Dahlquist is irate as he stares at the assembled soldiers, his hound-dog cheeks twisting into a scowl. He turns to his adjutant and points at two companies where only a few soldiers stand.
“What companies are those two?”
“I and K companies, sir.”
“And how many soldiers are there in I and K companies?”
“Four hundred men went into battle, sir.”
Dahlquist bristles. “Then why do I count only twenty-six soldiers here? I told you I wanted everyone to attend. Where are the others? Why aren’t they here?”
His adjutant pauses. “That’s all that remains. Sir.”
Dahlquist flinches. A stunned expression washes over his gray face. Twenty-six? he seems to whisper, his lips moving silently, his eyes blinking. The expression of a man who for the first time sees the blood on his hands.
Later he makes a speech, his voice droning on. He makes no effort to be heard, and the soldiers make no effort to hear. His useless words about courage, about bravery, about patriotism, about America, about freedom, his patronizing words. Everyone wants him to shut up.
Afterward he approaches selected soldiers standing in the front row. One by one he pins medals on their lapels for their acts of bravery. Some stare him in the eye, giving away nothing in their vacant faces. Others look down to the furrowed ground, refusing to look him in the eye.
When he stands in front of Alex, Alex does neither. He only continues to stare straight ahead, looking neither up nor down, but straight through Dahlquist’s chest. As if Dahlquist isn’t even there, as if he is insubstantial and Alex can see through him to the very edge of the dark forest.
“Well, done,” says Dahlquist, extending his hand.
Alex doesn’t say anything. Keeps staring dead ahead, and for a long moment doesn’t extend his hand in return. Finally, and only because he is a soldier, only because he has obedience stamped into his bones, does he dutifully extend his own hand. Dahlquist’s hand envelops his, swallowing it whole with bone-crushing force. As if trying to force Alex to look up, pay some respect, for God’s sake. Alex doesn’t blink, stares straight ahead.
* * *
Later, the names of the dead are read. The soldiers, still standing in formation, are rock still. From the edge of the field, a gloved bugler plays the twenty-four notes of “Taps.” Snow drifts down, slowly, mournfully from the gray skies. Everyone thinking of brothers lost. Zack Okutsu. Teddy Ikoma. Mutt Suzuki. Their faces. Their voices. Their laughter. The bugler goes quiet; a wind picks up. Eyes well up in the silence. A few cry, but with silent, solitary tears. Most stare vacantly at the ground, or across the farmland at the dark line of trees.
Three volleys of rifle fire into the air.
PART FOUR
CHARLIE LÉVY
61
* * *
January 19, 1945
Dear Frank,
It’s been forever and I still haven’t heard from you. But I’ll keep writing.
My artillery battalion was separated from the 442nd, and we’ve become a detached unit. We were on the move for weeks, trudging along on a slow motor march, cooped up in the transport trucks for days on end. We stopped only briefly in towns and villages, sleeping mostly in tents, but sometimes we lucked out and got to sleep overnight in abandoned houses. The names of the towns and villages are a blur now, and would be forgotten if I didn’t jot them down: Mâcon, Cheniménil, Dijon, Valence, Menton. Someday Charlie might be curious, and I want to tell her exactly where I’d been.
I’m currently stationed way up in the French Alps at an observation post near Sospel, where the air is thin and razor cold. An empty world with snow-peaked mountains everywhere. Snow flurries never seem to let up this high in the mountains, but the flakes are light and soft.
It was hell getting up here to the observation post, though. We had to hike on trails that were ice-packed and steep. Mules carried the heavy equipment, but these mules, man they were stupid. Stoooo-peeed. And stubborn as heck. Always trying to shake off the pack saddle, rubbing the attached pots and pans and armory against the rocks, the rattling they’d make. Always biting and kicking at us before trying to scamper off.
Then we got to the switchbacks: narrow, stacked up on top of one another like a messy pile of pancakes. We couldn’t trust the mules with the howitzers on the tight turns. So we had to push the howzies ourselves. That was no fun. Them stupid mules kept grinning at us the whole time, God, I wanted to smack them right in their noggin. Or push them over the edge.
But now that we’re up here, the view is pretty darn amazing. There’s time and space to think and reflect. I’m looking forward to coming back. Never thought I’d say this, but those hot barracks in the Manzanar summer seem like heaven to me. Saunas to thaw out the cold that’s so deep in my bones. I’ve been shivering for months.
