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.
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. Thi
s 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.
From a far off island whose name I do not know
A coconut comes floating.
How many months have you been tossing on the waves
Far from the shores of your native island?
I think about tides far away
And wonder when I will return to my native land.
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. H
e 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.
Under the Sun Page 3