1942

CHAPTER 16

The congressman from Ohio was short and overweight, which partially contributed to his sweating profusely, even though it wasn’t all that warm. A Democratic representative from an ethnically Italian district in Cleveland, Dominic Cordelli had been an FDR backer since Roosevelt won his party’s candidacy for the vice presidency in 1920.

As luck would have it, FDR’s loss had also been FDR’s future gain. He was governor of New York when Herbert Hoover became reviled as the cause of the Great Depression. That the charge was unfair, and that Hoover was a decent and hardworking president, was irrelevant. Someone had to take the blame for the economic catastrophe, and it had occurred on the Republican Party’s watch, which resulted in Roosevelt’s victory in 1932.

In 1932, Dominic Cordelli had been swept to office on his president’s coattails and, like Roosevelt, never left. He had supported FDR on every issue, including Roosevelt’s ill-advised attempt to stack an uncooperative Supreme Court with more malleable members.

Cordelli did not have difficulty getting brief meetings with Roosevelt, and the representative, both wise and cunning, did not abuse the privilege. He had to wait only a couple of days before seeing the president, while other petitioners waited a lifetime.

Admiral William Leahy, the president’s chief of staff and soon to be chairman of the Joint Chiefs, had arranged the meeting and was with FDR, who quickly noticed Cordelli’s agitation. “Dominic, my friend, be seated and tell me what’s on your mind,” Roosevelt said.

Cordelli wiped his sweaty brow with a handkerchief that had been clean earlier in the day. “Mr. President, I need a favor. No, not a favor. Perhaps information and assurances would be more like it.”

Roosevelt shrugged and smiled disarmingly. “Ask.”

“I have a niece, a Mrs. Alexa Sanderson. Her husband was killed in the attack on Pearl Harbor.”

“Dreadful,” Roosevelt said with genuine sympathy. Then he turned impish. “Sanderson doesn’t sound terribly Italian, though.”

“She’s not. She’s a WASP from Virginia and related on my wife’s side. The problem is that the niece is still in Hawaii. The FBI has been out to see us because she’s making radio broadcasts and signing documents that could be considered treasonous. I want you to know that my niece would never do such a thing except under extreme duress. The FBI may be thinking of prosecuting her for something she was forced to do or say with a gun pointed at her head.”

Roosevelt stole a glance at Leahy, who had been briefed when Cordelli had asked for the meeting. This had enabled Leahy to do a little research.

“Have you heard the speeches?” the admiral asked.

“Yes. The FBI was kind enough to play a couple for me. The language is convoluted and awkward. It isn’t hers. She’s highly educated and simply doesn’t speak that way.” Cordelli managed a wan grin. “Hell, it sounded worse than some of my constituents. No, sir, she’s reading from a prepared script, and I’m convinced she’s being forced to do it.”

Roosevelt smiled. “If that is the case, she cannot be charged with any crime.” He looked at a note that Leahy had handed him just before the congressman’s arrival. The president leaned forward and looked intently at Cordelli. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course,” Cordelli said.

Roosevelt spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “It does not surprise you that we are in contact with certain elements in occupied lands, does it?”

“Not at all.”

“Good. Well, what I am going to say must not leave this room, is that understood?”

“Of course,” Cordelli responded eagerly. Both men knew he would tell his wife.

“Your niece is among several who have been forced by the Japs to send messages like that. We know they have been forced to do it.”

“Poor Alexa.” Cordelli sighed. “My wife is upset enough as it is without her thinking of Lexy being mistreated.”

“Without going into detail,” Leahy continued for Roosevelt, “I can assure you that your niece is no longer under Japanese control. She has been moved by our people to a different location in the islands, and there will be no further broadcasts of that sort by her, although, of course, some old ones might be replayed. She is not out of danger, but she is much freer than she had been.”

Cordelli exhaled in a whoosh of relief. “Thank you.”

They shook hands, and the congressman departed.

“You know what I wish?” Roosevelt mused.

Leahy smiled. “I have no idea, sir.”

“Just once, I wish that the FBI would learn a little about tact and discretion. Why should the President of the United States be so involved in so minor a problem?”

