Eyes of the Emperor (13 page)

Smith tossed me his pocketknife. I cut off a small piece of meat, raw and smelly, and tied it to the string. When I handed the knife back, Smith ran both sides of the blade along his pants leg before folding it back into the handle.

Kooch's eyes never left the raw meat. He rose to his feet when I unscrewed the lid. I let him sniff inside the jar. He tried to snap the meat up.

Smith jerked back on the leash.

I put the lid back on the jar.

Smith took off the choke chain and replaced it with a leather collar. “When this collar goes on, he knows he's going to work. At least, that's what I'm trying to get through to him.”

“Looks like a smart dog,” I said.

Smith eyed me, as if something about me didn't quite fit.
“How old are you, anyway?” he said. “You look kind of scrawny.”

“Uh… eighteen,” I mumbled.

Smith humphed. “Not a chance. I'm eighteen, and you ain't that. My guess is sixteen—seventeen at the most.”

I glanced back over my shoulder, pretending I'd heard something.

“Hey, it don't matter to me, Kubo. Not for a minute. So go ahead and take off. Go out as far as you can. Hide somewhere. The dog's going to hunt you down. Don't forget about the horsemeat, now—when he finds you, lie down and put it on your throat like I said. Understand?”

I nodded.

“I'll give you a ten-minute lead. Go!”

I dragged the hunk of meat into the trees, keeping away from rotting logs and those quiet ponds. Alligators and snakes snapped and slithered in my head. I had to find out where those things hid. I'd never seen a snake in my life, but that was about to change. At least I had boots on, and now I knew why.

I heard a shout far away. Cobra? Chik? Maybe they had raw horsemeat on their throats right now. That was so weird—a dog eating raw meat off your neck.

But it was what the army wanted.

I stumbled over a fallen tree and found a carved-out sandy trench behind it. I could get down under it and hide.

I glanced back and saw only the motionless jungle. I found a stick, then poked it under the tree, rocking the trunk with my foot. When no snakes or scorpions flew out, I crouched under it and waited.

Stillness surrounded me.

No sounds, no breeze. All those dogs running around looking for us, and not one bark. That was something, how they worked so quietly.

Five minutes passed.

Ants, a motionless lizard, white clouds hanging in the sky. Shadows on my arm.

I peeked up over the tree. Not even a bird or a dragonfly. I loosened the lid and set the open jar of horsemeat on the sand.

Ten minutes later I heard a quiet snap. I peeked over the tree.

Kooch and Smith—the dog's nose roaming the exact same ground I had stepped on.

Kooch sniffed more frantically now, sweeping the sand, inching silently closer.

He stopped, head up, alerting Smith with two raised ears. Not one growl, not even a whimper.

I stood like Smith said, and Smith shot his air gun.

I fell as if shot, and quickly scooped out the slimy meat and held it dripping watery blood on my neck.

Within seconds Kooch's big wet nose was inches from mine. One swallowing gulp and the meat was gone. He licked my neck and my face.

“You like that, huh?” I whispered, rubbing his ears. “Yeah, you a good dog.”

Smith ran up and leashed Kooch, stroking him and praising him.

I sat up and rubbed sand between my hands to get rid of the stink. It didn't work.

Smith pulled another jar out of his bag and tossed it to me. “Let's do it again.”

I caught it and stood up, brushing the sand off my pants. “He didn't even bark.”

“Trained that way. You want the dog to alert you to the enemy, not the other way around.”

Kooch sat just beside Smith's left foot, panting. “He's good,” I said. “He found me easy.”

“He'll be finding you Japs without meat in no time.”

I glanced away when he said “Japs.” What are you haoles, stupid? Don't you know that's insulting?

“He can find me because of the meat,” I said. “That don't mean he can tell a Japanese from anyone else.”

“Franz says he can.”

“I don't believe it.”

“Why not?”

“You think we smell diff'rent from you?”

Smith gave me a curious look. “Well, don't you?”

“I don't see why we would.”

Smith nodded. Then he grinned. “Guess we'll find out, huh?”

After Kooch ate the second hunk of meat off my neck, I found a rust-colored pond to wash up in—of course, me and Smith checked it out for alligators first. What we didn't see was the water moccasin racing toward us.

“Jeese!” Smith yelped, leaping back as I sprinted for the trees.

But it veered away from us and slithered into the weeds. It was the first snake I'd ever seen, and it was in the
water
.

“Dang things,” Smith said. “Lucky for us he ran away like you did.” He shuddered. “Go ahead. You can wash up now.”

I inched back to the water and quickly cleaned my hands.

“You can sometimes see alligator eyes poking up in the water,” Smith said. “Look like two lumps. And they hide along the shore, too, just like that snake. Sometimes you
never know they're in there until they explode up and scare the living daylights out of you—could be they might come after you, too, if you get them mad. So never forget to check first. You don't want to be surprised by
anything
in this place.”

I scrubbed as Smith went on. The smell of blood didn't want to come off my hands.

