Four strangers I took for Leroy's city-shoes guys—and Major Parrish, the Swiss. And Sweet.
What was he doing here?
We stood in a half circle facing them. The attack dogs and their handlers were grouped up by the kennels under a clear blue sky. Smith was there in front, looking down, his hand on Kooch's head. One of his arms was bandaged, but otherwise he looked like always. I wondered how he'd explained those bites.
“Good morning, men,” Major Parrish said. “You know Franz, of course, and Lieutenant Sweet.”
Sweet winked.
Major Parrish swung his hand toward the city shoes. “These men came down from Washington, D.C., to see how your part in the war dog program is progressing.”
The men dipped their heads, nodded. Seemed like okay guys.
“Earlier this year, Franz convinced President Roosevelt that he could train dogs to identify Japanese soldiers by their scent. That's what these men from Washington are here to see.”
I glanced at Smith, but he wouldn't look at me.
“They want a scent, we should go get Leroy,” Chik whispered.
Cobra smirked.
The Swiss nodded to the guys from Washington, then motioned for Smith and Kooch to step forward.
“You,” he said, pointing to me. “Front and center.”
I glanced at Chik and Cobra, then stepped up.
Smith stood waiting with Kooch, who sat obediently to his left. This time when I looked at Smith, he looked back.
I held his gaze.
He dipped his chin, slightly.
The Swiss then called on three guys from the Quartermaster Corps, not handlers. Guys I'd never seen before.
I leaned close and whispered to Smith, “You get cut bad?”
“Naw. The gator got it worse.”
I had to smile.
“All right,” the Swiss said to the city shoes. “I'm sending four men out to hide. Note that their only difference is their race—three Americans, and one Jap.”
Jeese! I thought. What's wrong with these idiots? I glanced at Smith, now standing with his lips pursed, looking at his feet.
“The dog will have four scents to follow. He will choose the Jap scent, because that's what he's been trained to do. That will be proof of his particular ability.”
The Swiss put a hand on my shoulder. “When the dog finds you, stand up and put your hands in the air. You know what to do.”
I nodded.
Kooch's ears cocked forward.
How was this a test? Kooch always found me. The Swiss should have picked somebody Kooch didn't know. Because if Kooch sniffed out one of the white guys when he knew me so well, then this program was in big trouble. Strange, but that thought made me sad, because of all the work we'd put into this.
“Head off into the woods and hide, all of you,” the Swiss said. “Not too far, now. We want to see the dog perform.”
The Swiss had Smith distract Kooch so he wouldn't see where we went.
We spread out.
I found a place just inside the jungle, a sandy hole under a leafy green bush. By now Kooch had taught me a thing or two about hiding; how to toss sand over my footprints to try to mask the scent; how to sit as still as a lizard, barely breathing, blending into the shadows, making no sound. Becoming the landscape. Invisible.
Unblinking, I peeked through the leaves.
And waited.
A cold river shuddered through me. I wanted to throw up, remembering the last time Kooch had come looking for me. I inched my hand toward my pocket for the blue stone. It wasn't there. Did I lose it?
“All right,” the Swiss called.
Smith took the chain off Kooch and replaced it with the leather collar. He used the six-foot leash. Man and dog moved toward the trees.
“Watch him,” Smith said.
Kooch sniffed the ground, back and forth, picking up the scents. Mine he knew as well as Smith's, and I cringed, thinking that it was right up front in his memory because of the bloody fight the last time we met.
The Swiss watched with his hands on his hips.
I didn't move a muscle, keeping as still as I possibly could, sweat dripping off me like rain. If Kooch came to me it would just be because he knew me. That was all. He knew me as well as he knew Smith or the family that had volunteered him for the army.
“Watch him,” Smith said again.
It can't work. How could I face Smith's smirk if it did? Or ever in my life tell Pop about this? Or anyone? How could I say we had some kind of special stink dogs can pick up on? Impossible.
