Are you sure?
This action might not be possible to undo. Are you sure you want to continue?
Rainbow Gardens
by James Malone
Ratings:
872 pages12 hours
Summary
Rainbow Gardens is a fantastical tale that will blow your mind and expand your view of what is possible by portraying an intriguing world full of unforgettable characters and startling ideas.
Some say Rainbow Gardens is slipstream and others say it’s historical fantasy, but almost all agree that the premise is completely crazy—or "kichigai" as the book’s main character, Harry Shikita, would say. But what’s so kichigai about a Japanese immigrant who opens Minnesota’s first motel in the 1920s and then is adopted by a clan of trolls in search of their Redeemer? Happens every day.
Cursed descendants of Cain, the trolls live all over the world and are desperately trying to find their way back to God through their Redeemer—before the troll hunters find them. They think Harry’s the one who can lead them back to God’s Grace.
Harry wants none of that. He’s on his own quest to be a pillar of the community, a member of the Rotary, an “old boy.” But the ‘20s and ‘30s are a tough time to be Japanese in America, and it only gets worse after Pearl Harbor. Innocent of any wrongdoing, Harry finds himself interned for the duration of the war--and his business in tatters while his son Teddy fights for America in Italy and France.
Can Harry find a way to forgive his adopted country? And in so doing, can he become the trolls' bridge to God's Grace? The answer lies within the neon paradise of Rainbow Gardens.
Publisher: James MaloneReleased: May 31, 2015ISBN: 9781311662262Format: book
Book Preview
Rainbow Gardens - James Malone
Author
GLOSSARY
Japanese
Bakayaro: Stupid fellow
Domo: Thanks / Hello / Nice to meet you
Hai: Yes
Haji: Bringing no shame on family
Hokoku Seinen-dan: Young Men’s Org. to Serve Our Mother Country
Ikebana: Flower arranging
Issei: First generation immigrants
Kibei: U.S.-born but educated in Japan
Kichigai: Crazy
Matsutake: Mushroom
Nisei: Second generation (U.S. citizens by birth)
Okaasan: Mother
Sensei: A teacher or instructor of Japanese martial arts
Seppuku: A form of Japanese ritual suicide
Shikataganai: Can’t be helped
Sukebei: Bawdiness
Sukedbei-na: Lecherous
Sayonara: Goodbye
Taiso: Working out
Issei-ese
Basto-uppu: Go bankrupt
Caw: Car
Compa: Company
Contsuraiki: Business contract
Dan burro: Down below
Datto no guru: That is no good
Donguri pantsu: Dungaree pants
Dorosu: Drawers, underwear
Go tsu hehru: Go to hell
Go home kutta: Fired from job
Haro: Hello
Hoshu beta: Hospital
Humboku stekki: Hamburger steak
No guru: No good
Oh lie: All right
Oh-tohn-beeru: Car
Oi, yongu: Hey, young man
Osumala you: What’s the matter with you
Panku taiya: Flat tire
Waya: Haywire
Hawaiian-Pidgin
Bruddha: Brother
Got beef?: Want to fight?
Go for broke: Shoot the works, in craps
Hapa: Person of mixed ethnic heritage
No talk stink: Don’t bad-mouth
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Long Trolls’ Journey into Night
1945
Oh say, can you see?
Franco doesn’t see it yet.
Still drenched by the downpour that had caught him on the barren desert floor of New Mexico's Jornada del Muerto, he’s too busy groping his way up the mountain trail toward the Treasure Cave. Dragging his muddy forage sack while feeling his way along the sharp-edged mountain wall, he kicks at the defiant spadefoot toads, who have hitched a ride on the sack to avoid drowning in their flooded desert burrows.
Each soggy step reminds Franco of how fortunate he was to have escaped that dry gully just before it roared to life as a gushing creek. Had he not, the Journey of the Dead Man
might well have become the Journey of the Dead Troll.
Franco’s aviator sunglasses aren’t helping matters by dimming the already dark path. He could try to remove them from their precarious perch on the bridge of his long nose, but he fears they might fall and get crushed in the mud beneath his boot.
The cave is so close, so close—can’t quit now,
he mutters, trying to talk new energy into a body exhausted by the long journey from Taos and the burden of his bulging sack. But fatigue wins. Panting, he drops his sack of booty and sags against the mountain wall. Then he hears a distant swoosh—followed by a pop!
Now he sees it—a shaft of light bursting crimson into the night sky, burning through the clouds and splashing them a dark pink. As Franco looks up, the light bathes his sunglasses in a strawberry paste. He tracks the remnant shards as they spiral down to the desert floor, the embers smoldering on yucca plants still moist from the evening rain.
By the rocket’s red glare,
The Divine Wind is coming, just as Popay had promised him. The old Pueblo was never wrong, not once in all the decades Franco had known him. It must be coming.
The Wind is most definitely coming and it’s big, big, big! Even before the Wind stirs, Franco can feel it on his hairless white skin, caressing, tingling.
He shudders as sudden panic seizes him—was it the Wind’s tingle or was it a sign of the Man Fear? Maybe it’s not the wind—maybe it’s men. Have the sons of Noah found our cave? Disaster!
The failing light illuminates the path just long enough for Franco to spot the cave mouth ahead. Grabbing his forage sack and hurrying the last few yards, he throws it into the cave. He coils to jump in behind it but then he pauses…No—couldn’t be men, there are no men, not even at their Tower Camp, nor in that iron shed built so high into the sky.
Their absence had quickened the last leg of Franco’s return from Taos. No men meant no hiding in the desert shadows, no stone posing when someone stumbled too close. The journey had been so easy that he had even had time along the way to loot beer, food, even toilet paper from the empty camp.
No, not men. Couldn’t be men. The panic fades, yielding to the building excitement of anticipation. Maybe all the men are gone because they, too, know the wind is coming. Maybe they, too, know this wind is big, big, big! Maybe.
Leaping into the cave, Franco retrieves his sack and staggers through the dark, narrow tunnel, toward the din of his companions. He bumps into a rotting timber, a relic of better days when the tunnel fed into a bustling silver mine. The mine had not stayed open long; it was abandoned as soon as dazed miners began emerging into the daylight, babbling in unknown languages and refusing to go back in.
The timber groans and sheds a layer of dust onto Franco’s leather flight jacket. He stops, slaps at the jacket to knock the dust off, and then picks up his pace.
