Under the Sun (18 page)

After Hayama’s announcement, life in the camp returned to the rhythms and echoes it had when Ito was alive. The soldiers regained their humour and discipline and went about their tasks with their customary vigour, and the shocking news of
Hiroshima
and the Allies’ ultimatum was, if not forgotten, then at least ignored.

That afternoon the men took their siesta as usual, playing cards and chatting and smoking cigarettes. A trio asked Noguchi if he wanted to make up a four for poker, but he declined with a smile and a shake of his head and instead remained on his bed, writing a letter to his wife. On the table beside him were two photographs, one was a formal portrait of him and his spouse taken on their wedding day and the other was of her holding a small white bundle in her arms, their son Shinzo. Noguchi had not seen him for four years. The boy was almost six now and he imagined him running and playing and doing all the things that small boys liked to do. The sergeant wondered what he would think when he met his father again. He would not recognise this strange man and perhaps he would reject him. At the very least the child would hide behind his mother’s skirts.

Noguchi came from a village near Nagano in the central highlands. His father was a farmer and he would inherit his land when he died. It consisted only of a couple of paddy fields, an orchard with plums and cherries, a birch wood and a lake full of carp, but it was enough to support a small family. With his army pension he might be able to buy some more land and when his son was big enough, they could work on the farm together. He and his wife might have another boy, then he would have plenty
of help. Perhaps they would have a daughter. A girl would be nice. She could help her mother in the house and darn his work clothes when they got holes. A boy and a girl would make a perfect family.

The sergeant thought about home often, especially now. It was August and the trees in the orchard would be laden with fruit. The cherries would already have been picked and the plums would be ripe, their dusky skins oozing sweet wine. Autumn was his favourite season, it was a time when all the year’s hard work on the farm finally bore fruit. The grain would be drying in the barn and the grass in the orchard would be covered with windfall; wasps buzzing among the fruit as they got drunk on the fermenting juice. During the day the sun burned hotly, but in the evenings the air cooled and in the valleys a low mist formed. House martins would gather twittering on telegraph wires, the young flying to and fro, gaining strength before the October rains when they flew south for warmer climes.

Apart from his family, what the sergeant missed most in the tropics were the seasons. On the island it was always steamy and hot, the only variation in temperature was when it rained.
Sometimes
it poured so hard you could not see your hand in front of your face, and the wind blew with such force that it was foolish to venture out. Then the skies cleared, the sun would shine and it would seem as if the storm had never happened. The tropics had an extraordinary ability to erase their own history. Noguchi knew that when they left the island the jungle would soon encroach, green shoots would sprout from the dusty compound and the huts would become covered in creepers and eventually collapse. In a few years any trace that they had ever been there would vanish. Nature once again reclaiming what was hers.

The sergeant put down his pen and began reading his letter. Like Hayama he had received no news of his family since he had been on the island, but they had at least been able to send letters home, handing over the mail to the submarines that visited them for supplies. The last one had been 1–47 and that, along with his
most recent letter, was now at the bottom of ocean. Noguchi wondered when they would ever see another and with a sigh he put the letter in an envelope and wrote his address on the front. The sergeant did not seal it, but left it open for Hayama to read. It was the captain’s job to censor every piece of mail. None were sent unless they had been read by him and passed with his
personal
stamp. Noguchi placed the letter next to the photographs of his wife and child and getting up, he put on his cap and went outside.

The heat was enervating and he longed for the cool autumn winds of home. He walked across the burning compound and took the path down to the beach, passing through the tall palms and coming to the clearing which gave way to a swath of pale sand. To one side lay Ito’s grave. The flowers around the cross had withered and Noguchi decided to replace them with some fresh ones. The prettiest flowers grew further into the forest and he set off down the beach, heading into the trees above the bluff.

As the sergeant walked among the trees he gathered various flowers for his garland: a sprig of frangipani here, an orchid there, a stem of heliconia. When he had picked enough flowers, he sat down on a rock and began to twist them together in a bright wreath. A wreath fit for any hero, a wreath for his friend Ito. With the garland finished Noguchi got up and made his way along the path to the shrine. Shadows fell across the narrow trail as he walked, and forest birds whistled and cried, shaking their brilliant plumage as they flitted among the trees. When he reached the shrine he removed his cap and placed an orchid in the Buddha’s lap. The golden god smiled serenely at him and taking a step back, the sergeant bowed his head and began to pray, holding the wreath before him. He wondered what sort of heaven his friend inhabited. Was it a Christian heaven or was it nirvana? He did not know. But he was sure that whatever
afterlife
there was, Ito was there in peace with his ancestors.

