First they packed the helmets and swords in a carton of their own. Then the old priest instructed the young men to remove three cartons of pistols, four of Arisaka rifles, four machine guns with mounts and several boxes of knee mortars, plus the carton of kimonos.

After leaving the entrance to the cave, they piled soil into its mouth and covered the freshly dug earth with brush. After transporting their booty to the launch, they left and arrived at the mainland the next evening. The cartons were then stored in Kuwahara's home.

Takeo was delegated to stay behind to help with the sale of the merchandise. The others were sent to their homes until conditions were readied for their return. Old Tsubaki, the owner of the launch, was given a case of sake from a local store and told the cave was closed but the trip had made for a good holiday.

The next morning, the old priest met Police Captain Fuchida outside an auto agency where he and Takeo had leased a van to transport the cartons to Tokyo. The captain greeted Kuwahara and Takeo, saying, "Well, so you made your trip after all. I'm glad you returned safely. Did you find your cave?"

The old priest answered. "Yes, Captain, we found the cave. But it was so covered that it would take much effort to get into it. However, the experience brought back many memories. I feel that I will no longer be anxious about the past. Only the future matters; is that not so?"

"Yes," said the captain. "Only the future matters. And I'm glad the trip was a good experience for you."

Then to Takeo, he said, "I see you have stayed behind. I suppose your motorcycle was beyond repair. I hope you can get back home."

Not trusting Takeo to speak civilly, Kuwahara answered for him. "No, that is not the case, Captain. The other young men left by train this morning. Three of the machines were damaged beyond repair and the others need rewiring and repainting.
"Takeo here, is from the university. He is learning mechanical engineering. He is going to redesign and rebuild the motorcycles. So he will be staying with me for a few weeks."

"Well," said Captain Fuchida, "I must be going. I'm glad you are well, Sir. You seem like a new man. Sayonara."

When the captain left, the old priest went to a public phone and called the American weapons dealer in Tokyo. A servant answered the phone and Kuwahara said, "This is Antoku Kuwahara. I would like to speak to Mr. Max Morrerr."

"One moment sir," was the response.

Morrell picked up the phone and boomed, "Mr. Kuwahara. I'd given up on you. I hope you have good news."

"Excellent news, Mr. Morrerr. I have several cases of war material in mint condition. Can you come up with $100,000 American in yen?"

"Yes I can," said Morrell. "But for that kind of money I hope we understand each other."

"I think we understand each other, Mr. Morrerr," said Kuwahara. "If you will give me the directions to your home, my assistant and I will bring the material this evening."

Morrell gave the directions and that evening Takeo drove the old priest to a fairly well-to-do Tokyo neighborhood and parked outside a fenced-in courtyard. The bell-cord was pulled and a servant padded outside and ushered them into the courtyard. As they crossed the open space, Takeo's eyes zeroed in on a motorcycle standing near the entrance to the house.

It was like no motorcycle he had seen outside his own imagination. It was an American Harley-Davidson, stripped of all but the bare essentials. Every clean line bespoke power, speed and efficiency. Takeo wanted to study it but Kuwahara took his arm and pulled him along behind the servant.

As they entered the well-appointed home, Max Morrell greeted them. He was fifty-five, slightly over six feet tall, with the cool blue eyes of a professional killer, but displayed the friendly attitude of a puppy. He spoke fluent Japanese and bowed, partly out of courtesy, but also with the air of one who did not like to be touched.

"Well, Mr. Kuwahara," he said, "I raised the cash. I hope you have what I understood you to say you have."

"Yes, Mr. Morrerr," replied the old priest. "I was a supply officer during the war. I know what I have and can assure you it is in perfect condition. Takeo, go get a case of Nambus. And ignore the motorcycle for now."

"Aha," said Morrell, "the young man likes motorcycles?"

"Yes," answered Kuwahara as Takeo left. "Takeo is designing what he considers a super motorcycle."

"Well, then," said Morrell, "I'm sure he would like to meet my nephew, Isoroku. He built the machine in America. I'll call him out when our business is concluded. I'm sure they would like to compare notes."

