Under the Sun (11 page)

He slid swiftly down the volcanic clinker, a fine grey dust rising up into the air as he went. The rocky path levelled out and soon he had left the clumps of elephant grass with their clouds of butterflies and entered the cool shade of the forest. The journey down the hill was much easier and the pilot did not need to stop and drink from the stream as he passed the giant banyan where he had found the little macaque. With one hand cradling the monkey he wandered down the trail, the sunlight glancing through the trees, leaving bright pools across the path.

A few minutes later Strickland emerged from the forest and walked out across the burning compound. He carried on past the soldiers’ quarters and the mess hall and went up to Hayama’s
hut. He ascended the steps and could see the captain working at his desk. The pilot tapped on the frame and pushing the fly screen open, he stepped inside. The captain stopped writing and looked up.

‘Enjoy your walk?’

‘Yes, thank you. You can see for miles.’

‘I know. I sometimes go there myself. It’s good to get away from the camp occasionally. Have you been collecting
coconuts
?’ Hayama pointed to the bulge in the pilot’s shirt.

‘Not exactly,’ and putting a hand inside, Strickland produced the monkey.

‘
Oya maa!
Where did you get that?’

‘I found it under a bush. It must have fallen off its mother’s back,’ said the pilot, offering the captain the macaque.

Hayama took the monkey and held it, tickling it with his finger as if it were a small child. It had large sympathetic brown eyes and naked fleshy ears, which jutted out like a clown’s. The monkey whimpered softly and the captain turned it over in his hands, looking for any signs of injury. But there were none, the macaque having had a soft landing when it fell. He gazed down at the fine white hair on its stomach and saw the genitalia between its legs.

‘It’s a boy,’ he announced, like a proud parent. ‘What shall we call him?’

Strickland smiled. He thought Hayama the naturalist would take an interest, but he did not think he would go so far as to adopt the creature.

‘Well, if Hitler is the organ grinder, who’s his monkey?’

‘Mussolini?’

The pilot looked at the brown furry ball in the captain’s hands.

‘I think that’s a little unfair.’

‘What, to that idiot?’

‘No, to monkeys. I was thinking rather of Neville Chamberlain.’

‘Wonderful! Chamberlain it is!’ the captain exclaimed and he bent down and kissed the monkey’s soft fur. ‘Do you think he’s hungry?’

‘Probably. What are we going to feed him?’

‘Let’s try a bit of fruit to see if he’s been weaned. I’ll give him some mango. It’s very digestible.’ Hayama handed the monkey back to the pilot and went off to the kitchen.

Strickland held the warm bundle, which seemed quite content and soon the captain returned with a small bowl of diced yellow fruit. He dipped his fingers into the mango and picked up a piece and held it in front of the monkey’s nose. The macaque sniffed the morsel, then took it with its tiny paw and ate it. Hayama repeated the action and the monkey did the same again, slowly chewing the mango, its brown simian eyes fixed trustingly upon the captain. Soon the bowl was empty and the Japanese officer put it down and taking the macaque from Strickland, he spoke soothingly.

‘There we go. How was that? Did you like the mango?
Delicious
, isn’t it? Now you must rest. Where would you like to sleep?’

The pilot watched all this with a smile on his face. Hayama seemed transformed, his earlier despondency having apparently vanished. Now that he had something to care for, his
melancholy
and lassitude had been replaced by a cheerful ebullience. The captain searched for a suitable place and saw a box by his bed, where he kept his charts. Holding the macaque with one hand, he tipped the charts out onto the bed and picking up his pillow, he put it in the bottom of the container. He then placed the monkey on the pillow and put the box back in the corner. He watched over it for a while and satisfied, he picked up the charts and turned to the pilot.

‘I think he’ll be fine. He’s been weaned, which is a relief. We’ll let him sleep.’

‘He liked the mango.’