He follows the tunnel as it pours into a cavern littered with old tracks, rusty tools, and rail cars. A solitary wall torch casts flickering shadows on the milling crowd of trolls. Tonight the mine is teeming with trolls, a colony of anarchic pale ants, sauntering, jabbering, playing, and licking at the mountain stream suddenly awash with the night’s rainfall. But some are hard at work, sewing, hammering, or feeding the young.
Hey, it’s Franco!
one shouts, and they scurry to greet their leader, their white, smooth, unblemished skins glistening with pleasure at the sight of him. Did you bring us any beer?
No time for this,
Franco says. The Divine Wind is coming—follow me if you want to see. But you must bury your feet before it happens.
Franco grabs an old pickaxe and rushes back to the cave mouth, followed by a pack of clamoring trolls. He wants to see the wind, but he has to take precautions. Heaving the pickaxe, he starts pounding at the ground. But the impact is too much for the old wood handle, and it shatters. A flying splinter rips into the sleeve of his leather jacket.
Oh no!
he cries, grasping at the cut. The jacket is his prize possession, a souvenir of his most recent encounter with a man, that dying, would-be aviator in his crashed training plane. Franco had found him by tracking the flickering flames amidst wreckage strewn for hundreds of yards across the barren slope of a San Andres mountain peak. It was almost impossible to tell the chunks of twisted metal from the charred and scattered remains of the second pilot.
Bathed in moonlight, Franco had gazed at the broken survivor, who stared fright-eyed at him. Franco could feel his shape changing, snapping into a savage Grendel. The man’s fear of Franco’s monster look was overpowering, melting away even the shock that cloaked the agony of broken bones and seared flesh.
Please don’t eat me,
the pilot had squealed like a four-year-old. What was left of him writhed in pain and fear.
Franco was sufficiently insulted by the dying man’s plea to consider actually eating him, just for spite. You silly son of Noah, what are you good for? Just lying and dying and making us trolls look ugly. Why am I such a monster to you?
Please!
Franco sighed; he was never much good at rage. Okay—what can you trade me for not eating you?
Franco waited for the pilot to die before taking the jacket—he hadn’t wished to cause the wretch any more pain by peeling it off his broken torso. In a jacket pocket he found the pilot’s sunglasses; he took them as a reward for his patience.
Trade for this, trade for that, everything’s a contract—or a contsuraiki as Harry would say—but with men you’d better get the goods up front, Franco tells himself as he flails at the hard, rocky ground with the axe blade. Soon he has dug a hole deep enough to step into. He scrapes the loose dirt back in and packs it down over his ankles.
Other trolls have crowded around him, laughing and digging and packing down dirt. They all gasp as another rocket blazes through the clouds.
Hurry, hurry! Get ready! The wind—
Before he can finish, a searing light, a rampaging gas-oven light turns the dark to dawn. It is an x-ray light and the trolls ooh and ahh at the sight of their neighbors’ purple neon skeletons.
The Bomb bursting in air,
The Divine Wind! The stupid Sons of Noah—they have sown the wind and now they’ll reap the whirlwind!
Franco shouts as a rainbow of orange, red, purple, yellow fire spins out of the east, a growling cartwheel with spokes of flame. He chortles as the blossoming fireball frees itself from gravity’s clutches and hurtles through the sky, a fiery chariot with a thousand atomized Joshua trees aboard.
An ear-splitting thunderclap, then a blast of hurricane wind strikes the mountain cave. Unanchored trolls blow screeching by him as they tumble back down the tunnel.
The ground-anchored trolls survive the blast and gaze east at the rising cloud; trolls fancy mushrooms and they are fairly salivating at the sight of this growing, monster matsutake.
Gave proof to the night
Quit drooling,
Franco says. "Poison matsutakes make you sick."
In a slow motion settling of dust and cactus the giant mushroom dissipates, just as the real dawn crests on the horizon. The rays of sunlight seem dull, dim by comparison as they bounce off the trolls’ new coats of sparkling glitter.
Suddenly, Franco feels Noah’s stone curse rising up from the ground, clutching at his ankles, a frosty grip trying to lock him in place for the day.
Show’s over. Quick, go back, back inside and wash off,
Franco says as he smacks the glitter off his jacket and digs free his ankles. He shoos at the surrounding trolls, waving them back toward the dark safety of the cave.
When night falls, it’s time for homecoming. Pack, pack, take snacks—Harry’s coming back! Tonight we head for the Rainbow.
That our trolls are still there…
Bockscar
With his aviator glasses clamped tightly against his skull to stop them from blowing off, Franco peeked through a splintered gap in the boxcar door as the desert whizzed by; streaks of brush and rocks glistened in the moonlight. Sometimes the light flashed through the cracks on an inside wall and lit up the graffiti; next to the ubiquitous Kilroy Was Here
doodle, some clever hobo had drawn a mushroom cloud on the wood and captioned it, Bockscar,
the name of the B-29 bomber that had vaporized Nagasaki.
One more hour, Franco thought. Then we jump and find shelter before dawn. Staying in Bockscar is too risky. Some son of Noah opens it up, light comes in, he sees us and we all end up scattered in men’s flowerbeds, troll perches for pigeons. Yuck.
Of course, Franco reminded himself, the stone fate was temporary, lasting only until nightfall and far preferable to the fate dealt to most trolls. The murders, the burnings, the exile…
Franco pulled his head back inside the box car and looked at his companions, who were standing in a circle, playing a troll game called Let’s Face It,
with each displaying the most fantastic appearance that a man had conjured up when confronting a troll. The clear winner so far was Drayco, whose normally exquisite, well-proportioned head was now stretched in a wolfish snout, with drool dripping from fangs and green snot hanging from a hairy nostril.
Franco wondered if that was what men really saw when they looked on Drayco. Even in a game, the countenance was dreadful to behold.
Let’s Face It
was a game handed down through the millennia, and with it came the legend of how trolls had been doomed by their own compliance, lulled by their own eagerness to coexist with the sons of Noah, to reunite with them, to be part of the family again. How many treasures had they shared with men, only to be scourged for their trouble? How many Beowulfs have sprung up to hunt them?
As Popay had told Franco, all the hate, the killing wasn't really the fault of men. Remember where they came from,
he said. "Remember Adam. You told me he was kichigai to begin with."
They couldn’t help themselves. Popay is right—they are all kichigai. The hideousness that they saw in trolls was simply a reflection of the craziness in their own souls.
