Ninja (35 page)

The second example was a Canadian pilot, Martin Hartwell, who crashed with three passengers in the vast forests of the Northwest Territories. He came through the crash with two broken legs. The others died, over a period of time. It was winter. It's a long story with many twists, but the main point is that he survived by making fire and by cooking and eating the frozen flesh of one of the dead passengers. By the time he was found a month later (after a hugely controversial search), he was in remarkably good shape physically. Another few weeks and he would have walked out. Psychologically, he was deeply affected, both by the means of his survival and by a storm of unwelcome publicity. His survival contrasted tragically with the fate of an Inuit boy, who was used to the treeless barrens but was so disoriented and scared by the surrounding forests that he simply gave up and died. Onoda did not know anything about jungles when he first arrived on Lubang, but his commitment to his mission drove him to learn fast. Pretty soon, he was as practiced a survivor as Juliane Köpcke and Martin Hartwell.

•  
Establish routines.
Tininenko persuaded his brother-in-law to share formal meals, which in the end amounted to nothing more than a few peas. But the formality gave a shape to the days, a sense of purpose. In the concentration camps, survivors noted that those who withdrew entirely, refused to wash, brush their hair, look after themselves in any way, and became what the inmates referred to as
Musselmänner
(Muslims), did not have long to live. Onoda imposed many small rituals on the two of them, insisting that they brush their teeth every morning, give each other regular haircuts, celebrate birthdays, keep track of the phases of the moon, and mark New Year's Day with a meal of rice and string beans in place of the lentils they used to have at home.

•  
Have a secure childhood.
This sounds a bit glib, like the recipe for a long life: Have long-lived parents. But it's important. A secure childhood—almost the same as happy, but not quite—builds trust. Mother love, or at least close human contact; continuity of care; a good supporting network—all of this creates an expectation that the universe is essentially friendly. When things go wrong, you—well-grounded child or adult—believe they can be fixed. When things go
really
wrong, you interpret the catastrophe as an aberration that may make the universe seem more random but no less friendly overall. Chances are, you can cope. Whereas the unhappy, damaged, insecure child grows into an adult who sees a disaster as proof of what he or she “always knew,” that the universe is a malign and dangerous place. What follows? Depression, panic, negativity. These are not attitudes that will help you deal with disaster. Of course, there is no strict cause and effect in emotional and psychological development. Secure children may grow into panicky adults, insecure and unhappy ones into happy and creative ones.

And there is a danger in childhood security, as I know from experience. As a child, I had all due care and attention from my mother, combined with encouragement to live freely in a safe rural setting—orchards, streams, woods, empty roads. I loved it. It might all have turned out badly, because at eight I was sent to boarding school. There are those who would say this was a parental rejection enough to scar my soul. Not a bit of it. By eight, I was firmly enough grounded to consider school another big adventure. It worked out fine. But there has been a problem: a feeling that the universe is a supportive place induces me to take unnecessary risks, from swimming with piranhas to catching planes with minutes to spare. Sometimes things go wrong. I once spent two weeks in an Ecuadorian jail. (It's a long story to do with a rented car and an attempted extortion. A lawyer got me out. I took a taxi to the Colombian border and escaped into Cali, then the drug capital of the world and notorious for its murder rate. I have never been more delighted to see anywhere.) So far, so good, but perhaps real survivors don't get into tight spots in the first place.

Always, Onoda looked toward the day the Japanese army would return. To this end, at the start of the dry season they would go to the fields where islanders had been gathering rice onto straw matting. At twilight, when the fields were empty, they would set fire to the rice to make beacons, which would, they hoped, be visible to incoming Japanese and tell them that their agents were still active. To the islanders, this was mere criminality, as was their habit of occasionally stealing what they needed, or staging holdups. To the islanders, the pair of them were “mountain devils.” But they were careful not to antagonize the locals more than necessary. Once, for instance, they took a farmer prisoner, forced the terrified man into the mountains at gunpoint, interrogated him, then told him to go home to bed.

