The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [204]
He closed the medical bag, stood, backed away, saw the fierce stares watching him, all but one, the friend, the man moving close, a hand on the dying man’s arm. The American said something, soft words, and Hamishita heard a soft gurgle, one final breath, a faint rattle from the man’s throat, the injured American injured no more. The others seemed to understand, another one speaking out, not as much anger, something to Hamishita, a short nod, some kind of gratitude. The doctor made a short bow, said, “I’m sorry. Your comrade is gone. I was too late.”
He was out of the cell now, the guards closing the steel door with a hard clang, a stupid show the Americans certainly did not need. Hamishita moved out into fresher air, thought, they know their war is over. For those men, anyway, we are the victors. How many of us did they kill first? No, that is not your concern. Their friend died honorably, in the performance of his duty. If that is not important to them … well, it should be.
He had watched the raid from the bombers, a formation of B-24s doing what they always did, dropping strings of bombs that rained down like tiny insects. This raid had targeted some military barracks no more than a few hundred yards from his clinic. But two of the planes had not escaped, the first time he had actually witnessed accurate fire from the anti-aircraft batteries that kept hidden against the far hills. The planes had twisted and spun, wounded birds, and from each the parachutes had emerged like white puffs of cotton. He had watched them fall, their planes first, thunderous crashes into the woods to the north. The flyers came next, a dozen, slow and deliberate, and there had been gunfire from the ground, a rifle, but then the flyers were down, out of his view. He knew they had no chance to escape capture, the soldiers waiting for them before they even reached the ground. The six he had seen were among them, certainly, and it was not his place to ask what had happened to the rest. But the call to examine this group had been a surprise, a messenger from Captain Narita, and Hamishita had responded at once, a brisk hike from his clinic straight to the castle.
He was outside now, more guards, no one seeming to pay any attention to this one elderly civilian among a sea of uniforms. He saw Captain Narita, the man speaking to an aide, reading from a piece of paper. Hamishita moved that way, and Narita saw him, said, “So. Will they survive?”
“One did not. The others show no apparent injury. I am not certain why you needed me to verify that.”
“You will do precisely that, Doctor. Verify that. I wish to have a written report from you, stating that the American prisoners are in acceptable condition, that we have not tortured or abused them. If you have time, of course.”
Hamishita knew that the kindness in Narita’s request was completely counterfeit, that the paperwork would be produced whether it was written by Hamishita or by someone else who simply added the doctor’s signature.
“I will do so immediately, Captain. With your permission, I will return to my clinic. You shall have your paper by this afternoon.”
“Is there a hurry, Doctor? Perhaps you will come to the commander’s villa for tea.”
It was another order, and Hamishita thought of the work that awaited him at the clinic, only a few patients, wounded civilians from the last bombing raid, one woman who had just given birth.
“Nothing urgent awaits me, Captain. I am honored to be your guest.”
“Excellent. But you will not be my guest. Someone wishes to see you. You should be honored by such an invitation.”
Hamishita was baffled by the hint of mystery, made a short bow, followed as Narita moved up the inclined path that led out away from the lower levels of the castle. He was still curious about the rest of the American flyers, if they had survived at all, if they were being held separately from the others, some kind of security, a place of interrogation perhaps. It was an odd request from Narita that the doctor provide documentation that the six men