Under the Sun (16 page)

The afternoon sun shone high above the signals hut as the wireless operators sat at the control desk chatting about home and listening to Radio Tokyo. The music of Iva Toguri, better known as Tokyo Rose, filled the airwaves; her siren song
drifting
through the ether like some heavenly perfume. To Corporal Higa her voice was like a nightingale’s, natural and unadorned. It was enough to make a man weep and yet you could not tear yourself away from it, so exquisite was the sense of longing it engendered. As the sound of Tokyo Rose’s melodious singing filled the cabin, another more urgent note came from the
wireless
set.

Higa swung around in his seat and clamping a set of
earphones
to his head, he began to jot down the morse code that came through. The message was repeated and the corporal checked it against his original draft to make sure that he had not missed anything. The communiqué began and ended with Osaka’s own call sign, so he knew that it was genuine and not American propaganda.

It had taken less than a minute for the message to come through and when it finished, Tokyo Rose was still singing the same song.

‘Is it serious?’ asked Private Kamiko, who had heard Osaka’s call sign, but not the communication itself.

‘Yes,’ answered his fellow operator. ‘I must inform the captain at once.’

Higa took off the earphones and left the signals hut, dashing up the path that led towards the bluff above the harbour. He went over the hill and continued down through the forest, the
sheet of paper in his hand flapping in the breeze. Running across the sand he made his way towards the camp and passing the pilot’s cabin, Higa leapt up the steps of the captain’s quarters.

He saw Hayama at his desk and rapping briefly on the fly screen, he entered the hut and bowed. The captain looked
quizically
at him. It was most unusual for him to be disturbed at this hour, but he could see from the signaller’s face that something important must have happened.

‘What is it, corporal?’ he asked, noticing the man held a scrap of paper in his hand.

‘An urgent communiqué from Osaka, captain,’ answered his subordinate, breathless from his exertion. ‘I thought you should see it immediately.’

Hayama nodded and beckoned the man to come forward. The signaller advanced towards him with the communiqué in his hand. The captain took the note, read it and then he read it again, before shaking his head slowly. He put the sheet of paper down and sitting back in his chair, he ran a hand through his hair.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘Will that be all, sir?’

‘Yes … for the time being. I’ll make my usual report this evening. If you hear anything else you must tell me at once.’

‘Yes, sir,’ answered the corporal and bowing again, he left the hut.

Hayama looked down at the piece of paper on his desk and picking it up, he read it once more.

Osaka prefecture reports with great sorrow that His Imperial Majesty’s submarine 1–47 has been lost with all hands as a result of enemy action. Long live the Emperor!

The captain sat there staring at the words of the
communiqué
. All those fine young men drowned. He hoped the end had been quick and they had not suffered for long. Hayama let the piece of paper fall from his fingers and stared disconsolately out of the window. There would be no court martial now, but that
did not make him feel any better. He would rather face a military tribunal and whatever punishment it chose to administer, than have all those men lying at the bottom of the ocean. Nor had he liked Shimura much either, but the man was only doing his duty as a loyal servant of his Imperial Majesty and like the others, he did not deserve such a death.

‘So be it,’ Hayama sighed, gazing at the forest and the
mountain
rising beyond. ‘So be it.’

Hayama sat in his quarters, writing up his latest report on enemy shipping in the vicinity. He still could not quite believe the
communiqué
he had received the previous day, having come to the conclusion that Shimura and his submarine were indestructible, but the gods had thought otherwise. He could hear Strickland and his orderly chatting in the yard and presumed they were about to go fishing. He had told them about the fate of 1–47 and its crew and both men had been affected by the news. There would, he supposed, be other submarines. What would they do then? The captain did not have an answer to that question and knew he would have to take each circumstance as it arose.

He got up from his desk and went to release Chamberlain, who was sitting in a corner. He picked up the macaque and swung the monkey to and fro, while it gripped him with its paws. Although he had become its surrogate parent, Hayama realised that sooner or later he would have to let Chamberlain go. He would miss the monkey, but he knew it would be unfair to keep him as a pet. The macaque’s proper place was with its own kind on the island. Hayama was sure the monkey would survive, there was plenty of food in the forest and he was big enough to look after himself. He put Chamberlain down and giving him a pat, he fastened him to his chain again. Then he went over to his bed and picked up a large white net, which stood in the corner. Ito had told him about the glade in the forest and it was time to add to his butterfly collection. Hayama put the net under his arm and taking his specimen box, he left his cabin and walked across the baking compound. The solitary figure strode through the empty camp and disappeared into the forest.

As the captain set off on his butterfly expedition, Strickland and Ito made their way across the beach to the promontory. The pilot with his fishing rod, the orderly with his mask and harpoon.

‘What are you going to catch today?’ asked the Englishman, as they clambered up the rocks together.

‘Crab. We have not had crab for long time. I wanted to catch one for captain-san’s birthday, but I could not find one. Today I will go further out by reef. There are nice crab there.’

‘They seem rather hard to catch.’

‘Yes, they live deep and hide among rock. When I dive I must take big breath. I can only stay down for short time before I need air.’

