Days of Infamy Read Free

on them from above.
    The hold filled and filled and filled. The mats on the racks were very close together. If a man rolled over, he was liable to bump into the fellow next to him. “Packing us in like sardines,” Corporal Shimizu said.
    Most of his men just nodded. They sprawled on the mats. Three or four of them had started a card game. But a young soldier named Hideo Furuta said, “It could be worse, Corporal.”
    â€œHow?” Shimizu demanded—he thought it was already pretty bad.
    Furuta realized he’d blundered. Anger at his own stupidity filled his broad, acne-scarred face. But he had to answer: “If it were hot, the deck right above us would be like an oven.”
    He was right. That would have been worse. Being right did you little good, though, when you were only a first-year conscript. Shimizu said, “Why don’t you bring us a pot of tea?” He’d seen a big kettle in the improvised kitchen up on deck.
    â€œYes, Corporal!” Thankful Shimizu hadn’t hit him, Furuta got down from his mat and hurried up the narrow aisle toward the ladder that led to the deck. He had to go belly-to-belly with newly arriving soldiers coming the other way.
    â€œHard work!” somebody called after him. That could mean several things: that the work really was hard, or that the man calling sympathized with the one stuck with the job, or simply that the luckless one was stuck with it. Tone of voice and context counted for more than the words themselves.
    After what seemed a very long time, Furuta came back with a pot of tea. Shimizu thought about bawling him out for dawdling, but decided not to bother. Given the crowd, the kid had done the best he could. By the way the men in the squad praised the tea, they thought the same thing.
    Before long, all the soldiers packed into the hold made it hot and stuffy in there even without the summer sun beating down on the metal deck above. There were no portholes—who would have bothered adding them on a freighter? The only fresh air came down the hatch by which the men had entered.
    Lieutenant Yonehara didn’t stay with the platoon. Officers had cabins of their own. Things were crowded even for them; junior officers like the platoon commander had to double up. Corporal Shimizu didn’t particularly resent their better fortune. Shigata ga nai , he thought— it can’t be helped .
    At last, soldiers stopped coming. Had they crammed the whole regiment into the Nagata Maru ? Shimizu wouldn’t have been surprised. The engine began to thump. The ship began to throb. The deck above Shimizu’s head thrummed. Army dentists had given him several fillings. They seemed to vibrate in sympathy with the freighter.
    As soon as the Nagata Maru pulled away from the pier, the rolling and pitching started. So did the cries for buckets. The sharp stink of vomit filledthe hold along with the other odors of too many men packed too close together. Green-faced soldiers raced up the ladder so they could spew over the rail.
    Rather to his surprise, Corporal Shimizu’s stomach didn’t trouble him. He’d never been in seas this rough before. He didn’t enjoy the journey, but it wasn’t a misery for him, either.
    No one had told him where the ship was going. When the authorities wanted him to know something, they would take care of it. Till then, he worried about keeping his squad in good order. The men who could eat went through the rations they’d carried aboard the Nagata Maru : rice and canned seaweed and beans, along with pickled plums and radishes and whatever else the soldiers happened to have on them.
    Every morning, Lieutenant Yonehara led the men topside for physical training. It wasn’t easy on the pitching deck, but orders were orders. The gray, heaving waters of the Sea of Okhotsk and the even grayer skies spoke of how far from home Shimizu was.
    When not exercising, the soldiers mostly stayed on their