Second deployment: anxiety in crowds, jumping at loud noises. Also moments of startling generosity, as if his conscience were trying to atone. The wife of an employee named Russell was arrested for embezzling from the city parks department, and even though she said the money was for her dying mother, the media pilloried her. Michael called Russell in, the man clearly expecting to be fired. Instead, Michael told him that everyone needs help in hard times and gave him a thousand dollars.
Guard duties changed during that home period too: One soldier, selected from each unit, would attend sniper school. Because of his keen vision Michael had always been a good shot, and I wasn’t surprised when the orders came. The shock was the manner of his training, more indoctrination than education. Yes he learned techniques, and mastered new weapons. But one night they made him eat meal upon meal, then sent him out early the next morning on an assignment they said would test his commitment to duty. They left him there, prone on a hillside with his scope trained on a grove of trees, until he shit himself. It was supposed to build solidarity, but Michael soured on the military from then on.
Third deployment: The man who’d stood sharply in uniform the past two times would not let me accompany him to the departure muster. I pined by the back door while he took a taxi to report for duty. In Iraq two days later, the expert mechanic found himself under the command of a younger man with less training, from another branch of the armed forces, who used him exclusively as a sniper. Michael followed orders, winning recognition for kills and kudos for accuracy. But he returned home in a permanent mood of nitroglycerine, always just one bump away from exploding.
That’s why the politics are irrelevant. No one will repay what Michael lost, no one will be punished. Even so, I count my husband among the lucky ones. He did not give his life for his country. He did not sacrifice a limb. But he completely lost his innocence. His libido. His ability to control his temper.
I WAS HALFWAY HOME when my phone rang, and the caller’s number was blocked. I snatched the phone up anyway. It was a detective. Michael was not hurt, but he was in trouble. The cop said he would inform me fully at the station. I changed routes, carrying the sodden weight of dread.
The feeling deepened when I pulled into the station’s parking lot and saw Michael’s red truck hoisted behind a towing rig. Opened airbags hung from the dashboard like half-rotten grapes. Inching forward, I saw that the truck’s front left corner was caved in. I’d ridden in that beast enough times, over enough hard Oregon back country, to know that damage like that did not occur easily. It required something massive.
“Oh, Michael,” I said. “Please, God, let him be OK.”
The police station smelled like hot metal. Once I’d identified myself, the desk sergeant pointed his pen at a side door. Another uniformed officer held it open, and a moment later I found myself in a windowless room with three mustached men. One wall had a mirror, but I knew what that meant.
Two of the men sat at the table with me and said their names, which I did not catch. The third one, who wore a black business suit, did not introduce himself. He leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets.
The table was gray, the floor was an ugly speckled linoleum, and the walls and ceiling were painted a kind of institutional white that is actually less than white. I searched for a wastebasket, in case I needed to throw up. A metal can stood in the corner, brimming with discarded coffee cups.
The man in uniform cleared his throat and stroked his bushy mustache downward. “Your husband committed vehicular assault today, Mrs. Birch. Everyone is unharmed physically, thank goodness. But, um, we still have a situation to deal with.”
“Is Michael all right? Where is he?”
“We’ll take you to him in just a moment.” The policeman tapped his pen on the table. “Apparently what happened—”
“It was road rage,” the other man at the table interrupted. He was older, his mustache as white as ice. He was wearing a turquoise Seahawks t-shirt. “He got pissed at me for some reason, I have no idea why, and he rammed me.”
“He what?”
“With his truck. Then he backed up and rammed me again.”
“Under normal circumstances, your husband would face numerous charges.” With the pen tip, the policeman counted them off on his fingers. “Vehicular assault, destruction of property, disturbing the peace, moving violations, um, disorderly conduct, resisting arrest—”
“But I saw the parking stickers on his bumper,” the older man broke in again. “Camp White, Camp Withycombe. So I knew he was a veteran.”
Everyone paused at that point. They were staring at me.
