Suspense

At night the moon still bowed her pale head above the sea. The languorous trade wind drifted across the water. Storms broke on the dark crest of Diamond Head, stalked down the swift slope to the harbor. But Hawaii was not the same. Alone in the great quiet of the Pacific, 2,100 miles from any continent, Hawaii waited. The tension was strung tight as harp wires.

Mutter. The Japs made the tension. Of the 423,330 Hawaiian inhabitants, about 40,000 are Japanese aliens. Another 120,000 are citizens of Japanese descent. They are woven beyond unraveling into the fabric of Hawaiian life-they serve in the Army, labor in the fields and refineries, work on war projects. Japs known to be unfriendly (consuls, enemy agents, teachers) have been segregated on Sand Island. Some have been shipped back to the U.S. Japs' guns and short-wave radios have been confiscated. But if Lieut. General Delos C. Emmons ordered all Japs interned, Hawaii's economy might fall to pieces.

All Japs in Hawaii kept off the streets last week as much as possible. They were scrupulously polite. A group of loyal Jap-American employes of a Waikiki hotel asked to be locked in a concentration camp at night, said they would go straight to work in the morning, pay part of the upkeep of the camp. (The Army turned down their offer.)

Butter. The food supply was another source of worry. About 70% of Hawaii's food normally comes from the mainland, ten days' voyage away by freighter. Two years ago, when 241,000 acres of the rich land of the islands were planted in sugar cane, only 695 acres were used for rice, 76 for asparagus, three acres for grapefruit. Since Pearl Harbor, the islands have stored a six months' supply of food in case of siege. But meat is scarce.

Now, under martial law, General Emmons has requisitioned sugar lands for use as airports, gun emplacements, kitchen gardens. The big Aiea Plantation, near Pearl Harbor, has lost more than 1,000 acres (30 were in garden crops). But years will be needed to make Hawaii self-sufficient.

Beyond the Blue. There are more planes and more men on the islands than there were on Dec. 7. Hawaii is guarded by more artillery than was ever before gathered in one place under the U.S. flag.

Where the slim wahine (Hawaiian women) once strolled along the beach at Waikiki, barbed wire is looped in crazy, glistening coils. Soldiers with naked bayonets patrol the docks. Parks and schoolyards are scarred with fresh-dug trenches. Howitzers hide in the cane fields. Men sleep by their guns on the beach and in caves hollowed out of the mountains.

Hawaii is dark as the grave. Hawaiians say proudly that Honolulu's blackout is "blacker than London's." After curfew sounds, at 9 p.m., any civilian found on the street may be arrested or shot.

Traffic is light, with gas rationed: ten gallons a month to each car owner. The bright waters between the islands are empty of yachts, empty of fishermen's sampans. On every vacant lot, and on the long green golf-course fairways, old iron and battered jalopies are scattered to keep enemy planes from landing.

For three months, Hawaii thirsted under absolute prohibition. Parched citizens concocted sickening "swipes" of yeast and fruit juice. Last week the order was relaxed. Adult topers may buy one quart of liquor a week. Bars sell all they like--until they close at 5 p.m. But drunkenness is sternly forbidden. Penalty: a fine up to $500, five years in jail; or both. Bartenders are also punished for getting their customers drunk. On Hawaii's first day of repeal, 17 men, five women were convicted of drunkenness. They were fined up to the limit, sentenced to jail for as long as six months.

At night, in the utter blackout, people stay in their homes, listening to the endlessly patrolling planes of an Army & Navy grimly determined never again to be caught off guard. By day they scan the blue distance, watch each wisp of smoke that trails along the horizon, hoping it brings news from the U.S.--not from Japan.

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