“I don’t like it,” said Dave. “Like we are just waiting for the sand to run out and then poof, we die. I’ll probably die walking off this damn boat. I hate boats.”
But he did not die. They both survived the first couple of days on base and soon it was Thanksgiving Day and they were ready to celebrate. They took off to Honolulu in military jeeps, down badly paved roads flanked by palm trees. Christian and the others tried to shake off the fear that it could be their last Thanksgiving, while Christian also kept flashing back to one year before, when he and his parents had joyfully celebrated the holiday together, just weeks before the FBI was at their door. It was their last Thanksgiving as the Langes of River Hills. The family they always thought they’d be.
On Thanksgiving Day 1943, Christian had the kind of hangover reserved for inexperienced drinkers. He woke up with a head that felt bruised, squinting in the bright sunlight. His throat was raw and parched and he was desperate for the cool winter air of Wisconsin, which always set his head right. When Christian finally found the strength to leave his barracks, all he got was tropical humidity and the pulsating rays from the sun. He turned on the water in the outdoor sink, letting it run over his face and short hair, and stayed there, bent in half, until he heard someone holler his name.
Christian pulled his head up out of the cold water, half-opened his eyes, and saw Corporal Menkins beside him holding three letters.
“Lange! Mail!” he said, dropping them on the wet sink, his face tan and relaxed. “Came in yesterday. Your mother. Two of them,” he added before turning to go off and find the next man.
“What’s she say?” Christian yelled to him. Menkins made it a habit to read everyone’s mail and he seemed convinced that Christian’s was the most interesting since the letter he’d received on arrival contained a picture of Helene Lange. “I’m gonna chop out your pop and pin your mama over my bed,” he’d said to Christian when he’d handed him that one. Christian had had to twist his arm back painfully to get the photo from him.
Menkins walked back to Christian, took the letter, pretending he hadn’t opened it, and smiled when they both saw that the envelope flap was unsealed.
“She says Happy Thanksgiving, of course.”
“Not the happiest I’ve ever had, but thanks for this anyway,” he said, lifting up the letter.
Menkins grinned and said, “Your pretty mama also begs you to come back to her and says that if you die fighting the Japs that she’s throwing herself into the San Antonio River. Oh, she also ends with something about having more proof that Martin did it.” He handed the letter back to Christian and said, “Did what?”
“Lied and told the government that we were a bunch of Nazis, which is why we got sent to Crystal City. It’s an internment camp in Texas.”
“Oh, that,” said Menkins. “You’re definitely a Nazi. I’m not going anywhere near you when they ship us off, guns in hand. And here I thought only Japs were in those camps.” He pointed to Christian’s third letter and said, “This one’s not from your mother, so I didn’t bother to open it. Next time you write her, tell her I love her and ask her to send another picture. This time, with less clothes on. Something cut low in the front, like an open robe. Silk would be a nice touch. They got those in the prison camp?”
That night, when the men were lined up washing their boots, Menkins asked Christian who the third letter was from.
“Jack Walter. A friend,” Christian said. “Telling me he enlisted.”
“You hear that? Pretty boy’s lover enlisted!” Menkins shouted. “Congrats, pretty boy.”
“Fuck yourself,” said Christian, who, never vulgar at home, had learned the art of cursing since he’d joined the Army. He took the letter from his pocket and walked off to read it again.
Jack had left the Children’s Home, he said, and was in basic in Missouri, but in five weeks he would be joining the Seventh in Oahu.
“Rumor has it that everyone in the 7th dies easier than a blind housefly,” Jack wrote, “so it doesn’t seem too hard to get assigned in, Hawaii or not. They practically cheered when I told them I wanted the 7th. I think those internment camp people lied to your face about doing you a favor because from what I hear, people go in but they don’t come out. But what of it, right? Because would you rather be alive in Texas or dead in Hawaii? Never mind, I know your answer to that. Hawaii is closer to Emi, and that’s why you’re there and not stuck in Camp Kraut. Love in a time of war. That’s so poetic of you. I’ll see you soon and I’ll knock that soft side right out of you. Until then, River Hills.”
Christian kept the letter in his pocket as training continued, along with the one from his mother begging him not to die.
At the end of December, just over a month before the Seventh Infantry Division was due to ship out from Pearl Harbor for an offensive on Japanese territory, the base was flooded with new men. Since Christian hadn’t heard from Jack in weeks, he thought he might be in the group and during a rare moment of freedom set out to look for him.
In one of the barracks where the arrivals were getting settled amid the piercing commands of a new drill sergeant, Christian asked the man closest to the door where they had come from.
“Jefferson Barracks, out of LeMay, Missouri,” the man said quietly, standing at attention, his shirt already sweat-stained around the collar and under the arms.
“Really?” Christian exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting for the boys from Jefferson all week. Was Jack Walter on your boat? Black hair, about five foot seven. Loves to fight. Probably punched half the men on the ship in the face.”
“Sorry,” said the boy, motioning to the sergeant and indicating that he didn’t want to get in trouble. Christian turned to leave but was hissed at as soon as he was out the door.
“I know Jack Walter,” a recruit whispered from the doorway. “He was in my barracks at Jefferson and looks like the fellow you described. Where is your Jack Walter from?”
“Milwaukee. And yours?”
“Milwaukee.”
“Know where I can find him?”
“He’s supposed to be here, but he’s at a bar in Chinatown called the Hula Hula. It’s on Hotel Street. You know it?”
“’Course I do,” said Christian of the Honolulu club where every prostitute in town eventually showed up. “Thanks for the tip.”
When he could leave the base that day, after the evening mess hall cleanup, he hitched a ride to Chinatown with an officer who dropped Christian at the Hula Hula, saying they had the best girls, and headed off to a place down the street, declaring that he wasn’t looking for the best. “Uglier girls are better at making love,” he said before Christian closed the door. “They have to try harder.”
“Even prostitutes?” asked Christian. “Aren’t they getting paid no matter what?”