Hooper’s War Read online

  “Hooper-san, why are you doing this for him?” Naoko said.

  “I’m doing it for you.”

  Lieutenant Nathaniel Hooper: Japan, Kyoto, Inside the Temple, 1946

  “ARE YOU HERE, LIEUTENANT Hooper, to offer me an American chocolate bar? Some nylons, perhaps?” Nakagawa said. As she had done days ago at the house, Naoko stood between us, translating every word. They all were important now.

  “Come out with me, Nakagawa. Your war is over. You don’t have any obligation to kill yourself, and neither do I.”

  “I, I, I, when you say it that word disgusts me. Obligation is not about what we want,” Nakagawa said. “Unnatural vices are forced on us, are they not, as Naoko always said.”

  “Sergeant Nakagawa, How can we stop this?” I said. I looked at Naoko.

  “We can’t. What you believe is fanaticism, Lieutenant Hooper, is instead what matters most. If I was in the winning army I would get a medal for believing that.”

  Nakagawa’s eyes met Naoko’s. A decision had wordlessly been made. He turned toward her, and closed his eyes. “I see the drops of water on your skin from that day we swam in the river. I saw an old man burned to death for a mistake an American pilot never knew he made. People who should have comforted me instead gave me this rifle. You do not write poetry after such molestation, you molest. Naoko, I am sorry.”

  “It is my turn to keep the photo, until spring, but I am… unsure… I shall be able to return it to you then,” Naoko said. “Here.”

  “No. Please hand it to me in my next life, and in my life after that, and in the one after that. It will be like the past the way we remember it, not the way we were made to live it.”

  “Eichi, let us be together,” Naoko said.

  “We will. It will just take a long time,” Nakagawa said.

  He shifted his rifle. His hand worked the bolt back and forth, his finger slipping on and off the trigger. It was only me that didn’t yet know how this would end.

  “Nakagawa, why didn’t you kill me back at Naoko’s house?” I said.

  “For her,” Nakagawa said. “Lieutenant Hooper, why didn’t you kill me then?”

  “For her,” I said. “And you could’ve killed me out there, or in here, but you didn’t. Why?”

  “For her.”

  “I must leave, Sergeant Eichi Nakagawa,” I said.

  “Lieutenant Hooper, you both must leave,” Nakagawa said.

  He paused.

  “For her.”

  WHEN NAOKO AND I reached American lines a moment later, I sent her off with the Corporal. I looked back, hoping the temple might not still be there.

  “Hey Lieutenant, I got battalion artillery on the horn, all cocked and locked. Sergeant back there says we’re doing them a favor with this fire mission, says they’re overstocked on napalm. Says it’s time for a fire sale, Lieutenant, get it, a fire sale? Hey Lieutenant, what should we do? Lieutenant?”

  “Have them shoot off a colored smoke round. Verify the target,” I said.

  “Sir, they already have the precise grid coordinates—”

  “Tell ’em to fire a smoke round, goddammit,” I said.

  “Roger. There it is, sir. Dead on. That’s… dead… on.”

  “Have them fire another smoke,” I said.

  “Lieutenant, any more spot on and the damn round’ll go right through the window.”

  “One more smoke,” I said. “Private, any sign of movement out of the temple?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any white flag?” I said.

  “Nope.”

  “Check again,” I said.

  “No. Nothing. He ain’t gonna surrender, they never do. Bastards act like they own the damn place. So, yes or no, sir? What should we do, Lieutenant Hooper?”

  Before Kyoto, The Battle for Naoko’s House

  Chapter 7: Smoldering

  Lieutenant Nathaniel Hooper: Japan, Inside the Destroyed Nishinomiya Train Station, 1946

  PRIVATE ALDEN JONES OPENED his eyes.

  “Lieutenant? Where are we? Are we dead?”

  “Not quite. Still in Japan, Jonesy,” I said.

  “Where’s Smitty? Polanski? Sergeant Laabs?”

  “Dead. Jonesy, they’re all dead. Just us now. The Japs must have pulled back to Kyoto.”