What a curse we trolls have inherited, Franco thought as he listened to the train wheels rolling in a metallic symphony of clicks and wind noise. He could still remember the song his mother would sing, a song passed down from generation to generation:
My tears have been my food day and night,
They whisper to my starving soul,
Where is your God?
Where is our God?
Where is his love,
Where is his forgiveness
For the children of Cain?
Can God not change the hearts of men
So they would not hate us so?
Where is our God?
Where is God? Where is God’s forgiveness? Why could He not forgive those angels who had seduced Cain’s daughters? And even if He could not forgive them or Cain, why hold it against the offspring? How long must the trolls wait for redemption?
Not even Popay could answer that one. Franco was going to miss Popay, even though he had given up any hope that the old Seer was the key to their salvation. Popay was riveted to the Taos Pueblo; he would never leave that high mesa in northern New Mexico until he won his personal quest to regain Blue Lake, the holiest of places for his people—and that might never happen. Popay was a Seer, very much so, but he simply chose not to see beyond Blue Lake.
A shiver of delight suddenly tickled him. Harry was also a Seer, another sign of hope promised to Cain’s descendants. Even better, Harry was many steps closer to the bridge than Popay.
Seers were hard to come by. Three centuries ago, the father of Franco's father concluded that the search for a Seer was reason enough for his tribe to stowaway on a slave ship to the new world. Trolls were good at stowing away—even Noah would concede that. Unlike many of their unfortunate shipmates, the trolls had survived the arduous journey on the slaver and embarked on a Jamestown pier in the middle of the night.
The new world,
Franco said to the sleeping trolls around him. A couple shifted while others continued to snore. It’s pretty much same as the old world. But as the legend goes, in the new world we will find a new man, a Redeemer who will rise from beneath Noah’s rainbow to restore the trolls' lands and more important, our reputation. We’ll find a man who knows good and evil, and has found the bridge between both. Maybe that man is Harry. Maybe.
Chapter 2
Harry’s Great Escape
1945
Winding Down
The wind was building, a dry southerly wind that gave no hint of the coming autumn. A pile of last year’s leaves swirled around two gray squirrels as they leap-frogged each other, bouncing their way along the dog path between the fence lines. They would sometimes pause, rub onto the chain links and look up at the three strands of barbed wire atop the inner fence, as if searching for any weak spot, any small sag or gap between the strands that might be wide enough for them to slither through. They found such a spot near the closed gate where Harry Shikita was standing.
They bounced high, clanging against the fence, clawing their way up the chain links. One slid through the gap between the first two barbed wire strands, but the other opted for a higher, narrower gap, and paid with a gash to its side. It fell, twisting and shrieking. The successful squirrel pondered his companion for a second, then scratched down the fence and bounded onto a nearby elm tree.
Only squirrels want to break into Fort Lincoln—while everyone else wants to break out, Harry thought as he stood before the gate at the Main Entrance Guard Station, clutching the ragged remains of his portfolio.
Harry’s ears perked as a gentle wind gust carried the echo of faint, unworldly trumpeting. Looking west in the direction of the Missouri River above the guard tower, he spotted a flight of sandhill cranes gliding in the cloudless sky. How high were they, he wondered, a mile? High enough, at any rate, to escape any fence put in their way. During the past three years, how many times had he watched them in wonder, envious of their huge seven-foot wings, wishing he could launch himself over this fence and flap his wings up into the stratosphere?
A stronger gust caught Harry square in the chest, blowing the acrid smell of mothballs into his nostrils. Harry wished he had been given some time to air the suit out before they notified him of his release, he wished he could have at least let it hang in a damp room for a day to remove the creases from the storage box. But they had not been so considerate; in fact, Harry was not sure if he even had the right suit. It seemed too tight at the waist, too big at the shoulders. The suit must have belonged to a younger man.
A puff of dust blew over his shoes, coating them with a thin film. He hardly minded the dust anymore. After some three years of standing on this flat, arid expanse at the edge of the Missouri River, he was accustomed to dust—dust in his throat, dust in his ears, dust in his food, dust in his dust.
In the distance, a horn honked. On the unfenced, other side of the road, overshadowed by two Dutch elms was a car parked near one of the garages for the Officers’ Quarters. Harry’s mood brightened when he squinted hard enough to recognize his own Oh-tohn-berru, a ‘38 Oldsmobile convertible, gunmetal gray. A shadow blur of a brown Eisenhower jacket leaned against the car door.
It must be Teddy—Yes, it's Teddy. Lean, tall Teddy—only not so lean anymore, he looks thicker.
Harry had almost collapsed when he received word that Teddy had been badly wounded. Teddy’s first post-surgery letter to Harry was written in a near-scrawl and it had wandered from past to present to future tense. But the gist was he was going to make it—at least, most of him was going to make it. Now, after months of rest and treatment, he was here, discharged at last from the Veterans Hoshu beta, waiting to drive the getaway car for Harry’s escape.
Unoiled metal hinges screeched against each other as a khaki-clad guard opened the gate, swinging it wide against the stone pillar and letting the world yawn at Harry from the other side. Just as he was about to take his first step toward the chasm, Frank Wakiji’s voice rang out behind him.
Harry!
Frank shouted. Good luck, pal!
The wind rustled through Harry’s trousers as he turned back to face the wooden barracks, a carefully arranged row of blank, fallen dominoes. He recognized his companions, his soon-to-be former companions, as they stood on the nearest barracks landing. Some waved at him, while others displayed their most formal scowl at the man they considered a bakayaro—but it was they who had been stupid, not Harry, and he knew from the barracks whispers that even some of the leaders were getting cold feet.
I'll send you a postcard from Yokohama,
Frank Wakiji shouted, grinning, his shaved head reflecting the sunlight. It was a brave grin, but Harry knew Frank was already wetting his dorosu about the coming deportation.
They won’t let me change my no-no, even though some others were allowed to with your help,
Frank had told Harry a month ago. "I was just kichigai to say no-no. I was kichigai to hurt that yes-yes at Tule Lake. And now here I am— a Troublemaker, just like all the other troublemakers they sent here from Tule Lake."
"Oi, Yongu, Harry shouted at Frank.
You’ll come back, kid, and we’ll have Humboku Stekki at my place. All you can eat. Medium rare."
He forced a smile and bowed. Poor Frank. Harry felt a heavy sadness for him and the other no-no boys who now wanted to be yes-yes, and he despaired for those other, scowling men, the leaders of the coming Lemming rush to Japan. He feared he would never see Frank again, nor Danny Sakamoto nor George Fong. Unlike Harry, they were Nisei, the first generation to be born in America. But they were no-noes, they had shaved their heads and renounced their citizenship; they were Hokoku, they no longer wished to remain in the land that had stripped them of dignity and honor, and they were waiting to go search for the ghosts of their ancestors in a land most had never seen.