A minute later, Takeo brought in a case of Nambus. When Morrell examined the one unwrapped in the cave, he seemed to be having a spiritual experience. "Beautiful! Absolutely beautiful!"

"There are three cases of fifty of these," said Kuwahara. "Now Takeo, bring in a case of mortars and a machine gun."

When the machine gun was set up and the mortars unpacked, Morrell was in ecstasy. "I've never seen ordnance like this. Certainly, used, but not mint; never fired. I thought our people destroyed all this. Where did you people get it?"

"Mr. Morrerr," said Takeo, "if you ever again ask the source, that is the last you'll see of us."

"All right, friend," said Morrell, "I don't know and I don't want to know. But can you give me some idea of what you can get so I can plan my marketing? It will be a lot easier for us to deal if I can order things instead of just buying what you bring."

As he talked, Takeo went out and returned, carrying four cases of Arisaka rifles. Morrell opened one of the cases and gleefully examined the rifles. "I never saw a brand new Arisaka. Well, you weren't fooling. I think you'll get the whole hundred thousand for this load."

"Yes, Mr. Morrerr," said the old priest, when I first contacted you I sensed you were honest in your dealings with suppliers. I must caution you, however, to be discreet. It is true, not all military supplies were found and destroyed. I can tell you no more, but for your convenience, I will permit you to make lists of materials you can market and we will supply them.

"But you will never see me again and you will deal only with Takeo. He is what you would describe as a walking computer. He is a scholar, but if he suspects you of any attempt to find the source of this material, he will kill you."

Morrell smiled. "Coming from you, old man, I don't take that as a threat; just a fact. But don't worry. In my business, it's standard. Besides, I wouldn't like to tangle with a man who can carry four cases of rifles like they were loaves of bread.

"Also, I fought your people during the war. Takeo reminds me of an Imperial Marine. You know, I think we'll get along. But, Takeo, you don't talk much and I tend to ramble on. Maybe that's a useful contrast."

"Mr. Morrerr," said Takeo, "you talk; I'll listen. That will be the basis of our partnership."

"That sounds good to me," said Morrell. "Also, you brought goods totaling the required amount. You're dependable. Here's the cash."

As Kuwahara put the packages of bills into his pocket, Morrell rang for the servant and told him to find Isoroku. Within moments, twenty-year old Isoroku Jones entered the room. He was all of six feet four inches tall. He had the Japanese facial features of his mother and the wrestler's build of his American father.

He bowed to the old priest and Takeo as Morrell introduced him. "This is my nephew, Isoroku. He is a kind of go-between for his father and I in our weapons trade."

To Isoroku, he said, "Rocky, Takeo is interested in motorcycles and is fascinated by yours. Go and let him take a spin on yours and you ride mine. Mr. Kuwahara and I would like to be alone to have some tea and conversation."

"Sure, Uncle Max," said Isoroku. He ushered Takeo out and got Morrell's motorcycle from the garage. Then he had Takeo mount the Harley and they both roared out the gate and into the night.

While the servant set out tea and cakes, Morrell felt a comfortable urge to talk to the old priest as he would to a respected friend. Kuwahara was indeed interested as Morrell told him of the events in his life which led up to his being a weapons dealer in Japan.

Max Morrell had been born in 1930. At the age of ten he was at home minding his six-month old brother when his parents were killed in an auto wreck. Baby Billy was quickly adopted by the kindly Jones couple, but there was no room for the gangling ten-year old. So Max lived at the local orphanage, seeing Billy only on holidays.

Max was large for his age, and quarrelsome. He took on every boy in the orphanage, the public school and any boy in the small town who showed fight. Except for his belligerence toward his peers, he was no trouble, doing his chores cheerfully.

But he did not like living at the orphanage. He did not have any special plans but he wanted out of there. At fourteen he looked seventeen and felt confident that he could pass for eighteen and get war work.

For months he had saved his nickels and dimes from lawn mowing and other work around town. With thirty-two dollars and a change of clothing, he left the orphanage, went to the high school and kept on going to the bus station.

