Toward Night's End (24 page)

Sneering the big man said, “He’s a Jap. They don’t let Japs in!”

“They do when they need interpreters to pick up wire transmissions,” Kite retorted with biting anger. “Now let us pass.”

Dozens of men were watching as the large man debated for a moment, then stepped aside. Matthew and Kite entered the building.

What had once been a hardware store was now mostly empty except for five small desks set up in the middle of the room and what seemed like dozens of file cabinets lining the walls. Behind each desk was a Navy officer wearing a crisp khaki uniform. Seated in chairs across the desks from the officers were young men signing up for active duty. The walls had two recruitment posters, one with Uncle Sam saying he needed young men ready to give themselves to “God and country.”

Kite kept a tight grip on Matthew’s arm as they stood, waiting. They watched a scrawny young man as he rose from a desk. When he turned toward the door, Matthew was surprised to see that he was just a boy. Maybe fourteen or fifteen. They could hear the Navy lieutenant say, “Come back when you’re of age, son.”

The boy looked crestfallen, and as he made his way to the door, Kite quickly escorted Matthew to the two chairs facing the young Navy lieutenant behind the desk. Matthew was just relieved to finally be able to sit down. The lieutenant didn’t even look up, busy finishing some paperwork. Finally, he glanced at them and did a double take upon seeing Matthew. “What’s this?”

“This here is Daniel Kobata. Wants to sign up, he does,” Kite explained in his Irish lilt.

“He’s a Jap.” It was with the same biting tone as the man near the entrance.

“That he is, that he is,” Kite said joyfully.

Now in a harsh voice, the lieutenant said, “I’d take that kid that was just here before I’d take him. No Japs. Now get out.”

“He was born and raised right here in the United States.” Kite was angry now and it showed. “He wants to serve his country.”

“He can’t. In fact, he’s supposed to be in a relocation center.”

“An internment camp, you mean? Yes, that may be, but he’s been at sea the past five months. Before you probably even heard of a place called Pearl Harbor.”

Matthew just watched the two men talk as if he weren’t there.

“He’s a U.S. citizen,” Kite added defiantly.

“And a Jap. Get out.” The lieutenant then turned his attention to papers on the desk.

Kite turned to Matthew and said, “Not to worry, boy. You’re a fine chef. You’ll always have a job on the
Ancient Mariner
.”

With that, the lieutenant quickly looked at both of them. But Kite had a forearm under Matthew’s arm, helping him to stand. Matthew struggled to get to his feet, leaning heavily on the desk.

“Where were you born?” the lieutenant suddenly asked Matthew.

“Washington. The state of Washington. Bainbridge Island.”

“Ever a soldier for any country?”

Surprised by the question, Matthew said simply, “No.”

“Who do you think will win this war?”

“We will,” Matthew said firmly. “We were blind-sided. Doubt it will happen again.”

“What about the Japanese? Think they’re stronger than us?”

“I would have no way of knowing that.” Unable to find the strength to keep standing, he collapsed in the chair. Kite stood next to him.

“Cook, is that right?”

Matthew glanced at Kite, who gave him a discreet nod. The lieutenant was still waiting for an answer and Matthew found his voice. “Yes, sir.”

“How many you feed?”

“Twenty-two” Kite answered.

“Three times a day?” the lieutenant asked, ignoring Kite and looking at Matthew.

“Yes sir.”

“Just you?” the lieutenant asked.

“Ah, no, boy,” Kite interrupted, his voice playful again. “Now, he’s a good cook in his own right. Learned all he knows from me. But me, I’m the main cook.”

“You’ve been cooking for twenty-two people three meals a day?” the lieutenant inquired.

Matthew glanced at Kite again. Why had Kite told the man he was a cook? “Yes, sir.”

“For how long?”

“What’s it been?” Kite quickly injected. “Three years, right, boy?”

Matthew just went along with it. He desperately wanted to lie down. “Three years.”

“What kinds of food?”

“All kinds,” Kite started.

“Let him tell me, okay?” the lieutenant said harshly.

Matthew swallowed hard. If there was one thing he knew nothing about it was cooking. His mother cooked all his meals all his life. Unless he and Tom went to The Crow’s Nest where they helped out and got a good dinner as payment. “All kinds,” he managed. “Soups. Stews. Rice. Depends upon what we picked up in our last port.”