Perhaps I should be going with them, Harry thought. Their leaders will be no help—for despite their stiff necks most are boys, just boys like the rest of them—frightened, angry boys. They'll have no chance in Japan—especially a ruined Japan.
For a moment Harry considered taking a step back into camp, to try one last time to persuade them all to give this up; he knew that some already had second thoughts and had filed to rescind their repatriation requests. But the stone weight in his portfolio held him back like an anchor. No use, too late, said the stone in a whisper on the wind. No use.
He felt a hand falling onto his shoulder, the fingers curling into his collarbone. Turning, he faced the vast, blue-shirted chest of Patrol Inspector Fred Svengaard.
Well, Harry, guess this is it—no hard feelings, huh?
Svengaard said, releasing Harry’s shoulder, looking down at him, thrusting his hand forward.
Chuckling, Svengaard opened his meaty hand, his doe eyes gazing benevolently through folds of cheeky flesh. Harry never could understand how such kind eyes could have been paired with Svengaard's unhappy, thin lips. The man's lips were the only thin thing about him; they seemed locked in a perpetual smirk of resentment for having been sentenced to life on such a pudgy face.
Switching grips on the portfolio, Harry forced a smile and shook the man's hand, the same hand that had cut Jimmy Yonemura down from his roped collection of awful ties, the same hand that had brandished a tommy gun at Harry three years ago as he stepped off the truck and blinked at the barbed wire fences of Fort Lincoln.
"Shikataganai, Harry said.
Can’t be helped."
"Yeah—Shika—oh hell’s bells—shittawhatever, Svengaard said, nodding.
By the way, Ike McCoy wanted to thank you personally for staying on awhile to help some of these boys. But he got promoted and is headed for the Noyes Border Patrol in Minnesota. Bill Cook will be in charge ‘til we close up."
Harry thought that Ike McCoy was a decent man, an honorable man who had lived up to his end of the contsuraiki: in exchange for Harry’s staying on a little longer, McCoy had arranged to have Teddy transferred to the Veterans Hoshu beta at Fort Snelling—so that when Teddy was finally discharged, all he had to do was catch a cab to the Minneapolis train station and buy a ticket for home.
Bill Cook, on the other hand, was a wonderful young man—respectful, practical, and even compassionate. While McCoy had been away on business, it was Bill Cook who had resisted orders from the Central Office to monitor conversations between internees and visitors.
Like Harry, McCoy and Cook had recognized that many of the no-no boys were having a change of heart. But try as he might, McCoy had failed to break the stranglehold that the extreme Hokoku had on the internees; these members of the Young Men’s Organization to Serve Our Mother Country had intimidated any Japanese who wanted to withdraw his request for repatriation to Japan. Maybe Cook would have more success. Maybe.
Harry had actually liked playing the roles of translator and advisor to McCoy, reviewing the appeal paperwork from those few who did have the courage to step forward, giving the Officer in Charge his opinion on who never really wanted to be repatriated to Japan—but he couldn’t save Frank Wakiji.
As Harry began to walk toward the gate, Svengaard moved to block his way and pointed at Harry’s bulging portfolio. That looks awful heavy for just your sketches,
he said with a habitual edge of suspicion in his voice.
Uh, it's just my troll. My good luck troll.
Oh yeah. From your motel. How long you think it'll take you to get it going again?
Not long. Maybe just a couple months with Teddy’s help. You and the Missus must come stay with us. We'll give you best cabin on the place. Your choice of trolls.
We would like that very much, Harry.
Fred’s thin lips broke into a grudging smile as he jerked a huge thumb over his shoulder. "Is that your boy waiting over there? Heard he killed a whole bunch of Nazis in Europe. Uffda! I wish he could’ve cleared out the Nazis here in camp—those damn Schlageters—always making trouble."
Yes, that’s my son. He fought well for his country…Well, goodbye, Fred,
Harry said, already walking through the gate toward Teddy and the Olds; he did not mean to be rude, but he had already blotted the Germans and especially the Schlageters out of his memory. The hardcore Nazis among the German seamen detained at Fort Lincoln had adopted the term, which meant strikers
and had been used by early Nazi street brawlers to describe themselves.
Hi, Poppa!
Teddy was hobbling toward him, round jaw set in determination, wide shoulders jerking first in one direction then the other as his cane slammed into the ground with every step. His Eisenhower jacket was unbuttoned, its pinned battle ribbons flagging in the breeze, oak leaf clusters glimmering in the bright sun.
Harry gazed at his son, then looked back again at the fence with its barbed wire crown, at the huge loudspeaker beside the gatehouse, at the guard tower, at the red brick barracks in the distance where the Germans had lived. He fought down the fear that any second the loudspeaker would start screaming and Svengaard would come running at him, tommy gun blazing.
Free! Yes, I’m free. So why do I feel like an escaped prisoner? What a country!
The Right Woman
That’s what Teddy needs now, Harry told himself, the right woman. What about that woman Teddy had met down south—what of her?
Harry winced as he watched his son slash through the Oldsmobile’s advanced, clutch-less manual gearbox; the gears groaned as Teddy punished them with each shift. Arcing from the corner of his eye to near the edge of his mouth, the scar on Teddy’s right cheek flamed against his orange-brown complexion. A German bayonet had missed its mark, nicking Teddy across the face instead of plunging into the gut, because Teddy got the German first.
Not as handsome as he was, but still a war hero, and a great mechanic—not a bad catch, Harry thought. But was Teddy still writing poetry?
Teddy grimaced every time he shifted, so that by the time he had slammed the Oldsmobile into driving gear he had just about chewed through his cigarette.
You want me to drive?
Harry asked, wondering when Teddy had taken up smoking—bad compa he must have kept in the Army. It’s a long trip back to Minnesota, Teddy.
Teddy shook his head, his blonde forelock blowing in the breeze, falling for a moment over his right eyebrow then flicking up again. His khaki tie fluttered back over his shoulder like the long tongue of a panting dog.
I know how far it is—I just drove it, Poppa.
How is your leg doing?
Harry asked, trying to come up with some topic on which two veterans could share a conversation.
It’s fine. Doc says I should lose most of the limp if I keep working on it.
I got your postcard from Marseilles. Did you ever make it to Paris?
