like Farris, and a handful of real soldiers like Stecher. They were all part of a civilian army girding for war and were a long way from being soldiers. Well, he thought, so was he. The really disconcerting fact was that he was the senior lieutenant in the company, a de facto second-in-command to Lytle. The other three lieutenants were even less experienced than he and had received their commissions a few weeks after he had.
For the thousandth time he wondered why he hadn’t pulled some strings and gotten into the navy, even if it had to be as an enlisted man. At least sailors had decent places to sleep and even better food, he was told, and they didn’t have to march through swamps or climb mountains. He’d envied his uncle and still did, even though Uncle Tim had gotten damn close to being killed in the Midway Massacre. Tim had managed to get a telegram to the family that all was well, which had both relieved and shocked them. Nobody’d had any idea he was out on any ship, much less the doomed
Stecher returned and glared at Lytle as the short, pudgy captain departed. “What the hell does he mean by patrol areas? I want to kill Japs, not patrol some fucking beach.”
Farris didn’t think that patrolling a beach in Southern California was all that bad an idea, especially in the summertime when California girls went out sunbathing. He’d heard delicious rumors that a lot of them swam and sunned in the nude. Yes, he’d like to patrol those beaches.
However, he understood Stecher’s concern. The sergeant’s brother had been killed at Pearl Harbor and he wanted revenge. Steve had heard the story a dozen times, and it always ended with a rightfully furious Stecher raging that “The fucking Japs murdered him. He was running across a field and one of their planes strafed him. Who the hell would cut down a man who’s running away?”
Farris had no answer. He deeply sympathized with the sergeant and said so, but there was nothing he or anyone else could do. The army would send them where it wished.
Originally it appeared that they’d been slated to go elsewhere, and rumors first said it would have been North Africa or some other place that was dry and dusty. This made sense when they were first given some desert gear. But then came the Midway debacle and fears rose that the Japanese would attack the West Coast; thus, they and large numbers of other American soldiers were sent on their way to San Diego.
Base was a tent city outside San Diego. Still exhausted from their trip, Farris and the others were issued additional equipment and uniforms and assigned places in the tents that would be their new home, at least for a short while.
Lytle gathered them around him. He was reasonably sober now. Perhaps it had something to do with the presence of other and more senior officers.
“Tomorrow we’ll be issued weapons and we’ll start in with physical training and shooting, although it looks like we’ll be getting shit for equipment.”
“It won’t matter much if all we’re gonna do is patrol the beaches,” Stecher muttered.
Lytle continued. If he’d heard the comment, he didn’t let on. “Additionally, there are a lot of Marines in the area, and we’re ordered to steer clear of them so there are no incidents.”
Stecher wanted to go to war, but even a rookie like Farris knew they were in no condition to fight. They were out of shape, poorly trained, and, he had to admit, poorly led, and that included by himself. If they were sent into war now, they would be slaughtered. Hell, even a bar fight with a bunch of Marines would be a one-sided farce. Perhaps it would be best if all they did for a long while was patrol California’s beaches.
CHAPTER 3
THERE WAS LITTLE ROOM FOR A MEETING OF ANY KIND IN A sub, but Merchant, Dane, and Torelli managed to find space in the glorified closet that served as a dining area. When Torelli found that the other two were going to discuss Dane’s experiences as a young man in Japan, he invited himself in. It was, he genially reminded them, his sub. They were running on the surface and fresh air was streaming down the open hatches, trying to make a dent in the accumulated stench.
Dane explained that his father had owned an export-import business mainly dealing with low-priced, often cheaply made, Japanese goods imported into the United States. And, yes, this did include the ridiculous paper parasols that decorated cocktails. His occupation required him to make a number of extended trips to Tokyo and, when Tim was old enough, he scheduled them for the summertime so the boy could go with him. Tim learned Japanese through immersion. His father spoke only Japanese to him during these forays and, to amuse him, taught him how to read it as well.
“Can you write it?” Torelli asked.
“Nope. Never could get those little squiggles in the right order.”
“It’s amazing they can,” said Merchant. “But then, I feel the same way about Arab writing and they probably feel the same way about us. Did you ever speak to any of their military?”
“Yes, sir, and that gets to the point of what I want to say. The first summer I was there, I more or less kept quiet for the first few weeks and just listened to conversations, and some of them were about me since most Japanese didn’t see all that many white people, and especially not a teenager. Diplomats and businessmen sometimes, but kids? Never. The average Japanese living outside the big cities and the commercial areas rarely saw anybody who wasn’t Japanese like them.
“I wasn’t confident enough in my own speaking abilities at first. Then one day I was simply playing the dumb tourist when I heard a bunch of young naval officers talking about me. They never dreamed I could understand them, what with me being an ignorant barbarian and all that, and they were making all kinds of crude comments about the little white boy who doubtless had a tiny white dick. Finally, when I’d had enough, I turned and confronted them. I told them in Japanese that their rudeness was a disgrace to their families and their ancestors. I thought they’d shit they were so shocked.”
Merchant laughed. “I’d have paid money to see that.”
“They actually apologized and after that we became sort of friends. They were delighted to pick the mind of an American and I enjoyed learning about them, even though some of what I found out scared me. Tell me, have either of you heard of the code of bushido?”
Torelli answered. “Code of the warrior or something like that. Kind of medieval, I’ve heard.”
“Right,” said Dane, “but it’s something that many of them, particularly the officers, believe in totally and utterly, no matter how insane it may sound to us. Let me give you an example, because I actually discussed this with them. Say you’re the pilot of a plane and the plane is badly damaged during an attack on enemy ships. You’re not going to make it back to base, so what do you do?”
Torelli laughed. “That’s easy. You look for a place to set down or bail out.”
“Would you surrender?”
“Of course,” Torelli said, puzzled. “I wouldn’t like it, but if that’s the only alternative to a useless death, why not?”
“But they won’t, because they don’t consider such a death useless,” Dane continued. “Surrender is dishonorable and against their definition of the code of bushido. To them, surrender is a disgrace. They and their families would be humiliated. Any man who surrendered would no longer exist. I’ve heard that their pilots don’t even wear parachutes because it’s dishonorable to bail out and try to save one’s life. No, what they said they would do is aim that plane toward an enemy ship or installation and crash into it, finding glory in stupid flaming death. We all at least think we might have to die for our country, but the Japanese will actually search it out to satisfy their warped sense of honor.”
“That’s nuts,” said Torelli.
“By our way of thinking, yes, but not by theirs, and even many of their enlisted men believe that, probably in part because it’s been beaten into them by their officers, and I do mean literally beaten in. In short, they will not surrender. Oh, they’ll reluctantly retreat and regroup and in order to fight again another day, but they won’t surrender. They’ll die and they will try to take as many of us with them as they can. Picture a wounded Japanese infantryman with a hand grenade hidden on his body. Just when an American medic comes up to help him, he pulls the pin and kills everyone around him; thus dying gloriously.”
“And you believed them?” Torelli asked.