He paid a dollar fifty for a ticket to Cleveland and fantasized during the bus ride of going back home rich and adopting all his friends. The first thing he saw as he left the bus at the terminal was a Marine Corps recruiting poster. The office was just around the block and he went there.

The recruiting officer looked at him and told him to come back in a couple of years. Max replied, "You want me to come back with a chest full of army medals? Then there's the navy or the air force. But look, Sarge, I want to be a Marine."

"Hell, kid," said the sergeant, "I don't care. But your parents would be all over me. At least get their permission. Here's a form. You get them to sign it and you're in."

"Sarge," pleaded Max, "I got no parents. I'm from the orphanage. No sob story, just fact. And the people who run it are pacifists. They wouldn't sign. So am I going to join you or the army or the navy or the air force or work in a war plant? I'm not going back to that sand box."

"Okay, kid," said the sergeant, "you're in. Sign here. Your bus leaves at five. Be on it or I'll chase you down and kick your ass."

Max went through boot camp with no complaints. He was an eager-beaver and soaked up the training like he was bred for it. He shipped out for the Pacific eight weeks later as a private first class. He made lance-corporal soon after he hit the beach at Saipan, three months after his fourteenth birthday.

Max was a War-Lover. Boot camp was a thrill but battle was better. He was too stupid to be afraid and the smaller Japanese were just armed kids, as far as he was concerned. From Saipan he went to Iwo and then on to Okinawa.

Hell was Heaven to him and the smell of blood and cordite was perfume to his nostrils. After a battle, souvenirs were his passion. He would collect piles of helmets and enemy weapons and was tearfully enraged when his C.O. made him leave them behind.

But on Okinawa he got souvenirs he was not going to let go of. Late at night a week after the landing, he crept down a jungle trail to where he knew the Japanese defense perimeter was. He heard a metallic rustling ahead and sank to the earth. As dawn broke he could see a machine gun nest being quietly readied for the American advance.

As soon as he could see well enough, he rushed it, his Garand with fixed bayonet in one hand and a cocked forty-five in the other. He emptied the forty-five into the six Imperial Marines. As he looked around, expecting a hornet's nest to erupt ahead, an Imperial Marine captain with drawn sword rushed out of the bush and slashed at his neck.

His Garand deflected the sword and Max bayoneted the lone Japanese. His enemy pulled himself off the bayonet and charged again. Max again deflected the sword and brought the rifle's butt around, crashing it into the captain's throat.

With a half-formed plan in his mind, he quickly bound the wounded foe's hands behind his back with his belt. Then he sheathed the sword and, holding it and his rifle in one hand, he slung the captain over his shoulder and rushed back to his own lines.

When he got through the fire thrown at him by his nervous comrades, he rushed to the aid station. The chief surgeon was just washing up after a Banzai attack on their left flank the night before. He was in no mood to patch up Japs.

"Doc, you got to fix this guy up. It's a special interest to me," said Max.

The doctor looked at the sincere young gyrene and with all the sympathy he could muster from his Hippocratic conditioning, he replied, "Blow it out your ass."

"Come on, Doc," pleaded Max, "what's a few minutes more? Besides, this is a captain. He could have information that would give you a lot of sack time. Come on, please."

"What the hell," said the doctor. "Throw the bastard on the table and I'll see what I can do."

The nurses began undressing the squirming enemy and Max helped, securing his hands and tying them to the sides of the table. As the doctor hovered over the Japanese, examining his wound while the anesthetist got ready, the Imperial captain spat in his face.

"That tears it!" shouted the doctor. "Take him out and shoot him. And to hell with you, kid."

"Look, Doctor," yelled Max, "he wants to die. You going to do a Jap a favor?"

"In this instance, yes," said the exhausted surgeon.
Then Max drew his forty-five and put it to the doctor's head. "Fix him up, Doc, or so help me God, I'll blow your brains all over this tent!"

Jim Blanchard, Max's sergeant, was there for a flesh wound bandage change and the doctor appealed to him. "Hell, Doc," he said, "a nutty kid like him got a gun to my head, I'd do what he wants."