Leahy smiled. He knew better. Roosevelt was exuberant at being able to give his friend Cordelli some good news. That simple act had lifted some of the stress from FDR’s shoulders. That he had been able to be angry at the FBI was an added bonus. Admiral King and General Marshall had been right. The way to keep FDR alive and well was to keep him happy. Helping Congressman Cordelli was the perfect tonic. As to Roosevelt’s lament about the problem being too small for him, Leahy knew that was so much hogwash. The president had enjoyed the whole thing immensely.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt had had a good day, and that was all that counted.

Lieutenant Uji Goto knew he wasn’t much of a warrior, but his new commander at Hilo, Major Osami Shimura, was even less of one. Shimura was short, fat, flabby, lazy, and dissolute. He was generally drunk by noon, and Goto thought he might be using opium as well.

Shimura also was a coward. He had close to five hundred men at his disposal and had done nothing to rid the island of Hawaii of the American guerrillas who, in the opinion of Goto and other more determined officers, operated with impunity outside Hilo.

“Too many,” Shimura had said on several occasions. “There are hundreds of them out there just waiting to ambush us. Our job is to hold Hilo, not run all over this wretched island chasing shadows.”

Goto wondered how a group of well-armed Americans could become shadows, but he said nothing. He had read the raw intelligence data and knew there was only a very small American force in the field, somewhere between fifty and a hundred, and they would not be able to stand up to a battalion of Imperial marines if they were cornered.

Of course, Goto acknowledged that cornering them was the problem. Hawaii was four thousand square miles of jungle, mountain, and volcanoes, some active, in which the Americans could hide. As a boy visiting relatives, he had hiked some of the trails and knew that a full division of Imperial marines might not be able to root them out unless they had to stand and fight for something they deemed important.

With an active campaign out of the question for the immediate future, he settled into a fairly comfortable existence. Like the other officers, he got drunk almost every evening and spent many of the nights in the local brothel. The madam, a fat Hawaiian with many gaps in her smile where the teeth had rotted out, quickly understood his unique pleasures. She made certain he had access to several girls in their early teens, although she had been disturbed by his requests for girls who were even younger. So far, she had not been able to get any prepubescent children for him, and that disturbed Goto as well.

Of course, if he could get back to Honolulu, with its larger population, his needs could be more readily fulfilled. In order to get back, he had two choices: First, he could wait out the necessary time, as Omori had suggested, or, second, he could do something outstanding that would require him to be sent back to Honolulu regardless of what the civilians thought. Who gives a shit, he snarled to himself, what the civilians think?

Thus, it was with some eagerness that he greeted the foul creature who stood before him. “Sergeant Finch, you are to be congratulated on all you have done for Japan. I can only hope you will be as successful here.”

Finch was uncomfortable but tried to hide it. He should not have been sent to Goto’s quarters, where his presence might be noted. Even though it was night and he was wearing civilian clothing and a hat, someone might have recognized or remembered him.

“As always, Lieutenant, I will do my best.”

“It was easy for you on Lanai. The Americans there were total idiots and there was really no place for them to hide. Here on Hawaii, it will be different.”

Indeed it would, Charley thought. Finding the guerrillas would be the first part of the problem.

“How will you explain yourself?” Goto asked. “You will appear to them as a reasonably healthy POW. How will you explain yourself?”

Finch bowed. He had not been invited to sit. “I’m fortunate in that most of the POWs on Oahu have been sent to Japan. I will say that I escaped during transit, made it to Molokai by boat, was hidden on a farm, and then fled to Hawaii with the purpose of meeting up with the Americans. It is a simple story, and one they won’t be able to check out.”

Goto grunted. Finch couldn’t tell whether he agreed or not. “When you find the Americans, how will you contact us?”

“Sir, on Lanai I was able to drop notes in a stump by the road. This island is too big for that sort of thing. I’m afraid I will have to desert the Americans when the time comes.”

That answer did not totally please Goto. It meant that Finch could be used only one time and that his fat commander would have to be induced to move rapidly, something that just wasn’t likely.

