While the captain sat in his cabin admiring his butterfly collection, his prisoner began to stir from his slumber. Strickland woke to find himself in the same position on the storeroom floor. In all that time he had not even moved. He had no idea how long he had been asleep, but the light which poured through the gaps in the bamboo was burnished by the evening sun and he assumed that it must have been for some hours. Sitting up he felt his body, which was cut and bruised. His ribs ached and he prodded his sides to see if any bones had been broken. Although the flesh was tender, he could not feel any fractures. Furthermore he could still see out of his right eye, which he had managed to protect during the last assault.
The pilot realised he must act. He doubted he could survive another beating and knew he had to escape. The boat was his only chance. If he was caught, he would certainly be killed. But he also knew that he would die if he did not. Either from a beating, or rotting away in the fetid darkness of his prison.
Strickland crept over to the door and peering beneath it, he could make out the boots of the soldier standing guard outside. He returned and sat down in the corner to think. He could try and get the soldier to enter the hut, but was unsure if he had the strength to overpower him. If he failed the element of surprise would be lost and the alarm would be raised. He would have to find another way. The pilot looked at the bamboo walls beside him, which seemed sturdy enough. He leant against the wood and tried to loosen the vines which bound them, but they were securely fastened. He looked up at the roof and could see that it was solid and well built. It had to be in order to keep out the monsoon rains. That meant the only other option was the floor.
The prisoner sat down on his haunches and using a discarded piece of timber, began to dig away at the foundations and was surprised to discover that although the bamboo went to a depth of a foot, the wood itself was rotten. While the poles above the ground were solid, those in the earth had been weakened by damp and bored into by beetles and were full of holes. The other buildings in the camp were raised on stilts above the ground, but the storeroom had been built into the earth to stop the rats from getting in underneath. Although the rodents had been thwarted, the wood had rotted with time. Strickland sat back against the rough palisade of bamboo and found himself smiling. He would wait until nightfall and dig himself out.
The sun set beyond a darkening sea and the day’s heat was replaced by a cooler air. As dusk descended a new moon rose above the camp and the birds and monkeys in the surrounding forest fell silent. The pilot listened and waited. Everything was quiet. He crept over to the door to spy on the guard. At first he could see nothing. Then, looking to one side, he saw the soldier had slumped to the ground and was fast asleep. Strickland realised he would have to work quickly and padded across to the other wall. Using the piece of timber he began scraping at the earth, scooping it to one side until he had made a hole two feet long and over a foot deep. Room enough for him to squeeze through. With the pit dug he crept over to the door to see if the guard was still asleep and found that he was. The man snored softly, his head rising and falling on his chest.
With his heart beating quickly, Strickland returned to his work and began carefully to pull away the rotten wood. The bamboo was brittle and gave easily and soon there was an opening large enough for him to crawl through. The pilot lay down on the floor and started to inch his way through the narrow gap. Wriggling from side to side he eased his body through the hole, his shirt occasionally snagging against the bamboo, until first his head, then his shoulders and finally his torso emerged on the other side. With his upper body now free, the prisoner hauled himself out of the gap.
Strickland stayed crouched on all fours and waited in the lee of the hut, watching and listening. But he could hear nothing. The camp was asleep. The air was pure and still and looking up, he could see the stars scattered in a brilliant dust across the night sky. A sliver of moon hung in the heavens and shone like a newly turned blade.
The pilot got to his feet and walked stealthily through the camp, keeping to the shadows. Beyond the trees he could see the water of the harbour glimmer like some dark stone. He headed towards the forest, his bare feet falling silently across the earth. Once he had made the line of trees he waited and looked back at the camp for the last time. The place was quiet, not even a lamp shone in the gloom.
Strickland turned and headed into the trees, making his way down the path towards the beach. The palms loomed up on either side as he slipped like a ghost between the trunks, the creepers occasionally brushing against his face as he went. As he neared the harbour he could hear the distant boom of the waves crashing against the reef. He stopped at the edge of the forest and gazed at the pale expanse of beach. It was deserted. On the other side of the ink-dark water was the pier, the patrol boat a solitary silhouette against the night sky.