The anesthetist forced the mask over the struggling captain's mouth and nose. The doctor opened and enlarged the bayonet wound. Then he went in and tied off a few severed blood vessels. There was little real damage done and no vital organs were seriously harmed. After a half-hour the doctor told his head nurse to close and went to his tent.

By that time, another nurse had changed the sergeant's bandage and he and Max left the tent together. Max was elated and told the sergeant about the machine- gun nest. The sergeant put his fist in Max's belly and then kneed him in the face as he bent double.

"You sonofabitchin shithead!" he screamed. "You want a court martial, and me too? What kind of goddam stunt was that? Boy, if I thought you had an icicle's chance in hell of getting out of this war alive, I'd drop you right here and now.

"Jesus Christ Almighty," he fumed as he walked away. "I get to nursemaid the damndest bunch of crazy punks. Shit!"

But Max did get out of the war alive. After the surrender he was given a Purple Heart and the Navy Cross and his mustering out papers. Max took the medals but tore up the papers. He signed up again on the proviso that he could be assigned to the Occupation. This was easy as most of the men wanted to go home.

Max was not simply a patriot; he had an ace in the hole. He had made sure to keep the captain's sword. It was not the kind issued by the Japanese government to junior officers and higher ranks not having their own. It was a fine sword, hand-forged, its scabbard ornate and crafted by the finest of artisans. It bespoke age and the wealth and social standing of its owner. For a captain to have it, rightly figured Max, that captain had to belong to a prominent family.

Max had searched the captain while he helped tie him down. He had the captain's diary and his hazily formed plan took shape even as he held the forty-five in the direction of the reluctant doctor.

In Japan he took all the language courses he had time for, even in his off-duty hours. Within a year he could read Japanese newspapers and magazines and was working on the deeper literature. He could also speak and understand conversational Japanese.
He had the diary translated but wanted to wait until he could read it and understand it perfectly before he made his move. His captain was the beloved son of the Okano family. A little checking told him they were a very wealthy family of merchants and exporters of fine Japanese fabrics and art objects.

Yutaka, the captain, had joined the Imperial Navy to keep intact the samurai traditions of the family. He had had no idea of going home but Max expected him to still be alive. He also expected gratitude to the one who had preserved their favorite son. Such gratitude, he believed, would at least be worth a job in the family business. Since he had nothing in the States, he thought a semi-adoption into a wealthy Japanese family was not too much to expect.

On his sixteenth birthday, Max took a taxi and, carrying the sword and diary in his duffle-bag, he went to the Okano home outside Tokyo. He knocked at the large gate outside the prosperous dwelling and a servant soon opened the peep hole and scowled at him.

"This is the Okano home?" asked Max.

"And what if it is?" asked the servant, insolently. "Are you here on official business?"

"No," said Max. "I want to speak to the Okanos on a personal matter."

"Then go away," said the servant. "The Okanos want no Americans in their home. Especially Americans in uniform." Then he slammed the peep hole shut and walked away.

Max was not only hurt, but furious. With one kick he smashed open the gate and stepped though into the courtyard. "Are you insane?" screamed the servant, turning back and preparing to give his life in the defense of his employers.

At that moment a middle-aged lady dressed in a traditional kimono stepped out on the veranda. She said in fluent English, with the lilting accept of a Japanese aristocrat, "What do you want, Sergeant?"

Max was dismayed. "You mean I wasted all those Japanese lessons?"

"Call the police, Kuroki," she said in Japanese.

"No," said Max. "Don't call the police. I don't want any trouble. Can't you please tell me if Yutaka is still alive?"

"And what is that to you?" she answered.

"I knew him during the war," said Max. "If he's not alive, I'm sorry. But you might at least be polite. I'll pay for your damn gate."

Mrs. Okano motioned to Kuroki to stay where he was and said, "Yes, Sergeant. My son is alive, and well. And you will pay for the damn gate. But how could you have known him during the war?"

"Because I captured him and kept him alive and nearly got my ass in a sling for doing it, if you'll excuse the expression," said Max.

"You were the child soldier who held the gun at the American doctor's head?" she asked, finally interested.