However, like Finch, Goto had no choice. He would use the tools at hand, not the ones he wished he had.

On the other side of Hilo, Lieutenant Sammy Brooks, USMC, crouched in the hole he’d dug in the side of the hill overlooking Major Shimura’s quarters. Shimura had commandeered a large and stately house on the outskirts of Hilo that must have belonged to someone with money.

It was daylight, and he had several hours more to wait. Beside him was his rifle, the ‘03 Springfield he thought of as his best friend. Brooks was an outstanding shot, and, in his opinion, the Springfield was a more accurate sniper rifle than the new Garand being issued to the army. Screw the army, he thought, he’d keep his Springfield.

As a marine, he had been well taught in the craft of stalking a prey. He would not be found except in the unlikely circumstance that someone literally stumbled onto where he was hidden. He knew that what he was doing was against Jake Novacek’s orders, but he just didn’t care. It was impossible for him to be on the same island with a pack of Japs and not strike out at them. He’d heard of Novacek’s ambush of the Jap patrol and knew that the Japs hadn’t launched any offensive against them. He was confident the same would be the case this time.

Brooks hadn’t intended an ambush. His original plans were for several days of in-depth reconnaissance of the Hilo garrison, but, when he realized how small and ineffective the Jap force was, he knew he could strike and flee into the interior with little concern.

He had lied to both his commander in California and Novacek. His brother wasn’t in a Jap prison camp. His brother was dead. Word had come from the Philippines, through a civilian who both knew his brother and had seen him die, that Captain John W. Brooks had been bayoneted for insolence en route to a prison camp after the surrender at Bataan. His insolence was begging for water. He was then buried alive in a sandpit by fellow prisoners, who would have been killed themselves had they not cooperated. When the grievously wounded man had clawed his way out of his grave, he had been reburied. John W Brooks did not escape death a second time.

Although he detested it, Sammy Brooks understood the need for patience. Already he had spent almost a day in his hole. He ate sparingly of his rations, drank sips from his canteen, and relieved himself into a hole dug in the bottom of his hideout. The waiting was agony, but he would be well paid for it.

Finally, shadows faded into a gray night. There were plenty of stars, which was both a blessing and a curse. His target would be easy to see, but so would he as he fled. He would count on confusion and a defensive reaction to his attack to enable him to get into the safety of the hills.

A car pulled up in front of Shimura’s quarters. A guard got out of the front seat and ran to his station at the rear of the house. The driver exited and opened the rear door for the fat major to get out. He then ran to the porch to open the door for Shimura, after which he would take up duty as a front sentry. Brooks knew that they changed every four hours from a guardhouse that was a couple of miles away.

In short, Shimura’s security was incredibly lax.

The major walked to the house and waited for the guard to open the door. The range was three hundred yards. Brooks squeezed the trigger, and there was a startling blast of sound and light. Shimura’s head exploded in a froth of gray and red while the sentry gaped in astonishment.

“Damn,” muttered Brooks. He’d been nervous, and his shot had ridden high. He had aimed for the Jap’s torso, not his head. It was too easy to miss the smaller skull. He had been lucky.

He worked the bolt and fired a second time, dropping the shocked guard beside his master. The second guard raced from the back, and another bullet toppled him. This was excellent. Anyone who had heard the gunfire was unlikely to investigate, and there was no one to notify the other soldiers at the guard shack. Someone in the area might phone, but it was unlikely. No one would want to get involved. The Japanese reaction would take time.

“Three for three,” Brooks exulted and laughed, and then he turned somber. “That’s for you, Johnnie,” he sobbed.

He gathered his rifle and his gear and began the lonely trot into the hills.

It never rains in sunny Southern California, at least that was what Jamie Priest had always thought. This day, however, had brought a torrential rain and a cold wind off the ocean, and neither showed any sign of letting up.

He and Suzy Dunnigan had moved their picnic from the beach to the small, two-bedroom bungalow that had belonged to her father. It was a mile away from the ocean, and, by the time they got there, parked the car, and got their things from it, both were soaking wet and cold.

