Under the Sun (4 page)

Hayama leant back in his chair and emitted a low sigh. There was something else, something that he did not understand and it vexed him. Why did he not feel animosity towards his enemy? Throughout his life, and certainly since he had been in the army, he had learned to be wary of Occidentals and their devious ways. They were inferior to the Japanese in every respect, worse than dogs some of them. Uncivilised, ill-educated and arrogant. This he knew to be true. And yet he did not despise this man as he really should. Hayama rubbed his forehead. It made no sense at all. He sincerely hoped the man would die.

He returned to his report and finished with a paean to the Emperor and the Motherland. After reading it through once more, he tore the sheet of paper from the typewriter and got to his feet.

‘Oi, joto-hei!
’ he called.

There was a sound of someone running, followed by a
clattering
up the wooden stairs and a soldier appeared at the doorway and saluted.

‘I am going to the signals hut to make my report. Watch over this prisoner until I come back. If he comes round give him some water. But only a little. Report anything to me immediately.’

‘
Heitai-san
,’ said the private and stepped inside. He went over to where the pilot lay and stood to attention next to him, his rifle by his side.

Hayama folded his report, put it in a pocket and left his
quarters, making his way across the compound to the path that led down to the harbour. Tall grey palms towered above the khaki figure as he walked, their canopy shading the trail. Above him the branches were filled with the cries and chatter of monkeys, as they ran like shadows through the trees. The path opened onto a broad strip of beach and the captain strode across the sand to the water’s edge. He stood there looking out to sea and watched as the evening sun descended towards the horizon in a blazing stream. He remembered the evenings at his home in Nagasaki and how he would watch the sun set over the harbour there, the fishing boats floating on a sea of fire. It was high summer now and the parks and squares would be full of
children
playing. The jacarandas and the magnolias at the Kofukuji Temple would have shed their flowers, but their leaves would still be lush and green. He wondered if he would ever see the cherry blossom along the Nakajima river again. Or indeed his family. He had had no contact with his parents, or with his brother or sister, since the Pacific war began. His sister was a nurse and had been stationed in the Philippines, but he had had no news of her since the island had been taken by the Americans. His younger brother was a naval aviator and had been based on the carrier
Hiryu
. But the ship had gone down at Midway, so he could well be dead. The captain stood there facing the horizon, the waves washing upon the shore. Such thoughts made him melancholy and he tried to banish them from his mind.

Hayama looked down and saw a coconut bobbing at the water’s edge and he began to sing softly to himself. 

The captain stopped singing and across the water came the happy sound of laughter as his men took an evening dip, diving off the end of the pier. Hayama watched his soldiers and smiled. How he wished he could be carefree like them. He would have loved to join in, but such intimacy was forbidden. An officer should never become too friendly with his men. They respected him because he kept his distance. And so he let the soldiers
continue
with their horseplay, not wanting to spoil their moment of abandon. The day would come when they would no longer be able to lark about anymore and that day was forever drawing closer. They had endured countless experiences together and he would miss them when the time came. He knew it would not be long now. Hayama realised that Japan could not win this war. But as a samurai he knew there was victory in death.

As the descending sun sank towards the horizon, the captain left his men to their evening bathe and went off to file his report. The signals hut lay hidden above a cove on the other side of the island. It faced north as there was a good reception from the mainland. Hayama walked along the shell-strewn beach, his boots crunching across the sand. Scattered about were the
skeletons
of starfish and the bones of squid and cuttlefish, as well as the pearly shells of various molluscs. With the sea at their door, there was never any shortage of food for Hayama and his men. In the early days on the island they would often make a fire on the beach and sing songs by the light of the moon. But they could not do that now.

Hayama continued along the seashore and made his way through the forest above the bluff, which overlooked the harbour. He went up a low hill and walking over the crest, he descended to the other side. Below him he could see the signals hut with its tall aerial rising up through the trees. It was a simple place no bigger than a chicken coop, its roof covered with palm fronds. The captain trotted down the narrow path to the cabin, whistling as he went.

Inside the signals hut were a corporal and another private.
It was quiet and both men had their feet up, listening to music from Radio Tokyo. Hayama was a little earlier than usual and when he entered they leapt to their feet, bowing and apologising as they did so.

‘It’s all right, Corporal Higa,’ said the officer. ‘There’s still ten minutes to go … please sit down. You too, Private Kamiko.’