Kooch stopped, his ears pricked ahead. He tugged on the leash, and Smith let the dog lead him.
I was soaked in sweat, the memory of the fight with Smith and Kooch pouring back into me.
Closer, closer.
Coming in.
Kooch stopped and grumbled, low and frightening. I squeezed my eyes shut.
I heard a rustle in the bushes and covered my head with my arms. Kooch growled louder.
Somebody yelped.
“Out!” Smith called.
I snapped up.
It wasn't me Kooch had found.
One of the white guys stood with his hands in the air, his face white.
Kooch stood with his eyes fixed on the guy.
I took a deep breath, almost gasping. Was it true?
Something broke and flooded out of me. I could feel it. I sank down into the dirt.
It's over.
Over.
But it didn't make me feel any better, because right or wrong, something I'd given so much for had just failed.
All of us hiding in the bushes moved out into the silence. The Swiss, standing back with the Washington big shots, didn't seem to know what to do next.
Smith got down on one knee and praised Kooch for finding his man. Then he peeked up at me.
He glanced back to be sure no one else could hear, then said, “Just so you know, Kubo…I never…I never did buy into that Jap smell thing.”
I scowled. “How come you didn't say that before now?”
“Why should I? Japs ain't nobody's favorite people these days, you know.”
I looked down. Then back up.
Smith, gazing at Kooch now, said, “I pegged you wrong, Kubo. Sorry. ”
He stood and brushed the sand from his knee.
I watched him walk Kooch back toward the other handlers, not knowing what to do with what I'd just heard.
I guess I should have felt some sense of triumph. But all I felt was worn out. We were just soldiers, doing our jobs. Me and Smith and Kooch.
The Swiss stood for long minutes with his hands frozen on his hips.
On the boat heading back to Ship Island we all knew that our time here was over. If the dogs couldn't find us just because we were Japanese, then what was the use of Japanese dog bait?
I don't know why, but right then I thought of President Roosevelt and how he believed we might smell different from white guys.
My president.
Made me feel sad.
A day later I was fishing off the pier with a bamboo pole and fiddler crab bait. Some of the guys were back at the barrack. Others had gone swimming on the other side of the island or hiking down the coast, enjoying the last days of our wartime paradise, because when the city shoes left, they looked grim.
Chik and Cobra sat next to me, the three of us talking about old times back home in Kaka'ako.
“Remember that goofy guy from Coral Street?” Chik said. “What was his name? The guy always skipping school?”
“Harvey,” Cobra said.
“Yeah, Harvey. Remember when he said his teacher was making his class read a book called Homeless Idiot?”
We all laughed, remembering. It felt good to think back on something so clear, now that our future was so foggy.
“Was Homer's Iliad, ah?” Chik shook his head. “He should be in the army. Make him a lieutenant, like Sweet.”
I snorted.
But I couldn't shake the
memory of the grim faces on those city shoes, standing around so quiet after Kooch went to the white guy. That moment changed the path of our lives.
I shook my head and looked up, then raised my hand to block the sun. “Look… Leroy coming.”
The Sugar Babe was heading over from Cat Island with some guy standing on the bow. “Only one guy I know stands like that,” I said.
Chik and Cobra leaned forward to look past me.
“How come he shows up everywhere we go?”
“He must love you,” Cobra said.
“He love to make me do push-ups, you mean.”
“That, too.”
“Look who else is on board,” Chik said.
Major Parrish was just ducking up the companionway, coming out on deck. “Prob'ly checking out Leroy's new fuel pump, make sure the army got its money's worth.”
“Hunh,” Cobra grunted.
Leroy aimed the boat toward the pier.
We stood and hauled up our lines. Four fat sea trout were curved into a bucket of seawater next to us.
Leroy reversed the engines just as the Sugar Babe was about to ram the pier.
Sweet tossed up the coiled bow line. Major Parrish hopped off and secured the stern. “Afternoon, men,” he said. “Good fishing?”
“Yes, sir,” we said, saluting him.