No matter. While there was no furnace in her house, there was a Franklin stove, which, after only a few minutes and a handful of wood, gave off enough heat to dry their swimsuits while they dined off a blanket that was spread on the floor by the stove.

Suzy had chosen a white wine from a California vineyard he’d never heard of. Jamie’s perception of California wines was that they were cheap and bitter, and he found himself pleasantly surprised by the richness of the taste. The wine, coupled with the radiant heat, made them feel warm and mellow.

Jamie spent a couple of minutes examining the house. There were a number of pictures of Suzy’s father, along with a couple of her as a thin and serious-looking child, and the house exuded a fairly masculine air.

“Dad bought this place after the divorce. I only moved back a few months ago. I graduated from Stanford last June and always thought my dad would move back here and take possession. Then, after he was killed, I didn’t have the heart or courage to change anything.” She laughed softly. “However, I had already moved into the larger bedroom and taken over the big bed. My stuff is in his closet. Even before Pearl Harbor, I didn’t think he’d mind if I took it over.”

“I like it. What will you do with it when you leave to serve your country?”

Congress was on the verge of approving women in both the navy and the army. With Nimitz’s endorsement, Suzy was a virtual shoo-in for officers’ school or even a direct commission in what would be called the WAVES, the Women Accepted for Voluntary Emergency Service. She thought someone had strained hard to make the acronym work for the navy.

But it was a sore point insofar as Jamie’s request for a transfer to a combat command had again been denied.

“I’ll probably rent it out. Do you think you’d be interested?”

Jamie thought that he might. It would beat the hell out of the bachelors’ quarters he shared with several dozen close friends.

“Yeah, since I’m not going anyplace, I might just take you up on it.”

She reached over and took his hand. “Jamie, you know they can’t send you out. You may be the last of the Pennsylvania’s crew, and they can’t risk you. You’ll be promoted, and you still have a great career if you want to stay in the navy when the war’s over, but you know you won’t see any more combat in this war.”

Jamie knew it, but he didn’t have to like it. Everything she said was correct. He’d been informed that his promotion to lieutenant commander would come down any day. They both thought it was overdue and probably delayed because of uncertainty regarding his role with the doomed battleship. Privately, Jamie thought the four pissed-off admirals who’d traveled to see him had stonewalled it for as long as they could.

“Don’t feel bad,” she said and squeezed his hand. “Whatever happens, I won’t be getting shot at either. With a little luck, I’ll be back in San Diego doing what I’ve been doing, only wearing a uniform.”

“That’s important to you, isn’t it? The uniform.”

“Because of my father, yes.”

“And that’s why you like me, right? Because I look so good in a sailor suit?”

Suzy laughed and squeezed his hand harder. “Who says I like you?”

“Don’t you?”

“Of course,” she said with a smile. “And it doesn’t bother me at all that you won’t be in combat. You’ve seen more than enough of it. I don’t want you hurt.”

Jamie was delighted. Even though he knew she was fond of him, it was the first time she’d said it. He wondered if the fact that they were just about finished with the second bottle of wine had anything to do with it.

He reached for her, and she came toward him on the floor. He kissed her very gently, and she didn’t respond. God, he thought, have I misjudged? “I guess I shouldn’t have done that.”

She shook her head and smiled. “I don’t know why, but you surprised me. Try again.”

He did as directed. This time her lips parted and she melded into him. She slid across his lap and kissed him back. To his delight, her tongue was exploring his as eagerly as he was hers.

This time Suzy was wearing a one-piece bathing suit. They parted, and Jamie slid the straps off her shoulders and pulled it down to her waist. Her breasts were small, but he thought them indescribably lovely. He caressed them, then kissed her nipples until they hardened while she ran her hands over his buttocks and held the erection that strained against his swimsuit. She wriggled to help him as he slid her suit over her hips and down her legs. Then she undressed him and they caressed each other as they lay on the carpet.

She was lithe and small, and he thought he had seen no one more beautiful as he ran his hands, lips, and tongue over her body. He wanted to take her right there, but Suzy got to her feet.