“We'll do this horsemeat thing a few more times over the next week or so,” Smith said. “Then we'll move on to the real stuff.”

I sat back on my heels. “Huh?”

“I'll watch out for you, Kubo. Relax.”

That afternoon we met up with the rest of the guys back in the clearing. The handlers and their dogs went their way, and we went back to the boat.

“Did you do the horsemeat thing?” Cobra asked.

“Yeah, can you believe it?”

“I can't get the stink off my hands.”

“Check out mines,” Chik said, sticking his fingers in

Cobra's face. Cobra batted him away. “
Bakatare!
You prob'ly ate that meat yourself, ah?”

Chik laughed. “Yum. Ate it raw, like a man.”

“You sick,” Cobra spat.

“If this is war, give me more,” Chik said, wagging his eyebrows.

The
Sugar Babe
was sleeping in the water right where
we'd left it. And so was Leroy. All you could see of him were his dirty socks, resting up on the gunnel. We took off our boots and waded out. Felt good on my hot and sweaty feet.

“Hey, Leroy,” Shig called. “You still alive?”

The socks moved. Leroy's head popped up. He squinted and rubbed a hand over his face. “How long I been asleep?” he said, yawning.

“Too long,” Cobra said. “Take us home.”

Leroy dragged himself up and scratched his belly, then went to the wheel and fired up the engine as we climbed aboard.

Cat Island shrank behind us, quiet and mysterious. “Cobra,” I said. “You think we smell diff'rent from white guys?”

“I hope so,” he said, shifting his eyes toward Leroy.

“No, really. You think we smell diff'rent?”

“Nope.”

“It's crazy.”

“Going get worse.”

I frowned and turned away. So far only bad things happened, and always just when it was getting good. For a while at Camp McCoy I'd thought we would be treated like real soldiers.

But no. Not us.

Halfway back to Ship Island,
Sugar Babe
's engine coughed up some black smoke.

And died.

Leroy tried to start it back up again, but it wouldn't kick over. “Dang,” he said, then ducked down to the engine room.

The breeze was strong and getting stronger.
Sugar Babe
rolled side to side, the wrinkled gulf waters spanking the hull.

Ten minutes later Leroy poked his head up. “Anybody here a mechanic?”

We shook our heads, a few faces turning green from the rolling boat.

“I know a little bit,” I said, when nobody else spoke up. “My pop builds boats like this.”

“Well, hot dang, son, get yourself on down here, then.”

The engine room was some stink place. A half inch of dirty bilgewater mixed with oil and diesel fuel sloshed around my feet, the smell musty and sickening if you weren't used to it.

Leroy swept his hand over the gray-painted engine. “Take a look-see. I sure can't figure it out.” Sweat dripped off his forehead. He wiped it away with his thumb.

I backed off. Between Leroy's smell and the bilgewater I didn't know how long I could stay down there.

I studied the engine.

Seemed strange to me that Leroy made a living with his boat and didn't know how to fix it when it broke down.

The gulf grew choppier, the wind starting to blow us toward Mexico. We were too far out to swim to Cat or Ship. If we couldn't fix it, we'd have to radio for help.

“I don't see anything that stands out,” I said. “Could be a clogged fuel line, or maybe the fuel pump. Don't really know, though.”

“Piece of junk!” Leroy spat. “Good-fer-nothing piece of floating dry rot.”

Back up on deck I took deep, thirsty breaths of the breeze, a sweet-smelling kiss from heaven.

By now night was coming on. We'd been stuck there for close to an hour.

“Better break out the radio and get some help,” I said.

Leroy shook his head. “Ain't got one.”

“You got a boat with no
radio
?” Cobra said.

“I got a radio, but it's t'home.”

Cobra gaped.

“It had some problems,” Leroy said, opening his hands. “I was working on it.”

“How loud can you yell?” Shig said.

But it wasn't funny, because the two islands were fading away.

Leroy went back down to the engine room. We sat silently on the moving water, with the sound of Leroy's wrench clanking up the companionway.

In the west, the sun sank red into the wind-torn sea. The sky and water began to darken.

An hour later all daylight was gone.

Leroy gave up, came back, and rattled through a drawer for his flashlight. The battery leaked rusty acid. In a small hold he found a flare gun. With one flare.

He grinned. “This ought to get someone's attention.”

“If it works,” Cobra mumbled.

“Stand back.” Leroy held the flare gun high, ducking his head as if the thing might backfire on him.

Foonk!

The flare rocketed straight up, then arched over and fell slowly, parachuting into the sea. But we were a long way from anyone who might see it.

The small glowing ball poofed out when it hit water, just like the fire on Pop's sampan when it sank.

Back to full dark. Stars coming out.

“Let's just hope someone saw that,” Leroy said. “Or else tomorrow we might end up on some beach drinking Mexican beer.” He laughed, a small nervous sound that turned into a cough.

We sat rocking on the water.

Leroy went back down to work on the engine by the light of a gas lantern that made me nervous, it was so fumy down there.

PeeWee staggered over to the gunnel and leaned over the side. He didn't throw up, but he was close. And he wasn't the only one.

