Tomoya was flush with excitement, with a sense of vindication. Harry had been required to register for the draft—he had been born in the U.S., so there was no getting around that—but he had not been required to save people, he had not been required to risk his own life doing so. Despite his good manners, Tomoya could not hold back, his pride in his son was evident. A Japanese boy had done what so many Americans did not do. Why should the Moriyama family not be considered as “good” as any local one, he thought with anger. With his son’s actions, Tomoya achieved victory in a battle few knew that he fought.

He could not help himself; he told the story again even though the Singhs knew it. Perhaps he would not have boasted this way in the company of other Japanese. But the Singhs listened to him patiently, sincerely.

Amarjeet had written the Singhs a letter telling of what Harry had done: During the Argonne Forest advance, the regiment had almost finished digging in for the night when the Boche began to “let the Doughboys have a few shells.” One exploded close to their artillery unit. A piece of shrapnel lodged itself in Amarjeet’s leg. He did not feel it at first, but then the pain became a red-hot thing that burst inside him. He could not think. He could not move. He knew only that he was safe inside the trench.

But other men were hurt too. Harry went over the top of the trench and pulled a man to safety, dragging him to the rim. Amarjeet collected himself, hobbled forward, helped pull the man inside. Another shell fell, lighting up the night. Harry left again to find another man farther out—Sergeant Sam Pinkerton, from Fredonia—and together they pulled him in the same way.

Amarjeet and Sam and the first man were taken to the field hospital in the rear. The shrapnel was removed from Amarjeet’s leg and the wound was stitched up. Later, an officer visited and Amarjeet vouched for Harry’s bravery.

Now Tomoya was filled with pride; his son was safe, the peace had been signed. Men and women wore poppies in memory of their dead, but his son was coming home a hero, having saved those he did not need to save.

They sat on the back porch until after the sun set and the stars appeared and a whisper of dust rose with the breeze. The air caressed them. From the front of the house they heard hoofbeats and a horse’s snort. Later, Tomoya would wonder: Why a horse and not a motorcar? Didn’t Western Union have money for machines? Which of his hired men had told the boy to look for him at Jivan’s farm? Later he would wonder: Why did an officer wait so many days before paying a visit?