The pilot left the safety of the trees and felt the cold, hard sand beneath his feet as he made his way down towards the shore. He waded into the water, its oily caress like a balm against his skin. When the water reached his waist Strickland dived under and holding his breath, he swam as far as he could before breaking the surface. His head emerged and he took a lungful of air and struck out towards the jetty. There was no noise except the gentle splash of his swimming and, farther off, the echoing reef. The pilot swam quickly, the boat looming up ahead of him. He soon made it to the pier and grasping one of the barnacled piles, he hauled himself out of the water and up onto the jetty. He saw an oil drum and hid behind it, his body dripping onto the wooden boards. He looked and waited, but there was no one about.
Strickland got to his feet, picked up the gangplank, placed it across the gunwale and boarded the boat, pulling the bridge in after him. He walked up the side and went into the wheelhouse to search for a knife and found one hanging by the radio set. He took it and swiftly cut the ropes which secured the boat. With the vessel now free, the pilot returned to start the engine. He entered the wheelhouse and searched about in the gloom for the key to the ignition box. Strickland’s hands felt something smooth and metallic and holding it up, he saw he had found what he was looking for. He put the key into the lock and pressed the starter button, the boat’s engines roaring into life.
The noise instantly woke the camp and the place was filled with commotion, as men ran about yelling at each other. Hayama leapt naked from his bed and realising the prisoner must have escaped, he grabbed his sword and ran out into the night, shouting at his men to stop the boat. Together with their captain the soldiers raced through the trees and across the beach towards the pier. Ahead of them they could see the vessel, its lights blazing, its engines groaning. They shouted and ran even faster as Hayama urged them on.
Inside the wheelhouse Strickland wrestled with the controls. He grabbed the throttle and never having driven a boat before, suddenly found himself reversing back along the jetty. He pushed the lever away from him and the vessel surged forward, bumping against the side of the pier as the pilot spun the wheel with his other hand. He was oblivious to everything else as he desperately tried to get the boat away from the pier, the propellers madly churning the water. So he did not see the soldiers sprinting towards him or even hear them jump aboard. The last thing that Strickland knew was an explosion inside his head like a flashbulb and, as the pulsing light diminished in waves, a giant black flower enveloped him in an embrace. The pilot’s body lay slumped unconscious on the wheelhouse floor, a soldier standing over him with a wrench in his hand.
FOUR
Hayama sat in his hut sharpening his sword. He rubbed the blade against the whetstone in long, even strokes, turning it from side to side, his hands working up and down making the bright metal gleam. He took a cloth and wiped the blade clean and holding the weapon up to the light, he watched its edge glint in the morning sun. The captain was the fourteenth generation of his family to own the weapon and he took as much care of it as a mother did her newborn child. He even talked and sang to it. With the newly polished sword flashing in his hand, Ha
yama began to recite an old martial song.
Across the sea, corpses in the water;
Across the mountain, corpses in the field.
I shall die only for the Emperor,
I shall never look back.
He stopped singing and leaning forward, he tenderly kissed the blade. Together with his family the captain loved this sword more than anything else in the world. In fact, the notion of sword and family were not separate entities for a samurai, but united like the magnolia and its flower. The tree nourished the flower and the flower propagated the tree. Hayama had never had the opportunity to use the sword before, but now he did. The captain put his weapon back into its scabbard and stood up. It was time to execute the Englishman.
Hayama put on his forage cap and went outside. The midday sun flared like a match in the sky, its light momentarily blinding him and he pulled the cap further over his eyes. The company was lined up opposite and when they saw their captain appear, Noguchi gave an order and the men snapped to attention. The senior NCO saluted his officer and Hayama returned the greeting. The captain stood on the verandah facing his men, his sword hanging by his side.
