No Surrender Soldier (2 page)

“Where’s Sammy?” She giggled again. Any other day and the giggling wouldn’t have gotten on my nerves. Daphne and her girlfriends giggled all the time and it never bothered me. But maybe that’s because I know how smart Daphne is, especially in science class. That’s why it doesn’t bug me when she giggles; Daphne’s not a bubble-head. I must have been extra touchy. Or, maybe that’s just an excuse for how lousy I felt about everything and everyone.

Nana stepped up to the counter and set down a bucket of vinegar water and crumpled newspapers that she’d been cleaning glass cases with. “Sammy’s my son.” Nana smiled, but so slight the dimple in her left cheek barely showed. “He’s…” She took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and lifted her chin. “Sammy is a navigator for the US Air Force stationed in Vietnam.”

Everyone knew that meant Sammy was flying missions over enemy territory on a daily basis. At least, I knew it. All I ever heard about was how proud my parents were of my big brother. Nana lived for the day when Sammy’s four-year hitch would be up. He could get out of the military and come home for good. Maybe then there would be no more talk of war, or the fear of death hanging like a storm cloud over our family.

I knocked down the coconut heads like bowling pins. Shoot, I’d have to do double the work to set them up again.

The girl who asked about Sammy blushed and bowed her head toward Nana.

Nana didn’t return the bow. She didn’t so much as nod. She just stood as tall as her short body would stretch. But her smile widened and her dimple creased deep as a crater in her round cheek. Nana moved out from behind the counter and toward the back stock room. She smelled like vinegar when she passed me.

The girl in the blue swimsuit held out money for the tie-dyed
sarong
. Tatan rang up the purchase.

Did he have to look up every price? And look how long it took Tatan. Maybe I should’ve been running the register and he should’ve been stocking shelves.

The cash register drawer finally popped open. The girl handed Tatan the money. He looked at it, slid it through his fingers into the drawer, and shut the register. She shifted from one foot to the other. She cleared her throat. “Change, please?”

Tatan glared at her. He opened the drawer and fumbled through the bills and change. He slammed a handful of money back into the drawer, spilled coins onto the floor, and roared, “Damn yen, can’t tell one from another!”

I dropped a box of ceramic bells and bumped into two crystal clocks. One shattered on the concrete floor. I couldn’t do anything right. All I could think about was how fast could I get out of there.

Nana scurried toward the counter and apologized to the Japanese girls, while bowing her head and shoulders repeatedly. “I am so sorry.
Dozo.
My apologies.
Dozo.
” She gave the girl change. As soon as they left she gripped Tatan’s shoulder. “Go to the Chamorro Café and buy us lunch.” She took a ten-dollar bill out of the register and handed it to Tatan. “Please.” Her doe eyes pleaded with him.

I busied myself sweeping up the broken glass. I better let Nana handle Tatan. After all, he was her father, and she’d always been his favorite. Tatan shoved the money in his pants pocket and stormed out of the shop.

After he left, I couldn’t hold back. “Those weren’t even yen, just regular American money.”

“Doesn’t matter. I told you Tatan has
lytico-bodig
. I explained how the dementia would make him act—how he’d start doing strange t’ings. Can’t you be patient with him?”

I stared at Nana. Me be patient with him? He was the one exploding like a volcano.

“Go to the storeroom and finish opening those shipments from the Philippines. When you’re done, you can dust, too.”

“It’s not fair. Tatan throws a fit and I get punished. I’ll never get out of here.”

Nana sighed, as if too tired to say more. She picked up the vinegar bucket and crumpled papers and began cleaning the glass cases again.

I went to the storeroom and opened crates filled with straw mats, beach bags, and T-shirts. After a while I got hungry, and bored. Where was Tatan with the food? Maybe he forgot his way back. I swooped a feather duster in airplane motions until someone opened the screen door. I whipped around, expecting to see Tatan holding a Styrofoam container with our lunch. The sun blazed behind the person and blocked out his features. Still, I could tell it wasn’t Tatan because the man had a shorter, leaner figure, like Sammy’s. It was like seeing a ghost, which really spooked me, thinking Sammy had just stepped through the back screen door. But then Tomas’s voice said, “Hey, Kiko, you free to go to the beach?”

I tossed the duster on a shelf. Once outside I could see the guy was my best bud, Tomas, whose Japanese body is small and wiry like Sammy’s. “How come you not working today?” I asked.

