rushed things and something hasn’t knitted properly.”
She wiped at her eyes, flashed a look at her husband, and walked toward their small kitchen. Masao followed, muttering to himself.
Hiroshi gave a wan smile. “You off flying status?”
“All done.”
“You should have let them know, I mean, about your wound. I bet it was really serious. It’s not nice to keep secrets.”
“I didn’t want them to worry.” He leaned forward. “Now tell me, Hiroshi.”
“What?”
“What is it that you haven’t told us?”
* * * * *
Noyama’s parents and young Hiroshi hadn’t enjoyed a delicacy for at least three years, let alone two fatted ducks from the Emperor’s private game preserve. With a little scrambling, Michiko made a navy bean soup. The duck followed, basted with a ginger and teriyaki sauce and rice on the side. Masao surprised them all with three bottles of “Asahi beer that he’d been hoarding. “After tea, they walked down the road to Sujiyama’s Onsen. Over light protests, Noyama paid for them all, and they went to their respective rooms to prepare.
Noyama took his time, sitting on his stool and thoroughly washing himself with soap and water. He did it three times, making sure he was squeaky clean, and then limped into the great room where the ofura– the soaking tub – was situated. Fortunately it was a Thursday night, and only one other couple occupied the other end. His mother and father and Hiroshi were already fully immersed in the water up to their necks, steam lightly wafting around their faces.
Here comes the hard part. He casually tried to drape his towel over his leg and even turned his back. –But it was of no use; the towel didn’t cover enough. His mother gasped at the sight of his mangled leg. “Yuzura!”
“Easy, mother, it’s all right,” said Noyama, quickly hobbling into the ofura. He drew in his breath sharply and got to his waist without too much trouble. Then he reached over and pulled up the thermometer: thirty-eight degrees Celsius. He took his time settling; finally the water lapped over his shoulders. Its warmth caressed him, penetrating every pore of his body, in a way, giving him a sense of being lifted. “Mmm.”
“What happened?” Masao asked. “Is that why you’re no longer flying?”
“Like I said, Father, I was shot down over –Bougainville. I was lucky to live. The plane never flew again,” He chuckled with a look at Hiroshi. “And the doctors had great sport patching me up.” “Actually, the doctors wanted to amputate. –But Noyama had resisted and it eventually grew better.
The others looked away, but Masao glanced quickly at his left eye patch.
“This is good therapy, I’ll bet,” said Hiroshi.
Noyama nodded. “I’ve tried it a couple of times. –But one doesn’t find many ofura at sea, nor in Lingga Roads.” He settled back. “… Ahhh, you’re right. It does feel wonderful.”
Noyama looked to Hiroshi. “Tell me little brother, now that you have wings, where are you stationed?”
Hiroshi fixed him with a gaze. “Suzuka.”
“An unsettled feeling surged in Noyama’s stomach. Then he had it. Ugaki had briefed them in their Meguro war games. New special attack squadrons were being formed at Suzuka, Kochira, Tokushima, and Kanoya air bases. This was because Japan no longer had pilots skilled enough to get close to bomb enemy ships. “And there was no time to fully train new ones. Thus, the Shiragiku Special “Attack Squadrons were getting ready to send able young volunteers against the “Americans, their
planes loaded with a torpedo or a single five-hundred-kilogram bomb—on a one way mission. They were to deliberately crash their planes into “American ships - preferably aircraft carriers or battleships. They had gamed it on the last day when the blue-team scored two Shiragiku hits on a red-team carrier, forcing it to retire. He sucked in his breath. “You?”
Hiroshi nodded.
Their parents smiled politely, not realizing what they were discussing.
“I’m in the Wakagiku (Young Chrysanthemum) Squadron. We’re shipping out to the Philippines early next week. This is... my last time.” He looked down to the water.
“Now you’ve done it,” said Noyama. Hiroshi, always the flamboyant one. “l always wanting to grow up fast, to be like his big brother and fly fighter planes. Hiroshi was eager to get in the war when he still should have been in school. “and now he’d joined the kamikaze corps, the divine wind.
“What would you expect me to do?” said Hiroshi. “It’s over, anyway.”
