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MRS. YŪKO FUJI sat quietly in the captain’s chair on the bridge of the USS Princeton. She was off-duty for the moment, as her assignment, a Japanese diplomat and his translator, had retired to the admiral’s quarters. She should have been resting also, but the bustle of a large military operation and her unexpected access to it kept her alert and prying. When Major Caldwell had ushered her up the conning tower ladder and onto the bridge, the captain was preparing to go below. After a few minutes of chatting, he insisted that she take his place and stay there as long as she wanted. No one sat in the captain’s chair unless he was taking over command of the bridge, and certainly no civilian sat in that sole built-in leather seat, especially with the old man right there. She could tell how unusual this was by the set of the shoulders of the young man next to her who was busy with the sea charts. Yet Mrs. Fuji had that effect on men, even though she didn’t try.
From the conning tower’s midship rise on the starboard side of the ship, Mrs. Fuji had most of a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree seascape view through the panel of windows. Swiveling toward the rear of the ship, she saw Marine helicopters lining the deck and the late afternoon sun low on the horizon. As she swung past the lineup of phone handsets and faced the dials and big red phone in front of her, she took in more choppers lining the deck. The thick glass filmed the sea and sky in the distance so the ocean formed a low lapis wall and hazed into a wide stripe of sky blue.
Humans had always wondered and worried about the horizon where sea and sky meet. Mrs. Fuji had no desire for a well-marked division between them. In fact, she preferred to dwell in the mist offered by an unsettled sea. It was her home upon waking, when she could feel the presence of her long-vanished husband beside her before her fingers reached out and touched nothing but memories. Her American granddaughter also dwelled there without knowing, as she donned her Mickey Mouse ears for her solemn performance of the tea ceremony. Mrs. Fuji should’ve been back in the States by now, sipping tea with her granddaughter and her teddy bear, but the A-bomb test they had come to witness had been scrubbed shortly after its launch, and the American officials promised another one shortly.
Major Caldwell entered the bridge and leaned against the wall behind Mrs. Fuji. She swiveled to face him. He was as trim and agile as a man half his age. He probably knew how to tire out the pups that leapt on board this ship with youthful notions of the romance of the sea. A thin cut striped his arm right above the wrist. Although the blood had already crusted, Mrs. Fuji noted its careless appearance on this otherwise meticulous man.
“Sorry I had to leave you alone like that.” He wiped at the cut and then rubbed his hands together.
“Not to worry. I’m enjoying the vastness of the ocean.”
Two young sailors in work uniforms entered the bridge, one white, one Negro. The white one passed between the major and Mrs. Fuji with a salute, but the Negro stopped just inside the hatch and said, “Sir.” He waited for the major to recognize him. At the major’s nod, he said, “May I check these phones, sir?” He pointed to the bank of handsets on the wall. The major nodded and moved back a pace.
The sailor picked up a handset, then ducked into a quick shallow bow to Mrs. Fuji. She automatically dipped her head.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. The nametag over his pocket read “Johnson.” He picked up the phone closest to Mrs. Fuji and unscrewed the earpiece.
The major turned up the pale side of his wrist to look at the face of his watch. “It’s about time for dinner. Do you want to wait here a few more minutes, or shall I escort you back to quarters first?”
Mrs. Fuji had already freshened up after her hours of work beside the diplomat, and although the major seemed to enjoy his assignment to her, she didn’t want to take him away from his other duties more than necessary.
“I’ll be fine right here,” she said.
“Then I’ll be back for you directly.” The major rubbed his hands again. “And don’t let that old sea dog steal you away just because he gave you his chair.”
Mrs. Fuji smiled as he left. Although she took no advances seriously, much to her daughter’s dismay, she still was charmed by men who found her attractive. Even American men.
Johnson unscrewed the phone’s mouthpiece and withdrew a part. “This is the trouble.” He held it up for the other sailor to see before pocketing it. “Ma’am,” he said with another quick bow and moved off with his buddy.
Mrs. Fuji settled back and listened to the lullaby of numbers and directions recited by the youngster poring over the sea charts. Most of the sailors seemed like youngsters, seemed about the age her husband was when, dressed in his army uniform, he approached her about a gift for his grandfather in the men’s store where she worked in Hiroshima. Her mother warned that a romance born of commerce would be barren of true deep feeling and connection. Besides, her mother had a wealthy, albeit older, distant cousin in mind as a more suitable match, but Yūko had thrilled at the ardor she felt through Masahiro’s fingers as he stroked her lower back. He was not a learned man, and he could be abusive when drunk or threatened, but his devotion to her was pure and unwavering.
Several minutes later, Johnson returned. He set down a toolbox near the captain’s chair and picked up the handset he had taken the piece from. Mrs. Fuji gazed through the forward windows while Johnson worked in her peripheral vision.
“Ma’am?” He didn’t look at her so she didn’t turn her head to reply.
“Yes?”
“Are you one of us?” He tapped his chest with the phone. “American, I mean.”
Not exactly, but it was basically why she was on the ship: the United States government wanted to make sure the diplomat’s translator was conveying the right messages. She nodded.
“One of my buddies is in a bad way.” He unscrewed the mouthpiece again and squatted down next to his toolbox. “And it’s not right. Someone should know what’s happening.”
“I am so sorry,” Mrs. Fuji said. She wondered what that had to do with her. “Perhaps Major Caldwell can help you.”
Johnson picked out a gadget from the toolbox but tossed it back. “None of these birds . . .” He stood and slipped an envelope out of his pocket. “Look. Here’s the story, but it’s written in Japanese. Read it. If you can, pass it on. You’ll figure out where. If nothing else, you can mail it to my mom. Her address is on the envelope. It just can’t go through regular channels. That’s all.” He palmed the envelope to her. “American, though. It has to stay American.” He knelt down beside his toolbox.
