Under the Sun (3 page)

Every now and then Strickland would rest and try to
establish
how far he had swum. But each time he did so the island appeared to be just as far away as before and he began to wonder if he was making any progress. After an hour’s hard swimming and with the island apparently no closer, Strickland stopped and started to tread water. He realised he was not going to make it, the current was too strong. With the sun burning mercilessly in the heavens and the waves constantly splashing into his eyes making them sting, he knew he could not swim any further. Exhausted, he lay listlessly in the surf like a jellyfish at the mercy of the tides. He looked down at his Mae West, which was the only thing keeping him afloat. He could stay like this for hours, or even days and then what? To go mad and die of thirst like some shipwrecked mariner or else be eaten by sharks. Surely drowning was preferable? Strickland reached into a pocket and pulling out a penknife, he opened it and slashed his life jacket in half, the air escaping with a hiss.

Standing on the jetty and peering through a pair of binoculars, Captain Tadashi Hayama had been watching the circling Spitfire for some time, praying that it would not discover the submarine. It seemed as if the gods had answered his prayers, when he saw the enemy aircraft finally veer away and head for home. Then it turned again and to Hayama’s consternation, he watched it bank before making a steep dive. Moments later he saw the Spitfire’s cannon flashing and heard the roar of gunfire above the
crashing
surf. To his satisfaction he also heard the louder boom of 1–47’s bow gun, as the submarine tried to fight off its attacker. He looked on, a fascinated spectator, as the plane turned and dived again, the submarine’s gun firing in a constant barrage. His satisfaction turned to delight when he saw smoke pouring from the aircraft’s fuselage. He stood and watched as the plane pitched and crashed into the sea, the soldiers around him
laughing
and cheering.

The pilot, if he was not dead already, would have been killed by the impact and Hayama knew that he and his men were safe. The submarine had come and gone and could now continue its glorious work against the enemy. Hayama gazed out towards the horizon again, but there was nothing except the sunlit sea,
endlessly
shifting and turning with the tide.

The captain addressed the man standing next to him.

‘The gods are with us, Noguchi.’

‘They are with us, sir, because we honour them,’ replied the sergeant.

‘I shall make a special offering at the shrine this evening,’ said Hayama and his subordinate gave a brief bow.

The captain turned to leave, but just as he was about to depart one of his men shouted and pointed in the direction of where the plane had ditched. Hayama stopped and looked and to his dismay, he saw a flare rising up into the blue sky. The pilot was not dead after all and even worse, he expected to be rescued. The area was crawling with enemy ships, someone was bound to see the distress signal and come looking. They might even get as far as the island.

Hayama knew he had to search for the pilot. Whatever
happened
the man must not be rescued and allowed to give away the island’s position. The captain and his men had lain hidden there since the beginning of the war. While all around him the other larger islands had fallen to the marauding Americans, the Japanese officer’s own haven had gone undetected. The island had not been attacked, because nobody knew they were there. For the past four years C Troop, 68th Signal Regiment had acted as a vital listening post for the Combined Fleet. Each day they tracked enemy aircraft and noted the position of passing ships and every evening Hayama relayed this information back to his superiors in Osaka, who would then pass it on to the
submarines
which still patrolled the Carolines.

Angrily the officer addressed Noguchi.

‘
Oi gunso!
Get the boat ready! We must find that pilot. He must not be allowed to get away!’

‘
Heitai-san
,’ replied the sergeant, saluting sharply before turning and ordering his men to board the patrol boat moored alongside.

The soldiers swarmed onto the boat and began to cast off ropes, while others went below to prepare the engines and get the vessel underway. Hayama waited and was the last to step aboard. As the gangplank was hauled in behind him, the engines gunned into life and the boat surged out from under the palms into the still, clear waters of the harbour. The captain went to the bow and stood there poised like a figurehead, his legs braced against the stanchion as he leaned into the breeze, the binoculars 
raised to his eyes. He faced in the direction of the plane, but all he could see was the white surf crashing over the reef.

The boat left the calm waters of the harbour and negotiated the narrow channel that led through the coral barrier, before heading out into the open sea. Hayama remained at the bow, the breeze plucking at his khaki britches, the binoculars to his eyes as he cast his gaze over the water in front of him, the boat rising and falling with the ocean swell. All the time he kept saying to himself: ‘I must find the pilot!’