“What?” said their parents.
“Maybe not,” said Noyama.
“It’s true,” said Hiroshi. “Except now, I can do it with honor.”
Hiroshi stared at the water, so Noyama asked, “What are you flying?”
“A –5.” Hiroshi referred to a Nakajima –5N2 single-engine torpedo bomber. “I’m not afraid.”
“No, little brother, I don’t doubt that,” said Noyama. He looked to his mother and father. Their smiles were still there, but now they looked confused. They weren’t following what Hiroshi was saying. “and Mishoko was fidgeting, twisting her hair.
“I’ll tell them.” Noyama said.
“Thank you, Yuzura,” said Hiroshi.
Noyama turned to his parents. “Mother, Father. Hiroshi has joined a Shiragiku squadron He is–”
“–not coming back, is he?” barked Masao Noyama, his chin up.
“Ooooww,” gasped Mishoko. “I knew it. It was in your face.”
Hiroshi looked to the ceiling with gritted teeth. “How does she know these things?” He turned to her. “Mother, I’m sorry. It’s my duty.”
Mishoko nodded and looked away. Then she asked, “Are you sure? Do we ever see you again?”
“I’m afraid not, Mother.”
“When do you go?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
Mishoko twirled her hair and turned to her youngest son. “Well, then. I’ll fix you a nice dessert tonight and we’ll have to have a picnic tomorrow. Maybe at the palace.”
“That would be nice,” said Hiroshi.
Mishoko nodded and leaned back, the decision made. She twirled her hair and, almost as an afterthought, said, “We’ll need a lock of your hair.”
“Of course, Mother,” said Hiroshi.
They passed the hour pleasantly and then walked home as if returning from a summer evening stroll.
Noyama didn’t sleep well that night in his little room. He heard Hiroshi tossing and turning in his own little room. and the thin walls couldn’t mask the low moans of their mother, nor the muttered phrases of their father in futile attempts of comfort.
* * * * *
Two days later, Hiroshi was gone, leaving his older brother to spend a dismal day at home. Late that afternoon, they were surprised to hear a knock at the door. It was the bewhiskered Usui, owner of the apple orchard. now barely able to walk.
“Yes?” demanded Masao.
“I have a present for you,” the old man wheezed. The half-kilometer hike had been difficult, and he still hadn’t caught his breath. He held up a paper bag. “Actually, it’s for Mishoko. It’s from Hiroshi, who bravely goes off to war.” His eyes glistened, and he handed over the bag.
Masao was astounded as the old man bowed, turned, and wobbled away on his cane. He slid the door closed, muttering, “How would Usui know what Hiroshi is doing?” “Mishoko,” he called.
She walked up. “What?”
Masao growled, “Old man Usui is up to his tricks again. He says this is for you from Hiroshi.” He handed over the sack.
She took it and opened it. “Hiroshi,” she chirped. Inside were two apples.
Looking in the bag, Masao growled, “I wonder how much Hiroshi paid the old man?”
CH APTER SIXTEEN
17 August, 1944
Roseville Community Hospital
Roseville, California
“Ouch, dammit,” growled Donovan. “Are you sure you can see what you’re doing?”
“Easy, Commander. These are special glasses.” Diane Logan bent close to his belly to pull sutures. “And right now, this is all looking pretty good.” She snipped another suture, clipped forceps on the knot, and pulled it from the incision site.
“Uhhhh.”
“Don’t tell me that hurt.”
“You must have attached the damn stitch to my spinal cord. It’s like —ouch!”
Diane Logan stood and lay a gloved hand on Donovan’s shoulder. “Would you please relax? You know, I took twenty sutures out of a kid’s forehead this morning. Eleven years old. Not a peep. What’s wrong with you, anyway?”
Donovan grinned. “I figured this way I’d get to know you better.”
“What?” She bent to do the remaining sutures.
“Look at it this way, Dr. Logan. What was that kid’s name?”
Diane looked to the nurse, who shook her head. “Don’t remember,” Diane said.
“What’s my name?”
“Commander Scaredy-Cat,” she said.
“I rest my case.”