Noguchi finished praying and came away from the shrine with a sense of relief, as if a burden had been lifted or a problem
resolved. It was curious, but he felt like this only after he prayed. The only other time he had experienced a similar feeling was after his first taste of action in Manchuria. They had fought the Chinese for three days and nights in the depths of winter. His regiment had endured an artillery barrage of unbelievable
ferocity
and had beaten off wave after wave of attacks. Then early one morning as they waited for the next assault at dawn, they looked over the parapet of their trenches to find that the Chinese had withdrawn, leaving the battlefield strewn with hundreds of corpses. The only sound was the wind polishing the empty sky and the harsh cry of crows, feasting on the bloated bodies of the Kuomintang.

The sergeant walked back along the beach, the surf lapping the shore in a constant and unrequited caress. He reached Ito’s grave and removing the withered remains of the old wreath, he replaced it with the new one. He then stood back and bowed before the cross. Noguchi remained like this for some time, before finally straightening and with a last salute, he marched away towards the camp. Behind him stood the cross, marking the grave of his dead friend. Around it hung the wreath, its flowers trembling in the sea breeze.

In the early morning mineral light, Strickland stood at the end of the pier and cast his lure into the clear waters of the harbour. The catch at his feet gleamed, the fish occasionally twitching, their gills flexing as they expired in the cool air. They were mostly young mullet which he had enticed towards the jetty, by
throwing
balls of rice into the water. Each time he threw a morsel into the harbour, the surface would swirl briefly as the fish devoured the pale offering. The lesser ones attracted the larger fish and it was these the pilot hoped to catch, although so far he had only hooked small fry. He glanced down at the haul of silver at his feet and decided that he had enough for Hayama and himself.

The pilot reeled in his lure and picking up his catch, he put the rod over his shoulder and walked back along the jetty, the fish flashing like coins in the sun. He strode across the beach and taking the path that led to the camp, he made his way to the yard behind the huts. When he got there Strickland leant his rod against the wall of his cabin and laid his catch on a table. He pulled a knife from his pocket and began to gut and fillet the fish, throwing the entrails to the chickens which clucked and fought over them in the dust. When he had finished he took the fillets and hung them on a long bamboo pole to dry in the sun, just as Ito had done.

Strickland plunged his hands into a bucket of rainwater and washed the fish scale and slime from his fingers. He shook them dry and ascended the steps of his quarters, keen to get out of the sun which now rose rapidly into the morning sky. Inside, the hut was pleasantly cool and going over to the pitcher on the table, the pilot poured himself a glass of water. He went to his desk,
sat down and opened a large Japanese-English dictionary that belonged to Hayama. He had set himself the task of learning a hundred words of vocabulary a day, which he would then use in conversation with his friend, the captain correcting his
pronunciation
and grammar.

Sometimes they would go for long walks together. As they walked the pilot would point to various trees, birds and flowers and ask Hayama for the words in Japanese. Once they made their way up to the top of the mountain, which Strickland had not visited since his first day of freedom. They stood together on the observation platform admiring the view, the sea
stretching
before them like a sheet of beaten tin. In the distance a ship drew a pale arabesque in the blue ocean as it steamed north. The captain pointed out the other islands and atolls, naming the larger ones. His companion asked him if there were any other observation posts out there and Hayama smiled enigmatically.

Strickland spent the morning in his cabin, writing down various words and phrases from the dictionary which he intended to use with his friend. He would diligently set himself a different task each day; sometimes he would construct small phrases of enquiry, other times he would choose a subject and methodically translate the necessary vocabulary. Japanese, like Chinese as Strickland discovered, often had many different
pronunciations
of a single word or character, so that the slightest nuance could change its meaning completely. His occasional difficulties had given Hayama cause for considerable
hilarity
. As the captain rocked back and forth with mirth the pilot would sit there bemused, aware that he had made yet another solecism.

At midday Strickland heard footsteps outside his quarters. He looked up and saw Hayama standing at the door.

‘Hello there,’ he said, as his friend approached.

But the captain did not reply and simply held out his arms.