‘They do. They’re not fussy, they like anything really. Roots, leaves, nuts, fruit. Just like us,’ and the captain grinned. ‘How about some lunch? Ito’s prepared a picnic. I thought we’d go down to the beach and eat it there.’

‘OK,’ said the pilot. Not only was he hungry after his long
walk, but he also felt hot and clammy and wanted a bathe.

The captain put the charts down on his desk and went into the kitchen, returning with two small parcels in his hand and a canteen. Hayama and Strickland left the macaque in its box and together they made their way down to the beach. As they approached the shore, the pilot could hear cries and laughter echoing through the trees and as the palms gave way to the sand, he saw the soldiers playing volleyball. The men did not notice the officers at first and carried on with their game, until one of them shouted out and the entire troop stopped and standing to attention they all bowed as one, the ball bouncing away across the sand and into the sea.

‘
Tsuzukeru shinshi
,’ said Hayama.

‘
Heitai-san!
’ replied the men and one of them ran off to retrieve the ball bobbing in the surf.

The soldier dashed into the water and picking up the ball, he ran back to his comrades and they started their game again. Hayama and Strickland sat down beneath a palm tree to watch, their bento boxes on their laps. The pilot opened his and found some dried fish, a ball of rice with green pepper, some bean curd and a small pot containing soy sauce. Using his fingers he dipped the fish in the bean curd and put it into his mouth, finding the saltiness of the dried fish leavened by the sweetness of the curd. He took the lid off the pot and picking up a lump of rice, he dabbed it in the sauce and ate it. The captain also began his own picnic and together the two of them ate their lunch and watched as the men threw the ball about, leaping at the net to smash it over the side, or else trying to prevent it from coming into their own half. Sometimes the strike would beat the opposition and a new game commenced; a man would dive across the sand and punch the ball to a teammate, who would flick it on to cheers from his own side and shouts from the other.

‘They’re good,’ said Strickland.

‘I know. I taught them myself,’ replied the captain, proud of his men’s ability. ‘I learned to play in Hawaii.’

‘It wasn’t all spying then?’

Hayama laughed and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

‘Some of my best work was done at the beach!’

The pilot looked out towards the reef and saw the breakers crashing white against the coral barrier.

‘Did you ride the waves on those long wooden boards?’

‘You mean did I surf?’ asked the captain and the pilot nodded. ‘I did try, but it takes a lot of practice. To be any good you really have to start from the day you can swim.’

‘You liked Hawaii then?’

‘Yes I did. They’re an island race too.’ Hayama smiled. ‘They have an interesting history. Like the Carolines, they began as volcanic eruptions in the sea and life evolved in its own unique way. It really was a paradise. There were no mosquitoes, reptiles, or rats. Almost everything unpleasant in the islands was brought by man. The first settlers were the Polynesians, the greatest
seafaring
people on earth.’

Strickland picked up a piece of fish and popped the morsel in his mouth and swallowed.

‘With the possible exception of the Vikings,’ he said.

‘Ah! The Norsemen. How could I forget? That’s why your country became such a great naval power. All that Viking blood!’

‘There are many Norse names where I come from. A
chronicler
of those times called Bede lived in a monastery by the sea. From the window of his cell he looked out onto the ocean. Over the horizon lay Denmark and the Vikings. The English never knew when they would come, but when they saw the ships’ sails appear on the horizon, everyone fled to the nearest castle. Those who didn’t perished. Eventually, the Vikings stopped raiding and stayed and mixed with the local population.’

The captain looked at the pilot and grinned.

‘Of course they did. Look at you. Tall, blue-eyed, fair and with that beard!’

The pilot stroked his jaw. The beard no longer itched and he thought he might keep it.

They continued eating their lunch, watching the soldiers play and Strickland thought how similar these men were to his own comrades, as they whiled away their afternoons on the cricket field. Everyone happy under heaven. He finished his food and lay back under the palm trees, watching the rustling fronds swaying in the ocean breeze.

‘You must have had mixed feelings about leaving Hawaii.’