He gave a casual salute back. “You rested up?”
“Feeling fine, sir,” Chik said.
“Good, because we've got new orders.”
That evening Hot Dog made up a special dinner from all the fish everyone caught, like a party at home in Japanese camp. Even Sweet had a good time.
“Gather round, men,” Major Parrish said finally.
We found places to sit on the floor and bunks, ready for the bad news. It was always bad. I figured we'd be sent back to McCoy, where they'd tell us we weren't fit to fight.
Major Parrish paced with his hands in his pockets. “Let's start with the obvious—your mission here has been terminated. Washington wasn't impressed. Nevertheless, your work was excellent. A very difficult job.”
Sweet stood off to the side, cleaning his ear with his little finger.
Major Parrish looked at the floor. “I wasn't so sure about that Japanese scent business. But the president bought it, and that's all that mattered.”
“They should have fed us that smelly stuff they eat in Japan,” Ricky Kondo said. “Koko, natto, and takuwan—that would have done it.”
We all laughed, because if that didn't do it, nothing would.
“Maybe so, maybe so,” Major Parrish said. “But I commend you all, because you were entirely successful in all other areas of the work you did here—especially with the scout and sentry dogs. And those of you working with the attack dogs performed bravely and with discipline.”
I winced, remembering what Smith had told me about the suicide dogs.
“A few of you will go to Gulfport to continue working with the sentry dogs. The rest of you are heading to Camp Shelby, Mississippi, to rejoin your battalion for advancedunit training.”
A groan rumbled through the room, because we all knew how out of shape we were—sleeping late, fishing, swimming, eating all that good seafood. Ho, would we pay, just to get back to where we were before. I rubbed my arm, my dog bites down to scabs now. I was ready.
“You've got seven days to pack up. Meanwhile, enjoy yourselves, because once you leave this island things are going to change drastically.”
Major Parrish studied our faces, just like he used to do back in mechanical drawing class at McKinley. “This is it, boys. You're going to Europe. You're going to war.”
These islands were just sandbars on a flat gulf. From a distance, you could hardly even see them. Blips on the water. But I knew my memories of them would follow me every day of my life.
Which could be a long time.
Or not.
Because the U.S. Army was finally going to let us do our part. “I know how you've been treated,” Major Parrish had told us, “and I don't blame you for having your doubts about how people feel about you. But you've proved your worth and your loyalty ten times over, as I knew you would, even in the minds of your most stalwart critics. I hope you are as proud of how you've served as I am.”
A new wave of pride began to grow inside me, a swelling in my chest. The major had always believed in us. His words brought back those feelings I had when I joined up, the sense of doing something to right the wrong that had been done to us—to Pop. Later, it had grown to include all those innocent people behind the fence at Camp McCoy. Americans. People who had done no wrong.
I was a U.S. Army soldier.
I did my job.
Nobody beat me down.
The mood was somber the day we loaded our equipment onto the Sugar Babe. It was late afternoon when we pulled away from the pier. The water was calm and silky, as if wanting to give us its best farewell.
I sat with Cobra up near Leroy at the wheel.
Behind us the islands sank slowly down into the gulf. Leroy was quiet, his hands easing the wheel to the movement of the water.
“I ain't going to forget this time in my life,” he said out of the blue, kind of shy. “I gotten to know you folks… and… well, you ain't nothing but honest-to-goodness decent fellows, and I'm proud to know you.”
Cobra turned and squinted at him, then grinned. “You ain't so bad yourself,” he said.
“But you kind of worthless when your boat gets broke,” I added.
Leroy chuckled. “Ain't that the truth.”
I was going to miss Leroy, stinky clothes and all.
We sat silent.
I wondered if Kooch would miss me. Probably not—but I was sure going to miss him, even if he did tear me up. But he tore up Smith, too.
Smith.
Just a kid like me, doing his duty. He hated some of what we had to do to those dogs. It was hard for him, too.