‘Let’s hope you get one,’ said the pilot as the pair of them approached the massive piece of basalt that jutted out over the water.

‘I will, you’ll see,’ replied Ito with a smile as he hopped down to the shore.

He spat into his mask and rinsed it with seawater, before putting it over his head. He paused briefly on the rocky ledge with his back to the ocean, before jumping in and disappearing beneath the surface. The orderly reappeared moments later, the sunlight reflecting off the mask’s visor as he loaded the spear of his harpoon and with a final wave he set off towards the reef, the pale soles of his feet splashing in the surf. Ahead, the wind whipped the tops of the waves as they crashed over the pale barrier, the air reverberating to the surf’s roar.

Strickland watched as the orderly swam into deeper water, the reef a jagged white wall beyond. He looked away and releasing the lure from the shaft, he let it swing freely in the breeze, before raising the rod and casting into the sea. The wind buffeted him as he stood astride the boulder and he began to reel the lure in. He wondered if he would have any luck and hoped that he could surprise Ito by catching a big fish like the wahoo. The pilot continued reeling in his line and cast again into the surf, guiding
the silvery bait through the clear, shallow water above the wreck. He could see Ito swimming out by the reef, his figure dwarfed by the great rollers which crashed and thundered across the coral beyond. The orderly disappeared beneath a wave and the pilot carried on with his fishing.

After a while Strickland felt a tug at his line and with a
tightening
in his chest, he knew he had a bite. The bamboo pole flexed and quivered, the tip bending as the fish dived deeper. Strickland gave his quarry more line and let it run, and when it stopped he carefully began to draw it in. Unaware that it was caught, the fish let itself be guided towards the shore, until it was just a few feet from the rocks. The pilot could see it lying in the limpid water beneath him, the lure hanging from its mouth, although he could not make out what type it was, because of the refraction of the waves. As he peered down at his quarry Strickland’s shadow fell across the surface, frightening the fish which took off again, the line whizzing out from the reel. The pilot gripped the rod and chastised himself for this lapse of
concentration
, hoping he would not lose it. He let the line run for several more yards until the fish stopped and he began to play it once more.

By now his quarry was tiring and Strickland slowly drew it in, the reel clicking with each revolution. Soon the fish was within a couple of feet of the shore again. He put the rod down and nimbly descended the rocks to where it lay. The pilot picked up the line and saw he had caught a sea bream, weighing about four pounds. He gathered in the line and the fish struggled as he pulled it out of the water, its scales glittering in the light. The pilot grabbed it and squeezing its mouth open he removed the hook, the fish’s gills flaring pink as he did so. With the lure now free he turned the bream over and put it in the string bag, which he had brought with him. He placed the bag in a pool, putting a rock over one end and watched as the fish briefly thrashed about before settling on the bottom.

The pilot climbed back up the boulder, picked up his rod
and began casting into the water. As he did so he looked out towards the reef to see where Ito was. The waves crashed white against the coral and the sunlight flashed upon the water, but he could see no sign of his friend. Then a figure emerged and began swimming towards him. It seemed the orderly had something in his bag and Strickland wondered if he had managed to catch a crab. In a short while Ito reached the shore and climbing out he stood upon the rocks, his brown body glistening in the sun. He removed the bag from his waist, put his hand inside and pulled out a small octopus, its tentacles writhing around his forearm.

‘
Tako
,’ he said, looking disappointed as he showed his prize to his companion. He turned it inside out and bit it, then dropped it onto the rock. ‘I saw big, big crab, then it hide away. But I see where it goes. It think it is safe. I will go back.’

The orderly glanced at the rock pool and saw the fish the pilot had caught. He bent down and inspected it.

‘You have caught
tai
,’ he said.

‘It’s not very big,’ said Strickland.

‘No, it’s good. Enough for two.’

‘Are you hungry?’

‘Only coconut for breakfast.
Tai
make good meal.’

‘I’ll go and get some wood, you fillet it.’

‘
Oke
,’ said Ito and putting his hand into the bag, he brought out the sea bream.

He held it up and admired the fish, its body flashing like mica in the sun. Then he turned it over and smashed its head against the rocks, the bream tensing briefly in his hand before going limp. He sat down on the shore and removing his knife from its sheath, he cut along its silver belly and began to gut the fish. The pilot meanwhile searched among the rocks for pieces of driftwood. There was plenty about and soon he had collected an armful. When he returned he saw the bream lying upon the rock, the fish perfectly filleted by the orderly. Strickland built a small fire and taking out his lighter, he put a flame to the tinder. The wood was dry and caught quickly, a pale plume of smoke
rising from the flames as the twigs crackled and burned. The pilot waited for the flames to die down. When the wood merely glowed, he picked up two long sticks and handed one to Ito. He skewered his fillet and held it over the embers. The orderly did the same and the fish began to cook, its pink flesh turning white in the heat. After a couple of minutes the pair removed their sticks from the fire and began to eat the fillet with their fingers.

The flesh was hot and lightly smoked, yet still retained a taste of the sea. Soon the fish was gone and as the embers burned low, the pair sat back against the rocks.