No.
Teddy’s voice had a huskier timbre to it than what Harry remembered, but that was not what disturbed him. No, what bothered him was the hollowness, the terseness. What has happened to my son—Teddy was a talker, an observer of life, Harry thought, never at a loss for words, the golden words that could flow from his pen like fresh honey. My son was a poet.
Teddy drove up fast behind a slow, light-green pickup truck whose rusted fenders had seen better days. Waiting until the last moment to pass, Teddy floored it and then darted back into the lane too soon, drawing an angry blast of the truck’s horn.
Up yours, you fucking 4F,
Teddy muttered and thrust a middle-fingered salute into the air.
Harry looked back at the truck as apologetically as he could, and then he stared at Teddy.
"Osumala you? You gone kichigai?" he shouted.
Teddy jerked his head in Harry’s direction, his pale blue eyes staring hard. "Cut that Issei-ese talk, Poppa. Start talking American instead of that Japan-town crap like the no-no boys spit out." Teddy punched the car’s cigarette lighter and pulled out another cigarette.
"Yes-yes, no-no, everyone has gone kichigai, Harry said.
Everyone had to follow their heart. We are all the same people."
Teddy gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, then red as blood flowed to the clenched effort. They had travelled about another mile when Teddy suddenly jammed on the brakes, screeching the Olds to a halt on the gravel shoulder.
We are not the same people! I’m not the same as them!
Teddy yelled.
With an angry jerk he grabbed his open tunic and thrust it a few inches from his father’s face. He pointed to his ribbons. "Poppa, you know what these are? They’re haji signs. DSC, Purple Heart, Bronze Star, Silver Star, Presidential Unit Citations. I brought no shame to my family—unlike like those stinking no-no boys! They said no when they were asked if they would serve in combat! They said no when they were asked to swear allegiance to the USA and not to the Emperor! They have no honor. They want to go to Japan now, let 'em. But Japan hates cowards too!"
The light green pickup truck drove by them, angry horn blaring. Harry ignored it. He gazed at the battle ribbons, saw the anger on the copper face of his son.
Harry remained silent for a moment. Then he asked, What is honor?
Teddy sat back in the driver’s seat and took a long drag of his cigarette. Honor is doing the right thing no matter what.
And who decides what the right thing is?
Teddy shot his father a defiant look. I guess you know when you see it. You know the right thing when you feel the guilt if you haven’t done it.
Harry sighed and put a hand on his son’s shoulder. Teddy, I know a lot of these men that you hate. I can tell you that honor is more than what you think. And they believe their country has stripped their honor from them. They believe they’re doing the right thing. So I ask again, who decides what the right thing is?
Harry’s question was met with silence. Teddy flung his cigarette from the car and stared ahead.
Teddy, when I came home from my war, do you know what the hardest thing was for me?
Teddy sighed, expecting a lecture for his outburst. No, Poppa, what was hardest?
Admitting to myself that it was over—that was the hardest thing I ever did… I took the lives of other men, even as I was saving the lives of men. It was terrifying, but it was exhilarating. Even now, sometimes in my dreams I am back in France, and when I wake up the first thing I force myself to say is, it’s over.
You came back in one piece, Poppa,
Teddy said, pointing at his bad leg. It’s not over for me until I can run, until I can play baseball again. It’s not over until I can close my eyes and not see my buddies getting it.
Nobody comes back from war in one piece, Teddy,
Harry said. But it’s over. It’s over for me and now it’s over for you. We have to get on with our lives. We have to learn how to live in peace, and to do that we must learn how to forgive.
Teddy sighed. Then he laughed to himself as he gunned the engine and slapped the car into gear, spinning the wheels and kicking up gravel as he drove back onto the asphalt.
And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us—you’d make a helluva chaplain, Poppa.
It runs deeper than that Teddy. But never mind. Let’s talk about the Rainbow Gardens—how do things look?
Pretty bad. It’s gonna take a lotta work. But I do have some good news.
What news?
The trolls are back.
Chapter 3
The War to End All Peace
1916
Friends of France
A few of the invited students held their hands to the warmth of Psi Delta’s fireplace, while others drifted into the meeting from the adjacent smoking room, followed by a strong whiff of tobacco smoke. Most talk was at low volume, more like a murmur than actual conversation. Those who did not belong to the fraternity quietly surveyed their surroundings; the house was the newest addition to the University of Minnesota’s Fraternity Row, and it dominated the neighborhood with its stylish stucco walls and massive veranda. The open, high-ceilinged interior was equally impressive with its varnished oak rafters and trim.
The front door of the frat house opened, letting in the cold wind and traffic noise from University Avenue. Heads turned toward the door as an older gentleman entered and shook the snow from a thick black wool overcoat. He was followed in by Calvin MacDonnell, the fraternity president, a sharp-featured blonde reed of a young man who could pass for handsome in the eyes of some.
Gentlemen!
Calvin said in a voice whose high pitch carried into the great room and bounced around the ceiling rafters before falling as incoming syllables. May I present my uncle, Mr. Angus MacDonnell of the Diplomatic Service.
Two of the students hurried to MacDonnell and helped him remove his coat.
I see Minnesota hasn’t gotten any warmer since I left, but my goodness—a snow storm in early October?
Mr. MacDonnell said, pulling at his suit jacket and quickly buttoning it as his overcoat was removed.
We ordered it ‘specially for you, Uncle, because we know you’ve missed it so,
Calvin said, and a few of the students chuckled.
Just so, just so, but Japan is not exactly the tropics,
MacDonnell said. He stepped into the great room and cast a broad smile as the young men gathered around him. He was not a very tall man, but he carried himself with a stiff dignity that made him seem larger; the impression extended to his coal-black and slicked hair, with winged hints of gray that followed the contours of his ears.
Did you happen to see Leslie Buswell’s presentation on the war last week, Mr. MacDonnell?
Jeremy Langford asked. He was a senior, a hulking boy who played quarterback in high school but after a near-disastrous freshman year at college, his family had demanded he stay away from the gridiron and dedicate himself to his studies.
Sad to say, I was busy with the upcoming presidential election,
MacDonnell said. As it stands right now, we are unsure that Mr. Wilson will be reelected, but if he is, America will remain neutral, and our friends across the Atlantic will have to rely on more volunteers like Mr. Buswell.
