The commanding officer entered the hut and greeted his signallers, who rose to their feet and bowed. Both men had recently been informed of the prisoner’s release. But if either Corporal Higa or Private Kamiko questioned the wisdom of the decision, they did not show it. If the captain chose to be merciful, so be it.
The signallers got to work and patched in the appropriate leads before dialling up the connection, while Hayama put on a set of headphones and waited until it was time to broadcast his report. On the hour the captain began to read, Higa diligently tapping out the words with the morse key using their own special code and within a couple of minutes the process was complete. Hayama thanked his signallers and removing the headphones, he told them that there would be an extra jar of sake for everyone that night. The soldiers were grateful, alcohol and cigarettes were strictly rationed and each man was careful to conserve his own supply. The captain got up and the signallers both rose and bowed again, expressing their thanks.
The commanding officer left the radio shack and walking back down the escarpment, he made his way to the shrine. Since the pilot’s arrival, the past few days had been difficult for Hayama and he had constantly asked his ancestors who had gone before him to illuminate his path. When he got to the shrine the captain removed his cap and began to light some incense sticks and candles. As the incense sticks smouldered, he stood in front of the Buddha and reverently lowered his head.
Hayama prayed for his family and for the men under his command. They were also like family to him. He loved them all equally. He felt as if he were a father to his men. He cherished each of them as his own son, but he also had to show them discipline. A father who failed in that would never be respected by his children. He also prayed for the pilot whom he had just released. He did not know why he had done this and he could not explain it, but he felt that his ancestors had guided him in his decision. The captain stood there deep in contemplation, his head bowed before his god. The gilded Buddha looked on, smiling serenely, impervious to the vicissitudes of the temporal world. There was no beginning and no end, just the constant turning of the great wheel. Nothing ever changed, not even change itself. All was vanity. Reality itself was a dream. Man was no more than a bubble on the ocean of nothingness. A solitary finger pointing at the moon.
The captain finished praying and replacing his cap, he bowed once more and left the shrine, making his way back through the forest towards the camp. He took the path that led through the trees and walked across the white beach, his boots slipping in the sand. The evening sun descended beyond the reef, leaving a crimson stain on a darkening sea. But the captain did not stop and carried on up the path towards the camp. Shadows fell across the compound and the windows of the huts were lit by lamps. From the men’s quarters an accordion played. Hayama continued on, passing the pilot’s dwelling before reaching his own.
He walked up the steps and entered his quarters. Once inside he went over to his bed and changed out of his uniform and into his kimono. It was a ritual he performed every evening and one which helped him forget about the war, if only for a while. He tied the cord of his silk gown and picking up his violin he sat down on the tatami and began to play, singing softly to himself. He recited a poem written many centuries before by a monarch praising the beauty of his kingdom.
Countless are the mountains in Yamato,
But perfect is the heavenly hill of Kagu;
When I climb it and survey my realm,
Over the wide plains the smoke wreaths rise and rise,
Over the wide lake the gulls are on the wing;
A beautiful land it is, the Land of Yamato!
Lying on his bed, Strickland was woken by a curious sound and thought that a mosquito must be tormenting him. He opened his eyes and heard a man singing, accompanied by an unearthly tune. It seemed to come from Hayama’s quarters and the pilot drew aside the muslin curtain and went over to the window. He opened the shutters and stood and listened. An ethereal music drifted in on the breeze, the notes of the violin rising and falling with the captain’s voice. Strickland stood at the window, spellbound. The music stopped, but the notes lingered in the evening air like perfume, eventually dissipating in the dusk.
The pilot put on his shirt and leaving his quarters, he walked over to the captain’s hut. He ascended the wooden steps, pushed open the fly screen and stepped inside. Hayama was sitting cross-legged before him, the violin to one side. He looked up as the Englishman entered.
‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Yes, thank you. I heard you playing.’
‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you.’
‘No, it was beautiful. What was it?’
‘Just a simple song. It reminds me of home,’ Hayama replied, a wistful note in his voice.
