Eyes of the Emperor (19 page)

These islands were just sandbars on a flat gulf. From a distance, you could hardly even see them. Blips on the water. But I knew my memories of them would follow me every day of my life.

Which could be a long time.

Or not.

Because the U.S. Army was finally going to let us do our part. “I know how you've been treated,” Major Parrish had told us, “and I don't blame you for having your doubts about how people feel about you. But you've proved your worth and your loyalty ten times over, as I knew you would, even in the minds of your most stalwart critics. I hope you are as proud of how you've served as I am.”

A new wave of pride began to grow inside me, a swelling in my chest. The major had always believed in us. His words
brought back those feelings I had when I joined up, the sense of doing something to right the wrong that had been done to us—to Pop. Later, it had grown to include all those innocent people behind the fence at Camp McCoy. Americans. People who had done no wrong.

I was a U.S. Army soldier.

I did my job.

Nobody beat me down.

The mood was somber the day we loaded our equipment onto the
Sugar Babe
. It was late afternoon when we pulled away from the pier. The water was calm and silky, as if wanting to give us its best farewell.

I sat with Cobra up near Leroy at the wheel.

Behind us the islands sank slowly down into the gulf. Leroy was quiet, his hands easing the wheel to the movement of the water.

“I ain't going to forget this time in my life,” he said out of the blue, kind of shy. “I gotten to know you folks… and… well, you ain't nothing but honest-to-goodness decent fellows, and I'm proud to know you.”

Cobra turned and squinted at him, then grinned. “You ain't so bad yourself,” he said.

“But you kind of worthless when your boat gets broke,” I added.

Leroy chuckled. “Ain't that the truth.”

I was going to miss Leroy, stinky clothes and all.

We sat silent.

I wondered if Kooch would miss me. Probably not—but I was sure going to miss him, even if he did tear me up. But he tore up Smith, too.

Smith.

Just a kid like me, doing his duty. He hated some of what we had to do to those dogs. It was hard for him, too.

I'd thought a long time about that look he'd given me just before the test, when he locked onto my eyes and dipped his chin. Because that was it, everything right then and there—all I ever wanted from this army, or even from this country—
everything
was in that one look.

Respect.

All the rot I had to go through before that moment was worth it, just for that one thing.

Now we were equals.

I would go into battle with my head held high.

Go for broke!

Because I was a soldier.

An American.

I glanced back at Chik. His eyes were closed, probably dreaming about Helen or Fumi. I grinned and shook my head.

Cobra tapped my arm and pointed back to the islands. “Almost gone now.”

I nodded and gulped down one more deep breath of sweet salt air. “Even though it was bad, it was good,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“I going remember Kooch. Almost as scrappy as Sharky.”

“Pfff.” Cobra sighed. “Rat Dog, you mean.”

I smiled.

Then I remembered where we were going. To Europe, to war, where Leroy said soldiers like me were dying by the truckload.

I looked back, one last time. The islands were gone now, swallowed by the sea.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't afraid.

Eyes of the Emperor
is a work of fiction.

However, as is its companion novel,
Under the Blood-Red Sun,
it is based on factual events and incidents of World War II.

I have left some actual names within the story—Slim (Taneyoshi Nakano), James (James Komatsu), Ray (Raymond Nosaka), and Tokuji (Tokuji Ono). And the scene where Slim swims out to help James in the storm relates an actual incident. Slim was awarded the Soldier's Medal for his act of bravery.

Other parts of the story are factual as well.

Off Bellows Field in Waimanalo, Oahu, Japanese Naval Ensign Kazuo Sakamaki became America's first prisoner of war, captured by Sergeant David Akui of the 298th Infantry. Sakamaki was subsequently imprisoned at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin, where he is said to have disfigured his face with cigarettes as a result of his own deep shame.

At Schofield Barracks in the days following the attack on Pearl Harbor, U.S. soldiers of Japanese ancestry were isolated from the other men and woke one morning surrounded by machine guns. No explanation was ever given them.

The twenty-six Hawaiian Americans of Japanese ancestry to whom I have dedicated this novel were handpicked for
top-secret K-9 training on Cat Island, Mississippi. A former Swiss hunting guide had apparently convinced President Franklin D. Roosevelt that the Japanese race exuded a distinct scent that dogs could be trained to discern.

The program failed.

However, the K-9 Corps in general (then called Dogs for Defense) proved highly successful for the United States military. Between 1942 and 1945, 30 breeds and 19,000 dogs were accepted for service. Dogs have been serving valiantly ever since.

I have been profoundly fortunate in having met and interviewed eight of the twenty-six Cat Island men—Raymond Nosaka (and his gracious wife, Aki), Katsumi Maeda, Koyei Matsumoto, Toshio Mizusawa, Tokuji Ono, Billy Takaezu, Seiji Tanigawa, and Yasuo Takata. Sixty years after their Cat Island experience, their wartime camaraderie is as strong as ever. I found them all warm, welcoming, friendly, and humble.

“I was proud to do my part,” Tokuji Ono said.

And Ray Nosaka had this hope: “Remember us, so that we won't be forgotten.”

Masao Hatanaka, James Komatsu, and Patrick Tokushima were killed in action in Italy. Slim Nakano and James Komatsu both earned Silver Stars. Yukio Yokota earned the Distinguished Service Cross. Fred Kanemura received a Field Commission. Every man who served on Cat Island received at least one Purple Heart and a Bronze Star.

Today, Cat Island is much as it was in the early 1940s. Except for a few fishing structures along an interior manmade canal, the island remains pristine. It is privately owned and is not accessible, except by invitation.

Ship Island can be reached by ferry from Gulfport, Mississippi. In 1969, the two-hundred-mile-an-hour winds and thirty-foot tide of Hurricane Camille cut the island in two. The reconstructed lighthouse and old Fort Massachusetts still stand. Ship Island is protected by the National Park Service.

Through the generosity of filmmaker Barry Foster and his fishing pal, Ted Riemann, I was given a private tour of both islands.

As we walked through the trees, I saw the remains of shelters and rusted machinery of the Quartermaster camp, and I had the eerie feeling that I'd just stepped back to 1942.

To the men of Cat Island, Third Platoon, Company B:

Thank you for your example.

Thank you for your heroism.

Thank you for your service.

You have honored us all.

haole
— white person, Caucasian

moi
— Pacific threadfin fish

babooze
— clown

bazooks
— idiots (endearing)

bolohead
— baldheaded

bombye
— by and by, later

ete
— someone who doesn't fit in

mempachi eyes
— bug-eyes

bakatare
— fool, crazy man

dame ohsi
— making doubly sure

ganbare
— hold on, keep going, persevere

haji
— shame

hinomaru
— the red sun, symbol of Japan

Hirohito
— the 124th emperor of Japan

issei
— first-generation Japanese immigrant

koko
— pickled turnip (also
okoko
); salty pickled vegetables, chopped into small pieces and eaten with rice

Masaka!
— Never! It couldn't be!

Moshimoshi
— said when answering the phone

Nandato?
— What did you say? (with anger)

natto
— fermented soybeans

nisei
— second-generation Japanese American

Shikataganai
— It can't be helped.

takuwan
— pickled daikon; Japanese radish

Yamato Damashii
— the spirit of Japan

For more information on the contribution and service of Americans of Japanese ancestry in World War II, please visit
www.GoForBroke.org
.

AMERICANISM IS A MATTER OF THE
MIND AND HEART; AMERICANISM IS NOT,
AND NEVER WAS, A MATTER
OF RACE OR ANCESTRY.

—FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT, 1943