Days of Infamy doi-1

by Harry Turtledove

  The exhausted soldier had a devil of a time going forward. The guards watched him like wolves eyeing a sickly elk that couldn’t keep up with the herd. If he fell again, he was theirs.

  He saw it, too. “You better get away from me, boys,” he croaked. “If they decide to shoot me, they might hit one of you by mistake.”

  Rage kindled in Peterson. “Fuck ’em all,” he said. “We’ll get you there, goddammit.” He draped the flagging man’s arm around his shoulder. “We’ll take turns.”

  “I’ve got him next,” Prez McKinley said. Other men clamored to volunteer. The Japs didn’t make a fuss. As long as everybody kept up, they didn’t care how. Peterson strode ahead, taking his weight and a good part of the other man’s till Prez cut in on him, almost as if at a dance.

  This’ll work as long as most of us are sound enough to help the ones who aren’t, he thought. Good thing Oahu’s a small island. They can’t take us too far. This might turn into a death march if they could.

  As the sun sank down toward the Waianae Range, a couple of trucks forced their way through the column of prisoners. They were U.S. Army vehicles, the white star on the driver’s-side door hastily painted over with a Japanese meatball. “Goddamn guards didn’t want to shoot them for going around the holes in the road,” Peterson whispered to Prez McKinley.

  “Oh, hell, no,” McKinley whispered back. “They got Japs driving ’em. You suppose they’ve brought rations for us?”

  “That’d be nice,” Peterson said. In spite of the Japanese officer’s promise, the prisoners had got no food as they tramped up Kamehameha Highway. Peterson’s stomach was growling like an angry bear.

  But instead of rations, the trucks disgorged machine-gun teams, who deployed onto high ground from which they could rake the throng of prisoners. A Buick came up a few minutes later. In it were the Japanese officer and his local stooge. The officer spoke in his own tongue. The translator turned it into English: “If anyone tries to escape, we will open fire on all of you. You are responsible for one another. See to it.”

  “Where’s our food?” The question came from half a dozen places in the crowd.

  The local obviously didn’t want to translate it into Japanese. But the officer nudged him, just as obviously asking what was going on. The local Jap spoke. So did the officer. The fellow in the sharkskin suit said, “You disgraced yourselves with disobedience at the first hole in the road. Going hungry is the price you pay. You should be thankful it is no worse.”

  Jim Peterson was anything but thankful. With all those machine guns staring down at him, though, he couldn’t do a thing about the way he really felt.

  JIRO TAKAHASHI AND his sons looked over the Oshima Maru. As she bobbed in the light chop in Kewalo Basin, she hardly seemed like the same sampan. A tall mast and a gaff rig changed her into something much more graceful than she had been with a diesel stuck on her stern. That she was also much slower than she had been and dependent on the breezes seemed almost an afterthought.

  “She’s ready,” Eizo Doi said. The handyman cracked his knuckles, producing a noise alarmingly like a machine-gun burst. “You sure you know what you’re doing with her, Takahashi-san? If you don’t, you should only take her out a little ways the first few times, till you get the hang of it.”

  “I’ll manage,” Jiro said. “I helped my father man a boat on the Inland Sea. How to place the sail and which line to pull, they’ll come back to me soon enough. What I really need to do is show the boys how everything works.”

  Kenzo said something to Hiroshi in English. Jiro caught the words Moby Dick. Was that some sort of strange obscenity he’d never heard before? He knew what a dick was, but the moby part went right over his head.

  “Please yourself,” Doi said. “Just don’t get in trouble before you finish bringing me my fish.” The way things were these days, most people were happier to get paid in food than in cash. As supplies got tighter, mere money bought less and less. Nimble as a mongoose, Doi hopped up onto the wharf. “Good luck,” he told Jiro, and bowed. The fisherman returned it.

  Half a beat slower than they should have, so did his sons. No, they aren’t properly Japanese at all, Jiro thought with yet another mental sigh. Eizo Doi was polite enough to pretend he hadn’t noticed they were slow. He ambled off towards another sampan. Jiro wondered if he was doing anything these days besides putting masts and sails on boats that couldn’t use their engines any more.

