One Man's Justice (3 page)

‘You used to have a Colt, didn't you? I like guns. I was attached to the one I had. I just want it back,' said Takuya softly.

His gaze still lowered, Shirasaka nodded several times, then grasped the edge of the desk and rose. Takuya turned to watch him leave the room. Any suspicion he might have harboured had vanished, nullified by the goodwill the man had shown in sending the postcard, providing him with papers and encouraging him to run. Shirasaka had probably felt unable to stand by and watch a former comrade-in-arms sent to the gallows, but maybe another part of the explanation was that, deep down, he felt an aversion to the ‘trials' of those accused of war crimes. No doubt, thought Takuya, day-today contact with occupation forces
staff had left Shirasaka nonplussed by their arrogance, and perhaps this had led him to obstruct their proceedings by encouraging his former comrades to flee. If the occupation authorities got wind of his actions, the severest of penalties would undoubtedly be meted out to him, too. Takuya felt a twinge of conscience, knowing that his request would commit Shirasaka to an even greater level of collusion, but it was overwhelmed by his desire to have the weapon back.

There was a faint sound of footsteps, then the door opened and Shirasaka reappeared, his expression strained as he returned to sit opposite Takuya. Glancing towards the door, he reached inside his jacket and offered Takuya the object he had been concealing. It was the pistol Takuya had carried during the war, but the months it had been out of his grasp made it somehow feel much heavier. The small box of ammunition that Shirasaka placed on the table sat there for several seconds before Takuya stuffed it into his rucksack.

Shirasaka pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his pocket and offered one to Takuya, who shook his head in refusal at the idea of smoking an American cigarette.

Takuya felt his composure return. Now that he was armed, he could at least resist his would-be captors and, if necessary, take his own life rather than submit to arrest.

‘Well, then. I'd better go. Thanks for your help,' Takuya said, grasping his service cap and slinging the rucksack over his shoulder as he rose to his feet. Shirasaka stood up, stepped into the corridor and walked ahead of Takuya down the stairs. Outside, Takuya thanked Shirasaka again and started down the cobbled road.

‘Kiyohara!' he heard behind him. Takuya looked back and saw Shirasaka hurrying down the slope, eyes glistening. ‘Don't go killing yourself,' he said imploringly, tears welling up.

Takuya didn't reply. He hadn't thought about how he would use the weapon, and he certainly hadn't made up his mind to end his own life. He would take everything as it came.

‘Killing yourself would be meaningless,' said Shirasaka in an almost admonitory tone.

Takuya looked away from Shirasaka pensively, then started down the slope.

Maybe it was the reflection from all the burnt pieces of roofing iron, but the temperature down in the ruins of the city seemed higher than up on the hill. Takuya hurried towards the railway station, occasionally glancing back over his shoulder. Most of the knoll was hidden behind the remaining walls of the old fire station, and Shirasaka was not in sight. Beyond that, all he could really see was a glimpse of the pink cherry blossom at the top of the hill.

The train left Hakata station.

His arms pinned to his sides in the crush, Takuya was jostled into the space beside the lavatory. There was so little room to stand that two men were crouched precariously on top of the wash-basins. The hair of the woman standing in front of him touched his face, a sour smell emanating from her scalp.

Takuya closed his eyes. Suddenly he found himself wondering how his American counterparts would be spending their days. Most of their officers would have been repatriated by now, and had no doubt been given a hero's welcome. Throngs of well-wishers would have welcomed them at the station and carried them home on their shoulders. Many would even receive medals for killing Japanese soldiers in battle. Takuya had killed one American. A tall, blond man who had taken part in incendiary attacks on Japanese cities,
sending horrific numbers of non-combatants, old people, women and children to their deaths. If Japan had won, Takuya's act might even have earned him a medal, but now he had only his wits to keep him from the gallows.

There was no option but to get away. The impulse to flee was motivated not by fear of a noose around his neck but rather by indignation toward the victors. The Allies saw their own soldiers as heroes for killing Japanese and now sought to force a humiliating death upon Takuya and his defeated comrades-in-arms. The irony of it cut Takuya to the quick.

The train moved slowly down the track. By craning his neck, Takuya could just see over the mass of passengers to the outside world beyond the glassless windows. Before he knew it, it was early evening and the sun was setting.

There was a brief twilight, then dusk, before the darkness set in and the electric lights came on in the aisles. People got off each time the train stopped, but just as many seemed to get on, so there was no relief from the crush. The man pressed hard against Takuya's back seemed to be falling asleep on his feet. From time to time he gave way at the knees, forcing Takuya to do the same. Takuya could hear a light snoring just behind his head. His rucksack was slung over his shoulder, and through the cloth bag he felt the hard grip of the pistol against the small of his back. The gun was also probably pressing against the stomach of the man standing behind him, as now and then he seemed to pull back as if trying to avoid it.

