Two more witnesses came in after Genda and Fuchida. Genda was relieved not to have been the last. Captain Hasegawa of the Akagi, the senior officer present, spoke in a loud, official-sounding voice: “Let the prisoner be brought forth!”

Out of one of the rooms at the far end of the courtyard came four hard-faced guards leading a young Japanese man. Such a pity, Genda thought. A couple of the nearby officers let out soft sighs, but only a couple.

Captain Hasegawa faced the young man. “Kazuo Sakamaki, you know what you have done. You know how you have disgraced your country and the Emperor.”

Sakamaki bowed. “Hai, Captain-san,” was all he said. He was-he had been, before his summary court-martial-an ensign in the Japanese Navy. He’d commanded one of the five two-man midget submarines Japan had launched against Pearl Harbor as part of the opening attack. Four were lost with all hands. Sakamaki’s crewmate had also perished. But Sakamaki himself had floundered up onto an Oahu beach-and been captured by the Americans.

Hasegawa nodded to the guards and the special Navy landing troops in turn. “Let the sentence be carried out.”

“Captain-san ”-Sakamaki spoke once more-“again I request the privilege of atoning for my dishonor by taking my own life.”

The skipper of the Akagi shook his head. “You have been judged unworthy of that privilege. Guards, tie him to the post.”

With another bow, Sakamaki said, “Sir, it is not necessary. I will show you I do know how to die for my country. Banzai! for the Emperor!” He came to stiff attention, his back touching the post driven between two flagstones.

For that, Hasegawa gave him a nod if not a bow. The senior officer turned to the special landing troops. “Ready!” he said. The guards hurried out of the line of fire. “Aim!” Hasegawa said. Up came the rifles, all pointing at Sakamaki’s chest. “Fire!”

As the rifles roared, Genda thought Sakamaki shouted, “Banzai! ” one last time. His mouth opened wide and he yelled something, but the word was lost in the fusillade. Sakamaki staggered, twisted, and fell. Red had already spread over the front of his prison coveralls. It soaked the back, where the exit wounds were. The young man jerked and twitched for a minute or two, then lay still.

Captain Hasegawa nodded to the firing squad. “You did your duty, men, and did it well. You are dismissed.” They saluted and marched away. The skipper of the Akagi held up a piece of paper for the officers who’d witnessed Sakamaki’s execution. “I will need your signatures, gentlemen.”

Along with the others, Genda wrote his name under the brief report that described Kazuo Sakamaki’s failure to die in battle, his humiliating capture (it said he’d asked the Americans to kill him, but they’d refused), the court-martial following the Japanese victory, the inevitable sentence, and its completion. There on the page, everything seemed perfectly clear-cut, perfectly official. Genda didn’t look at Sakamaki’s body. He couldn’t help noticing the air smelled of blood.

“Thank you, Commander,” Hasegawa said when Genda returned the pen to him. “One more loose end cleared up.”

“Hai.” As far as Genda was concerned, that was acknowledgment, not agreement.

After the officers signed the report, they left the barracks one by one. Genda waited on the grass till Mitsuo Fuchida came out. A small bird with a gray back, a white belly, and a crested head of a red even brighter in the sun than Kazuo Sakamaki’s blood hopped along three or four meters away from him, pausing every once in a while to peck at an insect. When he took a step towards it, it fluttered away. He was probably more frightening than the thunderous volley of rifle fire had been a few minutes earlier.

Here came Fuchida. The red-headed bird flew away. Genda and Fuchida walked slowly back towards Iolani Palace. After a while, Fuchida said, “I didn’t know he tried to get the Americans to finish him.”

“Neither did I,” Genda said heavily.

“Too bad they didn’t-it would have saved him the disgrace,” Fuchida said. “But you can’t count on the enemy to take care of what you should have done yourself.”

“I suppose not,” Genda said. It wasn’t that his friend was wrong. It was only that… He didn’t know quite what it was, only that it left him unhappy rather than satisfied. “Too bad all the way around.”

“Can’t argue with you there,” Fuchida said. “Think of his poor family. All the other men on the midget submarines died as heroes, attacking the Americans. Their son, their brother, was the only captive. How can you live something like that down?”

“If the officials are kind, they’ll bury the report and just tell the family he died in Hawaii,” Genda said. “I hope they do.”

“That would be good,” Fuchida agreed. “Still, though, even reports that should be buried have ways of getting out.”

He wasn’t wrong, though Genda wished he were. “Witnessing one of those will last me forever, even if he did die bravely,” Genda said. “I hope I don’t get drawn for the same duty twice. Plenty of other work I’d rather be doing.”

“Can’t argue about that, either,” Fuchida said. “A man with a clean desk is a man who doesn’t get enough thrown at him.” Genda nodded. They both headed back toward their desks, which were anything but clean.

IN JAPANESE, THE name of Hotel Street came out as three syllables: Hoteru. Corporal Takeo Shimizu wasn’t fussy about how he said it. He just wanted the chance to get there as often as he could. Before the war came to Oahu, the street had been geared to making American soldiers and sailors happy. It had taken some damage during the fighting, but hadn’t needed long to start doing the same job for the new masters of Hawaii.

Before letting the men from Shimizu’s squad go on leave, Lieutenant Horino, the platoon commander who’d replaced Lieutenant Yonehara, lectured them: “I do not want any man here disgracing himself or his country. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir!” the men chorused.

“You will be punished if you do. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir!” they said again.

“All right, then. See that you remember it,” Horino said.

“Salute!” Shimizu called. Like him, the other men made their salutes as crisp and perfect as they could. Some officers would forbid a soldier to go on leave if they didn’t like the way he saluted. Shimizu didn’t think Lieutenant Horino was that strict, but why take chances?

Horino returned those precise salutes with one that wasn’t much more than a wave. A sergeant would have slapped a common soldier till his ears fell off for a salute like that. But officers lived by different rules. “Dismissed,” Horino said. Then he unbent enough to add, “Enjoy yourselves.”

“Yes, sir,” the men said, Shimizu loud among them. He wasn’t sure that had been an order-how could someone command you to have a good time? — but he wasn’t sure it hadn’t been, either. Again, why take chances? Lieutenant Horino strode away, sword swinging on his hip. Shimizu eyed the men he’d led since before they got on the transport back in Japan. “You have your passes? The military police are bound to ask you to show them.” He had his, in his tunic pocket.

“Yes, Corporal. We have them,” the soldiers said. Shimizu waited. One by one, they dug them out and displayed them.

When he’d seen all of them, he nodded. “All right. Let’s go. You all know what the lieutenant meant about not disgracing yourselves?” He waited. When no one said anything, he spelled it out for them: “Don’t get the clap.”

“Corporal-san?” Senior Private Furusawa waited to be recognized. Only after Shimizu nodded to him did he go on, “Corporal-san, the Americans are supposed to have medicines that can really cure it.”

Since his father was a druggist, maybe he knew what he was talking about. Or maybe he didn’t. Shimizu only shrugged. “If you don’t get a dose in the first place, you won’t have to worry about that, will you?”