‘Are you all right?’ asked the pilot, concerned at his friend’s silence. He got to his feet and walked towards him and could see
the captain’s face was wet with tears. ‘What is it, Hayama? What’s the matter?’

‘Nagasaki …’ he gasped, his voice choked with grief. ‘They have bombed Nagasaki!’

It is the end. Everyone on the island knows this. No one can tell precisely at what hour the final moment will come, but they are resigned to it just as the condemned are resigned to their fate. There is no power on earth now which can change the outcome. The gods themselves have decided. Whatever shall be, shall be. Just as the carp fights furiously after it is caught by the
fisherman
, when it is placed upon the slab it patiently awaits death, knowing that it is useless to struggle.

Hayama is sitting at his desk. Ever since the bombing of
Nagasaki
, he has had the radio on at all hours. He has barely slept all week. He is listening for the inevitable announcement. Like the carp on the slab he too has stopped struggling and accepts his fate. There is a serenity about the captain as he sits there with the monkey on his lap, stroking its soft fur, the macaque oblivious to his master’s predicament and the enormity of what is about to happen. The captain is waiting for an announcement by the Emperor, which will come at any moment. He listens to the national radio station NHK and at midday the presenter comes on the air:

‘This will be a broadcast of the gravest importance. Will all listeners please rise. His Majesty the Emperor will now read his imperial transcript to the people of Japan. We respectfully
transmit
his voice …
’

Kimigayo
is played and when it has finished the emperor’s recorded message begins. His voice, which has never been broadcast before, is high-pitched and fluting. It is the Voice of the Crane.

‘
To My Good and Loyal Subjects: After pondering deeply the 
general trends of the world and the actual conditions obtaining in Our Empire today, I have decided to effect of the present an extraordinary measure …
’

Hayama stands there, his head bowed, his hands by his side as he listens in reverent silence. The Emperor continues to speak, giving his subjects the order which all expected would come, but who are still shocked when it is finally announced.

‘The striving for peace and well-being of our imperial subjects, and the sharing of common happiness and prosperity amongst tens of thousands of nations is the duty left by our Imperial
Ancestors
, and I am the one who has not forgotten about this duty …

In addition the enemy has recently used a most cruel explosive. The frequent killing of innocents and the effect of destitution it entails are incalculable. Should we continue fighting in the war, it would not only cause the complete annihilation of our nation, but also the destruction of human civilisation. With this in mind, how should I save billions of our subjects and their posterity, and atone ourselves before the hallowed spirits of Our Imperial
Ancestors
? This is the reason why I ordered the Imperial Government to accept the Joint Declaration …

We have resolved to pave the way for a grand peace for all generations to come by enduring the unendurable and suffering what is insufferable, for peace to last thousands of generations …’

The captain has his orders, it is his duty now to carry them out. When the broadcast finishes Hayama straightens and replaces his cap. He goes to the door, calls out to one of the guards and tells him to get the men to fall in. The man runs off to the
soldiers
’ quarters and they quickly file out and assemble in front of their captain. Hayama stands there on the verandah and when they are all arrayed, he descends the steps and addresses them.

‘Honourable gentlemen, it has been a great privilege to be your commanding officer and to have worked with you over these past years. We have performed an invaluable service to the
Motherland of which we can justly be proud. Now our work is done and it is time for all of us to go home …’

The captain continues speaking, the men listening silently. Above them the imperial flag of the rising sun hangs limply on its pole. He tells them of the Emperor’s announcement that Japan has agreed to the terms of the Allies’ Joint Declaration and that the war is now over. They are to leave the island immediately and should take nothing with them. Hayama thanks his men once more and some of them begin to weep. After a command from Noguchi, they all bow at their commander and he returns their salute.

‘Let us sing our glorious national anthem together one last time,’ their officer says and the company begins to sing
Kimigayo
, their voices resonant and tuneful.

When they finish the men give three cheers and salute their captain one last time, and with Noguchi at their head, they proceed to march away. Hayama watches them go, his heart full of pride. How is it possible that he has been able to command such men? Truly he has been blessed. As they disappear down the path towards the beach, the captain turns and goes back inside his hut. He still has one final task.

It is hot and Hayama wants to be properly prepared. He takes off his uniform and puts on his kimono, tying the cord around his waist. He picks up a pair of scissors and after cutting off a lock of hair, he proceeds to clip his fingernails. When he has finished he carefully puts the clippings and the hair in a jar on his desk. He then sits down and picks up a pen. He thinks for a few moments, before writing a last haiku.

