Under the Sun (13 page)

‘Good evening,’ he said.

‘Not disturbing you, am I?’ asked Strickland as he entered, removing his sandals and leaving them on the porch.

The captain smiled and shook his head.

‘No, no, it’s just the news … what’s going on at home.’

The pilot felt a sharp pang of guilt. He had hardly thought about ‘home’ in the last few days, it seemed so far removed from his life on the island.

‘Anything happened?’

‘Well, the Americans are still bombing Tokyo. They used to bomb only at night, but now they bomb during the day as well. It seems half the city has been razed. So much destruction and for what?’

The question hung in the air like an unanswered prayer, hopeful and hopeless at the same time. The two men said nothing as Chamberlain chittered away in the corner, gnawing
on the coconut husk. The captain shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing they could do.

‘How about some
sake
?’

‘Why not?’ answered the pilot.

The Japanese officer called out to his orderly, asking him to bring them some rice wine, the radio’s voice playing behind him.

‘Take a seat,’ he said and Strickland pulled up a chair.

Hayama continued to keep an ear on the report and a look of anguish passed across his face.

‘How can you bomb cities?’

The voice behind him carried on, the announcer reading out a litany of destruction across Japan.

‘It’s madness, I know.’

And Strickland did know. He had seen the damage the
Luftwaffe
had wrought on London while he had flown sorties above the burning entrails of the city, the sun almost obliterated by dust and smoke. Nor were his own side blameless, Germany had also suffered. In the end it was like for like, a constant war of attrition that led nowhere. For the first time the pilot felt
responsible
for the destruction, even though he had never dropped a single bomb. He could not pretend that it had nothing to do with him. It was his war too.

The report continued and the officers sat there in silence,
listening
to a voice that seemed to come from the depths of the underworld. An oracle that spoke of tragedy and sorrow, but which bore no actual relevance to their own lives. All around them the world was being decimated by an extraordinary
hurricane
, while they remained safe on the island. The eye of this terrible storm.

The pilot shook his head and leant back in his chair.

‘When will it ever end?’

‘It depends upon America.’

‘America?’

The captain nodded, picked up a paper knife and began to turn it in his fingers.

‘I am sure America wants to destroy Japan. There can only be one power in the Pacific.’

‘But is that possible?’

‘To destroy Japan?’

‘Yes.’

Hayama shook his head.

‘Frankly, no. That is why I am hopeful the Allies and Japan will see sense and make an honourable peace.’

The voice on the radio finally ceased and after a paean to the Emperor, some martial music was played.

‘Come on, let’s forget about the war and have a drink,’ he said, switching off the radio and together they went and sat down on the tatami. As they waited for the orderly to bring them their
sake
, Strickland put a hand inside his pocket and produced the carving.

‘I have a present for you,’ and he laid his gift on the low table in front of them.

‘What’s this?’ asked the captain, picking up the piece of wood and examining it.

‘It’s an icon. It’s meant to be John of the Cross.’

‘Really? The little friar? Thank you. How did you know it was my birthday …?’ and he grinned as he answered his own
question
: ‘Of course, our friend Ito.’

‘He only told me this morning.’

‘Well, he shouldn’t have, but thanks for the thought.’ Hayama got up and placed the icon on the shelf above his swords. He stood back and admired it. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘He looks just how I imagined. He can be my guardian and watch over me.’

The pilot smiled. The present was more successful than he had hoped.

‘By the way, how old are you?’ he asked.

‘Thirty-four,’ replied his host as he sat down again at the table. ‘Too young for wisdom, too old for youth. How about you?’

‘Twenty-five,’ said Strickland.

‘Really? You look older. I’m sure I do too.’

‘It must be the war.’

The captain nodded. It was true. War aged men considerably. If not in their faces, then in their souls. You could see it in their eyes.

There was a clink of china and a smiling Ito appeared with a tray bearing a jug of hot
sake
and three cups. He put it down on the table and on a plate was a cake with a solitary burning candle in the middle.

‘Congratulations, captain-san,’ said the orderly, bowing.

‘Private Ito, you have deliberately disobeyed an order! I should have you flogged!’

The orderly shrugged and smiled. In spite of Hayama’s tone of voice, he knew he was joking.

‘Most sorry, captain-san.’