‘Sergeant Noguchi,’ he said. ‘Bring me the prisoner.’
‘Heitai-san,’ replied the subordinate and turning, he repeated the order to two of his men.
The soldiers marched over to a corrugated iron box on the edge of the compound and slid back the bolts. They dragged the pilot out and brought him before their captain, forcing him to kneel before returning to the ranks.
The prisoner was in a wretched state; his blond hair was matted with blood, his shirt was torn at the shoulder and his hands were tightly bound. Standing and watching along with the other soldiers was Hayama’s orderly Ito. He looked at the man crouching on the ground in front of the captain and felt sorry for him. The orderly knew he was the enemy and that he had tried to escape, but he also knew it was wrong to kill a man in cold blood. It was not honourable. He wanted to say something, to tell the captain that what he was about to do was a crime, but he was too frightened to speak out. Instead he began to pray.
Strickland knelt there in the dust, knowing his final hour had come. He did not look up, but kept his head down and stared at the grit between his fingers. It would be the last thing he would ever see. He was ready to die and he hoped his executioner would be quick.
The captain descended the steps and addressed his men.
‘I humbly make this sacrifice to the God Emperor. May the spilling of our enemy’s blood please his Imperial Majesty!’
Hayama stood over the pilot and placing both his hands upon the hilt, he unsheathed the sword and raised it above his head. Beneath him lay the bare nape of the Englishman’s neck. A single blow and the man’s severed head would fall from his shoulders. He stood there with his sword held high in the sun and prepared to bring it down upon his enemy’s neck. It would all be over in a moment. The captain remained poised but the sword, which had always been so light and easy to use, seemed to hang like a dead weight in his hands. As the Japanese officer held the sword above his head, the weapon became heavier and he felt himself sweating beneath the hot sun. He gripped the hilt more tightly and the sword began to shake in his grasp. The men stood silently watching their captain, waiting for him to despatch the Englishman. But the moment would not come. Instead Hayama stood there petrified like a statue. Sweat poured down his face and dripped off the end of his chin, as he clasped the weapon above his head. The men waited and held their breath, but nothing happened. Eventually the captain lowered the sword and replaced it in its scabbard. Without a word he turned on his heel and strode back to his cabin.
The soldiers remained motionless until Noguchi stepped forward and dismissed them with a shout. He took the pilot by the scruff of his neck and hauled him back to the punishment box, shoving him inside with his boot before slamming the door shut and sliding the bolts across. The sergeant gave the tin box a resounding kick and cursing the prisoner, he walked away.
Inside the tiny cell it was unbearably hot. The pilot sat there, his clothes soaked in sweat, hardly able to believe he was still alive. Had Hayama meant to kill him, or had he been subject to a mock execution?
Perhaps the captain had lost his nerve? Whatever it was, it did not change his predicament, he was still a prisoner. He put a hand to the back of his head and tenderly felt the bruise at the base of his skull. His vision was still blurred, but he was fortunate the blow he received on the boat had not broken his neck. Strickland removed his hand and looked up. There was a narrow slit between the door and roof through which he could see the camp, the ground white in the morning sun. He wondered how much longer he could survive like this. The pilot thought it would not be too long, a couple of days perhaps. He had so nearly escaped but it did not matter, he would die here.
The sun beat down mercilessly as the pilot sat alone in the punishment box, hunched up like an animal as he contemplated his last remaining hours. He would end his days incarcerated in an enemy camp on a remote tropical island beneath the burning heavens, far away from home. His parents would never know what became of him and they would have no grave to mourn. He might end up as a name on some war memorial, but when they died his memory would perish with them and he would be forgotten. There would be nothing left of his life, just his bones dissolving into this dry earth. Man, for all his toil and struggle, was merely dust.