"Well," said Max, "yes, except I wasn't a child and I was a Marine and still am. Anyway, I kept Yutaka's sword and his diary. I thought he might like to have them back."

Mrs. Okano then smiled and said, "Please forgive my rudeness, Sergeant of Marines. We lost much because of the war. Come into the parlor and I'll call Yutaka and his father. They are at work."

Inside, Max sat on a cushion at a low table. He heard a scuffle and screams in another room and a small girl ran into the parlor. She stopped when she saw him and gazed up boldly with large, inquisitive eyes. She was followed by her exasperated mother. "Hatsuyo," said her mother, "come back and let me do your hair." When she saw Max she covered her face and began to back out of the room.

"Don't go," said Max in Japanese. "I'm here to visit Yutaka. Are you his wife?"

"Yes," said the young woman. "I'm his wife, Mikiko. This naughty child is his daughter, Hatsuyo. I will take her away. Come, Hatsuyo."

The child did not move but continued to stare. Then she asked, "Have you brought me something?"

"I didn't know you were here," said Max. "But if I come again, I'll bring you a present."

"Then go and come back," said the child. "I'm tired of waiting."

Mikiko took the child's hand and dragged her screaming from the room as Mrs. Okano returned with a tea tray. As she laid the setting before him she said, "I called my husband and son. My husband will be delighted to see you and especially to get back the sword. But I feel I must warn you that your showing up will prove a terrible embarrassment to Yutaka."
"It seems like he would have gotten over staying alive by now," said Max.

"Oh, it goes much deeper than that," she said. "Yutaka isn't the suicidal type. He got over his wish to die on the battlefield as soon as he was taken from it. But your return of the sword will be a thing he will have to contend with in his own way."

"I don't understand," said Max.

"I'm sure he will explain it to you," she said. "But if I seem less than friendly, it is because of the pain I know Yutaka is experiencing now that I have told him of the sword. It would be bad form for me to discuss it further."

While they waited for the men of the Okano family, Mrs. Okano chatted about things unconnected with the war. She told Max how she had loved Los Angeles, where she had been raised. Her father's senior partner had headed the business in Tokyo and had sent her father and his little family to the States to open a branch of the firm.

Mrs. Okano moved back to Japan in 1920 to marry and never returned to America. She told Max that her husband and son could speak only rudimentary business English so his Japanese lessons would not be wasted.

By the time Mrs. Okano had begun telling about how the war had affected the family's fortunes, her husband and son, Yutaka came in. Upon seeing Max, they both bowed, neither showing the meeting was other than social.

When they straightened up, Max opened his duffle-bag and took out the sword and diary. Etiquette demanded he spend some time in an exchange of meaningless pleasantries. But Mrs. Okano's coolness and the idea that his showing up would cause Yutaka embarrassment, put a damper on his plans to become a member of the Okano family.

He handed the sword to the elder Okano and the diary to Yutaka. Yutaka took the diary without expression. But Mr. Okano began to weep, caressing the sword and then holding it at arm's length to examine it.

"Young man," he said, "this has long been considered the soul of our family. I don't know your reasons for returning it but it would please me to give you a generous reward."

Max was greatly disappointed and said, "Sir, I brought the sword and diary as a show of good will. I have no financial obligations and the Corps takes care of all my needs. I want no reward.

"However, I would like to talk to Yutaka in private. It is seldom that former enemies meet. I would like to see if there is any basis for becoming friends."

Yutaka then said, "Come to my quarters, Sergeant. I will talk to you." He excused himself to his parents and led Max to his own apartment in the sprawling Okano estate.

When they were in Yutaka's living room, he spun around and confronted Max with rage etched into every line of his face. "May all the gods curse you!" he hissed. "Isn't it enough that you stripped me of my honor as a warrior? Isn't it enough that you gave me back my cowardly life? Now you bring back my family's sword to shame me further."

"Bullshit," said Max.

"And what does 'burrshit' mean?" asked Yutaka, scowling.