“Vacation’s almost over, bro. Didn’t t’ink I’d be working the ranch when I could be here with you checking out the chicks in bikinis,” Tomas said. “Besides, I slopped our sows earlier. When you weren’t around to play baseball I knew you were working and needed rescued.”

“Rescued is right.” I’d slopped our pig in the morn and then worked all day at the shop. “I’m wheezing from this dust. Let’s go catch some rays, waves, and babes. If I stick around until Tatan comes back, my folks will have me babysitting him next.”

We took off to Tumon beach. Tomas thrust his chin in the direction of two white women in string bikinis sunbathing on straw mats. “Whoa.” He flicked his wrist, making his hand shake as if playing a tambourine. “Lookie at those!”

The white women didn’t interest me. I had a crush on Daphne DeLeon, a Chamorrita from school. But I hadn’t told anyone yet, not even Tomas, and especially not Daphne.

“Better not look too hard,” I said. “Probably military wives. And when those Uncle Sams catch you, they going to punch your nose until your eyes can’t see no more.” That wouldn’t take much either, since Tomas’s Japanese eyes disappear when he squints against the glare of the sun.

“Oh, but it’ll be worth it.” Tomas panted like a dog. “Tell me again what Tatan says about bikinis.”

I rolled my eyes. Tatan said it so many times it was annoying.

“Come on. Once more.” Tomas laughed.

“Kay-o. Kay-o. Tatan says…” I lowered my voice to imitate Tatan’s baritone voice, “Why call bikini? Bikini an atoll in Micronesia.”

Tomas joined me in making exploding bomb noises—
Kaboom! Kaboom!
We wouldn’t have dared make these sounds in front of Tatan. He saw nothing funny about the US military testing hydrogen bombs, or any other explosives, on Bikini Atoll.

When Tomas quit laughing, I imitated Tatan again. “Those swimsuits disgraceful. Look more like four hankies tied together. For shame. Put clothes on those girls before the priest sees them.”

Tomas laughed as if this were the first time he’d heard it. He laughed all the way to the shaved ice truck to buy us blue and cherry swirled cones.

I laughed too. Laughed so hard I ran to take a whiz in the ocean.

As I peed I dug my toes into the crushed coral on the bottom of the bay and looked beyond the reef where I snorkeled. I breathed in the salt air and watched fishermen cast their seine nets. I wished Sammy was there and we could go fishing for
manahac
again. That’d be the life. Sammy and me fishing for rabbit fish instead of him flying over Vietnam and me stuck stocking shelves.

While I was thinking about the last time Sammy and I went fishing, someone knocked me on my butt. I was pushing myself up out of the warm water when the man surfaced and screamed, “Yee-ooww!” Blood oozed out from under the Japanese man’s hands where he held his thigh.

I rolled over and tried to ignore coral stabbing my knees. The guy was bleeding bad. Not good. Fresh blood draws sharks.

“I’ll
banzai
you!” my tatan yelled from the beach.

I squinted against the sun, trying to see him. Rainbows of water droplets bounced off a machete blade Tatan was holding. He sliced it back and forth as he waded into the ocean. “
Banzai! Banzai!
Take that, you Jap!”

Sheesh. He’s really gone loco this time.

I started wading toward the injured man, straining to see if he was badly hurt. Tomas got to him first, took off his shirt and handed it to the man to tie on his leg. Tomas gave me a thumbs-up, then formed his hands like a megaphone and hollered, “Get Tatan.”

I was in waist-deep water so I couldn’t run. “Tatan! Tatan!” I called.

He ignored me and plunged farther into the ocean after the Japanese man. “Aye, you Nip!” my tatan bihu shouted, slicing air and water with his machete. Tomas swam out farther, trying to get out of Tatan’s way. I didn’t blame him.

“Aiee, policeman! Policeman!” the Japanese man shouted in English as he tried to get around Tatan. “He crazy! Old man crazy!”

Officer Perez, who patrolled the beach, dropped his bicycle on the sidewalk and raced toward Tatan.

The Japanese man was finally able to get closer to shore. But Tatan kept blocking his way. It was lucky for him that Tatan is an old man, ’cause he was slogging in slow motion even in the shallow water.

I splashed toward him. “Tatan! Tatan, it’s me, Kiko! Come with me before you get hurt.”

The policeman waded into the water. When Officer Perez reached Tatan, he came up from behind my grandfather and drew his night stick.