The train pulled into Kokura station almost an hour behind schedule. Takuya pushed his way through the mass
of bodies and alighted on the platform. There was a two-hour wait before his next train arrived on the Nippoo Line, but Takuya felt almost anchored to the spot. He made no move toward the next platform. He had instinctively boarded the train at Hakata, but now he was having second thoughts about actually going beyond here and returning home. Shirasaka had said that the Allied authorities already knew where Takuya was living, so it was entirely possible that the police would be waiting there to arrest him.

As he stood gazing at the black body of the train slowly receding from the end of the platform, he sensed that he wasn't completely ready to commit himself to fleeing. The occupation would continue virtually indefinitely, so he would have to be prepared to be on the run for the rest of his days. That would mean drawing a line in his current life, and before he could do that there were certain things he must do.

He was carrying very little cash, and to make good his escape he would need at least some money. He would also need to destroy anything at home that might be used to trace him. Besides, as he was unlikely to see his parents and younger brother and sister again, he wanted to say goodbye to them before setting off. He had to make one last visit home. Despite the risk, the pistol in his rucksack fortified the decision to return. If the authorities were waiting for him he could resist, and if escape proved impossible he could end it all on his own terms.

Takuya walked to the Nippoo Line platform. Under the pale station lights, another sea of people was crammed in from one end of the platform to the other, waiting
for the incoming train. Spotting the scantest of spaces, Takuya sat down, placing his rucksack carefully between his knees. Beside him a young mother knelt changing her baby's nappy. As it lay face-up on the patchy concrete, the baby turned its eyes towards Takuya. Tiredness overcame him and he closed his eyes, letting his head drop forward. Perhaps because of the heat from the mass of bodies, the air on the platform was stifling, and in a moment Takuya had nodded off to sleep.

After a while he sensed people around him rising, and he opened his eyes and got to his feet. The whistle sounded and the train shot steam over the tracks as it pulled in beside the platform. Utter confusion followed, with people trying to get on before any passengers could leave the train. An angry exchange of voices ensued between those trying to climb in through the windows and those who blocked their entry from inside. Pushed from every direction, Takuya just managed to edge his way on board by stepping on the footplate at the end of one carriage.

The train jolted forward. Before long the bustle of voices and activity gave way to the monotonous beat of the wheels against the joints in the tracks.

A squadron of moths fluttered around the electric light outside the washroom, bashing themselves relentlessly against the misted glass cover protecting the bulb. Just when Takuya thought that at least one moth had decided to settle, wings trembling, on the metal top of the light fitting, it took off again to resume butting against the light, powder from its wings dropping visibly after each assault.

At station after station more passengers jostled their way
on board, and by now it was decidedly uncomfortable. The crush was so oppressive that the rucksack on his back was being pushed downward, and he felt himself losing his balance.

The train pulled into Usuki station just before four in the morning. Takuya passed through the ticket gates and stepped out on to the road in the darkness. Usuki had not entirely escaped the ravages of war, but rows of antiquated wooden houses still stood on both sides of the street, as befitted the old castle town. The road wound through the town, with different buildings silhouetted round each bend. The moon was on the wane and the heavens teemed with stars. When he reached the outskirts he smelled salt in the air and heard the sound of waves breaking. Before long an expanse of sea opened up in front of him and he could make out a number of small boats moored to a little jetty.

Takuya made his way along the road beside the water. When he was near the ferry terminal he slipped under a canopy and sat down on the ground. Many people were sleeping there, lying or sitting under the eaves of the building. One man stirred and turned to look listlessly at Takuya, who had propped himself against the wooden wall, pulling his service cap down over his face and shutting his eyes. He was feverish and his joints felt tired and weak. The pistol felt hard yet reassuring through the cloth of the rucksack in his lap. His grip on consciousness loosened and he slipped into a deep sleep.

The sun beat down on his face more and more intensely.
Takuya opened his eyes and, still seated, gazed out across the water. His lower back felt cold and his legs were numb. His sleeping companions were awake now, sitting or lying on the narrow pier.

Takuya pulled a paper bag from his rucksack and dropped a few dry roasted beans into his mouth. He hadn't had anything to eat since the afternoon of the previous day, but he wasn't really hungry.

As he chewed the beans his throat felt dry and he stood up, walked around to the rear of the building, drank some water from a tap and washed his face. He relieved himself on the dirt, and noticed that his urine was yellowish brown and frothy.

After a while a long queue formed on the pier, and he joined the end of it. Lice crawled over the scalp of the young girl standing in front of him. As soon as one hid itself in her hair another would appear immediately somewhere else, lift its rear end slightly, then burrow in among the roots of her hair.