  Jiro stepped down into the Oshima Maru. Hiroshi and Kenzo followed a little more slowly. They couldn’t act as if they knew it all here, because they damn well didn’t. “Okay, Father. What do we do?” Hiroshi asked. The first word was English, but Jiro got it.

  “Here-you go to the rudder for now. You know what to do with that, neh?” Jiro said, and his elder son nodded. Jiro turned to Kenzo. “All right, you come with me.”

  “I’m here,” Kenzo said.

  “Good. First we find which way the wind is blowing,” Jiro said. For the moment, that was easy: it came off the hills in back of Honolulu, and would waft the Oshima Maru out to sea. Once the sampan sailed out onto the Pacific, though, things would get more complicated. “Next thing to remember is, mind the booms. They can swing and knock you right into the water.”

  “Hai,” Kenzo said. Jiro looked back toward the stern. Yes, Hiroshi was listening. Good. He would need to know, too.

  Jiro went on, “We set the foresail to one side of the mast and the jib on the other.” He did that, then tied the booms to the belaying pins Doi had mounted on the rail. “Now we cast off, and we’re ready to go.” He brought in the rope that bound the Oshima Maru to the wharf.

  Light as a feather, the sampan glided out of Kewalo Basin. Hiroshi steered well enough-he did know how to do that. Even so, a look of surprise and delight spread over his face. “She feels so different!” he exclaimed.

  And she did. Before, with the motor pushing her forward, she’d been a creature of straight lines. If the small waves were moving at an angle to her path, she’d just chopped through them. Not any more. Kenzo noted another essential difference: “She’s so quiet, too!”

  Jiro had got used to the relentless pounding and throbbing of the diesel. Without it, the Oshima Maru might have been a ghost of her former self. All he heard were the waves and the distant squawks of sea birds and the breeze thrumming in the lines and bellying out the sails. The sampan also felt different underfoot. He’d always got the engine’s vibration through the soles of his feet. They’d told him as much about how it was running as his ears did. Now all he felt was the boat’s pure motion. He smiled. He couldn’t help himself. “I’m younger than you are,” he told his sons. “I’m with my father on the Inland Sea.”

  Kenzo and Hiroshi looked at each other. They probably thought he was crazy. They often did. He didn’t care. He could see the rising sun on those crowded waters, the headlands that looked so different from the jungled slopes of Oahu, sometimes a flight of long-necked cranes overhead… He hadn’t thought about cranes in years, or realized how much he missed them.

  He ran straight before the wind for a while, and talked his sons through adjusting the sails to compensate as it shifted slightly. He showed them how, if you wanted to swing to port, you had to swing the mainsail to starboard. It seemed backward, but they soon saw it was what needed doing.

  “There’s a lot more to think about now,” Hiroshi said.

  “Oh, yes,” Jiro agreed. “Of course, you are thinking about it now, and that makes it seem harder. After you’ve done it for a while, you won’t need to wonder what to do. You’ll just do it.” He wasn’t doing things automatically himself-no, not even close. Part of him might have been that fourteen-year-old out on the Inland Sea with his father. The rest was a middle-aged man trying to remember what went where, and why. His father’s boat had been rigged differently. He knew the principles here, but none of the details were the same. He didn’t want his sons seeing that.

  Kenzo asked, “If the wind is still off the mounta
ins when we come back to the basin, how do we get there?”

  “We tack,” Jiro answered. “It means we slide in at an angle. You can’t sail straight against the wind, but you can go against it. I’ll show you.”

  “All right.” Kenzo’s voice was uncommonly subdued. Jiro almost laughed in his son’s face. Yes, the old man still knew a few things the young one hadn’t imagined. That always came as a painful surprise to the younger generation.

  A tern soared down and perched at the very tip of the mast. It stared at the Takahashis out of big black eyes that seemed all the bigger because the rest of it was so perfectly white. “That never would have happened when we had the diesel,” Hiroshi said.

  “Of course not. There wouldn’t have been any place for it to land then,” Jiro said. Hiroshi stirred as if that wasn’t exactly what he’d meant, but he didn’t try to explain himself. As far as Jiro was concerned, that was fine.