In 1965 they stole a radio. When its batteries ran down, they improvised with flashlight batteries, firing at farmers who dropped the light, as they ran away. The radio, like the newspapers, should have been enough to show them that they were living in a fantasy world. But they mainly listened to crackly shortwave stations with the volume turned down, and only briefly to conserve power. Some things they could accept as true, like the Tokyo Olympics and the bullet train. As for the rest, the two concluded they were listening to tapes put out by Americans to present American propaganda to Japanese living abroad. “I take my hat off to them,” said Onoda to Kozuka. “It must be very tricky work.” Tricky work, indeed, as he realized later, but on his part, not the Americans'—“tricky for us to read into the news broadcasts the meanings we wanted them to have.”

Their lives had settled into regular patterns. Year followed year, often with little to mark the passage of time, with only occasional dramas: Kozuka's swollen leg from a poisoned thorn, the time Kozuka's trousers were swept away when they were doing laundry in a river in preparation for New Year's Day. But October 19, 1972, marked a turning point. They had dismantled their rainy-season hut and were planning their usual dry-season “beacon raids.” Looking out over a field, they saw farmers preparing to carry away all the rice. They decided to move quickly, scaring away the farmers with a shot, guessing that it would take a few minutes for the police to come, giving them time enough to set a few fires. It worked. They were on the point of leaving when Kozuka spotted a pile of sacks under a tree. A pot hung from a branch. Time for one last fire. They laid their guns down, and Kozuka stepped aside to pick up some straw matting to use as fuel while Onoda went to see what was in the pot. At that moment there was a shot, then a volley of shots. The two men dived for their weapons. Onoda saw that Kozuka could not move his arm.

“It's my shoulder,” he said.

“If it's only your shoulder, don't worry! Get back down into the valley.”

Onoda grabbed both guns and fled. Kozuka stood but did not move. He stood with his arms folded tight. “It's my chest.” He sobbed. Then: “It's no use!” Blood and foam spewed from his mouth, and he fell forward. Onoda fired three shots, uselessly. He called Kozuka's name and shook him by the ankle. No response. There was nothing more to be done. With the two rifles, he ran downhill into a thicket, the gunfire continuing behind him. “I'll get them for this,” he yelled. “I'll kill them all!” He had no idea, of course, that he had been declared dead, and that to the world outside this clash was the first proof in thirteen years that they had been alive all this time.

He made his way to a coconut grove, where he sorted through his equipment. Nearby he heard voices, saw a small group of people, then later a larger group, but he knew better than to attack. Take it easy, he told himself; now was not the time.

He was alone and when he came to consider it, other than being shocked and saddened by Kozuka's death, no worse off materially. For a time the death hardened him. He would shoot to kill, if only to keep islanders out of “his” territory. But the search parties and their loudspeakers were closing in. “Onoda-san, wherever you are, come out!” Then one day he heard a woman's voice in the distance, though all he could make out was, “Hiroo, you gave me two, didn't you?” It was his older sister, Chie, referring to a pair of pearls he had given her as a wedding present. Then he heard his brother Tadao's voice, singing a familiar song. This time Onoda seemed to accept reality, in a way. So it was Tadao. Might as well stay and listen to him. He always was a good talker, and now he talked and talked. Still, Onoda held back, as if suspended between two worlds. Later he visited the spot where Kozuka was killed and found a tombstone engraved with his name and a wreath. His hands clasped in prayer, Onoda repeated his oath to his friend: “I will avenge your death.”

He found newspapers with long reports of Kozuka's death, yet still found reasons to doubt. There was information that should have been included that wasn't. Why? His reasoning was becoming more and more convoluted, because he did not doubt that the search parties were indeed from Japan, somehow operating despite the presumed presence of American forces on the mainland. He concluded that they were here to survey Lubang and win over the islanders. Indeed, since the Americans were having a hard time in Vietnam, the Japanese government could be preparing to woo the whole of the Philippines over to its side. So the appeals to Onoda were simply a cover. If he came out, they would not have time to complete their real task. Only by remaining hidden could he help them. Why, if they really wanted him to come out, all they had to do was leave him a telephone, and he could call them up. They didn't, so the conclusion was clear: “The pleas urging me to come out really meant that I should
not
come out.”