Bowing again both men sat down and the captain pulled up a chair. Higa turned off the radio and put on a set of headphones, flicking switches and plugging in leads in preparation for the broadcast. On the wall was a clock, the long hand a fraction away from the hour. They waited and chatted in the remaining minutes. At precisely eight o’clock Hayama began to read from his piece of paper, Higa tapping out the code with his morse key, the room filling with the sound of the brass contact as it click-clacked away. In a couple of minutes the report was
finished
and thanking his radio operators, the captain got up and stepped outside.

His work now done for the day, Hayama went off to the shrine to make his offering. It lay just below the signals hut in a natural cave and consisted of no more than a wooden Buddha sitting in a lotus position on a throne, his right hand raised palm outwards in a blessing, the other resting in his lap. The soldiers had erected a wooden temple around the god to keep off the rain and had painted it in blue and gold lacquer. The paint was now peeling in places and the structure was so rudimentary that it had been shored up with timber to prevent it from collapsing. But in its rustic simplicity there was also an honesty and purity, which would have pleased any deity.

When he got to the shrine the captain took out his petrol lighter, flicked it open and lit some incense sticks, before putting the flame to several small candles at the Buddha’s feet. Then, removing his forage cap, he placed his hands at his sides and bowed his head and gave thanks for the day. He prayed that he would do his duty as a loyal son of the Motherland, as a servant of the God Emperor and as a samurai. And he prayed that if
Buddha willed it, he would be allowed to join his ancestors in heaven. Hayama stood there for a while, his head bowed before his Lord.

By the time the captain had finished praying, it was almost dark. A scattering of stars lit the heavens and a new moon rose above the palm trees. He left the shrine and walked back through the forest towards the harbour. Hayama descended the bluff and saw the luminous crescent of the beach glowing between the trees. When he reached the lagoon he strolled along the shore, the oily water lapping the pale rim of sand. In the warm darkness came a scent of frangipani. The captain sighed and breathed in deeply, relishing the smell. As he stood there sniffing the night air, he noticed dark shapes wheeling and tilting across the night sky. Hayama watched the bats as they flitted about searching for insects, swooping and diving above his head. He tried to follow their jinking flight, losing them as they turned away into the forest, only to see them reappear as they raced across the water, the air filled with tiny shrieks. There came a deeper cry, a low chirring, as a nightjar called for its mate. The captain listened as the bird made its plaintive song: a series of sharp notes, repeated again and again. Eventually the nightjar flew off into the
darkness
and silence resumed, the surf ceaselessly scraping the shore.

Hayama left the beach and took the path through the trees that led back to the camp. As he approached his cabin he could see the windows’ amber glow and knew his orderly had lit the lamps. He ascended the steps and went inside and was welcomed by the guard snapping to attention. The captain had almost
forgotten
about his prisoner and looked at the pilot lying moribund on the stretcher.

‘Has he come around?’

‘No sir!’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘Not a word, sir.’

‘Has he moved?’

‘No sir, nothing.’

‘Very well, private. You are relieved. Go and get some supper.’

The soldier saluted his officer, made a quick bow and marched out of the hut. The captain watched him go, before turning his attention to the prisoner. The pilot lay at his feet, his breathing measured, his body still.

‘What are we going to do with you?’ he muttered.

Hayama looked away and called out to his orderly. In a moment Ito appeared from the kitchen, bowing and wiping his hands on his apron.

‘Yes, captain?’

‘Is supper ready?’

‘Yes, captain.’

‘Then bring it to me. It’s been a long day and I’m tired.’

‘Right away, sir,’ and bowing again the orderly went back to the kitchen.

Hayama took off his sword and placed it reverently on the rack above his bed. Then he sat down and began to unlace his boots. He put them to one side and stripping off his uniform, he picked up a white silk kimono and put it on and for the first time that day, he began to relax. He took up the violin which lay next to his bed and after wiping some resin across the bow, he placed it between his knees and began to play. He drew the bow back and forth across the strings, the violin’s shrill music haunting the air. And as the captain played he also sang, the room filling with the sound of his voice. 

Hayama continued singing and was so immersed in his music, that he did not notice the orderly place his supper on the
table beside him and depart again. The captain was lost in his reverie and as he closed his eyes and sang he imagined he was back in his native land; with its great forests and bamboo groves, its mountains and its rivers. There was nowhere quite as
beautiful
as the land of Yamato. Hayama played on, the violin’s melody like the mosquitoes which rose up in clouds during the summer months. And as he played his eyes brimmed with tears, which poured down his cheeks. But they were not tears of sadness, they were tears of joy.

