Chapter 1

Lakeside Post Assembly Center

Disjunction Lake, Eastern California

August 1942

Midmorning. First Quarter Moon.

With the window down in the taxi, it was the lack of scent he noticed most about the place. He felt the dusty air move in and out of his nostrils, but the dust was more texture than smell. The sun bore hot, as surely as it did on the plateaus of Arizona, and he thought it mildly interesting that this should be true in Mid-California. Curiously, the dark, moist-earth aroma of water seemed absent from this lakeside town.

After all, even the desert had its smells...delicate yet verdant from the cactus and brush, borne through the pure, uncluttered air. But that, too, had been unexpected when he had transferred to Arizona from Washington State, where the cool, loamy scents of timberland greeted him in the mornings.

The cabby steered beneath the watchtower, and at last he was greeted with an aroma. The tower's beams still smelled of new lumber. Two M.P.'s atop, stared into the confines of the assembly center, their vigil striking him as both noble and gargoyle-like. Only last year this place was a sprawling collection of campgrounds and cabin rentals. Now the cabins housed the military, and long, bare dormitories rowed the grounds where families once pitched tents during vacation.

The cabby pulled into the officers' graveled parking area. He paid the man and walked toward the hastily built building marked in large, white letters: UNITED STATES ARMY and, under that, ADMINISTRATION. He could read reasonably well at that size, but even with the aid of his thick glasses, the letters were fuzzy.

The building was only big enough to house offices. All processing was being done next to it under a large, khaki awning that billowed and sagged in the lumber-scented breeze. He could make out eight soldiers-probably corporals-seated at a table beneath it. They were flanked by several M.P.'s.

Before them, stretched eight lines of people. From the distance, their clothing formed a multicolored bar to his eyes. But he estimated there were, perhaps, two hundred of them. Two hundred lined up in the dust, far from their homes, waiting to be taken away; waiting in silence, every one of them, down to the babies. The drone of information being given at the front of the lines was the only sound.

As he neared, he made out the familiar shape and color of an American Legion Women's Auxiliary hat. A few people ahead of that, the sun's rays glinted off polished disks, flashing against someone's chest. War medals. That would be an old man, of course, a Great War veteran, because the latest war had only just begun for the Americans.

What wasn't clear to his wounded eyes was obvious to his mind. That woman and old man were making a point with their patriotism, as they waited silently in the line in the dust.

American clothes, American mannerisms, American hairdos. Japanese faces. He knew this as a matter of course, but all he could see was the bar of color and a sluggish blur of heads. He saw some of the blur shifting, as if turning to watch him pass, and he looked ahead quickly, toward the doorway that was his goal.

The WAAC lifted her gaze from her work, and then stood when he entered. "Good morning, sir."

"Good morning. Captain Maxwell Pierce to see Captain Eschelmann."

"Of course, sir."

She escorted him down a hollow corridor, gouged here and there with square entryways still waiting for doors. Uniformed occupants were exposed to the captain's view, noses to paperwork as if embarrassed to be so denuded. At the end, directly before Maxwell, was the captain's office. The only one with a door.

Inside, the office was barren and unfinished, its new wood scent overwhelming. Maxwell was close enough now to see faces, more or less. This duty hadn't been the commanding officer's cup of tea, from the looks of him. His skin was gray as ash. Still, the C.O. rose gamely from the box he was packing and shook hands, his demeanor courteously relaxed, captain to captain.

"Victor Eschelmann," he said, by way of introduction.

"Maxwell Pierce. Max, if you like. Good to meet you."

"Have a seat." Eschelmann fished about in his shirt pocket. "Cigarette?"

"No, thank you. I don't smoke."

"Mmm." Eschelmann settled behind his desk and flicked the lid back on his lighter. "You may start before too long, with this assignment." He smiled wanly as he lighted up, and then saluted Max with the cigarette. "Welcome to the wasteland, new C.O."

Max smiled in return. He was on his best behavior, but in reality he had little sympathy or respect for this man. He removed his wire-rimmed glasses, pulled his handkerchief from a back pocket and wiped at the thick lenses.

"I'm not the commanding officer yet. And I know it's not always a pleasure to serve," he said as sincerely as he could.

Copyright © 2004 K.L. Nappier