“Not on the floor,” she said and giggled. She pulled him into the bedroom, and they fell onto the bed. She wrapped her slender legs around him and drew him onto her and into her. They both groaned and climaxed quickly. It was too soon, but they knew they had all night to get it perfect.

The next morning, they made love for the third time. Then they took a bath and did it again. They would be late for work but didn’t much care.

“Remember what I said about you renting this place?” she asked. They were still naked and back in bed.

“Of course.”

“Well, why don’t you move in now? You can sort of get used to it while I’m still here. You can even save on your laundry bill, since we won’t be wearing much in the way of clothes.”

Jamie thought that was a marvelous idea with one concern. “But what about your neighbors? What’ll they think?”

“Screw the neighbors,” she said firmly. She sat up so that her breasts hung almost into his face. “Let ‘em think what they want. Besides, don’t they know there’s a war on?”

Akira Kaga’s right leg had been amputated just above the knee. It was a challenge to walk with crutches, but he was the kind to rise to challenges, and he had become surprisingly mobile in only a short time.

With his father driving, and accompanied by two kempetei, he began speaking to groups of civilians throughout Oahu. The majority of the people he addressed were Japanese, although a few Hawaiians did attend. He never saw a white face in the crowds.

Akira and his father worked hard on what he would say and precisely how he would say it. He wanted the underlying meaning thoroughly comprehended by the Japanese of Hawaii. The two kempetei men weren’t particularly subtle, and, besides, they were kept drunk by friends of Toyoza Kaga.

Akira told his listeners that the Japanese soldier was brave and resilient, traits that were essential when fighting in China, where there were no supplies and less in the way of medical care, facts that required them to loot the enemy and local civilians.

He saw surprise on their faces. No supplies? No medicine? Why couldn’t Japan take care of her fighting men? Many of his audiences had donated money to help Japan defeat China, their long-standing enemy. Where had it gone?

Akira then told them of the tens of thousands who’d died fighting the Chinese and how the Chinese kept on coming. Japan would persevere, he said, no matter how many Japanese had to die to accomplish it, and no matter how many more years it would take. Japan, he said, would ultimately conquer vast China, a land that was as large as a mighty ocean and in which the Chinese were forever retreating. It might take a hundred years of agony, but Japan would prevail.

He saw a stirring in the crowd. In effect, he had told them that the war between Japan and China would never end. They had not been informed of the scope of the casualties, and this too shocked them. Heavy casualties, no supplies, no medicine, and no end in sight to the killing? Japanese soldiers reduced to looters and beggars? This was not the stuff of glory.

Akira responded to the accusations of atrocities committed by the Japanese in China. They were not true, he said, although it was sometimes necessary to take food from the peasants since the Japanese army didn’t have enough for itself. He said it was sometimes necessary to punish uncooperative Chinese by destroying their property or even executing them. He added that a Chinese woman should feel honored to be taken by a Japanese soldier, even if she initially resisted. As his eyes traveled the crowd, Akira noticed a number of people preparing to leave, their heads down in shame.

Then he told them that his travel back to Hawaii by ship had been fraught with danger because of the ever-present menace of American submarines. “But we did not fear them, even though they did sink several in our convoy,” he said boldly as it sank in on his audience that Japan did not rule the oceans. He had further told them that the supply line from Japan to Hawaii was as tenuous as the line from Japan to the troops in China. Hawaii was out on an indefensible limb, and many looked nervously at one another.

“I believe that soon Hawaii will be annexed to the empire of Japan,” Akira said. “When that happens, I will rejoice. That means that the Americans will be forced to fight a decisive battle against us, and, despite their material assets and the overwhelming size of their country, we will prevail. No matter how devastated Hawaii is as a result of the coming battle, we will win. It won’t matter how many thousands of tanks or planes they have, or how many hundreds of warships they hurl at us, it won’t matter. Hawaii’s cities and farms may be destroyed, but we will rebuild. Tens of thousands of Hawaiians may die, but Japan will be victorious.

