Harry Turtledove - End of the Beginning

The Japs had driven back three attacks on the basement from outside. Now the Americans were trying something different. Marine engineers were setting up a shaped charge on the ground floor of the palace.

It would blow a big hole in the basement’s roof. With luck, that would let leathernecks get down there and go toe-to-toe with the enemy.

Luck, Les thought. Some fucking luck. The Japs down there would die. So would a lot of Marines. He was too likely to be one of them.

Another bullet crashed up through the floor. By luck that really was good, that one missed everybody. Getting shot at from below was still goddamn scary. Several Marines fired a round or two down through the floor at the Japs they couldn’t see. Then they all went somewhere else in a hurry, so the slant-eyed sons of bitches wouldn’t nail them by shooting back where the bullets had gone through. Their boots clumping around overhead probably gave the enemy a hint about where they were anyway.

Through all the chaos, the engineers went on working. One of them looked up at Les and said, “Okay, we’re about ready to blow this bastard.”

“Hear that, people?” Les called to the other Marines. “Get your grenades ready. We’ll see how many of those fuckers we can blow to hell and gone before we go down there ourselves.”

Another engineer lit a fuse. The Marines drew back. After a sharp, surprisingly small whump! the charge blew a hole about four feet square in the floor. Along with his buddies, Les chucked grenades through the hole as fast as he could. Some fragments came back up. They bit one man in the hand. The Marines kept on tossing grenades into the basement. They didn’t want live Japs anywhere near that hole. Les didn’t see how anybody could live through what the enemy was getting, but the Japs had surprised him before.

“Come on!” he said, and let himself drop through the hole. He was down there by himself for only a heartbeat. More leathernecks dropped down with him. He saw a few twisted bodies close by. Then a bullet cracked past his head. Sure as hell, some of Hirohito’s warriors still had fight in them.

A Marine with a tommy gun sprayed death as if from a garden hose. After that, it was the usual chaos of a firefight, made worse because it was at such close quarters. Les was too busy to be afraid and too afraid to be anything else. He charged forward yelling like a banshee, and at least one of the fierce roars that burst from his throat started life as a terrified shriek. Even if he knew that, with luck the Japs wouldn’t.

Hell, they’ve gotta be as scared as I am, went through his mind in one of the brief moments when he wasn’t shooting or throwing a grenade into one of the rooms off the central hallway or using his bayonet. He’d already used it more here in Hawaii than he ever did in the trenches in 1918. If the Japanese soldiers he faced were afraid, they sure didn’t show it. Les wasn’t showing it, either, but he knew what was going on inside his own head. To him, the Japs might have been targets on the firing range, except they had the nasty habit of fighting back.

He fired and stabbed and used his rifle butt once or twice. He got a cut on one forearm, but it was hardly more than a scratch. If he wanted more oak leaves for his Purple Heart, he supposed he could get them. But he didn’t much care. The Purple Heart wasn’t a medal anybody in his right mind wanted to win.

More and more Marines jumped down into the basement. They went forward faster than they could get killed or wounded. Before too long, no more enemy soldiers were still standing. The Americans went through the basement, methodically finishing off wounded Japs. “Save a couple for prisoners,” Les called.

“The brass wants to grill ’em.”

He got grumbles from the men down there with him. “After what those mothers did to our guys, they ought to grill ’em over a slow fire,” one of them said.

“Save a couple,” Les repeated. “Maybe what we squeeze out of ’em will save enough of our guys while we’re cleaning out the last of ’em to make it worthwhile.”

“Maybe.” The Marine didn’t sound convinced, but he didn’t shoot the unconscious Jap at his feet, either. The enemy soldier showed no gunshot wounds, but he was out cold. Les wondered if he’d got the Jap with his rifle butt, or if one of the other leathernecks had done it.

He shrugged. That didn’t make much difference. The fighting right here was over. He could enjoy the breather-for a little while.

“CAN YOU HEAR ME?” a voice asked in Japanese.

Yasuo Furusawa forced his eyes open. His head hurt worse than after the worst hangover he’d ever had. “Hai,” he whispered so he wouldn’t have to hear himself. The man looking down at him was Japanese, but wore civilian clothes. They were in a tent: that was canvas behind the other man. Furusawa tried to take stock, but didn’t have much luck. “What happened?” he asked at last.

“You were in Iolani Palace. Do you remember?” the other man said.

“Hai,” Senior Private Furusawa repeated, again as if from very far away. He remembered finishing Commander Genda. Genda had died as a samurai should. And he remembered a hole blown in the ceiling, and U.S. Marines jumping down into the palace basement roaring like tigers. He remembered trying to fight off a big one… and that was the last thing he did remember. That meant… “ Zakennayo!” he exclaimed. “Am I…?” He couldn’t make himself say the words.

The other man nodded. “Yes, you are a prisoner of war. You were taken while unconscious. It is not your fault. You did not surrender.”

That helped-about as much as bailing with a bucket helped keep a battleship afloat. “A prisoner!” Furusawa said in despair. The knowledge hurt almost as much as his head, which said a lot. Furusawa squeezed his eyes shut as shame washed over him. “My family is disgraced forever.”

“Your family doesn’t know,” the other man said. By his old-fashioned accent-and by how thin he was-he had to be a local Japanese working with the Americans. “No one will tell them till the war is over. You can sort it out then. Meanwhile, aren’t you glad you’re alive?”

“No.” Furusawa shook his head, which also hurt. “What… What will they do to me?” You could do anything to a prisoner, anything at all.

As if picking that thought from his mind, the local Japanese said, “America follows the Geneva Convention. No one will torture you for the fun of it, or anything like that. You will be questioned, but it will only be questions. Do you understand?”

“I hear you,” Furusawa said wearily. He heard gunfire, too, not close enough to be alarming but not that far away, either. “We’re still fighting!”

“Yes, but it’s mopping up now,” the other man said. “Honolulu will fall. Oahu will fall. The war will go west.”

Furusawa wished he could call a local Japanese a liar. He knew he couldn’t. He’d been sure Oahu would fall since his own countrymen couldn’t keep the Americans off the northern beaches. Hawaii would no longer be the Empire’s eastern shield. Now the USA could use the islands against Japan. Shigata ga nai, he thought. He certainly couldn’t do anything about it.

“Are you hungry? Are you thirsty?” the other man asked.

“Hai.” Furusawa sat up on the edge of the cot where they’d put him.

“I’ll get you food,” the local Japanese said. “There are guards outside. Don’t try to leave. It would be the last thing you did.”

Furusawa hadn’t thought of leaving. He barely had the strength to sit. The local Japanese went out. He spoke in English. Someone answered him in the same language. He hadn’t been lying, then. Furusawa hadn’t thought so. The other man came back in a few minutes with U.S. ration tins and a cup of coffee. Furusawa ate greedily. He felt a little more alive when he finished.