He’d talked with a number of others who’d lost loved ones in the all too numerous defeats suffered by the United States. They’d commiserated, had a beer or six, and told how they controlled their anguish and sealed off their hate. If they didn’t it would consume them. Stecher would never get over the loss of his brother and would never want to, but he was beginning to understand what older people had said about life moving on after the death of someone dear. Someday, though, he would like his chance to personally kill at least one fucking Jap.
He pulled up in front of the single-story white frame store owned by Sullivan. He’d recently found out that Sullivan’s first name was Patrick. What else, he thought.
Stecher entered the store. No one was behind the counter, which was unusual. There was no way he could have sneaked up on Sullivan. There wasn’t that much else around in Bridger and anyone in the store had a clear view down the road, so somebody should have been there to greet him. Maybe Sullivan was in the can? He waited a few moments but heard nothing. He tapped on the wall by the door to announce himself, but still no one came. Should he help himself? Sullivan’s was an old-fashioned store where you told the clerk what you wanted and he got it for you. None of that supermarket stuff where you wandered around with a cart and filled it. Sullivan said there was too much opportunity to steal in such a situation.
So where was everybody? What the hell’s going on, Stecher thought. He heard the sound of something scurrying in the storage room in the back of the building. An animal? His rifle was in jeep only a few feet away. Should he get it? Hell, would he need it?
He heard a groan. He stepped around the counter and pushed open the door to the back room. There were no windows and it was illuminated only by the shaft of light from the open door. He heard more sounds.
Stecher fumbled by the doorway until he found a light switch and flipped it on. Two women were on the floor. They were bound hand and foot and there were rags stuffed in their mouths. They were Japanese.
One was older and her face was bruised. There was blood on her torn blouse. The younger one stared at him in primal fear. She did not appear be hurt and she looked very young, maybe fourteen.
Japs or not, they were suffering. He took the gags out of their mouths and gave them some water. He was not quite ready to untie them before he found out why they had been bound in the first place, although he didn’t think they were spies or saboteurs.
Stecher heard a metallic click behind him. “Stand and turn slowly.”
He did as told and found himself looking down the barrels of a shotgun held by Patrick Sullivan, the store owner.
The older woman jabbered something in what Stecher presumed was Japanese and Sullivan lowered his weapon. “Miko just told me you had nothing to do with this and were freeing them.”
Sullivan pulled a knife and deftly slashed the ropes holding them. Both women hugged each other and then Sullivan. The older woman, Miko, managed a smile for Stecher, while the younger one looked away. She seemed more embarrassed than hurt.
“It was two very young men who looked like Mexicans,” Miko said in unaccented English. “They came in and overpowered us before we could do anything. Thank you for helping,” she added to Stecher, who nodded.
She turned to Sullivan. “And just so you know, they did nothing other than take the few dollars in the register.”
Miko gathered up the younger woman. “Sergeant, this is my daughter, Nancy. Until the war started, she was a sophomore in college in San Francisco. We decided she was safer here.”
So much for being only fourteen, Stecher thought. Maybe Asian women matured differently. She also didn’t look totally Japanese. With a jolt, he realized that Sullivan was her father.
“So what are you going to do now?” Sullivan asked. “You going to turn them in and send them to a concentration camp?”
“I don’t know what the hell do to, Mr. Sullivan. Hey, they are your family, aren’t they? If so, they won’t be sent to a camp. Isn’t that the rule?”
Sullivan shrugged. “Nancy is my daughter and Miko is my wife. One problem, though, we never managed to get married formally. This is California, you know, and some of the traditional rules don’t always apply here. Both of these ladies were born here in California, which makes them citizens, and Nancy is only half-Japanese, so I guess only half of her will go to a camp.”
Stecher was at a loss. Technically, maybe the mother should be interned since she was hiding, which was against the law, and Sullivan was doing the hiding, which was also illegal. Damn. He hated the Japanese, but the rational part of him said that neither this woman nor her skinny daughter posed a threat to the United States. And would turning them in to the authorities do anything to help America win the war?
“So what are you going to do, Sergeant?” asked Sullivan. Stecher noted that the shotgun was still in the crook of his arm.
“Mr. Sullivan, I’m going to do what I set out to do in the first place and that’s get me a couple of cases of beer. What you do with your life is your own problem.”
Emotions were running high. Everyone in Nimitz’s offices was sickened, angered, and disgusted by the photos and films that had finally made it down to them from the brave men in Alaska who’d taken them. Men cursed and pounded their fists and a few men cried in frustration as they saw American soldiers and airmen being shot, drowned, and beheaded.
Dane had a hard time not being nauseated when the surviving crewmen of the PBY were chopped with the sword swung by the Jap officer. He’d known a couple of those guys. Granted, he had just met them before the takeoff and only shook their hands and wished them well, but he was part of the reason they were being murdered before his eyes. It had been his lamebrained idea to launch an attack by relatively defenseless flying boats in the first place that had led to their being shot down and captured. But for him, they’d still be flying long, dull, safe patrols over the endless Pacific.
Spruance, still functioning as Nimitz’s chief of staff, might have been reading Dane’s mind. “What happened to those men is nobody’s fault but the Japanese and, to a lesser extent, mine. I see Commander Dane looking miserable because he thinks he’s responsible, but he isn’t. I totally and enthusiastically supported the idea of the PBY raid, and I thought we would take even more casualties than we did. What I didn’t expect was that the Japs would kill those men in contravention of the Geneva Convention.”
The admiral took a sip of coffee. “Admittedly, the Japs never signed it and neither did we, but that does not permit them, or us, to behave like barbarians. When the war is over, or if they are captured, the men responsible will be brought to trial.”
“Can we behead them?” snarled Merchant.
“A lovely thought,” Spruance responded with a grim smile. “However, I don’t think that’ll be allowed under our rules. Hanging or a firing squad are our traditions. First, of course, we have to capture those people. We have been reasonably assured that none of the actual killings were done by their commander, this Colonel Yamasaki. That doesn’t absolve him. He’s responsible for the conduct of his men, just like General Homma is responsible for the Bataan Death March in the Philippines, and Hirohito’s responsible for the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. When the time comes, those men will pay.”
“I don’t think they would have done it without Yamasaki’s approval, sir,” said Dane. “He might not have given direct orders, but I’m certain his men knew that he approved, at least tacitly.”