Ken's War Read Online Free

clue as to what to do, Ken and
his dad sat with their chins in hands on their luggage that took up
a surprisingly large proportion of floor space in their new
quarters. They were too bushed to bother unpacking. Besides, there
were no bureaus or closets in the house to accommodate their
clothing, toiletries and the books Ken had insisted on
carrying.
    “Dad, I’m starving.”
    “Me too. Do you know how to cook?”
    “Yeah. Toast. Hotdogs. Peanut butter
sandwiches.”
    “Sammiches. You used to say sammiches. I
didn’t think you’d ever get it right.”
    “I’m a lot older now.”
    Paderson allowed a lopsided grin. “Let’s see
what provisions we’ve got here.” In the small cupboards they found
rice and powdered milk that was infested with insect larvae. “All
that food in the warehouse and nothing to eat. I’ll ask Abernathy
what’s to eat around here. Wait right here. I don’t want you going
anywhere without me until I recon the area.”
    Ken watched his dad go out the door, turn
left at the corner of the house and walk out of sight.
    At a point in time, somewhere between the
moment when the lieutenant colonel had sent Ken off with little
Michael and when Bellamy had told Paderson not to jack him off, a
notion that had been swirling in Ken’s mind solidified into a
truth. No one told him. No one had to. He’d intuited the hard
truth: not only was the world upside-down over here, but the usual
rules governing his behavior in his father’s presence had also
changed. The Rules of Engagement, as the army called it, had been
revised. What threat could his dad hold over his head now, here?
Maybe his dad really was a “shit heel” like the guys on post back
in PA had said. “Too weak to keep his woman.”
    He shut the door behind him, but left it
unlocked and started walking down the dirt path in the opposite
direction from the warehouse, toward the village Bellamy had driven
them through earlier that day. Maybe there’d be a little store in
the village that sold bread and milk and eggs. He’d watched Grandma
make scrambled eggs. Japan had eggs, he supposed. Crap. He didn’t
have Japanese yen in his pocket.
    A strengthening wind scattered white clouds
that had been rubbing the knuckled mountains. Cool air rolled down
the slopes, pushing the sultry weather off the island and the blue
sky reflected in the rice paddy had turned to flat slate. Plump
raindrops plopped on the dirt. In the distance he saw a woman
grappling with white garments whipping at her from a clothesline.
The wind and the rain were the beginnings of the typhoon about
which the Wizard had warned them.
    Ken had never experienced a typhoon. He
sprinted back to the house and checked his watch twelve times
within ten minutes, waiting for his dad to return. Wind whistled
threats through the gaps around the windows. The pitch dropped to a
moan when the door opened.
    “We’ll make a food run tomorrow,” his dad
said as he shut the door behind him. “This is the only food that
poor excuse of a soldier in the warehouse had.” Two cans of snails
in oil. “I hope they broke the mold when they made him. He’s not
one of us. He’s too different. He’s gone native.”
    “Everything’s different here, Dad.” His
father didn’t argue with Ken about his statement, more proof that
yes, everything was different. Together they listened to the wind
and ate the snails, swallowing the creatures whole so as not to be
too conscious of the rubbery consistency.
    Lying on a straw mat in his room, his eyes
wide open, Ken tried to hear what his dad was doing in the next
room, but the rain lashing furiously at the panes drowned out any
rustlings his dad might be making. The roof tiles rattled.
Lightning strobes lit his small room with a strange psychedelic
blue glow. Trapped thunder bounced and rumbled between the
mountains, shook the house, and kept him awake through the night.
Images of a pregnant Japanese woman being sawn in half while her
trapped son