Strickland began to sing ‘happy birthday’ in English and Ito joined him in his own language, as Hayama sat there with an amused look on his face. The pair finished singing and he leant forward and blew out the candle to applause. The captain then picked up a knife and cut three slices from the cake. He offered up the plate and both the pilot and orderly took a piece, with Hayama taking the last. They all began to eat their portion, the officers complimenting Ito on his baking. The sponge was light and buttery and tasted of vanilla and almonds, with a hint of lemon. The captain then poured out the
sake
and Strickland took a cup and raising it, he proposed a toast.

‘To friendship,’ he said.

‘Friendship and long life,’ added the orderly and the three of them clinked cups.

‘
Kanpai!
’ said the captain, before downing his drink.

‘
Kanpai!
’ repeated his guests.

The trio sat there enjoying their
sake
and birthday cake, when a noise arose from the compound and a chorus of voices could be heard.

‘What’s this?’ asked the captain, hearing the carousing outside. ‘What’s going on?’

He listened with a bemused look on his face as a troop of
soldiers climbed up the steps of his hut, singing and playing a variety of musical instruments. There were trumpets and flutes, cymbals and drums, violins and tambourines. They stood there on the verandah singing and playing and making an
extraordinary
cacophony. The captain leapt to his feet and shouted, trying to look angry. But the more Hayama stamped and swore, the more everyone’s mirth increased.

‘My birthday is not to be celebrated! I gave strict
instructions
!’ he bellowed.

Even though his voice was harsh, you could see the captain was trying to keep a straight face, his mouth suppressing a smile.

‘Damn you insolent sons of bitches! Shut up! Shut up I tell you, you bunch of beardless hermaphrodites! I wouldn’t employ you in a brothel!’

The men ignored him and carried on playing their tuneless dirge. Unnoticed, Ito slipped away and the pilot got up and took Hayama by the arm and led him outside. Together the soldiers serenaded the officers across the compound towards the mess, the captain lamely protesting as they walked. When they arrived there was a great cheer from the rest of the company, who were all waiting for them. The tables had been cleared away and replaced by several rows of benches, which faced a curtained stage. Hayama and Strickland were escorted to an empty place in the middle of the front row. They sat down and the band stopped playing and took up some chairs to one side. There was a hush as the house lights dimmed and the babble of voices subsided. The curtain was raised and the audience sat in silent expectation, waiting for the performance to begin.

On stage a woman was sitting at a table combing her hair and singing, her voice accompanied by a violin’s mournful note. A light shone through a window revealing a large double bed. As the woman turned and faced the audience, Strickland saw that it was Ito. His face was whitened with chalk, his lips rouged so that he looked as pretty as any geisha, and he began to sing in a lilting falsetto.

As Ito sang Hayama leant across and whispered in Strickland’s ear, giving a brief outline of the play,
The Gilded Cage
, which was an old favourite in Japan. The story was about a beautiful young woman called Sweet Pea who is married to a wealthy but
hopeless
drunk and is obliged to take lovers because her husband ignores her. Ito stopped singing and the chorus began.

A burly man arrived on stage staggering and carrying a flagon, which he waved about his head. Despite the actor’s beard and make-up, Strickland could see that it was Sergeant Noguchi and the chorus began to sing again.

The husband began to sing, his ‘basso profundo’ voice
rumbling
like a storm cloud as it filled the mess hall.

Sweet Pea stopped brushing her hair and taking her
husband’s
hand to great whistles and catcalls from the audience, she drew back the covers and the pair of them got into bed. As soon as the sergeant’s head hit the pillow he gave an enormous belch and began to snore and the chorus burst into song once more.

The heroine then sat up in bed, sounding forlorn as she sang.

And so Sweet Pea was left with no other choice but to take a succession of lovers, hiding them under the bed or getting them to jump out of the window when her husband arrived home drunk and bellowing and demanding satisfaction which he could never give. The audience roared with laughter and cheered as the cuckold began to suspect that something was awry, but of course could never catch the perpetrators. The climax came when the husband failed to come home one night and Sweet Pea discovered that he had been so drunk, he had fallen down a well and drowned. She went through the motions of mourning and wearing widow’s weeds, but in a dramatic finale she stripped them off, returning to the city a free woman. The chorus rose and sang a rousing finish.