After a while Hayama put out an arm, signalling the crew to slow the boat’s engines, as they began to patrol the foaming surf. The sun glanced off the bright water, making them squint as the men looked about for any sign of the plane or its occupant. But despite the captain having correctly observed the
Spitfire’s
position when it crashed, it had already sunk by the time they arrived. Hayama cursed quietly and lowered his binoculars before looking back at the island and again at the sea
surrounding
him, certain he was in the right place. He ordered the boat’s engines to be cut and the vessel shuddered to a halt. The only sound was the surf and the wind moaning in the rigging as they floated silently on the waves, and he raised the binoculars to his eyes once more and began methodically to sweep the area.

There was nothing out there. All the captain could see was the constant rise and fall of the ocean and he began to think that perhaps the pilot had gone down with the plane after all. He could have been wounded and unable to get out. The flare might have been the last desperate effort of a dying man. Yet Hayama could not be sure. He must make certain, or as certain as he could be, that the pilot was not out there somewhere. If the pilot were ever picked up, it would be the end of their operation on the island. There would be no one left to spy on enemy aircraft and shipping. The captain turned and ordered the crew to start the engines again and search the area once more, telling his troops to spread out along the boat’s gunwales. He offered a week’s pay to the first man who spotted the pilot. For the next three hours 
they trawled back and forth, the engines throbbing rhythmically above the surf as they pitched and rose upon the swell.
Occasionally
, in his eagerness to please his officer, a man would cry out that he saw something and Hayama would run round with his binoculars and scrutinse whatever it was the man was
pointing
at. But it was always a trick of the light. There was nothing out there. The pilot was surely dead, or even if he were alive, he would not be for long. Either way the sharks or the sea would get him. The captain looked at his watch and saw that it was now past midday. It was dangerous to stay out any longer, there could be an enemy air patrol at any moment and if they were spotted, the whole point of searching for the pilot would be lost.

Hayama turned and walked towards the boat’s cabin. He was about to order the vessel back to the island, when a shout came from the other side.

‘
Taiisan, taiisan
! I can see somehting ahead. It’s the pilot, I’m sure. Yes, it’s him! I am certain of it!’ As the captain raced towards the stern, other men began to shout and gesticulate.

‘Yes! Look! There he is in the water!’

‘Where? Where?’ demanded Hayama as excited as his men, but unable to see what it was they were pointing at.

‘Right there,
taiisan
,’ said the private who had first called out.

The officer put his binoculars to his eyes, as he followed the man’s finger pointing at the waves. He looked and saw nothing at first, just the brilliant sea endlessly turning and falling. Then a body wearing a yellow life jacket could be seen floating a hundred yards away, the blond head lolling to one side. It was the pilot. Hayama ordered the boat to turn around and running back to the bow, he directed it towards their quarry. The boat drew up alongside the airman, who did not move or show any signs of life. A corporal grabbed a boat hook and lowering it over the side, he caught the man’s life jacket as he lay motionless in the water. Together the soldiers heaved the limp body over the rails and deposited it on the deck, so that it lay there like some sodden piece of jetsam.

The captain squatted on his heels to take a closer look. He saw the RAF’s winged insignia on the shirt and noticed from the bars on the epaulettes that the man was a flight lieutenant. So he was a British officer. He looked more dead than alive and Hayama put a hand on the pilot’s neck, to see if there was any movement in the jugular vein. He felt a faint trembling beneath his fingertips, like the beat of a butterfly’s wing. There was barely a pulse. He called for some water and a soldier produced his canteen.

The captain opened it and poured some into his hand,
splashing
it over the pilot’s face. He then tipped the bottle into the man’s mouth, the water streaming down his chin. There was a moan and Hayama brought up his hand and slapped the man hard across the face, but he did not respond. He took out a silver case from his tunic and shook out two white pills onto the palm of his hand. He opened the man’s mouth and putting the salt tablets on his tongue, he washed them down with some more water from the canteen. Having done this the captain ordered his soldiers to place the pilot on a stretcher and to put him in the shade. He took out a handkerchief from his pocket and soaked it in what remained of the water and laid it on his captive’s
forehead
to keep him cool. Then he got up and told the crew to head for home.

