Читать книгу Dancing at Lake Montebello - Lynne Viti - Страница 18

My Father’s War

He’d always loved boats, being on the water.

Enlisted in the Navy at thirty-three, took up smoking too,

signed up for top secret hazardous duty overseas.

But he didn’t go to sea — he went to

fight Japan from the ground in Manchuria,

aerographer’s mate first class. He told us he

Learned to track clouds — cirrus, cumulus, nimbus. Shaved his

head, all the men did, naval intelligence said

that would fool the Japs when they flew over.

They lived with Chinese soldiers and spies,

ate rice and whatever meat

their hosts could scare up. It might have been dogs.

I forecasted the weather, he told us, but

the records say otherwise: to Calcutta for indoctrination,

how to eat with chopsticks, never insult the Chinese hosts.

Flew over the Hump, on to Happy Valley, east of Chungking.

Lived in camphor wood houses, drank boiled water.

History books say they spied on Japanese ships,

blew up enemy supply depots, laid mines in harbors,

trained Chinese soldiers in guerrilla warfare,

rescued downed aviators.

When he left for San Pedro, my mother saw him pack

a long knife and a gun in his suitcase.

Orders, he told her. Top secret.

He told the same story twice

about the gash on his forehead that

grew fainter till it was a thin line

etched on his weather-beaten brow.

He returned from his war malnourished, his teeth

rotting, he drank whiskey, chased it with beer.

He brought home silks embroidered by the Maryknolls.

He hated the Communists, Chiang Kai-Shek was his man.

I never knew it till after he died —

he was no weatherman.