“We got to get back to dry land,” Chik said. “I starting to taste copper.”

“Shhh,” Cobra said. “Listen.”

Engines—a low grumbling.

Small boat lights, vague in the blackness.

“Hey, Leroy,” Shig called. “Someone saw that flare.”

Leroy came bounding up the companionway with the lantern. He stretched up to peer into the darkness. “Praise the Lord,” he said, waving the lantern back and forth above his head.

Chik groaned and bent over.

“Don't toss it in the boat,” Cobra said.

PeeWee sat back down, cradling his gut.

When the approaching boat was almost on us, a bright white searchlight burst to life, catching us like roaches. I shielded my eyes with my hand.

A U.S. Coast Guard picket boat, about twice the size of the
Sugar Babe,
throttled down and sat idling on our starboard side.

“Engine broke down,” Leroy called over to them, squinting into the brilliant white light. “Mind turning that thing off? We could use a tow.”

The light moved away, shooting into the water nearby, but it stayed on. Now we could see the picket boat—and the
four men with rifles standing on deck, aiming our way. “Stand by,” someone called.

“We'll see if we can do that,” Leroy mumbled. “Jeese.”

Nothing happened.

The guys with the rifles never took their eyes off us.

“Hey,” Leroy called again. “What's the matter? We need a tow.”

“I said to stand by.”

“For what?”

There was no response.

“Good Lord almighty.” Leroy shook his head.

PeeWee groaned. He staggered up and dove for the gunnel.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Water spouted up as bullets thwacked into the side of the
Sugar Babe
. We hit the deck. PeeWee fell back into the boat with blood dripping down his face and a splinter the size of a pencil stuck in his cheek.

“No, no, no!” Leroy shouted, holding his hands above his head. “Stop! Don't shoot!”

“Hold your fire!” someone yelled on the picket boat.

We got up and hunched around PeeWee. “Ahhh,” he groaned. The splinter was stabbed all the way through his cheek into his mouth.

“Good God,” Leroy gasped. “What'd you shoot for?” he shouted. “These men are soldiers in the U.S. Army!”

I tore off my T-shirt and held it up to PeeWee's cheek to stop the blood, careful not to touch the splinter. “Hang on,” I said. “We'll get that thing out.” He was lucky it wasn't a bullet, or half his face would have disappeared.

Leroy sprang toward the companionway, his hands up so he wouldn't get shot. “I'm getting the first-aid kit,” he yelled to the guys on the picket boat.

North of us, coming from Gulfport or Biloxi, more lights raced our way.

Leroy came back and fumbled out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He opened it with trembling fingers and poured half of it on PeeWee's wound. It bubbled up pink.

“Uhhhgh,” PeeWee gasped.

I ripped off my belt and folded it over. “Bite this,” I said, sticking it between his teeth. “I going pull that thing out of your cheek.”

PeeWee bit down on the belt and squeezed his eyes tight.

Slowly, I pulled the splinter out.

Cobra covered the hole with the T-shirt, now sopped with hydrogen peroxide. PeeWee spat the belt out. “Ahh, that hurts,” he squeaked.

When I looked up there were three picket boats surrounding us.

“You men hold your dang fire over there,” Leroy shouted.

Now Shig and Ricky had to throw up—they eased slowly to the gunnel, hands up for the rifle guys to see.

Finally, one of the picket boats maneuvered closer. “Heads up,” someone called.

Out of the blackness a loop of rope thumped on deck.

Leroy grabbed it and walked it forward to the bow. “What's the problem? Why you so trigger-happy?”

“No problem.”

“What do you mean, no problem? This kid is wounded!
You've scared us half to death, and we've been waiting for over an hour. You call that no problem?”

The coast guard guy said, “You want a tow or not?”

Leroy shut up.

That night back in the barrack Ricky Kondo patched up PeeWee's face with gauze and tape. PeeWee could have used stitches, but he wasn't about to let Ricky stick him with a needle and thread.

We were all eerily quiet.

Because somebody could have died.

Maybe all of us.

Two days later, Leroy came back to Ship Island with the
Sugar Babe
running like a top. He was glad to see PeeWee up to his old self so quickly. “They got to give you a Purple Heart, son,” he said as he examined the bandage on PeeWee's cheek. “Only I wonder if they do that when you get wounded by your own guys.”

PeeWee grinned and said, “You play five-card stud, Leroy?”

“Are you kidding? Ain't nobody better.”

PeeWee wagged his eyebrows. “Come early sometime, we get a game up.”

“Hah! Good to see you doing so well,” Leroy said, tapping PeeWee's shoulder.

“So what was wrong with the boat?” I said.

“Fuel pump, like you thought. I had the army buy me a new one—and a radio.” Leroy grinned. “Found out why they made us wait, too. They thought they'd captured the whole Jap navy. Seems not even the coast guard knows about you army dog guys. They took us for saboteurs.”

Leroy thought a moment. “I guess I'da figured that, too, if I was in their shoes.”