I'd thought a long time about that look he'd given me just before the test, when he locked onto my eyes and dipped his chin. Because that was it, everything right then and there—all I ever wanted from this army, or even from this country—everything was in that one look.
Respect.
All the rot I had to go through before that moment was worth it, just for that one thing.
Now we were equals.
I would go into battle with my head held high.
Go for broke!
Because I was a soldier.
An American.
I glanced back at Chik. His eyes were closed, probably dreaming about Helen or Fumi. I grinned and shook my head.
Cobra tapped my arm and pointed back to the islands. “Almost gone now.”
I nodded and gulped down one more deep breath of sweet salt air. “Even though it was bad, it was good,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“I going remember Kooch. Almost as scrappy as Sharky.”
“Pfff.” Cobra sighed. “Rat Dog, you mean.”
I smiled.
Then I remembered where we were going. To Europe, to war, where Leroy said soldiers like me were dying by the truckload.
I looked back, one last time. The islands were gone now, swallowed by the sea.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't afraid.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Eyes of the Emperor is a work of fiction.
However, as is its companion novel, Under the Blood-Red Sun, it is based on factual events and incidents of World War II.
I have left some actual names within the story—Slim (Taneyoshi Nakano), James (James Komatsu), Ray (Raymond Nosaka), and Tokuji (Tokuji Ono). And the scene where Slim swims out to help James in the storm relates an actual incident. Slim was awarded the Soldier's Medal for his act of bravery.
Other parts of the story are factual as well.
Off Bellows Field in Waimanalo, Oahu, Japanese Naval Ensign Kazuo Sakamaki became America's first prisoner of war, captured by Sergeant David Akui of the 298th Infantry. Sakamaki was subsequently imp
risoned at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin, where he is said to have disfigured his face with cigarettes as a result of his own deep shame.
At Schofield Barracks in the days following the attack on Pearl Harbor, U.S. soldiers of Japanese ancestry were isolated from the other men and woke one morning surrounded by machine guns. No explanation was ever given them.
The twenty-six Hawaiian Americans of Japanese ancestry to whom I have dedicated this novel were handpicked for top-secret K-9 training on Cat Island, Mississippi. A former Swiss hunting guide had apparently convinced President Franklin D. Roosevelt that the Japanese race exuded a distinct scent that dogs could be trained to discern.
The program failed.
However, the K-9 Corps in general (then called Dogs for Defense) proved highly successful for the United States military. Between 1942 and 1945, 30 breeds and 19,000 dogs were accepted for service. Dogs have been serving valiantly ever since.
I have been profoundly fortunate in having met and interviewed eight of the twenty-six Cat Island men—Raymond Nosaka (and his gracious wife, Aki), Katsumi Maeda, Koyei Matsumoto, Toshio Mizusawa, Tokuji Ono, Billy Takaezu, Seiji Tanigawa, and Yasuo Takata. Sixty years after their Cat Island experience, their wartime camaraderie is as strong as ever. I found them all warm, welcoming, friendly, and humble.
“I was proud to do my part,” Tokuji Ono said.
And Ray Nosaka had this hope: “Remember us, so that we won't be forgotten.”
Masao Hatanaka, James Komatsu, and Patrick Tokushima were killed in action in Italy. Slim Nakano and James Komatsu both earned Silver Stars. Yukio Yokota earned the Distinguished Service Cross. Fred Kanemura received a Field Commission. Every man who served on Cat Island received at least one Purple Heart and a Bronze Star.
Today, Cat Island is much as it was in the early 1940s. Except for a few fishing structures along an interior manmade canal, the island remains pristine. It is privately owned and is not accessible, except by invitation.
Ship Island can be reached by ferry from Gulfport, Mississippi. In 1969, the two-hundred-mile-an-hour winds and thirty-foot tide of Hurricane Camille cut the island in two. The reconstructed lighthouse and old Fort Massachusetts still stand. Ship Island is protected by the National Park Service.
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