about that. Shipton is fifteen, and if he has to remain in Japan until he turns eighteen, he will become an adult enemy alien—and that will be a problem.
Anyway, I hope I will be able to change ships in Goa to a vessel bound for a South American port and from there make my way back to the USA. Upon arrival, I will go to SF first to see you if you’re not already in uniform.
Much love from,
Dad
P.S. Your sweetheart (?) Helma Graf’s parents are on this vessel. Good people, I think. Helma stayed on in Japan. She is a Swiss and neutral and, of course, in a different category from us in the view of the Japanese. Still, things won’t be easy for her. The Japanese will probably mistake her for an American. She was talking about making an arm-band identifying her as Swiss. She did us a big favor, though, by moving into our house in Azabu . . . at my invitation.
That permitted us to nail a sign on the gate saying this was the residence of a citizen of a neutral country. Of course, Umeko retains her Japanese citizenship and Shipton is a minor. I left a sizable amount in a bank account in Umeko’s name, but when I heard from one of our bankers that Japan planned to limit the amount of cash that could be withdrawn from ordinary accounts even by Japanese, I took out the equivalent of $60,000 and hid it in three caches in the house, one known only to Umeko, one to Shipton, and one to Helma.
(I think you can imagine why.)
Bill Macneil felt the tension of recent months drain from his body. Except for his sister, Chankoro, he now knew what had become of his family. Slowly, he turned to the army captain. Remembering his manners, Bill offered him a drink, which was accepted. Bill was somewhat suspicious of this sharp-toned man who seemed to be watching his mail, but this was no time to be influenced by minor animosities.
“Well, David, how can I help you?” Bill asked, calling the captain by his given name. He had not the least intention of kowtowing to military rank . . . yet. Besides, the man was hardly older than Bill, if at all.
Captain Spencer nodded his head toward a wall plaque. “Member—Mt. Shasta Rescue Team.” He sipped his anchor steam beer. “Been called out lately?”
“Not since early January. That what you came to talk about?”
David Spencer laughed. “Not by any means, but your experience as a parachutist could be of considerable interest to us.”
Bill wondered at the man’s use of “us.” “You know someone who needs rescuing?”
Abruptly, David Spencer began speaking to his host in Japanese. To Bill’s utter amazement, the army officer’s Japanese was impeccable—really of native quality. Macneil’s surprise must have shown on his face.
Continuing in Japanese, Spencer said, “Do I surprise you?” Replying in Japanese, Bill said, “There aren’t many of us. How did you learn?”
“Born to missionary parents in rural Shikoku. Only way I could get myself educated was to go through the Japanese school system. I must say you’re pretty good yourself. I had heard you were the best, but I wanted to make sure. How about the written language?”
Bill grinned. “Want to give me a test?”
“We’ll get around to that. What I wanted to do today was ask you about your plans. Won’t you be finishing your third year in college soon?”
“To tell you the truth, I was waiting to hear about my family. I wanted to stay flexible in case they needed me—somewhere.”
“What did your father write?”
“You mean you really don’t know? Well, here. Go ahead. I assume you could have found out, anyway.”
Quickly, Spencer glanced through the letter. “Do you plan on volunteering for service this year?”
“Probably.”
“Then we have a proposal for you.”
“We?”
“Military intelligence. We would like for you to stay right where you are. I’ll get you a deferment if they try to draft you. When we’re ready, we’ll have you come to Washington, where we will commission you. Same rank as me. Then it’s off to paratroop school.”
“I don’t need to go to school to learn how to—”
“There’s a military way to drop from aircraft and a civilian way, Bill. We want you to do it the military way.”
“And then?”
“You’ll lead a team of translators and interpreters in the Pacific.”
Macneil bridled. “Why go to paratroop school to sit at a desk and translate documents? That’s not how I want to fight the goddamned Japanese.”
“We’re forming a unit called ATIS—Allied Translator and Interpreter Service. Some of its members will be ‘combat interrogation officers.’ Their job will be to parachute behind Japanese lines, capture prisoners, and interrogate them on the spot. They may even have to kill the prisoners after interrogation, to preserve the team’s safety.” Spencer laughed. “How does that strike you? Derring-do enough?”
“What do I do till you call me?”
“Stay where you are. Our country is desperate for men who can translate and interpret, so we’ve set up a Japanese language school in the Presidio. I’m one of the recruiters. Let me tell you, Bill, it’s not an easy job. All the Japanese Americans on the coast are being sent to relocation camps inland, and white Americans who claim to know Japanese are damned few and hard to locate. Most of those I’ve found don’t handle Japanese well enough for the work we have in mind. Some of them speak kitchen Japanese but could never translate a military document. That’s why we will have to send them to school for a year or so. Which is where you come in. We would like to send you some of these prospective students and ask you to judge their abilities. Interview them in Japanese. Ask them to read and translate a Japanese newspaper. See if they can decipher a letter in grass-writing—because that’s how some of the diaries we pick up on the battlefield will be written.”
Spencer paused. “How about it?”
“I like that part about dropping behind enemy lines.”
“One more thing. We’ve been told how much you hate the Japanese. That’s all right, because we’re all supposed to hate them now. Only thing is, if your hatred is too excessive, that may interfere with your ability to interrogate POWs. The manual says we can extract more intelligence from a POW if we can establish some sort of rapport. Not friendship, of course, no one expects that. But if your hatred shines through too strongly, the POW will clam up, become surly, and refuse to say anything.”
Macneil was silent for a long moment. “I hate them all right—for something they did in Nanking—”
“We know about that.”
“But I was born in Japan and there was a time when I had more Japanese friends than American. Hell, my stepmother is Japanese. My brother and sister are half-Japanese. I guess I could conceal my dislike enough to do interrogations.”
“By the way, where is your sister Sarah?”
“I