The captain looks at what he has written and satisfied, he gets up and goes over to the rack of swords by his bed. Above them is his icon of St John. He stands there and bows low before the saint. He straightens and picks up both the
katana
and the
tanto
and goes and sits down on the tatami. He lays the swords next to him, then draws the
tanto
from its scabbard. Hayama undoes the cord of his kimono, exposing his bare midriff. He takes up the dagger and plunges it into his belly and with both hands upon the hilt, he draws it firmly across his gut in a single stroke. He does not cry out, but gives a sharp intake of breath, like the final gasp of a drowning man.

Strickland is fishing off the edge of the pier when he hears the soldiers’ boots tramping across the wooden jetty. He turns and sees them assemble by the patrol boat as, one by one, they begin to board. He reels in his line, puts the rod over his shoulder and walks towards them, curious to know what is going on. The pilot approaches Noguchi with a bemused look on his face.

‘What’s all this, sergeant?’

The NCO bows at the Englishman, before answering him.

‘The war is over, Mr Strickland …’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Just now. Captain Hayama-san told us.’

The pilot looks at the men boarding the patrol boat and is still confused.

‘What are they doing?’

‘The captain says we must leave. Our work here finished. We return home.’

‘But what about the captain? Is he not coming too?’

The sergeant looks at the Englishman, who obviously does not understand.

‘Captain Hayama-san …’ he begins, before pausing to search for words in a language that is not his own. ‘Captain
Hayama-san
… has other duties.’

Strickland does not reply, but drops the rod and begins running down the jetty. Noguchi watches him go, knowing that he is too late. The sergeant turns and walking up the gangplank, he pulls it in behind him and tells his men to cast off. The ropes are dropped and the patrol boat’s motor roars into life as the vessel eases away from the pier. The grey boat chugs across the still, clear waters of the harbour, before making its way through the surrounding reef and heading out into the open sea.

The pilot sprints across the sand and races up through the trees towards the compound and Hayama’s hut. As he approaches the air is filled with shrill, demented screams. It sounds as though a child is being murdered and, running up the steps of the
captain’s
quarters, Strickland is confronted by the sight of
Chamberlain
shrieking wildly and tugging at his chain. Beside him is Hayama, dressed in his kimono and sitting cross-legged on the tatami, his head hanging on his chest. Hearing the pilot enter, he looks up and smiles.

‘I knew you’d come.’

‘What on earth’s going on?’

‘I’m sorry about the terrible noise. I forgot to release
Chamberlain
. Can you let him go?’

Strickland stoops and unties the macaque’s collar and the monkey springs up onto the windowsill and baring his teeth in a grimace, he takes one final look at the scene and flees. The pilot sees that the captain’s kimono is soaked crimson, the bloody dagger on the floor beside him.

‘My God! What have you done?’ he says, kneeling before his friend.

‘I have just one request,’ the captain whispers, indicating the
katana
in front of him. ‘If you would grant me the honour.’

The pilot looks at the sword and recoils in horror, as though he has been asked to pick up a snake.

‘No, Hayama, I can’t. I cannot do it.’

‘Please … you must,’ and his friend looks beseechingly at him.

Strickland knows that he is in agony, his brow is twisted with pain. Yet he cannot bring himself to pick up the sword.

‘No … no, I can’t.’

The captain realises the Englishman is struggling against his better nature, but he wants him to understand he is doing the right thing. That it is his destiny. Hayama looks at the man who has been so many things to him and he remembers something else. The words of the little friar.

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

Strickland gazes into his friend’s eyes, eyes that are filled with pain and the realisation of what he has to do dawns upon him. It is the final act of friendship. Hayama nods and smiles, and leaning forward, he begins to pray. The pilot picks up the
katana
and gets to his feet. The sword is weightless in his hands. It has become part of him. He raises the blade above his head and brings it down upon the captain’s neck, decapitating him with a single blow.

The Englishman cannot recall what happened next, it is as if he has been inhabiting a dream. He finds himself alone upon the beach, walking barefoot across the burning sand. In his hand he holds a sword. The surf booms in the distance. He looks out across the water and sees the blue band of the horizon quivering like a violin to the sea’s music.