The curtain fell and when it was raised again, the cast came forward for their bow. Hayama and Strickland stood and applauded, along with the rest of the soldiers who shouted and stamped their feet. The cheers grew as Sergeant Noguchi emerged from the wings to take his turn and rose in a crescendo when Ito appeared. The orderly smiled happily as the soldiers whistled and pounded the floor with their boots. It had been a virtuoso performance and with the applause reverberating around the hall, the rest of the cast pushed him to the front of
the stage and began to clap as well. Ito stood there and took another bow as the audience cheered him on. He looked at the two officers who were shouting and clapping as loudly as anyone and smiled shyly and bowed. The orderly had been the star of the show.

After several encores the cast departed from the stage and the audience began to disperse. Hayama and Strickland left the mess and wandered out into the night air, the sound of applause still ringing in their ears. They walked across the compound without a word, neither man wanting to break the spell. A nightjar called like a voice from the underworld. The officers stopped and
listened
to the bird’s solitary song. What was it saying? It sounded like a warning. But a warning of what? The nightjar’s chirring grew fainter and fainter, until there was only silence. The two friends walked on, above them cold fires burned in the heavens. The air was pure and still, and a mist rose from the full moon.

The submarine slid through the black waters of the harbour like an eel through marshland, the engines making a low humming noise. On its conning tower the letters 1–47 gleamed palely in the moonlight. A bow wave rippled and shone like mercury as the vessel made its way towards the jetty, a trail of
phosphorescence
floating in its wake. Inside the darkened hull of the vessel Commander Kazuo Shimura was standing knee deep in water, encouraging his men as they continued to work the pumps by hand. The electrics had been destroyed in the attack and the only light inside the vessel came from the open hatch of the conning tower. Inside, it was foul and reeked of diesel and sweat, and Shimura gazed upwards, feeling the night air press against his face. He looked down and saw his men working away as they kept the submarine afloat, many of them stripped naked because of the heat, their bodies covered in grease and engine oil. They were safe now they had reached the island. But the day before had been very different. At dawn they had attacked an
American
convoy, torpedoing a merchant ship before the escorting destroyers were alerted and began to hunt them down. They had been depth charged so many times that Shimura had lost count. Each explosion had rocked the vessel until it seemed the hull would crack open like an egg. Somehow they had survived and finally evading the escorts, 1–47 had slipped away.

A whistle blew and taking the communication pipe, the
commander
put it to his ear and ordered the engines to be stilled. He replaced the pipe and ascended the conning tower’s iron ladder, joining his second in command who had been acting as the pilot, guiding the submarine through the reef.

‘We’re here, sir,’ said the lieutenant, standing to attention and saluting his superior officer as he appeared on the bridge.

‘Nice work, Yoshida,’ replied his commander and looking out over the parapet, he watched as his men emerged from the forward hatch and secured the vessel to the pier with steel hawsers. When they had finished Shimura took the
communication
pipe and ordered the rest of his crew out from the
submarine
. He replaced the pipe and climbing down the conning tower, the commander joined his company on the quayside. Yoshida followed him and listened as Shimura congratulated his men on their work and explained how their discipline and training had saved their lives. He told the company to go and get some rest, they would begin repairs at dawn.

The commander turned to his lieutenant and looked at his exhausted, oil-smeared face and smiled.

‘That includes you, Yoshida.’

‘What about you, sir? You must rest too.’

‘I will, but first I must go and see Captain Hayama and tell him what has happened.’

Yoshida saluted his commander and watched as he turned and strode away down the jetty. The lieutenant waited until he had gone before addressing the submarine’s company again. He repeated Shimura’s orders and telling them to fall out, he leant against a wooden pile and took out a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his tunic. The cigarettes were damp and smelt of diesel, but Yoshida managed to light one and as he inhaled all the tension and fear he felt evaporated and his heart was light as he gazed up at the ghost moon.

Strickland was startled awake by a hand shaking his shoulder.

‘Quick! You must get up and leave!’ said a voice in the darkness.

The pilot opened his eyes and tried to find the voice’s face, but the room was swathed in black and he could see only a dim shape. He knew the voice belonged to Ito, but why had he come to wake him in the middle of the night?

‘What is it, Ito? What’s happened?’

‘The submarine has returned! You must leave now. Come quickly!’

The pilot leapt out of bed and putting on his clothes and sandals he followed Ito, slipping out the back of the hut and into the yard. In the distance he could hear the sound of engines throbbing and through the trees he saw the dark outline of the submarine as it made its way across the harbour.