“Some of you have seen the factories and shipyards of America, and, while Japan has nothing like them, Japan does have the courage of her people, who are willing to die in their millions to secure their country’s future. America’s vast material superiority will amount to nothing. Even if Germany is defeated by the Allies and we have to face the combined might of the United States, Great Britain, and China, we will be victorious. It doesn’t matter that America’s army now numbers in the millions and its soldiers are not like the drunken louts who were stationed here and were defeated, they are not Japanese.”

As he finished to tepid applause, he saw that most had understood clearly and were looking at him with new respect. He had told them that the Japanese army was inept and guilty of the worst imaginable atrocities. Japan was doomed, and a mighty battle could easily be fought on and for the islands. Simple numbers told them that the United States had a population a third larger than Japan’s. Combine that with Great Britain’s, and add the vast but incompetent legions of China, and an ugly picture of a war of attrition was drawn. Japan might be able to distance herself from China’s hordes but never from an angry and vengeful United States and Great Britain.

Later that evening, Akira and his father met with a select handful of young men in the back of a dry-cleaning business owned by Toyoza Kaga. Guards watched for unwelcome guests while the two kempetei slept away in their beds. The alcohol had been augmented by a mild narcotic, and they would not awaken for anything less than a volcano.

For this group, Akira was even more specific. “Japan has been accused of terrible atrocities in the war with China. Let me tell you that they are all true. I volunteered for Japan’s army because I thought her cause was just and the empire was good. I no longer think that. I saw what happened in Nanking with my own eyes. I saw women and children raped and murdered by the thousands. I saw Chinese men bayoneted to death for no reason other than that they were Chinese. To my shame, I took part in those evil actions. I killed helpless people and raped innocent women.”

He tried to block out his memory of a terrified woman who had submitted to him while her baby whimpered.

“Perhaps,” he said bitterly, “the loss of my leg was in payment for my sins.”

Kentaro Hara was an old friend and peer of Akira’s. “Would it have been saved if Japan’s army had provided decent medical support?”

“Probably,” Akira admitted. “Infection set in after a while. We had to use bandages salvaged from the dead and then washed as best as we could.”

His friends were appalled. “And our troops are really that bad?” Hara asked. “Japan’s army is noted for its discipline. What is happening?”

“Madness,” Akira said, “and incompetence. I did what I did in a moment of rage and fury. We had been fired on from a village, and a friend of mine was killed. In other instances, the replacements from Japan aren’t up to the level of the men they are replacing. The second-and rear-echelon soldiers are little more than half-trained criminals who have been conscripted and abused, and who have no wish to be in China. There have been incidents of soldiers murdering their own officers.”

That brought gasps, and even Toyoza Kaga was surprised.

“What can we do?” Hara asked sadly. “Japan will be defeated and the Americans will be on us in a rage for revenge.”

Akira smiled. “That is why we are here. We must organize and be ready to support the Americans when they invade. They must be made aware that not all Japanese support Tokyo. Not all are old fools or young radicals, like I was. We must be willing to pay for their understanding with our blood.”

“Excellent,” Hara said with an enthusiasm that surprised both Akira and Toyoza, “but how will we let them know we are here, and what should we do? It is rumored that Americans are active on Hawaii. Do we have a means of contacting them?”

Toyoza Kaga spoke for the first time. “I will work on that,” he said innocently and saw the look of comprehension on the others’ faces. When they laughed, he knew that Akira had chosen well, and he was proud of his son.

Lieutenant Goto fully agreed that punishment had to be given out for the deaths of Major Shimura and his guard. The second guard might yet die from his wounds, and his fate, whether he died or not, was part of the planned retribution.

What did surprise Goto was that Admiral Iwabachi had overruled Colonel Omori regarding its severity. Iwabachi wanted blood for the harming of his men and he wanted it in copious amounts, while Omori urged relative restraint. Deaths had to occur, but Omori wanted far fewer than Iwabachi did, and he wanted the native Hawaiian population insulated from the reprisal. It struck Goto as ironic that the admiral was endorsing acts not dissimilar to those that had seen him banished to Hilo.

The new commander of the Hilo garrison was Captain Isamu Kashii, and he held the post by virtue of being more senior in rank than the other captains. In his mid-thirties, Kashii was a firebrand and a fanatic, totally the opposite of the late, unlamented, and cowardly Major Shimura. Kashii wanted to kill Americans, and Goto wanted to help him.

