years. Furthermore, because it happened twenty years ago doesn’t mitigate it nor make it any the less important. I also see that even though you didn’t pull the trigger yourself, you feel a moral guilt. But moral guilt, or even actual guilt, is something we all have inside us in some form or another, and we have to live with it. Look at Hank Wasinski. Every time he lays with his wife and uses a rubber he believes he is committing a mortal sin. It preys on his mind, but it must be lived with.”
“But he hasn’t murdered.”
“That’s not the way Hank sees it. But let’s get one point straight right now. You haven’t murdered anyone. I don’t speak of it in just a legal sense, because legally you have complied with all the rules of warfare, even though your enemy, and again, I repeat, your enemy, did not believe in nor abide by the Geneva Convention Rules of Warfare. Morally, you had two alternatives, to fight for his life, if you felt disposed to, or to take it, and taking it was the result of every bit of training you ever had in the army.” Brighton shook his head. “Keith, you cannot castigate yourself for this incident.”
Masters sat quietly, reflecting. “Thanks, George, you’ve explained yourself well and I understand what you have said. But I still think differently, and I am not trying to build up a case because I have nothing better to do or to make a mountain out of a molehill. Look.” He leaned forward again, trying desperately to explain himself. “You find a man lying on the ground, bleeding from a wound which requires only a slight pressure on the artery to stop it. He can be a complete stranger, or a guy whose guts you hate. You walk away and let him bleed to death. Are you guilty?”
Brighton met Masters’ eyes levelly. “You are not guilty of murder,” he said softly. Under Masters continuing stare, he finally looked down at his desk. There was a long silence. “What do you expect to accomplish in Japan, Keith?” he asked.
“I don’t know, George, I don’t know. Maybe seek atonement for my sin. I must do something besides sit here and think of it.” He rose and held out his hand. “So long, George.”
Brighton stood up. “Do what you must, Keith. But keep in touch.”
The old, battered cargo ship came alongside the dock in Yokohama. Masters stood at the rail to watch the Japanese stevedores, garbed in cotton shorts and sleeveless shirts, with red sweat bands on their foreheads, swarm along the piers loading and unloading ships. The brisk, salt tanged air caught up the scent of fish and frying oils mingled with the harsh odors of radish and peppers and cabbage. The small, heavily muscled workers were an orderly mass, wheeling forklifts and swinging cranes.
The July weather was bright, invigorating, and the slow trip across the Pacific had worked wonders for the lonely man with the defective heart.
His eyes turned to the southeast, to the Hommoku misaki, the promontory known as Treaty Point. For a moment his thoughts went back to his rest leave from Korea and to the Japanese girl whose name he could never pronounce, whom he had nicknamed ‘Betty Grable’. She had taken him sightseeing at the promontory, and had said, “Here’s where it all started, the flow of foreigners which has never stopped.” They had sat there looking out over the bay, then had decided that going back to their hotel in Tokyo would take too much time, so they had rushed to one nearby to do what Masters had come to Japan to do.
He glanced towards the north, unable to see but sensing the movement of the unbelievably crowded Tokyo, remembering the long strolls through the teeming streets where he felt like a giant among the short, slim, beautiful Orientals.
His clearance through immigration and customs took but a few minutes, and he was amused at the results obtained by speaking his limited Japanese, for there was always a bow and a smile. The three months at the Berlitz school were not completely wasted.
He was directed to a bus and sat next to a heavy browed Japanese, who kept his eyes glued to a newspaper while the vehicle raced recklessly through the narrow streets of Yokohama and into the maelstrom of the Shitamachi, or downtown Tokyo. Masters had to agree that adverting one’s eyes, was the only defense against the terror of driving in Tokyo.
He found a small, inexpensive hotel near the terminal. The room was just wide enough to stretch his arms, but it was clean and orderly. It did not have a bathroom. The community toilet and bath were down the hallway.
His first call was at the American Embassy, where he learned that the agency which handled veterans’ matters was the Gunjin Kazoku Enjo Kyokai, The Association for the Protection of Families of Soldiers. As it was now too late to visit, he walked the streets to see the changes which fourteen years had wrought. It was like being in Chicago or New York or Philadelphia if one could read the Japanese characters over the stores.
He stopped abruptly at the first pachinko stand, a sparkle coming to his eyes as he brought twenty five small, steel balls, and put them one by one into the machine, pulling the trigger and watching them shoot up, then work their way downward through the scores of nails to the various slots at the bottom. He hit the winning slots a number of times, took a handful of the balls back to the counter, and received three bars of candy in exchange.
He strolled by the Emperor’s Palace, stopping to watch the fat, golden carp swim lazily in the moat and wonder how many generations of fish had come and gone since he had last gazed into the same moat. In a simple restaurant in the Ginza section, he ordered boiled fish and vegetables which he had seen served to another customer. He pointed it out to the waitress, for he did not know how to ask for it in Japanese.
The next morning, he found the Association for Protection of the Families of Soldiers, and was taken in tow by a middle aged man who spoke English.
“Ito Tanaka? Iwo Jima? Please wait here.” In half an hour, he returned with a dossier. “Yes, we have him. He was a sergeant in an engineer battalion at Iwo Jima.” He pronounced battalion as “battarian”, since most Japanese were unable to use the letter ‘l’. His face saddened. “We have absolutely no information as to what happened to most of the twenty two thousand people on the island. With the exception of a handful who surrendered, we have listed all others as having been killed in action.”
“We had several thousand casualties, too,” said Masters, remembering quite clearly saying goodbye at the graves of many of his men and fellow officers before leaving the island.
It caught the man short. “Yes, of course,” he mumbled.
“Tanaka’s family? What about them?”
The man scanned the dossier again. “As of nineteen fifty, his wife and two children were residing near Akimo, a small village about one hundred and twenty miles northwest of here. That was sixteen years ago. I would assume that they are still there.”
“Why would you assume that?”
“The Nipponese peasant remains with the land, especially a widow with two small children.”
“How can I find out for certain?”
“The National Police would be able to assist you.”
The National Police were indeed helpful. Within minutes, a sergeant, eyeing Masters curiously, wrote out a name and address on a slip of paper.
“Mrs. Tanaka now resides in Tokyo,” he said. “Is it possible to explain why you are looking for her?”
“It’s a personal matter.” Masters observed a gleam of amusement flicker across the sergeant’s eyes. “Does something amuse you, buster?” he growled.
The