  Jones was in bad shape. A bit of poking revealed he couldn’t feel much in the one leg, while the other hurt like hell. Wiping a bit of the goo away, I could see the flesh around the wound was blackened. In addition to the leg wound, something was wrong with his knee. It had swelled, and when I put my hand on it, the bone fragments felt like a bunch of marbles moving around, little bits of a disaster going on in there.

  “That hurt, Jones?” I said.

  “Yes, sir, a lot more now with your hand on it,” Jones said. “What kind of blood do you see, Lieutenant Hooper? And don’t lie to me, sir, I’ll know.”

  “What do you mean by ‘kind of blood?’” I said.

  “I grew up around livestock, see, and we’d slaughter the animals,” Jones said. “My dad would tell us the pumping kind of blood meant the animal would be dead quick. The oozing kind meant you’d missed the vein with the knife. Which one do I got?” Jones said.

  “It’s not pumping. There’s a helluva a lot of blood, but it’s kinda oozing,” I said.

  “That’s the good kind,” Jones said. “Lieutenant, down there, between my legs, I didn’t lose my…”

  “No, Jonesy, nothing vital.”

  “Pretty much everything down there is kinda vital, sir.”

  “Jones, those Oklahoma girls still have a lot to look forward to. You keep warm, and I’ll have a look around. Think you can handle that?” I said.

  “I think so, as long as the blood’s the good kind,” Jones said.

  “I wouldn’t lie to you, Jones.”

  OH, I LIED TO Jones.

  His blood blossomed up fresh every time I wiped some away, a blurp that swelled and broke, his heart working now mostly to push more life out of him. I started this war with a disadvantage, coming from a world where blowing chunks out of farm boys’ thighs didn’t happen. I didn’t understand how this all worked. I didn’t understand how valves, airplanes or carburetors worked either, but no one had ever asked me to stop one from bleeding out. I worried I was just too soft and ignorant for my real mission: I was going to keep Private Alden Jones alive.

  I crept out of the Nishinomiya train station, following the path back in time, past the dead Sergeant Laabs, past the other stiffened men’s bodies. Outside was like leaving a matinée, the light sharp as a librarian’s chewing out. The sky blinded me, an unfair blue. I thought I heard a shout in Japanese at one point, but then it was quiet again. Nothing moved but the small swirls of wind-blown snow. There were many dead birds, they being especially susceptible to the mortar shells’ concussions.

  The human dead were on the ground in front of the station, also having been susceptible to the mortar shells. Those boys were now left like things people dropped leaving a ballgame in a hurry, and had never gone back for and now nobody would. The snow only obscenely covered them, leaving hands and legs exposed. Some must have been Japanese, some American, though they were all now the same ivory color. Every muscle hurt on me, and when I walked, the ground moved like I was on a boat. The path straight across the field, the route we took in the night of the battle for Nishinomiya, was direct, but I went the long way to not step on the frozen brown that scabbed the snow. My boots crunched hard on the gravel. The lives of a thousand men were behind me. There was a Japanese house in the near distance. I walked forward.

  Chapter 8: Sparks

  Lieutenant Nathaniel Hooper: Japan, Nishinomiya, Outside a House, 1946

  UNLIKE THE ONES I’D seen destroyed days ago in the village, this house was intact. A bit of smoke coming out of the chimney. I’d gone back for Jones. The walk over had not done anything good for him. I helped him aim his rifle at the house door.

  “You ready, Jones? If I run into tr
ouble, fire everything you can at the guy who takes me down. And hang on. This is gonna turn out to be one of those million-dollar wounds for you. It’ll be all strawberry ice cream and sweet young nurses for you back in the world.”

  “Don’t know about the million-dollar wound thing, sir. Feels more like a buck and a quarter right now.”

  “You keep the change, Jonesy. Okay, here we go.”

  I PROPPED JONES UP inside the Jap house after no one challenged our entry.

  It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. The house was fragile, colors only time can give to wood. Sliding screens between the main room and the ones off to the sides, what looked like a kitchen in the back, a rear entrance. Vertical posts holding up the ceiling, one with notches carved into it and what I’d guess were dates and some kid’s name. Kind of a big bath in another room. Straw mats on the floor, worn in the centers, but they were clean for something that looked like a pile of sticks.