I nodded. “He served three deployments.”
“As a sniper,” the older man said. Perhaps he was testing whether Michael had told him the truth.
“He’s a mechanic,” I replied. “Normally he runs a motor pool. But his last deployment was primarily a sharpshooting assignment.”
“How many kills did he have?”
I sat back in my chair. Did they really want to know? Did they want to hear about the nightmares? Should I describe for them how he had not touched me intimately, not once, in the five months since he’d returned?
Maybe I should recite to them the suicide statistics from this war? Or inform them that there had been an error, that the real Michael Birch was left behind in the sand somewhere, and would they please go find him and bring him back to me?
The men at the table were leaning forward, waiting. The one in the black suit was inspecting his shoes. I imagined that on the other side of the mirror, someone else was listening more closely now too.
It felt as if I’d been assigned a role: You are the wife of a returning soldier, now we want to watch you act like one. Their desire felt almost pornographic. I crossed my arms. “I’d like to see my husband now, please.”
Both men at the table let out a long breath.
“Because I’m a veteran as well,” the older man said. “Classic grunt of the Mekong Delta. U.S. Army, Vietnam, sixty-nine to seventy-two.”
“Me too,” the police officer added. “Desert Storm, Army National Guard, Kuwait-based engineering logistics support group, nineteen ninety-one.”
“Well, thank you both for your service.” I could not guess where the conversation was going. My mouth was a Sahara. “And?”
“We want to give your husband a break,” the policeman said. “Anyone who watches the news knows that the, um, the re-entry experience has been tough for this latest group of soldiers, all over the country.” He glanced at the others before continuing. “We have all agreed on this. We’re not going to charge him with anything today.”
“I’m not planning to sue either,” the older man added. “He doesn’t need me making his life any harder.”
“Though his insurance company will still be held responsible for the accident,” the policeman said. “Obviously, if he winds up back here for some reason, any reason, there are no third chances. We are going to impound his vehicle for ninety days, too, while he gets his anger under control. I assume he is receiving post-combat counseling?”
I felt that tug again, their curiosity pulling at me. But on the other end of the rope was Michael, who sat somewhere else in this building, in some other gray room. I wanted to protect his privacy, but I also hoped to keep him out of trouble. “He is.”
They glanced up to the man by the door. His mustache was thin and groomed. His face did not change expression, but they seemed to take his silence for consent.
“I wrote your husband a citation for following too closely. Hundred and sixty dollars and two points on his license,” the officer said, sliding papers across the desk. “What it really means is that he’ll be on the hook for both vehicles’ deductibles. I’ve attached an incident report for the insurers. Also a sheet on where to claim his truck later. Your husband was uninjured, but he may want
to keep an eye on that shoulder. It took quite a bump.”
“Thank you.” I gathered the papers and folded them in half, as if that would help somehow, or reduce Michael’s shame. “Is that everything?”
“Let’s hope so,” the older man said. “Let’s hope this is the end of it.”
The officer stood. “We’ll take you to him now.”
I rose from the chair, my legs sticking to it a little. Finally I faced the man in the black suit. “What is your part in all of this? What do you do?”
He put one hand on the doorknob and met my stare. “Worry.”
Then he opened the door and strode away down the corridor.
COMPARED WITH EVERYONE ELSE in the holding cell, Michael looked like a giant. The cop made me wait in the hall, but I could still see the others: Wiry kids dressed in black, muzzled old guys wearing multiple raincoats, and there was my husband, athletic and healthy. Except for two pierced and tattooed goths huddled in a corner, everyone else sat apart from the others. Michael stood when he saw me, and I could tell he was furious, just bristling with it.
I did not want to think of him as sexy in that moment, but I couldn’t help it. He looked like the strong, smart, passionate man I desired damn near every day. That was one more thing I had learned to suppress in this—what had the cop called it?—this re-entry experience.
“Sweetheart, are you all—”
“Please.” He raised his hands in the hallway as if I were holding him at gunpoint. “Not one word till we are out of this place.”