"It's an American expression that means what you just said is a lie to me and to yourself," said Max. "There was no dishonor connected with your capture. You were half-starved, sick and weakened. And with all that, when you pulled yourself off my bayonet and charged again, you showed yourself to be the ultimate warrior.

"It was my privilege to keep you alive and I did so for my own purpose. You were not in control of the situation so can't take any blame for staying alive. Of course, if you'd rather be out there in the jungle feeding the worms than being here with your family----."

Yutaka sat down on the end of a table and held his face in his hands. "I'm sorry. I guess you're right. Of course I'd rather be here with my family. But I lied to them. I told them I had been hit and just before I lost consciousness I hurled the sword into the ocean. I didn't want my father to agonize over the picture of our sword hanging over some American's fireplace. I told them you saw I was alive and wanted to interrogate me and so forced your doctor to save me.

"My father mourned the loss of the sword but felt no shame in it. Now you show up and prove me to be a liar to my father. Not since I was a child have I lied to him, except in this."

"You're making too much of it," said Max. "It was a good lie. It comforted your father. Now he has the sword. Don't you think he will appreciate your concern for his feelings?"

"But it wasn't concern for his feelings," said Yutaka, almost sobbing. "It was my fear of displeasing him."

"Well," said Max, "it amounts to the same thing."
Yutaka glanced up and smiled. "I never looked at it that way. I believe you're right. Father is a just man. And it was a good lie, now that I reconsider it. But at the time I was so ashamed. It was a cowardly lie to cover my coming back alive without the sword."

"So here I come," said Max, "and unknowingly shame you. I just want to be friends and I'm treated like dirt. Politely."

"Burrshit!", said Yutaka. "You have no lack of Japanese to make friends with. I can see how it would be of great interest to meet a former enemy. Except for my embarrassment over the sword, I'm glad to meet you. Also, I must admit that without your intervention, I can see no way in which I could have survived the war. Not one of my comrades on Okinawa contacted me, as they would have, so I know they all died. But although I certainly owe you my life, I can't help charging you with some dishonesty in pretending this is simply a social visit made out of curiosity."

"You're right, Yutaka," said Max. "I have to admit it. Yes, I did want something. I wanted to belong. When I met you in the jungle I saw a person who belonged. It was the sword. Oh, I didn't have it all worked out until later. But the idea was there.

"Say I'd killed you. I could still have returned your sword and diary to your parents and asked for a job. Such a rich family could have fitted me in. So, it seems foolish to expect the return of a sword to open doors. But why not?

"Anyway, sending you home alive would create a real obligation. But not one-sided. I'm smart. I learned your language. I could be a help with the Occupation. I'm only sixteen but---."

"Only sixteen!" said Yutaka, laughing out loud. "You should still be in school and you are a Marine and a war hero. And such plans. My young friend, I don't know whether to hate you or worship you, but I'm sure I want to get better acquainted.

"Of course, you realize that if your government discovers your true age you'll be sent home We could hardly make a firm commitment until you are twenty-one, five years from now."

Yutaka closed his eyes and seemed to meditate. "Let us take some time on this. My family doesn't like Americans. But of course, regardless, there is an inescapable obligation.

"I will approach Father with your own excuse for my lie. I'm sure he will not only forgive me but look favorably on you. I will tell him of your wish to gain employment with our firm. I'm sure he will see it as a way to cut much of the red tape your countrymen impose on us.

"I'm also sure you would be a real asset, being a link between our two countries. But let us go slowly. Bid my parents farewell and I'll call you soon for a return visit."

Everything worked out as Max had hoped. He and Yutaka became the closest of friends and Mr. and Mrs. Okano were as much like his parents as the differences in culture allowed.

When Max's hitch was up and he mustered out as a captain, he stayed on in Japan as a junior partner in the firm. Later, he specialized in weapons and started his own branch. This was not only because he wanted his own firm, but also as a protection for the Okanos in case his more flagrant violations of the laws cause them embarrassment. But embarrassment was not the most serious threat. Had the extent of Max Morrell's dealings in the illicit weapons game been known, Morrell and all those associated with him would have been imprisoned for life.
 

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