‘Here, take this!’ said the orderly, thrusting a canvas bag into the pilot’s hands. ‘It’s some food, enough for three days at least. A week if you’re careful. You must move only at night. Do not come anywhere near the camp.’

‘And Hayama?’

‘He knows. Quick! You must go!’

The pilot dashed off into the undergrowth, the lianas and branches swatting his face and arms as he stumbled over the great roots of the banyans that blocked his flight. He found the path that led towards the mountain and continued headlong up the incline, frantic for breath, his lungs heaving as he ran. Before the forest petered out into the plantains and banks of elephant grass, Strickland turned away from the path and forded the stream that flowed down the mountain, his feet slipping upon the moss-strewn rocks as he splashed his way to the other side. He reached the bank and gasping, looked about.

Up ahead there was a spinny of young trees and he crawled into the middle of the thicket, dragging the bag of food after him. He settled down in the pitch darkness, surrounded by dense scrub and listened as his breath came in shallow, painful rasps. There was nothing, just the faint music of the stream as it fell towards the sea. The pilot could smell the leaves and dry earth beneath him and knew that no rain or sunlight ever
penetrated
this place. He was safe from prying eyes. Gradually his breath and sense of equilibrium returned and using the bag as a pillow, Strickland lay down to rest. He looked up at the dark and heavy foliage which hung above his head and wondered why the
submarine had returned, and thought that perhaps he had been betrayed.

Yet Ito had told him to flee and said that Hayama knew, so it could not be. Once again the captain had saved the pilot’s life. How could he ever repay his debt? He realised there had to be a reason for the submarine’s return, but whatever it was he must stay hidden for as long as the vessel remained at the island. Strickland lay cocooned in the undergrowth, listening to the forest sounds and the distant song of the stream as it cascaded over the rocks. He felt secure in his hiding place and hoped Hayama would not worry. It was only now that he understood the extraordinary risk the captain had taken in sparing his life. This singular act of compassion had so surprised the pilot that he had never given it any further thought. It would have been so much easier for the captain if he had executed him and yet he had not. He had said himself that he did not know why. It was fate which had decreed it should be so and Hayama the faithful servant had obeyed. But Strickland also knew that one day the gods would demand their dues and he would have to repay his debt.

The captain sat at his desk chain smoking, bathed in the light of a solitary lamp as he waited for the submarine’s commander to arrive. He had already sent Noguchi down to the harbour to greet Shimura, lest he should think it strange that a man of
subordinate
rank had not bothered to do so himself. But Hayama had been concerned the Englishman might have been tempted to give himself up out of some erroneous sense of honour and that would have been disastrous for everyone. So, he had stayed behind just in case, until Ito had told him that all was well and the pilot had disappeared into the forest.

Hayama tried to relax, but the tension he felt within was almost overwhelming. His hand shook as he held his cigarette. He put it to his lips and drew deeply on the filter, exhaling a cloud of smoke which swam in the pool of light before him,
slowly dissipating into the night air. He heard the sound of
footsteps
approaching and stubbing out his cigarette, he got to his feet. The captain straightened his uniform and saw two figures ascend the stairs and appear at his doorway.

The sergeant walked into the room and bowing low at Hayama, he introduced his visitor.

‘Commander Shimura-san of the Combined Fleet honours us with his presence, sir.’

‘Indeed we are honoured,’ replied Hayama with a bow. ‘You are most welcome.’

Shimura gave a curt salute and stepping forward, he extended a hand in greeting. Hayama took it and offered his superior the chair opposite his desk and they sat down.

‘Will that be all, sir?’ asked Noguchi standing at the doorway.

‘Yes, thank you,’ replied the captain and with another bow, the sergeant turned and left.

For a moment the Japanese officers looked at each other and the contrast could hardly have been more different. Hayama neatly turned out as always, his khaki uniform spotless, his boots well polished. Whereas the submariner was covered in grease and engine oil and had the sour vinegar smell of someone who has not washed in weeks. Shimura’s face was filthy, but below the dirt you could see the stress and exhaustion etched in the lines of his face. Years of patrolling beneath the surface of the sea and attacking and evading enemy shipping had taken their toll. His eyes had a dark and hooded look about them like a crow’s.