The officer led us to the front door. “You all take care now,” he said. I glanced back and he was still watching us. He even made a modest wave. It contained zero flirtation, I could tell, but instead conveyed concern. I waited till Michael had climbed into the car before returning the gesture.
“I was just coming back from lunch.” Michael began speaking before I was fully in the car. “There were no spots along Merchant’s Row, and I wanted a coffee. You know they have that nice open place, no hidden corners to make me anxious about crossfire. I went around twice. Nothing. But there was this one car, a classic American SUV, semi-tricked out.”
He sounded manic, thousands of miles from the steady man I’d met those years ago. I placed the keys on the dashboard. “OK.”
“It was sideways, taking up three spots. The guy had parallel parked in a place where you are supposed to park nose-in. And one of the places he was blocking was a handicap spot.”
“Not good,” I said.
“Times five, Deb. Not good. So I looked in, feeling suspicious, and he didn’t have one of those cards, you know, the wheelchair hanging from his mirror? So I put on my flashers, and stood by his rig, and waited.”
“I don’t like the sound of this, Michael.”
“I’m all peaceful at this point, Deb. Peace-ful. And out he comes, an older guy, big Burl Ives mustache, and he’s on his phone. ‘Excuse me,’ I say, but he just nods hello and keeps talking. ‘Hey, man,’ I say, but he brushes by. So I jump ahead and stand in front of his door. I’ve got a good six inches on the guy, so he finally catches on and asks his caller to hold on a second. ‘You’re in a handicapped spot,’ I tell him. First he looks me up and down, then he says, ‘I am?’ all innocent, like he didn’t know. ‘That’s terrible. I apologize. I’m just getting out of the way right now.’ ”
“Of course he knew.”
“That’s right, Deb. The sign is right there. But as I walk over to point it out, he drives off. Just zooms away.”
I held the wheel with both hands. “You couldn’t let him go.”
“Where is his conscience, right? What if I was a disabled person, and he had taken my spot? What if he had blocked one of my wounded buddies? So yes, I followed him, honking and all. Two hundred yards down the road he jammed through a yellow light, to ditch me, I guess, but two guys in a crosswalk had to jump back.”
I lowered my forehead to the steering wheel. “And then?”
“I’m sure they told you.”
“Not in any detail.”
“I waited till the light changed, and I caught up, and then I rammed him. The selfish shit.”
“Ouch.”
“Rear corner, so lots of parts will need replacing. I bet the frame’s bent too.”
The triumph in Michael’s voice implied that he felt no remorse. Justice had been done. But I checked him with one eye and it was all bravado, all bluff. He was strangely pale, his jaw drawn backward in fear. Not like I’d seen during his night terrors, when we still shared a bed. But a tremor of self-doubt, of wondering whether he had actually been in the wrong. The man had too strong a conscience not to reflect on his actions.
He stroked his short hair back with one hand. “Then for good measure, I rammed him again.”
I lifted my head to face him. “Michael, I—”
“Don’t start in on me, please. Don’t even start.”
“I wasn’t starting. I was only going to say—”
“Yes you were. You were starting. I could tell.” He reached back to pull on his seat belt, wincing as he raised his arm. “This has really pissed me off, Deb, and I have to think hard about what I did.”
“Maybe first we could—”
“My life is about fixing cars, not wrecking them. So there’s that on my conscience. Plus I am not a fan of being locked up with drunks and losers all afternoon. So I would really appreciate it if you would spare me the lecture and get me home so I can start figuring out how the hell I am going to get to work for the next three months.”
I held still, counting to four. “No lecture, Michael. All I wanted to say—”
“Start the car, please. Would you please just start the car?”
So I did. And drove us home in silence. And never said the sentence I had wanted to say and wanted him to hear: Michael, I still love you.