After about an hour Takuya followed the others on to the boat bound for Yawatahama. Another forty-five minutes passed before the boat finally chugged laboriously away from the pier. Takuya found himself a corner of the deck near the bow and sat down.

The boat left the bay and passed close by Muku island on the starboard side before entering the Bungo Channel, where the smooth passage ended and a slight pitch and roll began.

Far off to the northwest he could make out the Kunisaki peninsula. The American B-29 bomber squadrons operating
out of Saipan had often aimed to enter and leave Kyushu airspace at this landmark. Aircraft spotters were stationed all over the peninsula, as well as electronic listening devices to detect the approach of incoming aircraft. In the anti-aircraft strategic operations room of Western Regional Command they had processed the information, immediately alerted the air defence forces with an estimated point of incursion, and then provided them with a precise flight path to intercept the bombers.

As Takuya gazed at the peninsula, his mind returned to an incident involving the people of a fishing village at the tip of the landmass. Six months before the end of the war, a B-29 returning from a bombing mission was hit by fire from an anti-aircraft battery and brought down in the sea just off the fishing village. Three of its crew survived by parachuting into the water. The villagers put their boats out straight away, found the bomber crewmen and roughly pulled them into the boats before dumping them on shore. One of the three fliers was utterly terrified, running at the nose and convulsing uncontrollably. The villagers – men, women and children – beat the crewmen mercilessly until an old fisherman picked up a harpoon and ran it through one of the Americans. The official report on the incident described the old man's action as motivated by ‘irrepressible feelings of indignation toward these outlaws who would violate the Imperial realm with the objective of slaughtering innocent old people, women and children'.

In all likelihood US military intelligence had already established that some fliers not only had survived their bomber going down, but had then been assaulted, and
that one of their number had been killed. At the time, the actions of the villagers met with unquestioning approval, and they doubtless even felt something akin to pride about what had happened. But with the end of the war they, too, would be leaving for fear of pursuit by the American military.

Takuya stared toward the peninsula, now nothing more than a dim shadow in the distance. He realised that throughout the country countless people must be in the same predicament as he was.

The boat's pitch and roll remained slight, and all he really noticed was the monotonous beat of the engines. Before long Takuya fell asleep.

He was awakened by the sound of the boat's horn. The ferry pulled alongside a pier and a rope was thrown into the waiting arms of a man on shore. Takuya filed off the boat behind the other passengers.

Near the exit from the landing-stage there were two policemen in washed-out uniforms watching the passengers disembark nervously. Those carrying luggage tried to pass by the police, but almost all were ordered to enter a holding-pen set up to one side. They were confiscating any items, such as food, upon which the authorities had placed trading restrictions. The two policemen hardly glanced at Takuya and his battered rucksack as he walked past.

Takuya made his way to Yawatahama station, where he again joined a long line to buy a ticket. More than an hour later his turn finally came, and he headed toward the platform, ticket in hand. The train was waiting, a steam engine with four passenger carriages and two freight cars.
As the passenger carriages were already packed, he squeezed into a space on one of the freight cars.

The whistle sounded and the train slowly headed south-wards. Takuya sat back against the wall and stretched his legs out on the straw-covered floor. The train stopped at each station along the way, sometimes for quite a while at even the smallest of stations. Some of the floorboards in the carriage were missing, and he could see through to tufts of weeds growing among the sleepers and the stones on the tracks.

The sun was sliding down toward the west. Takuya felt the urge to relieve himself, so he grasped the sides of the opening through which he'd boarded, stood on tiptoe to clear the low outer wall, and urinated off the moving train. The sky was a brilliant red and the far-off ridges were tinged with purple.

The sun went down and the freight car was plunged into darkness. That night the stars were out in force, the moon one day further on the wane. Every so often, when the train rushed past electric signals, the freight car was bathed in a blaze of light, providing a split second's respite from the all-encompassing night.

The train pressed along the coast and, just as Takuya thought he glimpsed the black expanse of the sea, the engine and its carriages hurtled into a tunnel. From time to time he could make out lights from what must have been clusters of houses and fishing villages along the coast.

Takuya raised his head just enough to read the names on the passing station signs. He thought that the police might be keeping an eye on the station in the town next to his
village, so he had made up his mind to leave the train one station short of his destination.

The train slowed and pulled to a halt beside the platform of a small station. He jumped down from the freight car, circled around it, crossed the tracks and walked through the ticket gates and out of the station. Avoiding the densely populated street, he made his way back along the railway line and started walking. The subtle bluish white of the steel tracks stretched before him into the distance, the clearly visible lights ahead reminding him that he had only a short distance to go.

When he was quite close to the town, he stepped down from the railway bed and walked along a path between two paddy fields. Perhaps because his eyes had become used to the dark, the waning moon seemed to illuminate everything around him. There was not a soul in sight.