Harry Turtledove - End of the Beginning

But women who’d gone to bed with Japanese soldiers were only the small change of collaboration. Everybody stared when Yosh Nakayama came into the community kitchen. The nursery man stolidly collected his ration tins, sat down not far from Jane, and started to eat. He’d translated for Major Hirabayashi and relayed the Japanese commandant’s orders to the rest of Wahiawa. But he’d also done everything he could to get crops in the ground when Oahu was hungriest, and nobody’d ever claimed he’d informed on people. Jane knew he’d done what he could to keep her out of the brothel, though she’d been too dumb to realize it till too late. Some wanted to string him up. Others thought he deserved a medal. He went on about his business, there in the eye of the storm. It wasn’t as if he could hop in a plane and fly off to Tokyo.

There had been informers. Some of them had slipped out of Wahiawa before the U.S. Army came in. Jane hoped they were getting the shit bombed out of them in Honolulu. That would start to give them what they deserved. And some had tried to stay and brazen it out. Again, a lot of those were local Japanese who’d bet on the wrong horse. You could understand them even if you despised them.

But Smiling Sammy Little, who had the biggest used-car dealership in Wahiawa, was as Anglo-Saxon as George Washington. And he was in the guardhouse. He’d rolled over and wagged his tail for the Japs. They were on top, and he’d wanted to stay near the top: it seemed as simple as that. Figuring out how many people were dead because of his toadying wasn’t so simple. Jane hoped he’d get it in the neck.

Somebody lit a cigarette. Jane’s nostrils twitched. Along with almost all the other smokers on Oahu, she’d had to lose the habit during the Japanese occupation. The soldiers’ rations included little packs of cigarettes. Jane had smoked a few. They still made her dizzy and nauseated, the way they had when she was just learning how. She intended to keep at it till it seemed natural again.

As soon as she was done eating, she went back to her apartment. As long as she stayed in there with the door locked, things had a harder time getting at her. She started to head for the bathroom, then checked herself. She’d taken endless showers. They didn’t wash away the memory of all the hands that had groped her. She didn’t know how many times she’d douched with salt water. That couldn’t make her forget all the times she’d had to open her legs for the Japs. And, now that she had toothpaste again, she also brushed her teeth over and over. She remembered how they’d made her get down on her knees even so.

She was going to remember, going to have to deal with, all that the rest of her life. She was damned if she could see how. Maybe she was just damned, period. The Japs hadn’t cared what they did to her. All they’d wanted was a few minutes of fun each. If that left her ruined for the rest of her days, so what?

She snorted. They hadn’t cared about the rest of her days, not even a little bit. They’d intended to use her, use her up, and then knock her over the head. Who was she kidding? The only thing that had saved her was the U.S. reinvasion.

Slowly, she made herself straighten up and peer into the mirror over the sink. She still looked like death warmed over. But if she gave in to despair, didn’t the Japs win a battle inside her head? It felt that way.

Living well is the best revenge. That held a lot of truth. She wasn’t what she would have been if the Japs had left her alone, and that was a damn shame. But she wasn’t a slut or a basket case just because they’d done their goddamnedest to turn her into one. And if anybody didn’t like it… “Tough shit,” she muttered. She’d never liked the way Fletch swore. Maybe now she understood it a little better than she had when they were married.

She hoped Fletch was still alive. After what she’d seen, and after the stories soldiers told about what the Japs had done at the POW camp up by Opana, she knew the odds weren’t the best. She hoped anyhow. She might not have wanted to stay married to him. She didn’t hate him, though, and he’d done what he could for the country.

And when he found out what the Japs had made her do, he’d probably want to spit in her eye. She sighed, wishing some of the K-rations came with a little bottle of bourbon instead of cigarettes. Somebody in Washington should have done something about that. She sure as hell needed a drink now, and she was sure plenty of servicemen needed one even worse. They had to do without, and so did she.

Life isn’t fair, she thought. Her laugh was as bitter as-what was that stuff in the Bible? Wormwood, that was it. They’d used it to flavor absinthe, one more kind of booze she couldn’t have. As if I didn’t find out about that the hard way.

SANDBAGGED MACHINE-GUN NESTS AND CONCRETE pillboxes sprouted like pimples on the smooth green skin of the lawn around Iolani Palace. Trenches zigzagged from one to the next. The Japanese weren’t going to give up the Kingdom of Hawaii’s center of government without a fight.

Senior Private Yasuo Furusawa understood that. It was at least as much a propaganda point as a military one. As long as Iolani Palace stayed in Japanese-nominally, in Hawaiian-hands, the kingdom Japan had reestablished here remained a going concern. Strong Japanese forces also hung on in the gray, boring office buildings west of the palace. So did the remnants of the Royal Hawaiian Army. From what Furusawa had heard, some of King Stanley Laanui’s Hawaiians had fought with fanatical fervor. Others, unfortunately, had hardly fought at all.

Commander Genda looked northwest, the direction from which the U.S. Marines were likeliest to come. Then he looked back over his shoulder toward the palace. Like Honolulu City Hall to the east, it hadn’t been badly damaged. As if picking that thought from his informal aide’s mind, Genda said, “The Americans want to keep these places in one piece if they can. They intend to use them after they finish the reconquest.”

“Yes, sir.” Furusawa nodded. He’d figured that out for himself. He’d also realized Captain Iwabuchi didn’t intend to let the Americans have anything in Honolulu in one piece if he could help it. Here, he could. He kept insisting the Japanese would throw the Americans back. Commander Genda, Furusawa noted, claimed nothing of the sort. That also made sense to Furusawa, however little he liked it. The USA held an even more dominant position here than Japan had during the first invasion.

“How long do you think we’ve got, sir?” Furusawa asked.

Genda shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. We’ve already held out longer than I thought we could. The special naval landing forces are… dedicated men.”

“Hai,” Furusawa said. That was a diplomatic way of calling them maniacal diehards, which would have been just as true. The Army had orders against retreat. Its men knew better than to let themselves be captured. But the special naval landing forces rushed toward the enemy like lovers going to meet their beloved. They hurt the Americans, and sometimes even threw them back. The price they paid, though!

“I wish Captain Iwabuchi would not order charges,” Genda said, again thinking along with him. “They are wasteful, especially when we cannot replace our losses. Better to make the Yankees come to us and pay the price.”

“Would he listen if you told him something like that?” Furusawa asked.

Genda gloomily shook his head. “He would just call me soft. Maybe he would be right. I don’t know anything to speak of about commanding ground troops. What’s your opinion, Senior Private?”

“Mine?” Furusawa was flabbergasted. He didn’t think a superior had ever asked him that before. He wished someone would have done it sooner. Now… “It probably doesn’t matter much one way or the other, does it, sir?”