The captain motioned for Strickland to join him on the tatami. The pilot came and sat down, crossing his legs and finding the rush matting surprisingly comfortable.
‘Ito is just preparing our supper. He won’t be long. Would you like some sake while we wait?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ replied his guest and Hayama called out to his orderly to bring them some rice wine.
In a moment Ito apperead, carrying a steaming jug and two small cups on a tray. He set down the jug and cups next to the captain, his mop of dark hair falling over his face as he did so. The pilot noticed his youth and knew that although Asians often appeared younger than they were, the man must be at least in his mid-twenties. They were probably the same age, but the orderly looked as if he had only just left school. His face was smooth, almost feminine, with only a trace of fine hair on his upper lip. There was a feline quality to him, even his eyes were like a cat’s. Ito asked the captain if he wanted anything else, but his superior shook his head and the orderly disappeared into the kitchen. Hayama poured Strickland some sake before replacing the jug in its holder. The pilot took the cup and drank, the hot sweet wine warming his throat. Then he realised that the captain had failed to fill his own cup.
‘Are you not having any?’
The captain smiled. Of course the Englishman would not know the form.
‘In company you cannot fill your own cup with sake. It must be done by someone else.’
‘Sorry,’ said Strickland and he picked up the jug and poured a measure for his host.
‘Domo arigato,’ replied Hayama and seeing that the pilot did not understand he explained. ‘It’s Japanese for thank you.’
Chastened, his guest repeated the word.
‘Subarashii!’ said his host smiling, ‘which means “wonderful”. You’ll be speaking Japanese in no time.’
Strickland looked bashful, he was ashamed he did not have even the simplest understanding of the language. All he knew were the various types of aircraft, naval vessels and military equipment that Japan possessed. He wondered where Hayama had learned his English, which he spoke fluently and with only the trace of an accent.
‘Your English is excellent.’
‘I lived in Honolulu. I spent three years in Oahu as part of a military exchange programme. It’s a wonderful island. The country is full of butterflies, there are countless varieties and some of them haven’t even been recorded.’
Strickland looked around the room and saw the lepidoptera which Hayama had caught and placed in frames along the wall, their azure wings glinting like scales in the lamplight.
‘Are butterflies your passion?’
‘Yes. But not just butterflies. I love all insects. They are perfectly evolved for whatever it is they are designed to do. They are born, they procreate, they die. If only mankind were as efficient.’
The pilot turned his gaze from the collection and faced the captain.
‘What were you doing in Hawaii?’
‘I was a military attaché.’
‘Were you spying?’
Hayama gave Strickland an enigmatic look.
‘Let’s just say that I was watching them and they were watching me. Besides my American counterp
art was based in Okinawa and I don’t think he was there to play baseball.’
The pilot saw his host’s cup was empty and refilled it. Hayama grinned and returned the compliment. Strickland felt emboldened by the wine and his host’s conviviality and decided to ask him something that he had often put to his colleagues, but no one seemed to know the answer. Or if they thought they did, he found their explanation unsatisfactory.
‘Forgive me if I sound impertinent, but I have always wondered why Japan attacked Pearl Harbor. What was the point of starting a war with the United States?’
The captain sighed and raising his cup to his lips he knocked back the contents, before putting it down again. Strickland picked up the jug and replenished it and the captain took another sip before replying.
‘It is most unfortunate. But in the end we had no choice. The Americans were determined to have a war with Japan. Not President Roosevelt and Ambassador Grew. I think they were honest and truly did not seek conflict. But there were others like Cordell Hull, who wanted war. They made so many demands upon the Motherland that it was impossible to accommodate them, without suffering a severe loss of face. When an enemy is determined to strike you, you must strike him first.’
‘So why did Japan become allied with the Axis?’
‘That was a terrible mistake. Our traditional enemies are China and Russia. We had treaties with both before we tore them up. The problem with Japan is that we are a small nation surrounded by three very powerful ones. To the north is Russia, to the west is China and to the east is America. It makes us nervous. We always think that our neighbours want to attack us.’
