"This the new man, Lieutenant?" one of the soldiers asked.
"Sergeant Moore, Sergeant Skelly," Lieutenant Hon replied.
"Welcome to the dungeon, Moore," Sergeant Skelly said. "The way this works is that you have to show your dog tags to the guard on duty and then sign the register. He'll check your signature against the one on file, and let you in. If you take anything TOP SECRET out of here, it has to be logged out, and you have to be armed, and you have to carry it in a handcuff briefcase."
"A what?"
Hon leaned behind Sergeant Skelly's desk and picked up a leather briefcase from a stack of them. Attached to the handle was a foot-long length of stainless steel cable welded to half of a pair of handcuffs.
"There's a couple of.45s in our safe," Hon explained.
"You also have to log out CONFIDENTIAL and SECRET," Sergeant Skelly went on, "but you don't need the pistol or the briefcase."
"OK," Moore said.
Hon bent over the register and signed his name, then showed Moore where he was to sign. Sergeant Skelly pushed a 3 X 5 inch card across the small desk to Moore.
"Sign it," he said. "This is the one we keep on file."
Moore signed it.
Sergeant Skelly then went to the steel door and unlocked it with a large key.
"Come by the NCO Club, Moore, and I'll buy you a beer."
"Thank you," Moore said.
When the door had closed behind them, Lieutenant Hon said, "I don't think that would be a very good idea, Moore."
"Yes, Sir."
"I won't tell you to be a teetotal, although that might be a good idea. And I know it would be a good idea if you let Skelly think you are."
"Yes, Sir."
Hon led him to another steel-doored room, the key to which he had on a cord around his neck. Inside was a small room furnished with a small table and two filing cabinets with combination locks.
"Captain Pickering has the only other key to this room and is the only other person to know the combinations," Hon said. "You won't take anything out of here that I don't give you. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Turn your back, please, while I open this," Hon said, matter-of-factly.
Moore complied.
"OK, you can turn around," Hon said after a moment. "Sit down."
Moore sat down at the small table.
Hon handed him two sheets of paper, both stamped top and bottom, TOP SECRET. They were in Japanese calligraphs.
"We're going to run a little experiment," Hon said. "First, you are going to translate these. Then I am going to give you somebody else's translations. I want to see if they're different, and if they are, whether you think your translation is more accurate than the other guy's. Clear?"
"Yes, Sir. I think so."
"How long do you think it will take you?"
Moore glanced at the calligraphs.
"Ten, fifteen minutes, Sir."
"Can you type?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Well, I'll go see about scrounging a typewriter. For the time being, do these in pencil."
"Yes, Sir."
Hon took a lined pad and a Planter's peanuts can full of pencils from the top of one of the filing cabinets and put them on the table. Then, without a word, he walked out of the room. The door closed and Moore heard the key turning in the lock. He was locked in.
He picked up a pencil and started to read the calligraphs. He became aware of a strange feeling of foreboding and decided it was because he didn't like being locked behind a steel door with no way that he could see to get out.
He read both documents quickly, to get a sense of them, and then again more carefully.
They were obviously Japanese Army radio messages. The first was from the 14th Army in the Philippines to Imperial Japanese Army Headquarters in Tokyo. It was signed HOMMA. The second message was a reply to the first. It was signed, IN THE NAME OF HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY.
He began to write his translation. It was hardly, he thought, a matter of world-shaking importance. It dealt with captured American weapons, ammunition, and food supplies. Not surprisingly, there was a comment to the effect that most weapons of all descriptions had been destroyed before the American surrender. Another stated that there was a large stock of captured ammunition, mostly for large caliber artillery, but that it was in bad shape, and that the possibility had to be considered that it had been... he had to search for the right, decorous, words in English, for what popped into his mind was "fucked up"-tampered with? rendered useless? sabotaged?-by the Americans.
There was another comment that captured American food supplies were scarce, in bad shape, and inadequate for the feeding of prisoners.
The reply from Imperial Japanese Army Headquarters was brief, and far more formal. It directed General Homma to... again he had to search for the right words-to inspect and rehabilitate? evaluate and repair? inspect and salvage?-the captured artillery ammunition as well as he could using- facilities? assets? capabilities?-available to him. It reminded General Homma that shipping, of course, had to be allocated on the priorities of war. And finally, somewhat insultingly, Moore thought, it reminded Homma of the-duty? obligations? price to be paid? sacrifices expected?-of soldiers under the Code of Bushido.
Finally, he was finished. He looked at what he had written and heard his mother's voice in his ear, "Johnny, I can't understand how you can do that calligraphy so beautifully, but hen scratch when you write something in English."
He hoped that Lieutenant Hon would have no trouble reading his handwriting and was considering copying what he had written more neatly, when he heard the key in the lock of the steel door. It creaked open-dungeon-like, Moore thought-and Hon came back into the room. Moore started to get up.
"Keep your seat, nobody can see us in here," Hon said, and then asked. "Finished?"
Moore handed him the sheets of lined paper.
Hon read them carefully, then opened one of the filing cabinets again and handed Moore two more sheets of paper with TOP SECRET stamped on them.
They were someone else's translations of the two messages. Moore read them, wondering how different they would be from the translation he had made. There were minor differences of interpretation, but nothing significant. Moore felt a sense of satisfaction; he had obviously done as well as whoever had made the other translation.
"OK. Now tell me what the messages mean," Hon said.