That’s okay sir,
said Joe Trexel, a thin, anxious boy whose father was a major shareholder in the Northern Pacific Railroad. We appreciate the fact you took time from your diplomatic leave to come here today. Calvin told Mr. Buswell you might be coming, so he left us with an autographed copy of his new book for you. He said he would be delighted to make himself available for any meetings that you might want to arrange concerning the American Field Service.
Joe handed it carefully to the diplomat, and then backed away a few steps.
"Hmm—Ambulance No. 10, Personal Letters from the Front. I will make time to read this, MacDonnell said, turning the pages of the small, brown volume in his hand. He opened the pamphlet laid-in at the back of the book and held it up.
This says, ‘Volunteer Ambulance Drivers are Wanted.’
I have heard many stories about our boys who’ve volunteered for the Western Front,
MacDonnell continued. It’s a noble sentiment to help out any way we can, even if it means putting our lives on the line by driving ambulances and helping the wounded. Now, speaking of that, it’s my understanding that you are trying to organize A Friends of France Minnesota Ambulance Unit.
That’s right, sir!
said Albert Johnson, a tall, lanky boy from Mankato whose wild red hair rebelled against even the best hair cream. Our fathers have all agreed to provide the necessary financial support—I believe it’s about $600 each.
We also have a donor lined up to purchase six Ford Ambulances,
Calvin added, not wishing to sound boastful in front of the guests, but proud of his father’s generosity nevertheless. Although a basic Model T was fairly cheap at $360, the cost of shipping, assembling, and building an ambulance body for a Model T in France boosted the cost to some $1,600 each. And that miser, Henry Ford, was charging retail.
My brother—Calvin’s father tells me that you are just about set—passports are in order, leaves of absence from school are arranged—letters of recommendation written to the American Field Service—most impressive,
MacDonnell said. But I have been asked here to assist in another matter, correct?
Well yes, Uncle,
Calvin answered. As I said on the telephone, we have someone we want to take along. He is a terrific all-round helper—a cook and valet here in the house, and he works on our cars. He really is a good mechanic, and in fact I first met him when he fixed Father’s cars. He’s terrific, and since we don’t really know all we’re getting into, we thought he would be an asset.
But there’s a problem,
MacDonnell said, smiling as he pulled a pipe from his jacket pocket and carefully tamped tobacco into it. He lit it, and sent a few puffs into the room. No one dared mention that smoking was limited to the smoking room. Your mechanic happens to be a Japanese citizen.
Exactly, sir,
Calvin said. I have discussed the matter with Father, and he is willing to provide the financial support to bring him with. Father is very concerned that our East Coast colleagues have beaten us to the punch on the ambulances, and you know what he thinks of those East Coast snobs—especially the English East Coast snobs. He wants to show that Midwesterners care just as much about democracy and liberty. And Harry wants to go. But he needs a passport and French approval—not to mention approval by the Ambulance Service—they’re a little shaky about the Japanese bit.
And that’s where I come in,
MacDonnell said, nodding. I hope you are aware that although the United States remains neutral in the struggle against Germany and the other Central Powers, Japan is in fact at war with Germany. If captured, your man would be considered an enemy combatant, so he’d have to be kept well behind the action.
Calvin half-nodded, keeping his chin down in a solemn gesture. Well, he’d really be just an errand boy—someone to look after us, is all. Father thinks the Service will be all right with it if we come through with the goods—I mean—ambulances.
Yes, I talked with him,
MacDonnell said. The rascal cajoled me into buying two more ambulances.
Bravo!
one student shouted, and they all began to clap. MacDonnell waved them off with a gentle sweep of his hand.
I have also discussed this with a friend at the Japanese consulate in Chicago. He has shown an interest in helping. But he is awaiting my opinion on whether this fellow would make a suitable representative of Japan in a humanitarian effort such as this. So, do you think I could meet this fine fellow—Harry did you say?
Certainly,
Calvin said. Turning to one of the brothers, he asked, Could you please bring Harry from the kitchen?
After a few moments, the fraternity brother led Harry Shikita from the kitchen to the great room. He looked nervously about at first, rubbing his long-fingered hands repeatedly on his apron, and then he focused on Angus MacDonnell.
MacDonnell had been expecting to have to look down at a short, thin Japanese who was reluctant to make eye contact. Instead, as he stepped toward Harry he was forced to look up into unblinking eyes of smoldering coal, with irises ringed by violet. MacDonnell realized that Harry was studying him just as carefully as he was studying Harry.
Shaking off the awkward moment, Angus MacDonnell took another step toward Harry and then bowed. He whispered a few indiscernible words that caused Harry to beam and return the bow.
Turning back to the students, MacDonnell said, Could you please show us to a room where Harry and I can chat in private?
Errand Boy
In the battle-torn area around Chemin des Dames, the year 1917 had sneaked in quietly on a crisp, crystal-clear sunny morning—it was a good morning for many of the Section’s ambulance drivers to nurse a hangover, but not for Harry. Squirming in the half-frozen, half-muddy dirt beneath the jacked-up Model T Ambulance, struggling to loosen a stubborn oil pan bolt, Harry assumed he was the only one awake. But he was wrong.
Harry! Dammit, where the hell are you, you bloody Jappo!
Dropping his wrench, Harry pushed away a frozen piece of cow dung and slid out from beneath the wounded Ambulance. He looked up and saw Chief Mechanic Felix Ambrose standing at the entrance of the motor barn, bony hands on hips, his long neck craning left and right, not bothering to bend down to look where a mechanic might actually be.
It was bad enough that Harry had to spend New Year’s Day doing emergency repairs on Ambulance No. 8. But now, he had Ambrose after him again when all he wanted to do was to sleep just like everyone else.
Harry did not like this man. The rest of his new section was all right, but Ambrose was a pipsqueak tyrant, just like many of the pipsqueak shopkeepers he had known in Seattle, just like the mean-spirited foremen in the Hawaii sugar cane fields.
He wished he could have stayed with the remnants of the Minnesota Ambulance Section, but the fighting around Verdun had decimated the drivers. During one particularly savage German bombardment, Joe Trexel had dived for cover in a French barn, but a large-caliber 210 shell wiped out the corner of the barn he had chosen. Albert Johnson fell to a stray sniper’s round when helping to lift a stretcher. The final blow fell when Jeremy Langford skidded off an icy road last month and rolled his ambulance; he suffered a broken back and would be lucky to walk again, much less play football.