But of course, there’s still the war to be won, right? Hitler’s not backing down. We heard the Nazis were putting up a fight in Belgium and Luxembourg not so long ago. But we daydream about coming home. My Hawaii brothers, all they do is talk about hot Waikiki beaches and hot pig roasts and hot Hawaii girls. Cap tells us to keep our mind focused on the war.
And he’s right. Just yesterday I was on guard duty when I noticed something suddenly poke out of the mountains, on the Italian side of the border. Grabbed my binoculars. It was a German railway gun brought out of a concealed tunnel. Aimed right at us. Like staring down the barrel of a gun.
I never worked faster. Grabbed a grid map, worked out the coordinates, radioed it in. Took only two markers, then three salvoes. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. That explosive ball of orange and red fury, it was a thing of beauty, raw and pure, against the white snow and blue sky. It swallowed up that German gun, brought down that tunnel. We felt the boom concuss across the mountain range.
Cap was pleased. He gave me a day pass to this place called Nice. I get to go in several weeks with a few other guys. They’re already talking about hitting up some bars and a brothel. Me? I got other plans. Nice is where Charlie vacationed one summer long ago, staying with a family friend. I remember she wrote me a few letters from there.
Do me a favor, Frank? Go through Charlie’s old letters—they’re in a suitcase under my cot—and see if you can dig up those letters from Nice. This was the summer of ’36 or maybe ’37. There should be a return address on the envelopes. Let me know what that address is, will ya?
Your brother,
Alex
Alex rereads the letter, sighs. He shouldn’t have mentioned the observation post. Or named all those towns, for that matter. The army censors will have a field day blotting them out. He picks up an eraser. Then a moment later, puts it down. Never mind. Who cares.
Because censored or not, it’ll make no difference in the end. Frank still hasn’t written to him. Not a single letter. Not even a postcard all these years. It can’t be because Frank is still angry at him. At least, Alex doesn’t think so. It’s not like Frank to hold grudges this long. Something else is keeping him silent.
Screw it, Alex thinks. He’s not going to erase anything. The censors can do what they want with this letter. Block out the whole damn page if they want to.
62
* * *
February 22, 1945
Hey Alex!
It’s your brother here! Remember me? Sorry for taking so long to write back. Yes, I’m a schmuck. But you know me—writing’s not really my thing.
Hey, good news. No, great news! Father’s back! Yup, he arrived here a couple of weeks ago. He’s a skeleton now, feeble, we barely recognized him when he first got off the bus. Clive, one of the MPs I’ve become friendly with, gave us a ride on his jeep back to the barrack.
Mother’s taking care of Father now. Sneaking food back from the mess hall, tending to him day and night. It must be tiring work but it’s like she’s got this new lease on life. She’s all energy now, bustling around, restoring Father back to health. When I hear them quietly talking and even chuckling together, I’m glad
for them.
You did right, enlisting. I’m sure it’s only because of you that Father was released. But you know what? It should’ve been me who volunteered. I’m the oldest son, after all. Instead all I did was protest here. Which was the right thing to do, I guess, but many nights I lie awake wondering what waving placards and screaming into the wind really achieved.
You’re the hero, Alex. The leader, the real quarterback of this family, while all I’ve done is warmed the bench. And it’s been really tough for me to accept that. And I guess that’s the true reason why I never wrote back to you. Because, yeah, I’m pretty ashamed of myself. There, I said it. Ashamed. I feel like I let you all down these last two years. Some days, I can barely look Father in the eye.
But I’m over that now. I’m just so proud, man. At who you’ve become. At what you’ve done. We’ve all heard about the heroics of the 442nd. I’ve cut out and stuck to the wall newspaper articles about you guys. And I must’ve read your letters about a hundred times each. You don’t know how many nights I dreamed I was there, fighting alongside you in Italy, France, Germany.
I look up to you, you little goober. We all do. You’ve done us proud.
Your bro,
Frank
P.S. Almost forgot. But I went through Charlie’s letters like you asked. And yes, I found the letters sent from Nice. The written return address is 11 Quai des Deux Emmanuels, appt. 3, Nice, France.
P.P.S. Something else I found in that suitcase: your sketchbook. Well, I took a quick peep. On every page, there’s a drawing of someone. That’s Charlie, right? You’re clearly in love with her, you little dolt. You kind of always have been, haven’t you?
As I was flipping through the pages, a magazine article slipped out. From The New Republic. It was about Jews being sent to extermination camps.
I always had a hunch there might be another reason why you enlisted. And now I know.