Eventually the captain stopped playing and wiping his face with his sleeve, he put his violin to one side and looked at the fare laid out before him. There was a bowl of rice, some raw fish, a bowl of water chestnuts, another containing shredded seaweed, a dish of soy sauce and a small brown jug of
sake
. Hayama sat down, reached out for the jug, poured the rice wine into a cup and drank its contents in a single gulp. The wine warmed his stomach and he poured himself another cup, then picked up his chopsticks and began to eat. The captain had had nothing since breakfast and was hungry. He took a piece of raw fish, dipped it in the soy sauce and ate it, washing it down with the
sake
.

Hayama soon finished his supper and he rinsed his fingers in a bowl of water and shook them dry. The captain then got up from the table and began turning out the lamps. He left one on by his bed and went over to the door and stood outside on the porch, looking up at the new moon. The same moon would be hanging over the harbour at Nagasaki, the water glinting in its light like the shards of a broken bottle. He knew his parents would be looking at the moon and thinking of him, just as he did of them. His father old and bowed and yet still wiry and strong, forever the samurai. His mother kind and smiling and so pretty. She did not look a day older than in her wedding
photograph
. What a fortunate man he was to have such parents!

The camp was quiet and most of the lamps were out, with just a couple still burning in the darkness. Soon they too would be extinguished and the men would be asleep. The captain went
back inside and shut the door. He walked over to his bookshelf and removed a volume of poetry, then sat down next to the prisoner, who had not moved or uttered a sound since he had been brought in. Hayama bent over and put an ear to the man’s mouth. The pilot was breathing faintly and he thought that since he had lasted this long, perhaps he might survive after all. The captain sat back and pulling his kimono tightly around him, he prepared himself for a long vigil. He opened his book and began to read from one of his favourite poets, the seventeenth-century Shinto priest Matsuo Basho.

Hayama continued reading, the pilot lying on the stretcher beside him. Outside a nightjar called in the darkness, its solitary song echoing in the forest. 

All night the captain sat reading and watching over his captive, waiting to see if he would move or make a sound. But there was nothing. Finally, in the still, quiet moments before dawn, before the sky had become light and the birds had woken, Hayama fell asleep. His head nodded forward and the book spilled from his hands into his lap. He breathed evenly and deeply, echoing the man that lay beside him. While the captain slept, the body on the stretcher started to move and twitch. In his dreamings the pilot began to wake, his conciousness effortlessly rising to the surface like phosphoresence. And as his body moved and twitched, he started to moan. The sound increased until it was interrupted by a shout and both men woke with a jump.

Wide awake Strickland found himself staring straight into the eyes of a Japanese officer. Hayama sat there looking at him, both of them momentarily stunned. Not surprisingly, since the pilot had remained unconscious for all that time, it was the captain who came to his senses first.

‘You are a prisoner,’ he announced.

Strickland looked at him and wondered how he understood the words and as his captor repeated them, he realised he was speaking English. But he did not reply.

‘You were shot down. We rescued you.’

‘Shot down …?’

‘You attacked the submarine. They shot you down.’

‘The submarine …’ repeated Strickland vaguely.

‘We came and rescued you. You were in the water.’

The pilot blinked in the lamplight. His eyes hurt and his head ached. Although he remembered seeing and attacking the
submarine, his mind was blank after that. The Japanese officer said he had been shot down and that he had been in the water. But he could see he was not aboard any ship. So where was he? It did not make any sense.

‘Where …’

‘Where?’

The pilot struggled. He was still groggy from his ordeal and because of his parched throat, he found it painful to speak, his voice a faint croak.

‘How … did I get here?’

‘We came and rescued you.’

‘Why?’

‘It does not matter.’

The two men continued to look at each other. The captive and the captor. There was a silence, before Hayama spoke again.

‘You must be thirsty.’

Strickland swallowed and nodded and the captain got up and went to the pitcher, which stood on a table by the window. He poured some water into a glass and returned and squatting down, he handed it to his prisoner. The pilot propped himself up on an elbow and leant forward, and taking the glass he raised it to his blistered lips, greedily drinking the water. In a couple of gulps it was gone and Strickland gave back the glass. As he did so Hayama noticed the scarring on the pilot’s hands, but said nothing.

‘That is all you can have for now,’ he said, putting the glass to one side. ‘Here take these,’ and the captain produced his little silver case. He tipped out two more salt tablets onto his palm and gave them to the pilot. Strickland popped them into his mouth and felt them dissolving on his tongue. But his mouth was still dry and he was unable swallow.

‘Water,’ he pleaded.

The captain shook his head.

‘Later, but now you must rest.’