Mrs. Fuji nodded. A regular civilian may have been surprised at the sudden intrigue, but her gift with languages had led her into many unorthodox governmental and military situations. She would read the notes, as she couldn’t resist the appeal of a young sailor who was passing on, at great risk, a message in a foreign language. He had come to the right person. She had security clearance and could give the message to important people, if that was warranted. She could also destroy the evidence if she needed to. She would see.
She scooped up her purse and opened it. Just as she was sliding the envelope into it, Major Caldwell’s hand appeared inches from hers.
“May I see that?” he asked.
Where had he come from? “I beg your pardon?”
“May I see the document this sailor just handed to you?”
Johnson twisted on the balls of his feet and peered up at her. His dark eyes were opaque and the rest of his features expressed nothing.
Mrs. Fuji retrieved the envelope and handed it over. Johnson rose and stood at attention, his gaze resting at a point far past Caldwell’s shoulder. The major turned over the envelope and examined the seal. “Explain yourself, Johnson.”
“Sir. Dad’s being redeployed to Okinawa. Mom’s learning Japanese. When I found out that Tanaka knows it, I asked him to write a letter to her in Japanese.”
“Who’s Tanaka?”
“Medic,” Johnson shrugged but kept his arms stiff by his sides. “I just asked this nice lady to read it to make sure he did a proper job of it. For my mom, sir.”
“Why’s it sealed?”
“Habit.”
Caldwell poised his finger under the envelope’s flap. “May I?” He directed his question to Mrs. Fuji.
She understood that he had asked permission merely because he had taken the letter out of her possession. Johnson wouldn’t have been given the same courtesy.
“Of course.”
The hatch to the radar room opened behind the major. A murmur of voices spilled out along with a billow of stale air smelling of old coffee and cigarettes. A radar man exited the bridge through the far hatch. A burst of crisp sea air blew in after him.
Caldwell pulled out two pieces of lined paper. He turned to show them to Mrs. Fuji. “It’s Japanese?”
She glanced at the black-inked characters on lined notebook paper. “Yes.”
He held out the letter. “What does it say?”
She took the sheets and scanned them. After a caution about the sensitivity of the material, the letter described the critical condition of a group of Marines. It said they suffered from severe radiation sickness after being ordered to make direct contact with the nose cone of the rocket from the previous day’s failed test.
Back home they called it A-bomb sickness. Her city of Hiroshima was the first to be subject to its devastating effects. She felt the blood drain from her fingers and a tremor worried them as she touched their cool tips to her throat. What a horrible mess. And according to this letter, the official story will point to an earlier accident rather than the commanding officer that chose electronics over the life of these boys. He wasn’t named in the letter, and in fact the only name that appeared was that of Harold Hepplewhite III, one of the casualties. The letter suggested that his father, a general in the Air Force, would be interested in knowing what really happened.
The blistered skin, the sightless eyes. The friends that looked fine but moaned through the agony of liquid insides. The disfigured girls, forever branded with the shame of aggression and defeat. The averted eyes of other Japanese Americans if you told them that you came from Hiroshima.
She needed time to think.
Yūko looked up at the major, who was watching her closely, and forced her lips into a smile. “It’s just the kind of news a mother likes to hear—lobster for dinner—although here.” She pointed to the kanji characters of Hepplewhite’s name. “He says that the lobster is good, but he misses her fried chicken.”
Johnson widened his eyes at her in the instant before the major swung around to him. By then he was nodding in agreement.
Caldwell’s gaze shifted between the two of them. “You ever meet before?”
“Just a while ago, here on the bridge,” Mrs. Fuji said. “With you.”
Caldwell seemed to be reviewing the first encounter. “I guess there’s no harm in it.”
“No, sir,” Johnson said.
Mrs. Fuji quickly refolded the letter. “Your friend is very good, but his word selection is somewhat advanced for a beginner. Shall I take it and suggest simpler language?”
“Yes, ma’am, if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother.”
“No bother at all.”
The hatch behind the major opened again and another radar man emerged. He left the hatch open and addressed his superior. “Major Caldwell, sir, you’re wanted again.”
Caldwell took another good look at Johnson. “You finished here, sailor?”
Johnson twisted the mouthpiece back onto the phone as the radar man retreated and let the hatch close with a thump. “Aye, sir. Should be working like a champion.” He bowed to Mrs. Fuji and picked up his toolbox.
As he turned away, the major folded his arms. “Sailor.”
Johnson stopped and automatically cocked his hand into salute at half-mast before the major waved it off with a shake of his head. “How are you going to get your letter back?”
“Sir?”
“Major, may I give it back to you? After I copy it over in simpler characters?” She glanced at Johnson. “That is, if you don’t mind.”
“I would appreciate it, ma’am.” He ducked his head. “Sir?”
Caldwell shooed him away and went into the radar room. Yūko dropped the letter into her bag and snapped it shut with a click only she could hear over the rumblings of the ship. She had a painful situation to consider, and possibly a sailor’s letter home to write. She figured her safest bet would be to encourage the major to forget all about the letter, maybe not even give him one unless he remembered to ask for it.
He returned a few moments later and smiled at her. She mirrored his expression with amusement. This would be easy, she thought. Even at her age.
“Shall we?” Major Caldwell offered his arm.
Mrs. Fuji rose and slipped her hand around his forearm. Her fingertips were still cool, but she would ponder the letter later. “Yes, thank you.”