Diane laughed, then the nurse joined in. “t length, Diane threw a set of forceps in the stainless-steel tray and said. “You’re all done, Commander. And everything looks good. Just make sure you check in with your regular doctor every month or so. These things can reoccur. Wait don’t get up yet. Gloria is going to do one last pass.”
The nurse lightly swabbed Donovan’s incision with antiseptic. With that, she looked up. “They need me down the hall, Doctor.”
“Please, go,” said Diane.
“Thank you, Doctor.” The nurse walked out.
“You can put your shirt on,” said Diane, jotting notes on his chart. She flipped a page and looked up frowning. “Question, sir?”
“Uh-oh. I’m in trouble.”
“Have you seen anyone about your nightmares?”
He flushed a bit. “Actually, no. When I checked out of here I stayed with my folks in the San Fernando Valley and slept like a baby. Our doctor gave me more sleeping pills, but I didn’t have to use them.”
“Well, let’s hope that’s the end of it.”
“You bet.”
“Another question?”
“Shoot.”
“Why didn’t you have your own medical people remove your sutures?”
Donovan stood, putting on his shirt and tucking it into his pants. “Four reasons. First” -- he held up a finger -- “Dr. Duberman looks and acts like he graduated from medical school about ten minutes ago.” What he didn’t say was that he’d spent the last five days in Sherman Oaks in the San Fernando Valley recuperating under his mother’s care. He’d returned here without checking in at Oak Knoll Navy Hospital in Oakland.
“Well, can’t you just ask for another doctor?”
“Second,” Donovan plunged on, “you’re far more familiar with the case, and I trust your judgment.”
“Well, that’s nice, but there are other doctors who--”
“Third, I had to come back anyway to recover the dop kit I left behind.” He didn’t say the Carmen Rossi’s diamond rings were in there and that he didn’t trust the mail. “And fourth, will you have dinner with me tonight?”
She looked down. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m so busy here.”
“Busy? Busy? They have you working seven days a week?”
“Well, no, but... “
“But what? You have a husband? “ boyfriend? Someone you’re engaged to?”
“To tell you the truth, no, no, and no.”
“Then
three no’s make a yes. What time do I pick you up?”
“Will you stop this? I haven’t decided.” Donovan snapped his fingers. “Damn. I forgot. You haven’t decided and you need time. Well, okay. How much time do you need? Three seconds? Five? A whole minute?”
She waved her hands in the air. “All right, all right. You certainly know how to wear someone down.”
“Thanks. Six o’clock? Where do you live?”
“Four-six-one Cypress Avenue. And make it six thirty.”
“Done.”
* * * * *
Massive poplar trees lined the parkways on both sides of Cypress “venue, sucking heat out of the air, making the ninety degrees seem tolerable. “An ice-cream truck tinkled and clinked its way down the street. Kids chased after it, waving nickels, dimes, and quarters. Women watered their lawns, their men working overtime on the railroads -- or off to war.
The Logan’s’ house was a 1920s two-story Craftsman with a wraparound front porch. “ garden hose fed a sprinkler that shot water back and forth. It would have been a quiet, pastoral little street except for the sound of the rail yards four blocks away. There, massive compound engines spun their sixty-three-inch drive wheels, searching for a grip in the rails, lumbering forward as ninety-pound couplers took up slack on mile-long trains in a mind-racking five-second cacophony.
He walked up the driveway, seeing her sitting on a swing on the front porch, gazing into the distance. “t her feet was an ink-black Labrador retriever. One of the dog’s big yellow eyes opened as Donovan took a step. Its tail thumped on the porch with a hollow sound. Just then a tree limb wavered in the breeze, allowing a last shaft of golden sunlight to sweep across her face. Good God, she’s beautiful.
The pounding of the dog’s tail caught her attention. She looked up.
“Am I late?” he asked.
“You’re on time.” She stood, wearing a simple navy-blue linen sleeveless dress and spectator shoes. Her rich auburn hair was pulled back in a French twist. “round her neck was a string of pearls. The evening’s golden light emphasized her eyes, making them look bigger than life.
A CALL TO COLORS: A NOVEL OF THE BATTLE OF LEYTE GULF Page 14