The pilot was exhausted and it hurt to think. But he still did 
not understand. Why had the Japanese come and rescued him? What were they doing here? And where exactly was he? He could not answer any of these questions and he was sure that had he asked, his captor would not have told him and so he lay back on the stretcher and closed his eyes. In a short while he had fallen asleep, his breathing calm. The Japanese officer watched over him. He would live, that was certain. But the man was too weak to interrogate now. He would do so in the morning after he had rested further and he went over to his own bed and started to undress. When he had finished Hayama raised the mosquito net and naked, got into bed, pulling the sheet over him.

And so the two men slept out the remainder of the night, although it was Hayama who woke first. As the early morning sun filled the cabin, the Japanese officer slipped out of bed and went to the basin to wash. He poured some water into the bowl, picked up the soap and began to scrub his body. His back was broad and muscled and his legs were strong. It was the lean, capable body of an athlete. Hayama lathered himself all over and taking a cloth, he rinsed it in the water and started to wash the soap from his limbs. He stood there feeling refreshed and renewed and proceeded to wipe away the remaining water with his hands.

After tying a towel around his waist, he picked up a comb and ran it through his fine black hair. He wished he could grow it long and knot it behind his head as his ancestors had done, but military regulations stipulated short back and sides. As he combed his hair the captain looked into the little mirror which hung by the window above the basin. His chin was darkened by stubble. He replaced his comb, picked up the bar of soap and his shaving brush and lathered his face. He took up his razor, dipped it into the bowl of water and began to shave, drawing the blade down in long, even strokes. He then rinsed away the soap and dried his face with a cloth. Hayama looked in the mirror again, drew a hand across his cheeks and found them smooth. He took off his towel and picking up his clothes, he started to dress. The
captain buttoned his tunic and sat down on the bed and put on his boots. He did up the laces and stood up and stamped each foot, shaking out the creases from his britches.

The noise woke Strickland. He opened his eyes and was
confronted
by the sight of a Japanese officer standing before him in full military uniform. Momentarily he was as confused as he had been the night before. Then the pilot remembered where he was.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Fine …’

‘Fine is good,’ and Hayama turned and called out to his orderly. ‘
Joto-hei, koko ni kinasai!
’

In a moment Ito appeared at the kitchen doorway, a small boyish figure with glossy black hair dressed in a neatly pressed servant’s uniform and a white apron. He stood there and tried not to look at the tall Englishman who had got to his feet and stood towering over the two Japanese.

‘Asagohan o watashita ni onegaishimasu,
’ said the captain.

‘Heitai-san, ima sugu ni!’

The orderly promptly left and in a few moments returned with a tray of breakfast and Hayama indicated that the Englishman should come and join him at the table. The pilot did as he was told and sat down on the tatami opposite his captor. Ito placed two small bowls in front of them and two pairs of chopsticks. There followed a plate of chopped mangoes, a bowl of rice, some steamed egg and bean curd, a pot of tea and a jug of fresh goat’s milk. The captain then dismissed his orderly and poured them both a cup of tea.

‘Eat,’ he said, waving his hand at the food.

Strickland obeyed and helped himself to some rice. He spooned some of the egg and bean curd onto it and picking up the chopsticks began to eat, sipping from his cup of tea between each mouthful. Hayama did the same and they ate for a while in silence, both men watching the other, but each trying not to catch the other man’s eye. The game continued for a while, as
the two of them warily observed each other, like a pair of wild animals in a cage. Eventually the captain put down his
chopsticks
, wiped his mouth with a napkin and spoke.

‘What is your name?’

The pilot stopped eating and lowered his chopsticks and looked at his adversary. But he did not reply. Hayama frowned and asked the question again.

‘I asked you what is your name?’

‘My name is Edward Strickland.’

The captain nodded and repeated the words.

‘Ed-ward Strick-land.

‘Yes …’

‘And you are a flight lieutenant in the RAF …’

‘That’s right.’

‘You were flying a Spitfire. Which squadron do you belong to?’

The pilot looked at the captain and shook his head.

‘I’m afraid I cannot tell you. I can only tell you my name, rank and date of birth …’

There was a sudden crash as the captain’s fist struck the table, sending the bowls and teapot flying and knocking over the jug, the milk spreading in a pool across the oiled teak.

‘Baka inu!’
he swore. ‘You are my prisoner and you will answer my questions!’ The captain’s brow twisted with rage, his face flushing with anger.

‘I am a prisoner of war and I only have to tell you three things. Two of which you already know and as for the other …’

‘
Damara butayaro!
’ swore Hayama, pounding the table again with his fist and upsetting the plate of mangoes into the pool of goat’s milk.