  There was a single kerosene lamp burning; a moth was trapped inside making a moving shadow. Still, I’d have needed a flashlight to see all the way into the far corners of the room. I could see an awkward desk, big for the room. It was piled high with books and a chess set. There were some ghosts of old cooking. It was the kind of house that should have stunk of cat, but instead really smelled of yellowing paper, like in the stacks at the agricultural college library. Back home we’d say the place needed a good airing. The room was otherwise empty, except for the silence.

  So neither me nor Jones were ready to hear a rustle of cloth, and see another light deeper inside flare up and then extinguish.

  “Buki wa nai desu. Honto ni nai desu. Korosanaide de. Nan de mo shimasu kara.”

  A mouse of a Jap emerged from the shadows, her hair frayed out in a loose ponytail. She wore a kind of smock over loose pants that were likely blue a lot of washings ago. No shoes, instead, white socks with big toes like mittens. Not any older than me, but even in the dim light I could see lines on her face like the hairline cracks on porcelain.

  “You. Speak. English?” I said. I started to lower my rifle, and then stopped.

  “Yes, I do. Quite well, in fact. Now, take what you want, but do not hurt me,” the Japanese woman said. “And please, put that rifle down.”

  “Just you here?” I said.

  “Now. My father and mother were killed the other night in your attack on the Nishinomiya train station. You will find their bodies wrapped outside. Check if you wish, but please remove your boots. They are soiling my tatami mats.”

  “Boots? No way,” I said, “You might make a move. Now, understand there’s a wounded man here. Make a place for him to lay down, and boil some water. Tear something up we can use for bandages. He’s gonna bleed on your quilts but there’s nothing I can do about that, some Jap coward shot him. Clean out his wounds, and we’ll take things from there.”

  “Sir, you gonna let the Jap touch me?” Jones said.

  “Soldier—” interrupted the woman.

  “I am Lieutenant Nathaniel Hooper, United States Army. You will address me as Lieutenant Hooper, or sir.”

  “And I am Private Alden Jones, United States Army. Address me, as, um, Alden.”

  “Jones, shut the hell up,” I said.

  “And I am Naoko Matsumoto. And I will help, but I am not one of your men and I am certainly not a ‘Jap.’ I will call you Hooper-san and Jones-san.”

  “Enough with the cultural lessons, Mama-san, and tend to Jones, what you’d say your name was, Neko? Damn names are hard to say.”

  “Hey sir, let’s call her Jenny, OK?” Jones said.

  “No, no, you will call me Naoko. You may shoot me, but you must call me Naoko as you do.” Naoko, frowning, fetched up a wet rag, rung it out, and leaned over Jones. “Jones-san, this may hurt. No, my English is bad. This will hurt.”

  “YOUR JONES-SAN HAS FALLEN asleep. His wounds have gotten worse,” Naoko said.

  “I can smell them. Is there anywhere around here he can get more help?”

  “Your planes bombed the Nishinomiya hospital. I am sure by accident,” Naoko said.

  “Of course it was by accident. Americans don’t do things like that on purpose.”

  “Hmm. The large red crosses on the roof must have been hard to see,” Naoko said.

  “Naoko, why won’t your people stop trying to kill us and let this war end, so accidents like that don’t have to happen?” I said.

  “Because you are trying to kill us,” Naoko said. “And our hospitals.”

  “That’s only because you started killing us first. Pearl Harbor,” I said.

  “Eye for an eye, yes, then everyone ends this war blind.”

  “Why are you people fighting, Naoko?”

  “For the Emperor, we are told.”

  “That’s caused you to do terrible things. You beheaded prisoners who couldn’t defend themselves,” I said.

  “Like firebombing people who could not defend themselves?” Naoko said.

  “That’s different. It’s part of war, allowed under the rules, the law even,” I said. “You know, justified.”

  “Hmm. Rules. You come from a land where bombs never fall and then you make such rules and laws about what you can do to others.”

  “Look, Naoko, once this killing is over, we’ll do a lot of good things for you. You’ll be safe for once. Japan will become more like America. You’ll get some pretty nylons for yourself, we’ll build schools, hospitals, and roads, and hand out chocolate to the kids.”