  Jiro had his sons practice setting the sails with the wind astern and at either quarter. They got the hang of it pretty fast. They knew the Oshima Maru and how she had handled; that helped them now. What Jiro didn’t let on was that he was learning almost as much as they were. No, he hadn’t handled sails in a lot of years himself.

  But he did remember enough to send the sampan on two long, gliding reaches into the wind. “You see how we beat back toward the shore?” he said. Hiroshi and Kenzo both nodded. They seemed impressed. Jiro was impressed that he’d remembered enough to manage to do that, too. He had more sense than to show it, though.

  However serene the sampan was under sail, she wasn’t swift. Jiro had come to take the noisy, smelly diesel for granted. It got him where he needed to go, and got him there pretty quick. Now she took a lot longer to reach likely fishing grounds. “We’ll probably have to spend the night in the boat,” Hiroshi said.

  “Well, so what?” Kenzo answered. “It’s not like we’ve got anything much to come home to.” Jiro and Hiroshi both grimaced, not because he was wrong but because he was right.

  They spilled minnows into the Pacific. They had fewer than usual. The boats that had caught the nehus were diesel-powered, too. All three Takahashis had netted these themselves, using chopped-up bits of rice from their own rations as bait. Then the fishing lines with their big, silvery hooks went into the sea. Jiro hoped for a good catch, to make up for the rice they’d lost.

  “One more problem with the new sail,” Kenzo said. “People can see us for a long way.”

  He was also right about that. Like most sampans, the Oshima Maru was painted a blue somewhere between sea and sky, not least because the color made it hard for competitors to find her. But what good did the camouflage do when the mast and sail stuck up there like a Christmas tree? It did work both ways. If three or four other boats could spy the sampan, Jiro could see them, too.

  What he wanted to see was what he’d caught. He felt like shouting when the first few hooks yielded aku and ahi both. He and his sons worked like men inhabited by demons. They gutted fish and chucked them into storage one after another. Jiro noted that Hiroshi and Kenzo set aside a prime ahi, as he did. When they’d finished the lines, they all gorged on strip after strip of flavorful tuna. It was always delicious, and all the more so after days of the horrible slop the soup kitchens served.

  Hiroshi and Kenzo ate with every bit as much gusto as Jiro. They might prefer hamburgers to sashimi, but anybody in his right mind would prefer sashimi to the bowls of rice and noodles and beans, all overcooked together, they’d been getting. That kind of food might keep you alive, but it made you wonder why you went on living. This… This was worth eating.

  “Ahhh!” Jiro smiled and smacked his belly. “I’ve missed that.”

  Kenzo nodded. Hiroshi was still chewing. “Me, too,” he said with his mouth full.

  “We’ll use the guts and things for bait this time,” Jiro said. “That’ll draw more sharks, but nobody these days will turn up his nose at shark meat. We don’t sell just the fins now.”

  “Food is food,” Hiroshi agreed. “Even the haoles aren’t so fussy now. Maybe they’ll call it something like ‘sea steak’ ”-he said the words in English, then translated them into Japanese-“so they don’t have to think about what they’re really eating, but they’ll eat it.”

  When they drew in the lines this time, they did catch some sharks, but they also got one of the nicest ahi Jiro had ever seen, even better than the one he’d feasted on before. He started to cut more sashimi from it, but paused with his knife poised above its still-glittering side. “Go ahead, Father,” Kenzo said. “You took it off the hook, so it’s yours. It’ll be good.” He smacked his lips. He was eating more raw fish.

  Jiro shook his head. “I’ll choose another. This one I think I’ll save for Kita-san.”

  His sons looked at each other, the way they often did when he said something they didn’t like. He waited for them to start shouting at him for having anything to do with the Japanese consul. To his surprise, they kept quiet. He supposed it was because he’d sometimes brought fish to the consulate before the war started. They couldn’t say he was doing it to curry favor with Kita now.

  Kenzo did sigh, but all he said was, “Have it your way. You will anyhow.”

  “Arigato goziemasu.” Jiro made the thank-you as sarcastic as he could. Then he cut strips of tender, deep pink flesh from another ahi. Maybe that fish wasn’t quite so perfect as the one he’d set aside for the consul, but it was plenty good enough for him.

