Harry Turtledove - Days of Infamy

“That’s one of the most delicious things I ever ate,” Senior Private Furusawa said with a sigh of pleasure.

“ Hai. Honto,” Shimizu agreed; he’d been thinking the same thing. “Even better than sashimi, if you ask me. Why don’t we have things like this in Japan?” He took a pack from one of the cartons, opened it, and began to smoke. “This is better tobacco than we get at home, too. We’ve already found that out.”

“It’s ours now, by right of conquest,” somebody said.

“ Banzai! for Wakuzawa, who conquered it for us,” somebody else added. A soft chorus of “ Banzai! ”s rang out. Shiro Wakuzawa blushed like a schoolgirl. Corporal Shimizu hid a smile. Wakuzawa might be only a lowly first-year soldier, but he was the hero of the moment.

“I don’t remember the last time I felt so full,” Furusawa said. “I want to go to sleep right where I’m sitting.”

Several soldiers incautiously nodded. “You’d better not,” Shimizu said. “We’ll have sentries out through the night. Never can tell what the Americans might do if they catch us all snoring here. Furusawa, you’ll take the first watch.”

“Yes, Corporal,” the senior private said. That was work, but not too bad. At least he wouldn’t have his sleep interrupted, the way the men who came later would.

“And then tomorrow,” Shimizu went on, “tomorrow, I think, we push on into Honolulu at last.” He wondered how hard the Americans would fight for the city. Clearing them out one house at a time, one block at a time, would be expensive and leave the place in worse ruins than it was already. He shrugged. It would be as it was; he couldn’t do anything about it any which way. He rolled himself in his blanket and fell asleep.

He slept through the night-one of the privileges of his rank was that he didn’t have to stand sentry. He woke just before sunrise. Hawaii’s unfamiliar birds were calling. He got up and stretched, then went behind a tree to ease himself. Spatters of gunfire came from the east, but only spatters. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. He tried to make himself believe it.

Smoking one of those smooth American cigarettes helped. And then, with the air of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, Shiro Wakuzawa produced three more cans of Spam. They made as fine a breakfast as they had a supper. The other privates in the squad pounded Wakuzawa on the back and told him what a fine fellow he was.

Such displays were beneath a corporal’s dignity. But Shimizu was glad to have something good in his stomach, too. He told himself he’d go a little easier-only a little, mind-on Wakuzawa for a while. The kid had earned some respect.

Cautiously, the squad moved forward. Shimizu preferred the fields where they had been fighting to the houses that surrounded him now. Who could say how many big, fierce American soldiers they were hiding?

Things stayed fairly quiet. A machine gun in a brick building made its presence known too soon. If the gunner had held off a little longer, he could have slaughtered the Japanese as they came forward across the grass in front of the building. As things were, they got the chance to take cover.

The gunner seemed to have all the ammunition in the world, and to enjoy hosing it around. Shimizu crouched behind some rubble. He wasn’t going to stick his nose out unless ordered. Sooner or later, soldiers to the north or south would outflank that machine gun. Till they did, going straight at it was a recipe for suicide.

About halfway through the morning, the machine gun fell silent. Shimizu sat tight. Maybe the American had run out of ammo after all. Or maybe-and more likely-he was just waiting for his foes to think he had.

But then Senior Private Furusawa called, “Corporal! There’s an American soldier coming forward with a white flag!”

That made Shimizu stick his head up. Sure enough, a tall Yankee with a flag of truce strode toward him. A nervous-looking local Japanese man stuck close to the soldier’s side. “What do you want?” Shimizu called.

The American spoke in English. Without a word of the language, Shimizu could hear how bitter he sounded. The translator said, “Captain Trexler wishes to seek surrender terms for U.S. forces on Oahu.” He spoke old-fashioned Hiroshima dialect. Had he been one of the men fooling Japanese soldiers? If he had, he would pay.

Next to the other, though, that was a small thing. If the Americans were surrendering… If they’re surrendering, I won’t get shot, Shimizu thought happily. “I will take the captain back through our lines,” he said aloud. The local Japanese spoke in English. With a curt nod, the American came on.

COMMANDER MITSUO FUCHIDA adjusted the cap of his white dress uniform as he walked up to Iolani Palace to take part in the surrender ceremony. The cap, with its anchor-and-chrysanthemum badge, felt odd on his head. He was more used to a flying man’s leather helmet that covered his ears.

He turned to Commander Minoru Genda, who walked along beside him, also in dress uniform. Honolulu’s bright sun flashed from the two silver chrysanthemums on each of Genda’s gold shoulder boards. Like Fuchida’s, those shoulder boards were striped with an aviator’s blue. “Congratulations,” Fuchida said. “You are the architect of this day.”

Modest as usual, Genda shook his head. “Admiral Yamamoto planned the attack,” he said. “And you so ably led the fliers. Both of you deserve far more credit than I do.”

Although burly General Tomoyuki Yamashita and his aides stumped along ahead of the Navy officers, Genda said not a word about what the Army had contributed to the conquest of Oahu. Fuchida understood that. He was sure Yamashita had not a single good word for the Navy, either, though without it the soldiers the general led could not have come within five thousand kilometers of Hawaii.

Iolani Palace, luckily, had not suffered much during the Japanese bombardment of Honolulu. Ornamental plaster and cement work covered the brick walls. Cast-iron columns with fancy floral capitals upheld the deep veranda on the second floor. Shorter but otherwise similar columns there-these with a fancy iron balustrade between them-helped support the roof.

Atop the palace, the flags of the United States and the Territory of Hawaii still fluttered. The territorial flag-also the flag of the former Kingdom of Hawaii-amused Fuchida. The Hawaiians had been doing their best to please and appease Britain and the USA at the same time. Red, white, and blue stripes covered most of the field; the Union Jack occupied the canton. Much good such pandering had done the Hawaiians. The United States annexed their islands anyway.

And now Hawaii had a new master. The territorial flag might go on flying. The Stars and Stripes would be coming down. The Rising Sun would wave in their place.

A low, broad stairway led up into the palace. General Yamashita tramped up the stairs as if he intended to capture the place single-handed. Captain Kiichi Hasegawa, skipper of the Akagi, led the naval delegation. The Akagi and the Soryu would stay in Hawaiian waters to defend the new conquest against attack from the American mainland. The damaged Kaga was already under repair in Japan. Admiral Nagumo had taken the other three carriers west to aid the Japanese advance through the Dutch East Indies.

At the top of the stairway, an American honor guard came to attention and presented arms as the Japanese dignitaries approached. General Yamashita brushed past the American soldiers as if they did not exist. The Navy officers, Fuchida among them, did the same. How could any men who were surrendering imagine they still kept their honor?

Just inside the entrance stood three weary-looking Americans and a nervous local Japanese man in a business suit. The latter bowed and said, “I am Izumi Shirakawa. I am the interpreter for the Americans. I present to you Admiral Kimmel, General Short, and Governor Poindexter.” He turned and spoke in English, explaining what he’d just said.