The Minnesota section’s surviving equipment and personnel, including the mechanics, had been sprinkled at random amongst other ambulance sections. Calvin MacDonnell had managed to get Harry assigned with him to Section 73, but only because good mechanics were worth their weight in gold; without mechanics, drivers had to work on their own vehicles with uneven results and much wasted time. The fact that Harry could play baseball didn’t hurt Calvin’s argument; the sections sometimes got up a game during long periods of en repos, and Harry’s reputation as a mow ‘em down
pitcher had spread among the volunteers.
Harry! What the hell are you doing down there!
Ambrose shouted as Harry rose from beneath the ambulance. His syllables escaped his mustached mouth in frozen puffs. Even at a distance, Harry could smell the whiskey’s vapor trail.
Ambulance 8, no go. Driver no can fix so he ask me,
Harry said, struggling to get to his feet. Bad bearing, maybe.
Well, he damn well should have come to me with his request,
Ambrose huffed. Come along now, I have a more important job for you.
The driver asked me because he knows you couldn’t fix it, Harry thought, shuffling behind Ambrose as the Chief Mechanic strode to the Section’s light truck, a dilapidated Berliet, with its open cab covered only by a ragged canvas top. It was barely able to wheeze its way at 30 kilometers an hour on the supply runs. And each run might be its last.
I just got word that our shipment of parts has arrived at the Passy depot,
Ambrose said. Harry, I need you to drive there right away and get those parts before someone else pinches them. The paperwork’s on the seat. Now get going!
"Hai!" Harry said, bowing. He jogged to his quarters, a dank hovel behind the barn that doubled as a rat hotel, and grabbed a blanket to keep his legs warm against the cold wind. It was a long drive to the outskirts of Paris, so he grabbed his frayed gloves and knit cap as well.
Scampering to the truck, he cranked it up to a muffled roar, and then drove down the cratered country road, past the bombed-out rubble of houses and the occasional artillery battery encased in logs, netting, and sandbags. At one point, he had to dodge around long columns of replacement troops as they marched toward the action in their fresh, sky-blue uniforms .
Poor boys,
Harry thought. They don’t know what they’re getting into.
Soon enough, those clean uniforms would be mud-spattered, lice-infested rags, soiled by the filth of dysentery, poison gas fumes, and blood.
Eventually the countryside scenery became more pleasant, with only distant echoes of artillery spoiling its soothing effect on Harry. It was odd, how just a few miles could change the view from shattered buildings, nude trees, and oceans of mud to a pristine, untouched landscape dotted by elegant chateaus.
The boredom of the long trip soon overwhelmed the stimulating effect of the beautiful surroundings. Harry was going slowly kichigai from these prolonged stretches of boredom. Even the ambulance drivers were bored en repos, lounging around, playing cards or baseball, writing or reading letters, sleeping or just waiting. Sooner or later, the call would come; then they would lurch into action, crank up their vehicles, and drive toward another round of horror. In those moments boredom became a distant memory, but as soon as the drivers returned, boredom would reassert its deadening grip.
Harry longed to be an ambulance driver. He had accepted this job on the hope that once they got to France, anyone foolish enough to drive through the dangers of the front would be given an ambulance, nationality be damned. But the reality was that there were often more volunteers—more gentlemen, as Calvin once put it—than there were available ambulances to drive. Those poor fellows would often find themselves reassigned to the Reserve Mallet and forgotten, driving a plodding Berliet from one unknown point to the next—just like Harry, except that gentlemen such as they would not become glorified errand boys, and they might even get a better truck such as a Pierce Arrow.
It’s always, Harry find eggs for breakfast, Harry fix the ambulance, Harry drive the truck,
he said aloud in a fit of self-pity as the snow-covered countryside rolled by. Will they ever let me drive an ambulance?
Suddenly he heard a distant engine sputtering in the sky. The misfiring soon became louder, almost directly overhead. Craning his neck to gaze up and behind, he saw a French fighter plane billowing smoke as it fought to stay aloft, its engine spewing a slipstream of flames and vapor under the plane’s belly. He saw the Spad VII attempt one last curl with its tan nose up, then the engine died and the fighter descended rapidly.
He’s going down,
Harry said to himself. Its tricolored tailfin flashing in the winter sun, the biplane glided across the road, just a few yards above Harry’s truck.
The stricken fighter looked as if it would plummet straight into the soft farm field on Harry’s right, but at the last moment the pilot managed to force the nose up. The undercarriage bounced hard into the snow a few times before disintegrating under the pounding, sending the wheels rolling in opposite directions. The propeller flew off and cartwheeled madly across the field, while the flaming fuselage burrowed ahead for about 50 yards before colliding with a hay bale. The hay began to smolder, and Harry knew he had to act fast.
Pulling the truck off the road as best he could, he grabbed his blanket and sprinted to the wreckage. Through the black smoke he could barely see the pilot. Orange flames flickered over the pilot’s hands and arms as he struggled to free himself. He began to scream as the fire seared his face.
Harry jumped onto that what left of the wing near the fuselage and furiously swatted his blanket at the flames. He managed to grab the pilot by the shoulders and yanked hard. The pilot screamed in pain and didn’t budge.
Oh, safety strap, Harry thought.
"Pardon," Harry said as he reached down, found the strap buckle and clicked it open. As Harry dragged him up and out of the cockpit, the pilot screamed again but it couldn’t be helped.
Must be broken bones, or shot—or both, Harry thought as he dragged the smoldering man away, leaving a trail of soot and blood through the snow.
The plane’s machine gun rounds began to cook off, spraying the area in a wild salvo. Rolling the pilot into the muddy road ditch, Harry fell on top of him and waited for the mayhem to end. Soon a final explosion put the Spad out of its misery.
As glowing embers showered down on them, Harry began to examine the scorched man. The sweet aroma of seared leather and flesh was bad enough, but he also saw a pool of blood forming in the snow.
"Blesse?" Harry asked.
"Oui," the pilot said as he pointed to his bloody shoulder with a charred hand; his leather headgear and ear flaps had helped shield most of his face from the flames, but on one side of his neck hair would never grow again. Then he began to gasp, forming a string of muffled French swear words that Harry could barely hear.
"Merde! Stupide bastars! Merde! Bastars!"
* * *
Harry sat in a bare wood chair outside the ward room in the American Military Hospital; a strong smell of chemical cleaners tickled the hairs of his nose, but it did not seem to bother the nurses and doctors and orderlies who brushed by him at sporadic intervals. A gurney pushed to the wall opposite him held a severely wounded man whose only sign of life was an occasional whimper or groan.