  He and his sons threw the offal from the second run into the sea as bait for a third. They didn’t do so well this time; they already taken most of what that stretch of the Pacific had to offer. After they’d stowed what fish they had caught, Jiro turned the Oshima Maru ’s bow toward the shore-actually, toward the northeast rather than due north. He’d have to tack all the way home unless the wind shifted.

  “Will we need to spend the night on the ocean?” Hiroshi asked.

  “Maybe. I don’t know yet. It all depends on the wind,” Jiro answered. Actually, that wasn’t quite true. It also depended on how tired he was. If he decided he had to roll himself in a blanket before the sampan got back to Kewalo Basin, well, then, they wouldn’t come in till morning.

  But the wind stayed steady, and the Oshima Maru handled better than Jiro remembered his father’s boat doing back when he was a boy. Sampans weren’t pretty-which was, if anything, an understatement-but they were seaworthy. He steered the boat into Kewalo Basin a little past nine o’clock. Mars, Saturn, and Jupiter shone in the night sky, Mars farthest west, Jupiter almost straight overhead. The moon, nearly full, glowed in the east and had done its share to help him home.

  Japanese soldiers waited by the wharfs, where armed Americans had stood before. They weighed the Takahashis’ fish and gave them their price based on that weight, not on quality. To Jiro’s relief, they didn’t quarrel when he and his sons took some fish off the Oshima Maru. “Personal use?” a sergeant asked.

  “For us, hai, and to pay the man who added the mast and sails to the sampan, and a fine tuna for Kita-san, the Japanese consul,” Jiro answered.

  “Ah, so desu.” The sergeant bowed. “I am sure he will be glad to have it. Kind of you to think of him.” He waved Jiro and Hiroshi and Kenzo on into Honolulu. Jiro thought about pointing out to his sons how useful that ahi had proved, but he didn’t. They wouldn’t pay any attention.

  Eizo Doi was glad to get thirty pounds of fish when the Takahashis knocked on his door, but had his own worries: “Where am I going to freeze all of it? It’s more than my freezer will hold.”

  That wasn’t Jiro’s problem. After he and his sons left Doi’s house, Hiroshi and Kenzo went back to their tent in the botanical garden. They wanted nothing to do with Kita or the Japanese consulate. Jiro kept walking north up Nuuanu Avenue to the corner of Kuakini Street. The Japanese consular compound there had become one of the nerve centers of the imperial occupation of Hawaii; Iolani Palace was the other.

  Like the rest of
Honolulu, the consular compound remained blacked out. Jiro didn’t understand why. No American plane could hope to bomb the city and return to the mainland. He wasn’t even sure a U.S. plane could carry bombs all the way from the mainland to Hawaii. But the Japanese military could be just as unreasonable as its American counterpart.

  “Halt!” a sentry called from out of the darkness. “State your name and business.” When Jiro did, the sentry said, “Ah. Go on in. You’ll be very welcome, especially after the torpedoing.”

  “Torpedoing?” Jiro said. “What’s this? I’ve been out on the ocean all day without a radio.”

  “A damned American submarine sank the Bordeaux Maru this afternoon,” the soldier told him. “She was bringing supplies to the island, but… Karma, neh? The Americans want everyone here to starve. That’s why I said Kita-san would be so glad to get your tuna.”

  He opened the door for Jiro, who took the ahi inside. Nagao Kita, the consul, was a short, stocky, round-faced man. He was in animated conversation with three or four Army and Navy officers, but broke off when he saw Jiro. “Takahashi-san!” he said, and the fisherman was proud this important personage had remembered his name. A broad smile spread across the consul’s face. “What have you got there, my friend? Doesn’t that look beautiful?”

  “It’s for you, sir,” Jiro said, “and maybe for these gentlemen, if you feel like sharing.”

  “Yes, if I do,” Kita said, and laughed. The officers were ogling the splendid ahi, too. A Navy captain licked his lips, then tried to pretend he hadn’t. Kita stepped up and took the fish from Jiro. The consul gave him a more than polite bow. “Very kind of you to think of me, Takahashi-san, very kind. I won’t forget it, believe me. When I have the chance, you can bet I’ll think of you.”