“Ever get sea sick? When cooking?”

“No, sir.” It was a safe answer considering he’d never been sea sick his entire life.

The lieutenant grabbed an enlistment sheet from a stack to this right and said briskly, “Name?”

“Mat—” he started, then realized his error and quickly covered up by saying, “Mine?”

“Yeah,” the lieutenant said curtly.

“Daniel. Daniel Kobata.”

“Spell that. The last name,” the lieutenant said, concentrating on the form.

“K-O-B-A-T-A,” Matthew said.

“Occupation?”

“I already told you,” Matthew said impatiently, wishing he could lie down somewhere and sleep. “Cook. On the
Ancient Mariner
.”

“She’s right out there,” Kite said enthusiastically. He pointed out the window, but the line of men waiting to sign up blocked any view of the wharf.

The lieutenant looked at Matthew. “For three years, you say?”

“That’s right.”

The lieutenant rose from the desk and picked up the form he had been filling out. He glared at Matthew for a moment, then abruptly left. Matthew glanced at Kite who could barely conceal a grin.

“You’ll get on board, boy,” he whispered to Matthew, leaning close. “Word is, they lost two cooks just this past week. One had some sort of emergency surgery. Appendix, or some such rot. Other got leave because he lost both parents. Train wreck in Kansas.” He gave Matthew a devilish wink. “You’ll get on board sure as fire, boy.”

“I don’t know how to cook,” Matthew whispered back.

“Ever eat on a Navy ship?” he asked. When Matthew shook his head, Kite laughed. “You got nothing to worry about, boy. Not a thing.”

“I’ve never cooked anything,” Matthew persisted.

“Just follow the golden rule of the Navy.”

“What’s that?”

“Do what you’re told, lad.” He could see Matthew’s worried look and added, “Just do what the main cook tells you to do. Watch the others. You’ll learn. You’re smart. It’s not that tough.”

Matthew still looked worried. “I don’t know. I’m still so tired.”

With that, Kite pulled a small vial from his pants pocket.

“What’s that?” Matthew asked.

“Penicillin. Captain doesn’t always lock his cabin when we’re ashore.” Kite grinned from ear to ear. Very pleased with himself. “You’ll be fine, boy. Just fine.”

The lieutenant came back with an older man, a commander who held a single sheet of paper in his hand. “Commander Derrson, this is Daniel Kobata.”

Matthew rose. “Sir.”

But the commander just studied him for some time. Matthew wanted to sit again, but he didn’t dare. Finally, the commander said, “American citizen?”

“Yes, sir. Born on Bainbridge Island. That’s in Washington—”

“I know where it is,” the commander said, cutting him off. “You’ve been a ship’s cook?”

“Yes, sir.”

The man nodded. Then he looked at the paper in his hand and read, “Are you willing to serve in the Armed Forces of the United States on combat duty wherever ordered?”

Matthew was startled by the question, but replied, “Yes, sir.”

“Will you swear unqualified allegiance to the United States of America and faithfully defend the United States from any and all attacks by foreign or domestic forces, and forswear any form of allegiance or obedience to the Japanese emperor, to any other foreign government, power, or organization?”

“Yes, sir,” Matthew said again.

With that the commander put the piece of paper on the desk in front of Matthew and handed him a pen. “Sign and date.”

Matthew glanced at the form, which was titled “Loyalty Questionnaire For All Japanese-Americans” and contained the two questions he had just been asked. At the bottom was a signature line and a separate line for the date. He signed as Daniel Kobata and wrote in the date.

The commander quickly grabbed the paper and said, “Report to the
USS North Carolina
today at 1800. That’s six tonight. Got a lot of mouths to feed.”

“Yes, sir,” Matthew managed.

With that the commander left. The lieutenant motioned them to sit down and they did. Matthew now noticed the recruitment form only contained his name and place of birth. “Family?”

Matthew swallowed hard. “None.”

The lieutenant looked up in surprise. “No one at all?”

“No, sir.”

“Someone to notify if you are killed in action?”