So it went on, in the face of the evidence, with Onoda almost playing hide-and-seek with search parties. In his absence, one that included his ageing father found his mountain hut, where his father left a touching haiku:

Not even an echo

Responds to my call in the

Summer mountains.

But to Onoda, his family were just being used by the Japanese High Command for a deeper purpose, to show the Americans that there was a growing threat to Lubang, and thus compel them to keep forces in reserve for the attack that was surely coming. “So long as I remained in the place, the larger the ‘search' operations would be—and the more it would cost the Americans in the long run.” Anything he didn't understand, he simply put down to his ignorance. There was much that puzzled him. He wondered if the Filipinos were now allies with Japan. If so, how come they shot Kozuka, and how could he, Onoda, find out what side they were on?

In February 1974, sixteen months after Kozuka's death, he checked a favorite banana plantation and saw a mosquito net. Police, he thought, and prepared for a fight. But no, there was only one unarmed man. Onoda approached, pointing his rifle, and called out. The man, dressed in a T-shirt, dark blue trousers, and rubber sandals, saluted and stood his ground, shaking. That was odd. Islanders usually ran off at the sight of him.

“I'm Japanese,” said the man.

“Are you from the Japanese government?”

“No.”

“Are you from the Youth Foreign Cooperation Society?”

“No.”

“Well, who are you?”

“I'm only a tourist.”

Tourist? What could that mean? Onoda was fairly sure he had been sent by the enemy, except he noticed that the man was wearing thick woollen socks. If he hadn't been wearing those socks, Onoda might have shot him. With the sandals, they made an incongruous sight. He really must be Japanese.

The man said: “Are you Onoda-san?” and went on to ask him to come back to Japan, because the war was over.

Not for Onoda, it wasn't. “Bring me my orders. There must be proper orders!”

The man offered a cigarette—Onoda's first for years—and said he would like to talk. “In that case,” said Onoda, “let's go someplace else.” The man picked up an expensive-looking camera and followed Onoda across a rice field to a clump of trees. The man talked about Japan having lost the war. But Onoda couldn't believe him, and kept quiet. The man asked if he could take a picture, but it was getting dark, and he doubted the quality of his flashlight pictures. He suggested coming back the following afternoon. Onoda was at once suspicious, and continued the conversation, thinking to trap him. The man gave his name: Suzuki Norio. They talked for two hours. Suzuki finally asked what would persuade Onoda to come out.

“Major Taniguchi is my immediate superior,” said Onoda. “I won't give in until I have direct orders from him.” Actually, his real commander was Lieutenant General Yokoyama, but Onoda did not want to mention him without positive proof that Suzuki was not an enemy agent.

So, said Suzuki, if I bring him and “he tells you to come to such and such a place at such and such a time, you will come, right?”

“Right,” said Onoda, and then suggested staying at Suzuki's camp for the night, as a pretext for keeping him under surveillance.

Back at the camp, Suzuki asked and answered questions, Onoda probing all the time. Suzuki, a university dropout, described his travels—fifty countries in the previous four years, during which time, as Onoda's translator, Charles Terry, says in his foreword, he had contributed “to the woes of numerous Japanese embassies.” When he left Japan, he told his friends he was going to look for Lieutenant Onoda, a panda, and the Abominable Snowman, in that order. He had been on Lubang just four days. Onoda warmed to him, telling him how his two comrades died, thinking this would be the best way for the details to reach their families, even if Suzuki was working for the enemy.

The following morning there were more, and better, photographs and Suzuki left, promising to return. Despite a 1 percent niggle of uncertainty, despite Suzuki's apparent charm and honesty, Onoda was 99 percent sure that he should not take him seriously. Taniguchi—who, according to the newspapers, was now a book dealer—would not appear. There would be no new orders. He still believed Japan and America were at war, because of the size of the “search” operations, which surely couldn't be just to find him, had to be to survey the island for some future military purpose. So it was his duty to hang on. With the ammunition he had left, he could afford thirty bullets a year for another twenty years. He was fifty-two, but “I considered my body to be no more than thirty-seven or thirty-eight.” Twenty more years? No problem.