Strickland closed his eyes and tried to rest. He dozed fitfully for the remainder of the day, as afternoon turned into evening and the sun disappeared behind the tops of the trees. A long shadow fell across the camp and the moon rose into the sky, as the evening brought cooler air. Inside the box the pilot stirred, his consciousness raised by the drop in the temperature. But he did not wake fully and remained in a corner with his eyes closed, his body racked by dehydration. His tongue felt like a piece of boiled meat and he could barely swallow. The camp was quiet except for an occasional cry from a monkey, as the troop settled down for the night. As darkness fell a sliver of moon shone and the constellations appeared one by one, their lights strung out across the heavens like fishermen’s lamps.
The pilot remained curled up inside the punishment box, his eyes closed, his arms around his knees, the cords that bound him cutting into his wrists. A sound came from outside and he thought that it must be the rats scavenging in the dust. Then he heard a voice whispering. Strickland opened his eyes and saw a water bottle being passed through the slit above the door, together with a few slices of coconut. He took the bottle with both hands and opening it he drank its contents, slaking his thirst. When he had finished he handed the bottle back, whispering his gratitude.
‘Kirisuto-kyoto,’ said the voice. ‘Kirisuto-kyoto.’
Strickland did not understand, but he knew that whoever the man was, he had saved his life.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ he murmured.
‘God bless!’ said his companion and with that his saviour was gone. Wide awake and refreshed the pilot picked up the slices of coconut from the floor and began to eat them. They were sweet and tender and he thought that he had never tasted anything so delicious. It was extraordinary what a little sustenance could do to raise a man’s spirits. One of the soldiers in the camp must have taken pity on him, although he had no idea who it was. The man was certainly brave as he knew that if Hayama ever found out, he would kill him. Strickland wondered what it was the man had been saying to him and he berated himself for not knowing any Japanese. But he had also said ‘God bless!’ in English. What on earth did he mean? Plainly not everyone on the island was as brutal as the captain. Then he wondered if the man’s kindness was perhaps a trick. A plan by Hayama to beguile him and get him to talk. But the more the pilot thought about it, the more he felt it unlikely. The captain must have known by now that he would not talk and such a ruse would be pointless.
Strickland finished the slices of coconut and satisfied, he sat back. He felt much better, but the act of charity also created another problem.
Since no one in his position would ever refuse food and drink, the pilot realised he could survive inside the box almost indefinitely. Perhaps he could persuade his new friend to help him escape again. But if he did he would have to take the man with him. He could not leave him here for Hayama to discover. Strickland did not know what to do and hoped that his mysterious helper might have a solution. With these thoughts in his mind, he laid his head against the corrugated walls of his tin cell and in a short while fell asleep. Outside, the camp was steeped in silence, the trees a solid mass. Nothing moved or called out in the stillness. In the sky stars flickered and burned and the crescent moon shone.
For three days and nights the pilot languished in the punishment box. The hut reeked of urine and sweat and during the day the temperature would make him faint. But every night his secret friend would bring water and slices of coconut, always adding a few words of encouragement in English. Occasionally Hayama would come and bang on the roof, demanding that he talk and each time Strickland would remain silent so that the captain would rage and shout, before storming back to his quarters.
After nightfall the pilot would wait patiently for his companion and when he arrived, he would try and engage him in conversation. The soldier spoke good if accented English, but he was obviously frightened and kept telling him to be quiet and just to eat. Then he would disappear and Strickland would be left alone again.
In the long hours of darkness he prayed, remembering a Spanish friar who had once been in a similar predicament. Back in the sixteenth century a man called Juan de Yepes, better known as John of the Cross, had been incarcerated for his ascetic beliefs, which were too radical for the church at the time. But far from being downhearted, the friar had been inspired by his solitude. Eventually, Fray Juan escaped from his prison with the help of a friendly gaoler and used the experience to his advantage, establishing a religious order of his own. Taking comfort from this, Strickland refused to give up. Outside it was dark and so too was the pilot’s soul within. But his unknown provider had kindled a small flame of hope, which nourished him just as much as food and water.
Under the Sun Page 6