He had tried to drop off his blesse at the first field hospital he came to, but was told that no one could even see the pilot for hours, much less treat him, and if left there he would probably die. So he drove through Passy to the American Military Hospital, which took only the most serious cases.
Harry dropped the pilot off there, and then drove back to Passy to pick up the parts. He debated whether he should head back right away as Ambrose wished, but he was curious about the fate of the man he had rescued. After all, this was his first blesse—and perhaps his last, so he thought he should see it through. If the pilot lived it would be worth the tongue-lashing he would receive from Ambrose for being late.
Harry had returned to the Hospital, and waited. An hour later, a doctor opened the closed door and walked straight to him. Harry rose, unsure of whether to bow.
Are you the man who brought in the French pilot?
the doctor asked, absently glancing at his watch. His sweaty brown hair was matted to a forehead creased by the continuous wear of an operating room cap.
"Hai—Yes."
Well, the pilot is awake now and has asked about you. He says you pulled him from the burning wreckage. A very brave thing to do, sir—very brave.
He—he will live?
Harry asked.
Yes, but it was touch and go for a while. He has family in Paris so we sent for them, just in case. You can go in now—I left a French-speaking orderly in his room to help you communicate.
The doctor looked at his watch again. Must go now, must go.
Harry was impressed that the pilot had his own room when others were lying about in the hallways. He must be important, Harry thought. Walking into the room, Harry saw a heavily bandaged figure on the bed’s white linen. The bandages completely covered both arms and hands. Another wrapped around his head and neck while covering one side of his face. On his bare chest, near the right shoulder, was a patch still oozing red. At his left side stood a khaki-clad, starched, and mustachioed orderly, who nodded as Harry entered.
Seeing Harry, the Frenchman began to talk in a whisper. The orderly bent down to listen then stood upright.
Lieutenant Pierre Claude wishes to thank you for saving him,
the orderly said. What is your name?
Harry, Harry Shikita.
American?
Yes—Japanese American.
At hearing the translation, the pilot laughed softly and then groaned a response.
He has never met a Japanese before. Neither have I, really. Lt. Claude wants to know if all American Japanese are as brave and crazy as you.
Harry shrugged at the question. The pilot muttered again.
What is the Japanese word for crazy?
The orderly asked.
"Kichigai," Harry answered.
Claude forced another shallow laugh and extended a bandaged arm. "Come here, my kichigai ami," the pilot said in rough English. He spoke again in French.
Please put your hand on top of his,
the orderly said. But gently—very gently.
As Harry did so, the pilot began speaking again.
He wants to know your unit, and where you are stationed,
the orderly said, picking up pen and paper from the nearby nightstand.
SSU 73, American Field Service, with French Sixth Army, Chemin des Dames,
Harry said. The orderly wrote the information down, and then placed the paper on the sheet next to Pierre.
Just then, the door opened and into the room strode two men, one tall and bulky in the sky-blue, heavily braided uniform of a French senior officer, and the other a smaller man, a civilian.
Pierre!
they both shouted, almost laughing and raced to his bedside. The orderly stood well out of the way as the three men spoke rapidly, excitedly.
At one point, the officer stood up straight and said, "Merde! Stupide bastars!"
Harry looked at the orderly, who raised his hands apologetically.
These two men are Pierre’s uncles—Monsieur Georges Claude and Generale Albert Mousson. Pierre has just told the General that he was shot down by French anti-aircraft gunners. The General is very upset—that was a brand new Spad fighter given to Lt. Claude to help him win his fifth victory and become an ace—
Ah,
Harry said. He very—how you say—angry—when I took him from plane.
With a gasp that betrayed the pain of his effort, Pierre turned his head toward the orderly and spoke softly, gesturing with his left hand, the less injured of the two.
Bravo!—Lt. Claude says he got numbers five and six before being shot down! France has another ace!
General Mousson reached down and patted Pierre’s forehead. Then he spoke to the orderly.
The General is very proud—France needs more aces, France needs more heroes.
The civilian, a dignified man in fine gray suit with a perfectly groomed mustache and graying hair parted down the middle in a perfect straight line, left Pierre’s side and stepped to Harry, embracing him. He talked rapidly as he looked up at Harry.
This is Georges Claude. He is an engineer and famous inventor. Pierre is his favorite nephew. He thanks you profusely for saving Pierre’s life.
Generale Mousson also stepped toward Harry, but did not embrace him. Instead, he came to full attention and saluted. He then turned to the orderly, speaking in the brusque tone of a man used to giving orders.
Generale Mousson wants to know if there is anything he can do for you. Don’t be shy about it.
Don’t Be Shy
Come along then, Harry my boy—Don’t be shy,
Chief Mechanic Felix Ambrose said loudly, but not too loudly as he stood at the threshold of the door to the drivers’ quarters. He placed his hands squarely on the hips of his fresh, pressed uniform. Every hair of his luxurious mustache had been trimmed and waxed, and on this day there was no smell of whiskey on his breath.
We’d better get a move on—Mr. Andrew don’t like to be kept waiting.
One minute—just talking with Mr. MacDonnell,
Harry said. He was standing next to Calvin MacDonnell as the young Minnesotan straightened Harry’s collar.
It’s okay, Felix,
Calvin said. We’re just getting him prettied up a little.
Harry couldn’t help being amused by Ambrose’s tone, which had grown progressively softer ever since he had returned from Paris with the parts. He remembered the early morning when he had driven up to the Section 73 motor barn. As he shut down the truck he had heard the voice of a dyspeptic Ambrose screaming at the top of his lungs from inside the barn.
Harry, you slant-eyed bugger! Where the bloody hell have you been with my—
Ambrose had stopped in mid-sentence as he came out the barn door and saw Harry emerging from a brand new, Pierce Arrow two-ton truck.
Where the hell did you get that—where’s our Berliet?
Ambrose asked, leaning against the threshold for support.
This our truck now,
Harry said, taking no small pleasure in the surprise on Ambrose’s face.
You stole a truck? My god I’m gonna—
This truck is a gift from the French people,
said a voice from the truck. The voice belonged to a French captain who shifted, stepped out of the truck and walked to a spot beside Harry. It is in gratitude for the bravery of this man.
By then some of the drivers had heard the noise and drifted out into the village square from their quarters. Seeing that he had an audience, the Captain came to Attention and said, "This man Harry Shikita is not a soldier, but he has the heart and will of a soldier, and the people of my country will always treat him as a soldier. We ask all of you to do the same. Now please show me to
You've reached the end of this preview. Sign up to read more!
Page 1 of 1