‘Yes I did. I’d like to go back there. Who knows, maybe after the war?’

The pilot turned onto his side and faced the captain.

‘What will you do when the war’s over?’

‘I haven’t really given it much thought. I’d like to do a
doctorate
in entomology. Perhaps in Honolulu. What about you?’

‘Finish my degree at Oxford.’

‘What were you studying?’

‘Greats.’

Hayama looked quizically at his companion.

‘What’s that?’

‘The classics: Latin and Greek.’

‘And then?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps teaching.’

‘You would be a good teacher.’

Strickland was silent and looking away, he watched the waves as they gently lapped the shore. Before the war he had
considered
joining the church, his faith had always been strong and he admired the monks who had taught him, giving him a sense of man’s true place in the world through their own spirituality. The Benedictine philosophy was one of
conversatio morum
, a
conversion
of manners or more accurately, life. Their teaching left a watermark on the child’s soul, which was visible only when held up to the light, but remained indelible to the end. But as the war continued the Englishman’s belief in God had diminished. It was not so much the personal loss of his friends and comrades, that he knew was fate. Yet sometimes the pilot questioned the
existence
of a deity that allowed such carnage to rage unabated. Was
this not a time for divine intervention? An act of God? Then he remembered something a priest had once told him at school.

‘In the evening of life we shall be examined in love.’

‘Who said that?’

‘A Spanish friar called John of the Cross. He was a doctor of the Christian church.’

The captain picked up a shell and dug at the sand.

‘Tell me about this John of the Cross.’

The pilot gazed out across the lagoon as he recalled his studies of the saint.

‘He was a sixteenth-century Spanish mystic who led a humble life at a time when the Catholic church was not especially known for its humility. He was so devout that his own order imprisoned him because his holiness embarrassed them. He wrote several works about faith and how to lead a life devoted to Christ. He also wrote a considerable amount of poetry.’

‘Can you remember any?’

‘It was a long time ago,’ said the pilot. ‘But I remember one in particular,’ and he began to recite a poem that he had learned as a boy.

Strickland finished and a silence lay between the two men. The soldiers had gone and there was just the whisper of palm fronds
and the waves lapping the shell-strewn shore. Hayama looked out towards the distant surf and the horizon beyond and was filled with a sense of peace. He had not known anything like it since the war began. This man had come into his life like some winged messenger from the gods. Why had they sent him? The captain was sure there had to be a reason. He turned towards the pilot.

‘Will you write it down for me?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ came the reply.

Strickland sat up and in the distance he could see a lithe, young figure bounding over the rocks. The man jumped down onto the sand and came running towards them.

Moments later a breathless Ito slumped down at their feet. He was wearing a pair of swimming trunks, his dark hair matted, his body wet and glistening. In his hand he held a harpoon. Around his back was a string bag and unfastening it, he put a hand inside and produced his spoils. He held out a dead octopus, lank and leathery like a punctured football.

‘
Tako!
’ he said, showing the tentacled creature to his captain.

‘Well done, we’ll eat it for supper. Where did you catch it?’

‘
Ni nanpa taiisan
,’ replied the orderly, still breathless from his exertions.

‘What did he say?’ asked Strickland.

‘He said he caught it out by the wreck. There’s an old Dutch merchant ship, which lies in a few fathoms of water near the reef. It was probably damaged by a typhoon, then sank as it made its way into the harbour. Ito does most of his fishing there.’

‘I’d like to see it,’ said the pilot.

‘Ito, why don’t you show Mr Strickland the wreck? Perhaps you might catch another octopus, this one is pretty small.’

‘
Heitai-san
,’ answered the orderly.

‘And you can practice your English too.’

‘Yes … sir,’ replied Ito with a bashful look.

‘I’ll take this home and put it in some water.’ Hayama got up and picking up the octopus and the empty bento boxes, he walked back towards the camp.

The two men watched him go. As he disappeared into the trees, Strickland turned to his companion.