‘Would you care for some refreshment, commander?’

‘Yes … please.’

The captain called out to his orderly to bring them some tea and as they waited he offered his guest a cigarette, which he declined.

‘I’m sorry I forgot. You don’t smoke. You don’t mind if I do?’

Shimura shook his head and watched as his host lit yet another Kinshi, his fingers trembling slightly.

‘I apologise for my unexpected return, captain, but it was
absolutely necessary. I couldn’t inform you because I didn’t want to break radio silence, in case we were still being pursued by the enemy.’

‘There’s no need to explain yourself, commander. I quite understand. I’m simply glad that you are safe and well.’

Shimura nodded and looking up he saw Ito emerge from the kitchen with a tray, which the orderly put down on the desk in front of them. He departed and the captain began to pour them both some tea. On a plate were some sweet rice cakes known as
omochi
, which he offered to his superior. Shimura took one and together the two men drank their jasmine tea, Hayama’s
cigarette
smoke trailing through the humid air.

The captain listened as the commander told him of his
successful
attack on the American convoy and their fortunate escape, adding that their hull had been badly damaged during the destroyers’ subsequent pursuit and would take several days to repair.

‘I’m glad the gods have smiled upon your endeavour and that you will soon be able to continue your glorious work against the enemy. Naturally my men are at your disposal. If there is
anything
else you require, you only have to ask.’

Shimura smiled and drained his cup and Hayama dutifully refilled it and offered him another rice cake which he accepted. The captain took a last drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray, before picking up his packet and lighting another. He took a deep drag and exhaling, he began filling his own cup. The commander noticed the teapot tremble briefly in his grasp, but put it down to exhaustion. He was tired enough himself.

The submariner looked at his watch and stifled a yawn with his hand. There were only a couple of hours left until dawn.

‘If you don’t mind, captain, I would like to get some rest. I have told my men they are to start repairs at first light and I want to oversee the operation.’

‘Of course,’ replied his subordinate. ‘There is an empty quarter next to mine. You can use that.’

The officers drained their cups of tea and stood up. Hayama led the way and leaving his own hut, he ascended the steps of the one next door. He opened the fly screen and stepped inside, Shimura following him. The place was dark and the captain went over to the bed and taking out his cigarette lighter, he lit the hurricane lamp on the table, the flame casting an amber glow around the cabin.

‘This will be fine,’ said the commander, oberving his
surroundings
. It had been a long time since he had slept in a cot on dry land. He looked across at the shelf by the bed and saw Ensign Aoki’s photograph.

‘A previous occupant?’

The captain nodded and explained how his second in command had succumbed to a fever during the last monsoon.

‘Most unfortunate. And these?’ he asked, picking up a set of dog tags which lay beside the picture. ‘Are they his?’

If Shimura had not had his back to him, he would have seen Hayama turn as white as a geisha. The commander flipped the tags over in his hand and examined them.

‘No … they are not. They are in English …’ and he held them out, the metal gleaming dully in the light.

‘They belonged to the pilot you shot down,’ said the captain. ‘His body washed up on the shore. I took his identity tags because I thought I might send them to his family. I must have left them here by mistake. I wondered where they had got to,’ and
reaching
out he took the metal discs and put them in his pocket.

Shimura observed his subordinate and realised that he was lying. He did not know how he knew this, he just did. Perhaps it was his years as a submariner, living with men at close quarters. He knew his crew intimately. More importantly, he could always tell when someone was not telling him the truth. There were no secrets aboard a submarine. The commander wondered why the captain should want to lie. Part of what he said, he knew was correct. He had seen the aircraft crash into the sea with his own eyes and he doubted the pilot could have survived the impact. He
may have been dead already. Yet he could be mistaken. Perhaps the pilot had survived. Whatever had happened, it was unlikely that he had simply washed up on the beach. The man had been too far out and the current flowed away from the island. Besides, the sharks would have got him long before.

‘I see,’ said the commander, scrutinising his subordinate.

‘It’ll be dawn soon,’ countered Hayama, avoiding his gaze. ‘I’ll come and wake you.’

‘Thank you,’ Shimura replied and acknowledging the
captain’s
brief bow, he watched him leave.

When Hayama had gone the commander went to the shelf where the dog tags had been. On it was the ensign’s photograph. Shimura looked at the face staring impassively out at him.