“Eh, Mr. Porter.” Matthew then gave Russell Porter’s full name and address. He then realized that if he did die overseas, Mr. Porter would think his brother Daniel had joined up and gotten killed. What a mess everything was.

If Detective Johnstone had been able to communicate with Matthew right then, undoubtedly the two men would agree on one thing: everything was indeed a mess.

He and Merrick had been able to take the next train back to Seattle, and both men used the time to catch up on some much needed sleep. Now, Johnstone found himself once again at the Naval Air Station in Seattle. This time there was no rain, and Commander Merrick had shown his credentials at the gate and told the guards on duty he needed to speak to the base commanding officer, Captain Earl Boyle.

They were promptly shown to Captain Boyle’s office, and Merrick explained that he was working on a JAG investigation. The captain tried to get more information, but Merrick simply said that the man would have to pursue his questions with the Navy brass in Washington, D.C. He then explained that Johnstone was assisting him in the matter. Further, he stated that they required the precise, present location of Petty Officer Preston and a police escort to go with them to that location. Again, Captain Boyle pressed for more details and again, Merrick referred him to Washington. Calling the entire matter “highly irregular,” the captain then did as Merrick had asked.

Now Johnstone and Merrick were heading across the base with the two Masters-at-Arms following close behind. Walking past the housing barracks, Johnstone realized how bleak Manzanar was in comparison. The air station had wide, grassy areas between the buildings with concrete walkways. At Manzanar it was dust, dust and more dust.

“I had thought Carsteen had acted alone in this matter,” said Merrick. “The fact that another sailor was involved, who actually took the severed fingers…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

“Question is, what is ‘this matter’?”

“I can’t get my head around it.”

Johnstone couldn’t either. “And there could be more than just this Preston guy.”

Merrick nodded. “That’s why we’re not even telling the base commander what’s going on. The way I’m thinking, if it’s just Carsteen and Preston, we’ll be lucky. If it’s more than them, well…”

“It’s a mess, either way you slice it,” Johnstone agreed. “A very big mess.”

Merrick simply nodded. He cut across the grass toward a two-story building. Johnstone followed. “We’re here on our own,” the commander reminded him. “Hopefully just saying I’m JAG will scare him into cooperating. If he wants his own attorney, by law, JAG will have to appoint one.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t tell him then.”

“I could be disbarred,” Merrick answered, opening the door that was designated as simply “43-B.”

Johnstone was surprised to find the interior of the building was simply a large classroom. Every desk was filled with young naval seaman, and if Johnstone hadn’t known better, he would have thought the fresh-scrubbed faces belonged in high school, not the armed forces. But he realized that was most likely because he was getting older.

“May I help you?” said a petty officer standing at the head of the class. He held a piece of chalk in his hand, and Johnstone noticed there were some mathematical figures written on the chalkboard on the front wall.

“Petty Officer Arnold Preston?” Merrick asked.

The man glanced at the MAs standing behind Merrick and Johnstone and suddenly looked apprehensive. Afraid? Wondered Johnstone.

“We need you to come with us.”

“I’m in the middle of class,” replied Preston.

Not afraid, Johnstone thought. More wary.

“Sir, I need you to come with us, please.” Merrick repeated as politely as possible.

Preston glanced at his class, all of whom sat silently watching. Finally, he placed the piece of chalk on the chalkboard tray, brushed off his hands, and approached them. He glanced back at the class and said, “Compute the last quotient – I’ll be back in a moment.”

The quad outside the building was quiet, and Merrick turned to face Preston once they had exited the building. Before saying anything, he waved the MAs to move off a few paces, which they did. “Commander David Merrick. JAG,” Merrick said. The petty officer immediately looked to Johnstone, and Merrick continued, saying, “This is Detective—”

“Johnstone. Local police,” Preston announced.

Merrick and Johnstone exchange startled looks.

“Every day I thought someone would come. Every day. Today, I think I finally had a day that I wasn’t waiting for you.” He grinned. “And here you are.” The grin disappeared an instant later, and Preston motioned to a low wall. “May I sit, please?”

“Go ahead,” Merrick conceded.

They followed him to the wall where he sat down heavily, his elbows on his knees. Then he looked up sharply at Johnstone. “I left a note inside your car. Some time ago now. I don’t know if you got it. I couldn’t wait around—”