A hundred men and women were chosen from the population. People of Japanese extraction were.excluded from the reprisal, but, regardless of his orders, Hawaiians were not. When Goto had commented that the Hawaiians were likely to be sympathetic to Japan, Kashii had told him it didn’t matter. They were all suspect in his eyes. Kashii could not even begin to comprehend the thought of the assassin being a lone warrior. He was vehement that the murderer had to have had help.

This was more like it, Goto had exulted. Shimura had been a pussy, afraid of his own shadow and more interested in entertaining himself with booze and drugs than in searching out the Americans. Let the blood flow.

As a result, the hundred doomed men and women had been chosen, some at random and some because they hadn’t shown enthusiasm for the Japanese cause, then interrogated with utmost brutality by Goto and some of Kashii’s men. Many couldn’t walk and had to be helped into the sunlight by those who could, while several were blind. Their eyes had been gouged out. The remainder of the Hilo population had been ordered to witness the punishment, and there was an audible moan by the assembled thousands as the tormented victims were led to the place of death.

Ten thick wooden stakes had been driven into the ground. They rose more than six feet tall and stood in front of a higher wall of sandbags. A Model 92 heavy machine gun mounted on a tripod stood about fifty yards away, while the two-man crew looked grimly at the empty stakes.

Moaning and numb with terror, the first ten were tied to the stakes. Captain Kashii signaled, and the machine gun commenced an insanely loud chattering that drowned out all other sounds. The victims jumped and writhed as the bullets tore into them, sending a spray of blood and flesh into the air. Then everything was still, and the bodies lay limp in their ropes. After a few seconds, some people in the crowd started screaming, but they were ignored. Soldiers untied the victims and dragged their bodies to the wall behind. A couple of them twitched and may still have been alive.

A second ten were brought forward, tied, and machine-gunned. The process was continued until only the last ten remained, and they too were tied to the now badly splintered stakes. The ground before them was so soaked with the blood of the preceding victims that red puddles had formed, and the crowd had ceased screaming or crying out. The mound of dead and dying behind the stakes had become a stack of bloody, raw meat as bullets that missed their targets had smacked into the bodies.

With the last ten in place, Kashii gave another signal, and ten soldiers with bayonets on their rifles took their places, one in front of each victim. Kashii bellowed an order, and the soldiers began their practice. First, they lunged their blades into the meat of their victims’ inner thighs, then the muscle of the upper arms. The last ten shrieked for mercy, but there was none. More thrusts slashed at their buttocks, the backs of their calves, the cheeks of their faces, their eyes, and, finally, slashing, disemboweling thrusts to the victims’ stomachs finished it.

Even so, it would take a while for some of them to die. The crowd was dismissed, but soldiers stood guard over the bloody place. Kashii ordered that no bodies be removed for at least twenty-four hours as an example.

The captain strode over to Goto and smiled. There was blood spattered on Kashii’s uniform. “Well, that ought to keep them in line. If it doesn’t, we’ll do it again and again until it does.”

The man loves to kill, Goto thought, and then laughed harshly to himself. And Omori thought I was a problem. At last, he congratulated himself, I am serving under a real leader.

“Some of the people in Hilo will move out, Captain.” Goto’s intelligence operatives told him that several hundred had already departed and more would follow. In a little while, Hilo could be a ghost town.

“Let them,” Kashii said. “There will be no food for them. They’ll come back.”

“Captain, any more clues as to the murderer or his helpers?”

“The killer was an American. One had been seen skulking around the day before, but it was unreported and apparently had happened earlier under the lax administration of my predecessor. But no, I did not get any information regarding specific assistance given to the assassin. Now I don’t need it. A message has been sent. I am confident it will not happen again.”

Goto agreed with Kashii. The Americans would be cowed by what had happened and would not attempt such a murder again. Unless, of course, someone struck at Kashii in revenge for this day. Goto saw how the captain’s actions might have launched a spiral of violence.

Good, he thought. Finally, he felt he was serving under a Japanese warrior.