  “Ah, yes, your chocolate. We are eating roots and dirty rice to survive, and you are carrying candy here all the way from the United States and think nothing of it. Would you prefer that I beg for something to eat, or will you just hand it out to make yourself feel like you are doing good after destroying our country? You Americans, you really do not understand what you are, do you? Clumsy giants. And take your boots off inside this house, Hooper-san.”

  “Why are you so worried about these straw mats, anyway? Just get some new ones. You’ll see here in Japan how things’ll work out with us in charge, Naoko.”

  “Such as with your internment camps? Will you have those for us here in Japan as well, same as for your so-called Japanese-Americans?” Naoko said.

  “I don’t know much about that, but it was to protect Americans from the Japs, I guess.”

  “And there won’t be Americans to protect here from ‘Japs’ once you occupy us? Don’t stay and pretend to do what you think are good things. Go home,” Naoko said.

  “Spare me. I’m just the mailman, I deliver the letters. I’m not responsible for what’s inside,” I said.

  “Is that why you fight, Hooper-san? You’re a mailman?”

  “No. Well, maybe, I’m not so sure, but at least I don’t fight for an Emperor.”

  “So do you fight for your President Harry S. Truman?”

  “Of course not,” I said. Maybe I was less sure than I wanted to sound. “Maybe I fight for our flag.”

  “For a piece of cloth?”

  “No, not a piece of cloth. Haven’t you seen pictures of the Marines raising the flag on Iwo Jima, Naoko? That flag is a symbol,” I said.

  “And the Emperor is not?” Naoko said.

  “Naoko, this whole thing is to bring you democracy, to free you from tyranny. We’re here fighting for your freedom.”

  “That is funny, Hooper-san, because we are fighting now against you for our freedom.”

  “YOU CHANGE JONES’ BANDAGES?” I said.

  “Yes. He did not cry out. He is weak,” Naoko said. She told me to give him some water, and when I wasn’t sure what to do, showed me how to wring a wet cloth, drop by drop, onto his lips.

  “Naoko?”

  “Yes? More bandages?”

  “No, thanks. I mean, Jones-san, damn it, Jones, he’d say thank you if he could,” I said.

  MY DREAM OF A faraway warm bed ended with the wood-on-wood clunk as the sliding screen door hit the cedar frame. Naoko’s shadow falling ac
ross me tore away the last bits of sleep.

  “You have been noisy snoring and I am afraid someone outside will hear. Will you see Jones stays comfortable while I make tea?”

  Small-town Ohio was not a big place for tea drinking. Tea was at best something tolerated when old ladies served it after church with little cookies. You added milk and sugar so it’d taste like something. Naoko instead filled two bowls with boiling water. She then took a tiny wooden spoon and added a small amount of bright green powder from a ceramic jar. Didn’t stir it at all. No milk. No sugar. Just tea that smelled like damp leaves.

  The first sip was a surprise; the stuff was bitter as hell and twice as hot. When I could feel my tongue again, I realized this was the kind of situation my mother would have said called for polite conversation, so I tried.

  “How is it you speak English so good?” I said.

  “It is ‘how is it you speak English so well.’ My father taught me from childhood. I may have been speaking English longer than you have, Hooper-san. He was a professor at Kobe University. A civilized man. It was so different, we were so unprepared for what followed. Back then mother played piano and I sang while my father hid behind his newspaper trying to watch me without me seeing him do it. He taught English, real English, poetry and plays.”

  “Those his books on the desk?” I said.

  “The dusty ones. The others are mine. It is a kind of diversion for me, thinking about beautiful words. Do you know Walt Whitman? He was an American poet who wrote about your Civil War. He was very enthusiastic about at first, but was changed by the horrors he saw in the field hospitals. Whitman was a favorite of my father.”

  “What happened, I mean, before your dad was killed?” I said.

  “As the war became all we knew in Japan, there was little need for western poetry, and most of the students were called to join the military anyway. Father and I were then conscripted ourselves. Can you imagine someone risking their life to deliver a newspaper? But our spies in the U.S. would do that, to pass American newspapers through a long chain of hands back to Japan, to my father and me to translate. The military believed by understanding your politics, they could anticipate your war strategy. I translated article after article about debates in Congress over how many men to draft, about budgets, arguments among lawmakers over whether to favor the European or the Pacific War. Sitting in that small office with my father, we joked we were the best informed people in Japan.”