Valley.”
“It’s an area, not a town.”
“Whatever,” Matthew retorted. “They’d keep me there. For however long this war’s going to take. But your son, he could join the Navy. Help his country. I want to do the same. That’s my crime.”
The man pondered this for a minute. But he didn’t say anything.
“Are you going to tell them?” Matthew asked, holding his breath.
The man eyed Matthew carefully, still wiping his dirty hands on the rag. “I haven’t made up my mind.”
Matthew became angry. “So, your son, he gets to serve, but I don’t, because of my skin? My eyes? I was born on Bainbridge Island! I know Japanese, I can speak it if I have to, but I don’t understand why they bombed us. I hate them for that. I want to serve. I swear. I’m not some traitor!” He then shut up, surprised at his own anger. The truth was, he had intended to get on the ferry and then properly petition the armed forces to join. But, of course, that plan was no longer possible. That’s what angered him. All his plans were for naught.
“Where you headed?” the fisherman asked.
Matthew was taken aback. He didn’t really know where he could sign up, but he knew he’d first need new identification. And even then he might just be sent to a camp. “I’m not certain,” he answered truthfully.
“Well, I guess Seattle is out.”
Matthew wasn’t sure if the man was just toying with him, but he decided to take a chance. “No, sir, Seattle will be looking for me. They’re probably angry that I got away.”
“If I were you, I’d go south. Down to Monterey.”
“Why?” he asked, surprised. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go all the way to California. Not with the Coast Guard looking for him.
“Navy and Army are close by. You might be able to sell the boat. And it would be far enough that they wouldn’t be looking for you there.”
Matthew mulled this over. Then shook his head. “Don’t have enough fuel. Or food, for that matter.”
This seemed to surprise the fisherman. “You didn’t really plan this, did you?”
Matthew hesitated. “No, sir. It was all last minute.”
The man nodded. “Show you something,” he then said and walked out of the wheelhouse.
Puzzled, Matthew followed the man to the stern of the large vessel. There were several large drums, each marked “diesel.” Matthew looked from the drums to the man, unsure.
“Two of these will be plenty to get you down there,” the man explained.
“I don’t have any money—”
But the man waved him off. “You serve this country, that’s payment enough.”
Matthew was at a loss for words. Then the man chuckled. “Course, food’s your problem. I suggest you try fishing.”
For the first time since they had met, Matthew smiled. “That’s very generous.”
Again, the man waved the thought away. “I know you heard the bulletin just as I did. But you still stopped. You didn’t have to.” He studied Matthew for a minute. “That took courage. Courage our country needs.”
Bainbridge Island, Washington. March 30, 1942
By late afternoon many of the local fishermen were in the harbor, cleaning up their trawlers in preparation for the next day’s outing. As he made his way down the dock, Johnstone eyed three men on a larger vessel as they went about their chores. The detective could tell that they were seasoned pros as they squared the rig with such dexterity that he guessed they had done this same routine every day for many years.
No one noticed him as he walked up the steep gangplank that led to the boat’s deck. Two were on the bow, but he made his way over to a younger man on the stern laying out the fishing net. “Catch much?” Johnstone asked.
The young man didn’t seem to hear. Then he turned, saw Johnstone and a look of surprise crossed his face. Then it was gone. He went about laying out the net with practiced accuracy. Carefully side-stepping the net, Johnstone approached the man.
“Detective Johnstone, Seattle
“It’s an area, not a town.”
“Whatever,” Matthew retorted. “They’d keep me there. For however long this war’s going to take. But your son, he could join the Navy. Help his country. I want to do the same. That’s my crime.”
The man pondered this for a minute. But he didn’t say anything.
“Are you going to tell them?” Matthew asked, holding his breath.
The man eyed Matthew carefully, still wiping his dirty hands on the rag. “I haven’t made up my mind.”
Matthew became angry. “So, your son, he gets to serve, but I don’t, because of my skin? My eyes? I was born on Bainbridge Island! I know Japanese, I can speak it if I have to, but I don’t understand why they bombed us. I hate them for that. I want to serve. I swear. I’m not some traitor!” He then shut up, surprised at his own anger. The truth was, he had intended to get on the ferry and then properly petition the armed forces to join. But, of course, that plan was no longer possible. That’s what angered him. All his plans were for naught.
“Where you headed?” the fisherman asked.
Matthew was taken aback. He didn’t really know where he could sign up, but he knew he’d first need new identification. And even then he might just be sent to a camp. “I’m not certain,” he answered truthfully.
“Well, I guess Seattle is out.”
Matthew wasn’t sure if the man was just toying with him, but he decided to take a chance. “No, sir, Seattle will be looking for me. They’re probably angry that I got away.”
“If I were you, I’d go south. Down to Monterey.”
“Why?” he asked, surprised. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go all the way to California. Not with the Coast Guard looking for him.
“Navy and Army are close by. You might be able to sell the boat. And it would be far enough that they wouldn’t be looking for you there.”
Matthew mulled this over. Then shook his head. “Don’t have enough fuel. Or food, for that matter.”
This seemed to surprise the fisherman. “You didn’t really plan this, did you?”
Matthew hesitated. “No, sir. It was all last minute.”
The man nodded. “Show you something,” he then said and walked out of the wheelhouse.
Puzzled, Matthew followed the man to the stern of the large vessel. There were several large drums, each marked “diesel.” Matthew looked from the drums to the man, unsure.
“Two of these will be plenty to get you down there,” the man explained.
“I don’t have any money—”
But the man waved him off. “You serve this country, that’s payment enough.”
Matthew was at a loss for words. Then the man chuckled. “Course, food’s your problem. I suggest you try fishing.”
For the first time since they had met, Matthew smiled. “That’s very generous.”
Again, the man waved the thought away. “I know you heard the bulletin just as I did. But you still stopped. You didn’t have to.” He studied Matthew for a minute. “That took courage. Courage our country needs.”
Bainbridge Island, Washington. March 30, 1942
By late afternoon many of the local fishermen were in the harbor, cleaning up their trawlers in preparation for the next day’s outing. As he made his way down the dock, Johnstone eyed three men on a larger vessel as they went about their chores. The detective could tell that they were seasoned pros as they squared the rig with such dexterity that he guessed they had done this same routine every day for many years.
No one noticed him as he walked up the steep gangplank that led to the boat’s deck. Two were on the bow, but he made his way over to a younger man on the stern laying out the fishing net. “Catch much?” Johnstone asked.
The young man didn’t seem to hear. Then he turned, saw Johnstone and a look of surprise crossed his face. Then it was gone. He went about laying out the net with practiced accuracy. Carefully side-stepping the net, Johnstone approached the man.
“Detective Johnstone, Seattle
Similar Books