‘
Tai
is good fish. It has much flavour,’ said the orderly, licking his fingers.

‘Yes,’ agreed the pilot. ‘It was excellent.’

‘But
kani
even better. Tonight we will eat
kani
. The captain will be happy.’

‘I hope you catch one.’

‘Perhaps I catch two.’

Strickland smiled, the orderly was irrepressible.

‘You do that. I’m going to have a rest,’ he replied, feeling sleepy as the food settled in his stomach. He stretched out on the rocks, closed his eyes and turned his face towards the midday sun.

‘See you later,’ said Ito as he got to his feet and put his mask back on. He picked up his harpoon and the pilot heard a splash as he jumped into the water. He raised his head, opened one eye and saw the orderly swimming away, then he lay back again. The sun was hot and the sea air soporific so that in a few moments he fell asleep, the surf a disant roaring in his ears.

Strickland slept for some time stretched out like Icarus on the rocks, the wind fingering his hair as the waves lapped the shore below. He woke briefly when a cloud passed across the face of the sun and the air cooled. He propped himself up on an elbow and shading his brow with a hand, he searched the sea for any sign of the orderly, but saw only the light-filled waves shifting beneath the heavens. He lay back and began to doze and had almost fallen asleep again when he heard the most awful
scream coming across the water. It was followed by another piercing shriek, high-pitched like a child’s, and the pilot leapt to his feet. He looked out towards the reef but could see nothing, just the waves endlessly turning and falling. The pilot heard the cry again and suddenly he saw Ito thrashing madly in the water, a black dorsal fin cutting the surface.

The shark circled as it came in to attack again, the orderly crying out in terror. Strickland stood there mesmerised, unable to think or act. The fin disappeared and Ito shouted again, the scream even more terrible than before. The pilot quickly
gathered
his senses and dived into the water, striking out towards his friend who was desperately trying to fight off his attacker with his knife. The sea foamed red around the orderly while he repeatedly slashed at the shark, its blood mingling with his own as it continued its frenzy. Strickland swam quickly, but by the time he got to Ito the shark had disappeared, leaving him choking and sobbing in the surf. The pilot put an arm around his shoulders comforting him and started to swim back to the shore, the orderly shaking and weeping with pain as he
struggled
to stay afloat. Using all his strength Strickland hauled the orderly behind him, trying to shut out the agony his friend was going through. He reached the shore and gathering Ito in his arms he clambered out of the surf and made his way across the rocks, running and shouting as he went, the orderly’s blood streaming down his body.

The pilot came to the end of the promontory and leaping down, he dashed across the beach, his feet sinking in the
granular
sand as he cradled his injured friend in his arms. Ito threw back his head and howled in agony, his body gashed and
slippery
with blood, his flesh hanging down in ribbons. Strickland staggered up the beach and reaching the treeline he laid the orderly down in the shade, unable to carry him any further. He told him to stay conscious and set off up the path towards the camp, crying out for Hayama.

The captain had only just returned from his butterfly
expedition and was sitting in his hut, when he heard his name being called. He could tell it was the Englishman, but why was he yelling so much? He put down his specimen box and going to the door, he saw Strickland running towards him, his body smeared in blood.

‘My God! What’s happened, are you hurt?’ he said,
descending
the steps as the pilot stopped and stood there gasping for breath

‘Ito … Ito … shark!’

‘What! Where is he?’

‘On the beach! … Quickly! …’ said the pilot, his hands on his knees, his voice hoarse.

Hayama turned and shouted at some soldiers who had heard the commotion and were coming towards them.

‘Bring the medical kit!’ he cried and together the officers ran down towards the shore.

Ito lay there in the shade, his chest heaving as he fought against the pain which racked his body. Strickland knelt down and held his hand and Hayama spoke softly to him, telling him to be brave.

A sweating Noguchi arrived with the black medical bag and put it on the ground beside them. The captain opened it and taking out a syringe, he filled it from a morphine capsule and injected the orderly in the arm. He put the syringe aside and tied a tourniquet around Ito’s left leg which was almost severed, the white knee bone exposed. He then took out a wad of dressings and placed them over the wounds in his abdomen in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The pilot continued to hold his friend’s hand as the morphine took effect and after a while the orderly became calmer. Ito started to mutter and Strickland looked at Hayama.

‘What’s he saying?’

‘He’s praying,’ the captain answered, his forearms smeared in bright arterial blood, as he pressed a dressing into the orderly’s side.

The pilot gripped his friend’s hand and began to pray with him, begging God to let him live. Hayama worked desperately, unwrapping more dressings and telling the pilot to help him press down on the wounds. But the orderly was losing too much blood and there was nothing the captain or anyone could do to stem the flow, as Ito gradually slipped away. Finally, his voice went quiet, his grip on Strickland’s hand loosened and his body fell slack. Hayama sat back and the pilot let go of his friend’s hand. Ito was dead. Silence fell among the group. No one said a word. The only sound was a faint rustle as the wind stirred the fronds of the palm trees. A sudden cry went up from the
assembled
soldiers, as they clasped each other and began to weep for their dead comrade.