“Don’t hurt my tatan!”

“Looks like he’s not the one getting hurt,” Officer Perez said.

The Japanese man held his thigh and looked trapped. Tatan lunged toward him. The man ran backward into the water, turned and half crawled, half dog-paddled out toward the reef where Tomas was bobbing up and down.

I bet the man would have swam back to Japan if he could have.

“Mister San Nicolas, sir. Put the machete down, easy like.” The officer bent his stocky body until his seat skimmed water, showing with his hands how he wanted the machete dropped.

Officer Perez stood in front of my grandfather and held out both arms. “Easy. Easy,” he said, as if warning Tatan a poisonous crown-of-thorns starfish lurked near his feet. One misstep meant certain death.

“Don’t hurt him,” I pleaded. “He’s got
lytico-bodig
. He’s not dangerous. Just confused, that’s all.”

I inched closer to my grandfather. “Come on, Tatan. It’s me, Kiko. Let’s go. Let’s get out of here.”

Tatan’s eyes darted from Officer Perez to me, then gazed toward the outer reef for the Japanese man floundering in the surf. Water lapped calmly around Tatan’s legs and half-submerged machete. He stood dazed, but with a crazed look in his brown eyes.

“Come on, Tatan.” I reached for his hand not holding the machete. A glint of fear and confusion flashed in his eyes. I’d never seen Tatan like that before.

Officer Perez reached for the machete’s wooden handle.

Tatan tightened his grip and jutted his jaw. His eyes turned fiery. “No!” Tatan jerked his machete chest-high. “He violated Roselina. He raped my Rosie.”

What?
I froze.
My mother?

Officer Perez pulled his gun out of his hip holster. “Put the machete down and step back, Mister San Nicolas.”

“No!” I stepped between Tatan and Officer Perez. “Tatan,” I begged. “Give me the machete. We’ll go see Nana. You’ll see, not’ing bad happened to her. Just give me the machete and it’ll be all right.”

Tatan blinked, confusion clouded his eyes again. I held out my hand for the machete. “I’ll carry it, Tatan. It’s a long way to Sammy’s.”

Tatan’s chest deflated as his anger left him. He hung his head and handed me the machete.

“Can you keep him at your store while I get this other man to the hospital?” Officer Perez asked. “I’ll be back to talk to your parents as soon as possible.”

I nodded, took Tatan’s hand, and walked him back to our tourist shop, as if leading a lost boy home. But my heart raced, worried about Nana. Was it true what Tatan said? Was my mother raped?

“If I was samurai, I would commit hara-kiri.”
The naked Japanese soldier fingered the hand grenade pin. He sighed, then put the grenade back on a bamboo shelf beside his only other grenade.

“Alas, I am not samurai. For if I am samurai I would not be talking to a rat.”

The rat twitched its whiskers between steel cage bars as if it understood.

“I am not samurai. I am Isamu Seto, lance corporal of the Japanese Imperial Army. I am not even a good soldier. I have shamed the emperor. I did not die the way the cherry blossoms go. I was afraid. Afraid! Do you understand, Rat? Do you understand fear?”

Seto shook the tiny cage. The rat recoiled.

“Yes, hide. For tonight you die with honor, Rat. Tonight you die as my dinner to keep these old bones alive another day. These bones of Isamu Seto, who is not samurai, not soldier, but a frightened old tailor hiding in an underground cave.”

Seto laughed a stiff laugh, as rusty as his unusable World War II rifle. His laughter sounded muffled in the hollow one-yard-tall by ten-feet-long tunnel. Seto had dug it with a cannon shell eight feet beneath a bamboo patch in Guam’s jungle.

It had been twenty-eight years since he hid on Guam. For fifteen years Seto lived underground. The last eight years had been long, lonely years of solitude since Privates Nakamura and Hayato died in their cave nearby.

His laughter turned sour.
I liked it better when I lived above ground in my bamboo hut
, he thought.
Why did the natives have to build houses closer to the river?

He sighed, then pounded his fist on the dirt ceiling and cursed the rat.
“I hate living underground like a rat! Fear drove me here!”

Seto had feared he would be sent back to Japan, and could not face having shamed his emperor and family. Worse, he feared what the
Amerikans
would do to him if he had surrendered.

He knew Japan had lost the war. About one year after he hid, according to his calculation of the moon and constellations, fliers dropped like bombs from airplanes informing Seto and comrades the war had ended.