The pilot looked at the Japanese officer and saw that he was extremely angry. He still felt weak from his ordeal and was in no shape to take a beating. Even so, he knew he must not divulge anything that could be of use to the enemy. He also realised that pride was at stake. His captor had first beguiled him by taking care of him and giving him breakfast, in the hope that he would
betray the name and location of his squadron and any other useful information he possessed. Beating or no beating
Strickland
was determined to remain firm. The battle of wills between the two men continued, immutable force meeting immoveable object. Finally, the pilot spoke.

‘By the way, you haven’t told me your name.’

Hayama sat there and blinked. What was this? Was this man perfectly crazy? Did he not realise that not only was he a
superior
officer, he was also a samurai? That he should in truth get up, pick up his sword and split him in two like an apple. The
prisoner’s
impertinence was astounding. As the captain sat there
contemplating
what he should do, he recalled the teachings of the samurai master Tsunetomo Yamamoto: that a fight was
something
that went to the finish and that a man who forgot the Way of the Samurai and did not use his sword, would be forsaken by the gods and the Buddhas. That both men should be crucified as an example to subsequent retainers. Hayama was about to get up and fetch his sword, when he remembered another piece of advice from the master: that a samurai, when faced with a crisis, should put spittle on his earlobe and exhale deeply through his nose. If he did this he would overcome anything.

Now it was the Englishman’s turn to be amazed as instead of being struck down, as he fully expected, his captor licked his forefinger and thumb and began gently to rub his ear. Even more extraordinary was the smile which spread across the captain’s face as he did so.

‘My name is Tadashi Hayama,’ he said.

The pilot nodded, his captor’s rage seemed to have passed with the sudden violence of a summer storm. He surveyed the table betweeen them, with its mess of broken crockery and food. Hayama’s anger had swept like a hurricane through a forest, knocking leaves and branches to the ground and turning rivers into cataracts, but leaving the rest of nature intact. Now the forest was still again, the only sound being the distant gushing of the river and the steady drip of rainwater.

‘Why did you rescue me?’

‘It does not matter,’ said the Japanese officer, still smiling.

The pilot was right, the captain was perfectly calm, his rage had passed and he sat there with all the serenity of a Buddha. The two officers observed each other for some time, saying nothing. Eventually Hayama spoke.

‘You do not wish to talk?’

‘No.’

‘So be it.’

Hayama sighed and called out and Strickland heard the sound of people running. Turning he saw a pair of figures in khaki, clattering up the steps and enter the hut. They stood there in the doorway and bowed simultaneously at their captain.

‘Taiisan, nannano?’

Their officer looked at them and indicated his prisoner with a tilt of his head, before uttering a single command.

‘Boukou!’

The Englishman did not understand the word, but he soon understood its meaning as the guards approached and began to rain blows down upon him. Both men taking turns to strike his head, face and body. The guards were systematic in their
punishment
and took care with their aim, going unerringly for the body’s vulnerable parts especially the liver, kidneys and
testicles
. Strickland did his best to ward off the blows, but there were too many and he was reduced to rolling himself up in a ball in an attempt to protect himself. The soldiers continued to rain punches down upon him and only ceased when the captain gave the command.

‘That’s enough!’ he ordered. ‘Get him out of here.’

The guards stopped their beating and taking a foot each, they dragged the pilot out of the hut and down the wooden steps. They hauled him across the compound and took him to the storeroom and opening the door they threw him inside, bolting it behind them. One of the soldiers then stood by the entrance and kept watch, his arms folded across his chest.

Hayama surveyed the damage of the breakfast table and tutting to himself, he told his orderly to clear it up. He went over to the wall and removed the long sword from its bracket and put it on. The prisoner was lucky he had not being wearing it during their confrontation, as he would certainly have used it. The captain checked that his sword was hanging properly and putting on his cap, he went outside. The first
interrogation
session had been a disappointment, but he would not be thwarted again.

Strickland lay there in the darkness, his face and body
battered
, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He spat and a mixture of bloody saliva and pieces of tooth dribbled onto the earthen floor. Tenderly he touched his gums to check the damage and on the upper right-hand side of his mouth, he felt the gap where a molar had been. He prodded around to check his other teeth and was glad that he had not lost any more. He felt his nose, which was badly smashed. Even touching it made him wince with pain. His left eye was swollen and shut, but his other eye was undamaged and with it Strickland surveyed his new prison. The walls were made of bamboo, lashed together with vine and the roof was solid timber. In the gaps between the bamboo, golden shafts of light fell. In a corner lay a pile of mealy bags and next to them were a stack of barrels.