The patrol boat sped back towards the island, the sun burning in the heavens as the vessel rode the foaming surf. Hayama stood on the gunwale watching over his captive, who lay silently in the shadows. He tried to calculate how long the man had been in the water and thought that it must have been at least four hours. The Japanese officer was surprised he had lasted so long, seeing that his life jacket was torn and concluded that he must have considerable strength. He wondered if the pilot had been trying to swim towards the island. If he had his efforts would have been futile. The current was strong and flowed in the
opposite
direction.

It was late afternoon by the time the vessel made its way back
through the reef and headed into the safety of the harbour. The sky was beginning to deepen and the trees’ shadows lengthened across the water. When they reached the jetty, Hayama
supervised
the unloading of the stretcher and ordered his men to take the pilot to his own quarters. The captain led the way as the soldiers trudged down the wooden boards of the pier onto the white beach, the sand making them stagger drunkenly as they walked. With the pilot slung between them they stumbled up the slope and into the trees, taking the path that led towards the camp. The men reached Hayama’s quarters and carried the stretcher up the steps and through the door, putting it down in the middle of the room. The captain dismissed them and when they had gone, he knelt down next to the motionless body of his prisoner. He put his ear close to the man’s mouth and listened to his breathing. It was was more of a sigh than a gasp.

Hayama sat back and observed the pilot. He had never seen an enemy this close. In fact he had never actually seen an enemy in person before, only aircraft and ships and they had always been at a distance. Now here he was face to face with his adversary and he was unsure what to do. Should he take out his revolver and shoot him? He was the enemy after all. But somehow it did not seem right to kill a man who was unconscious and apparently dying. And if he did not shoot him, what was he going to do with him? Interrogate him certainly, if he survived. But then what? Execute him? Keep him prisoner? The captain really had no idea.

A voice interrupted his thoughts and looking up he saw his orderly standing by the kitchen door.

‘What is it, Ito?’

The young man bowed courteously and answered.

‘
Taiisan
, I was wondering whether you would like some refreshment? Tea perhaps?’

‘Yes, tea would be nice.’

‘And what about?’ and the orderly indicated the prone body of the pilot with a nod of his head.

‘The prisoner is fine for the moment, thank you,’ replied Hayama with a weary smile.

The orderly left and soon returned carrying a tray with a teapot and cup. The man set it down on Hayama’s desk and bowing once more he departed. The Japanese officer got to his feet and going over to his desk, he poured himself some tea. He raised the cup to his lips and drank its steaming contents. The jasmine was sweet and refreshing and its fragrance soon began to mollify him. He tipped the cup back and finished it, before pouring himself another. Hayama looked across at the pilot lying on the stretcher. There was nothing else he could do. Either the man would come round or he would not. He suspected the latter. If he died everything that he knew would die with him. And yet the pilot might well have given their position away. He would have to wait and see. Whatever happened it was out of his hands.

‘So be it,’ muttered the captain.

He pushed the tea tray to one side and sat down at his desk. Hayama then removed a sheet of paper from a drawer and began to type up a report of what had happened, beginning with 1–47’s arrival the previous evening. He made an inventory of all the stores the submarine had taken on board and the amount of fuel and fresh water the vessel had required. Hayama also reported on the morale of the crew which he described as excellent. He paused as he remembered their exhausted and unshaven faces, their oil-smeared clothes and their sour breath and crossed out the word ‘
sugureta
’ and replaced it with ‘
subarashii
’, or fine. The crew of 1–47 should have been relieved weeks ago, but because of American advances in the region and the subsequent destruction of their own shipping, every vessel and crewman of the Combined Fleet was needed. The submarines were only allowed to return to the mainland if they were irrevocably damaged.

The captain described the Spitfire’s attack on 1–47 and how the crew’s quick response had enabled them to shoot down the aircraft. He knew his superiors would enjoy reading that,
especially
as this would be corroborated by the commander’s own
version of events. It was not often that a submarine from the Combined Fleet could paint an enemy aircraft’s silhouette on its conning tower. Hayama also mentioned that he had searched the area to see if there was any sign of the plane and wrote, truthfully, that there was none. He stopped typing and turned to the figure lying on the stretcher and wondered if he should say that he had found the pilot, but thought better of it. If they gave him an order, he would be obliged to carry it out. But they could not give an order about something which they did not know. And besides the man would probably die anyway.