IF THE CULTURAL FOUNDATION of Japan’s mission off the Oregon coast in 1942 was the premise that surprise is valorous, the military situation was an equally vital consideration. Thus far the Pacific war had been hugely one-sided.
Pearl Harbor occurred in December of 1941. In the months following, Japan defeated Western armies almost as though there were no resistance. Land forces readily captured the island of Guam in mid-December. By Christmas, Japan had won Hong Kong, ending Britain’s long rule. After a fierce two-day battle, Japan likewise forced U.S. troops to surrender on Wake Island.
When the Japanese stormed ashore in Luzon, General Douglas MacArthur had to retreat, pulling his troops down the Bataan Peninsula toward Manila. By New Year’s Day, Manila no longer flew the American flag. The Malay Peninsula fell next. Singapore surrendered soon also.
Although Japan’s tactics replicated the book published in 1925, the novel contained less brutality. For having supported the British, for example, some five thousand Chinese captured in Singapore were summarily executed.
The march of Japanese victories continued. The Battle of the Java Sea cost America three destroyers and two light cruisers. Japan gained technological advantage with new, long-range torpedoes. Capable of traveling more than five miles, their propulsion left no trail of bubbles to guide ships in evasive maneuvers.
Java fell soon after. Japan won victories in Corregidor, then three posts in Manila Bay known as Forts Hughes, Drum, and Frank, and ultimately all of the Philippine Islands. On April 9, the same date on which Robert E. Lee had surrendered to Ulysses Grant at Appomattox seventy-six years previously, the U.S. force at Bataan capitulated to its Japanese invaders.
Japan’s army had planned for twenty-five thousand prisoners of war at Bataan. Instead, there were seventy-six thousand. The forced march these soldiers endured, later aptly named the “Death March,” included assaults, starvation, and outright murders. By the time the captured men reached Camp O’Donnell for internment, between seven
thousand and ten thousand had died.
Such atrocities inspired rage and retaliation, in time. But for much of 1942, the number and severity of defeats gave a pummeling to American morale. Japan was winning the war decisively.
The imperial high command next approved a surprise invasion of the island called Midway. Victory there could ensure the destruction of the remaining U.S. Pacific fleet. Japan would thereby establish the southern bulkhead of its empire. The northern end, meanwhile, would be the Aleutian Islands of Alaska. Battleships set sail for Midway on May 27, 1942. The Alaskan force launched the following day, with the I-25 submarine among the convoy.
However, the Admiralty had grown overconfident. This time the Americans were ready, thanks to 120 musicians from the sunken ship California. Reassigned as cryptanalysts, they had broken the Japanese military code. U.S. forces knew in advance that the Midway invasion was under way.
A flotilla sped out to meet the Japanese fleet. In an epic clash, four of Japan’s twelve aircraft carriers went to the bottom, taking with them many captains, a vice admiral, an admiral, and thousands of men. On June 6, U.S. Admiral Chester Nimitz declared, “Pearl Harbor has now been partially avenged.”
Midway marked a turning point in the war. Granted, years of hostilities remained ahead. Guadalcanal, Okinawa, and Iwo Jima would be purchased in blood. But Japan’s expansion had nearly reached its zenith.
Yet not all of the drama would occur in the South Pacific. In fact, the day after Nimitz’s report, the Japanese captured two American territories in Alaska’s Bering Sea. Historians dispute the reasons for Japan’s invasion of Attu and Kiska, tiny Alaskan islands offering scant resources. Perhaps they promised a firewall should Russia enter the Pacific war. They might provide an airbase for sorties against the United States.
Whatever the motive, the islands’ capture established a vast swath of ocean under Japanese control. From Kiska’s latitude of 51 degrees north, following roughly the longitude of 175 degrees east, the domain reached the Solomon Islands at 9 degrees south. That span, 4,100 miles, is greater than the distance from London to Zanzibar, and the domain stretched west all the way to China. Were this area land, Japan’s rule would have eclipsed the Roman Empire’s.
The Hummingbird Page 4