There was a noise from behind the screen and looking up the pilot saw Ito emerge, carrying a tray. The officers watched as the orderly set it down on the low table next to them and began to place the various bowls and dishes on it. There was a bamboo pot of boiled rice, a plate of sea urchins with their shells split open, their yellow flesh glistening against the dark spines, a bowl of dried seaweed, another of bean sprouts, one of baked aubergine and finally a plate which contained a single grilled mullet, its head and tail attached.
‘You spoil us, Ito,’ said Hayama, looking at the spread which lay before them.
‘It is only simple food, sir,’ replied the orderly, bowing his head.
As the captain and his cook chatted together, Strickland listened. There was something in the cadence of the orderly’s voice which he recognised. He was certain of it. It had the same timbre, the same gentle, fluting notes. The pilot suddenly realised the voice belonged to the man who had come in the dead of night and given him sustenance while he was in the punishment box. But he knew he should not mention it.
Ito left and Hayama urged his guest to eat. Together they began to serve themselves, starting with the sea urchins which they ate with chopsticks, dipping the flesh into a small bowl of soy sauce.
‘Your orderly is a wonderful cook, where is he from?’ asked the pilot, wanting to learn more about the mysterious servant.
‘He’s from Nagasaki like me, which is why I chose him as my orderly. He’s also brilliant at catching fish. It must be something in his blood, he comes from a long line of fishermen. His family are Christian. He went to a Jesuit missionary school. He also speaks good English.’
Strickland smiled inwardly, his host unaware that he knew this much about his servant. He put his chopsticks into the pot of rice, picking up a lump which he dipped in plum sauce.
‘Is Christianity common in Japan?’
‘Not particularly, but Nagasaki is the most westernised part of the country. The Portuguese came in the sixteenth century and evangelised much of the area. In return for allowing the Jesuits to convert the local population, the daimyos were able to trade with the Portuguese. Spices and silk from Macau in exchange for silver and steel from Kyoto. However, things were not always easy, occasionally a ruler would be overthrown and another would take his place and slaughter the Christians. One ruler, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, attacked the missions, believing they threatened his authority.’
‘What happened?’
‘He crucified twenty-six Christians on Nishizaka hill in Nagasaki. Even so, they were never wiped out entirely and the shoguns came to realise that trade was more important than pogroms and the monasteries and churches were rebuilt. Unfortunately that only lasted for a time. Later rulers brutally purged the city of Christians and this caused the Shimabara rebellion …’
Hayama paused and adjusted his position on the tatami as his guest looked on.
‘Tell me more.’
‘Well, it was very bloody. Nearly 40,000 people including 15,000 warriors barricaded themsleves inside Hara Castle. They held out for ten weeks until they were finally crushed. The leaders were decapitated and their heads put on spikes along Dejima bridge, before they were buried next to the graves of the twenty-six martyrs.’
Strickland nodded and dipped his chopsticks into the bowl of bean sprouts and took a portion.
‘Did Chistianity spread across all Japan?’
‘Only briefly. The sixteenth century was what we call the Christian century, after that rulers decided that any contact with foreigners diluted Japanese society. The missionaries were seen as being largely responsible for this and both they and their converts were persecuted. It was only when Japan was opened up by Commodore Perry and his ‘black ships’ that Christianity flourished again. But it has always had its roots in Nagasaki.’
‘I see,’ said the Englishman.
Strickland understood now why Ito had risked his life to help him. His natural antipathy towards a foreigner and an enemy being subsumed by his faith. The pilot realised that he owed his life to the orderly, just as much as he did to Hayama.
‘And what about you? Where are you from?’ asked the captain, helping himself to some aubergine before sprinkling a little dried seaweed on it.
‘Northumberland. It’s in the north-east of England. There are a lot of Christians there too.’
The captain smiled, he enjoyed the Englishman’s sense of humour.
‘But not many Buddhists?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘And your family? Do you have brothers and sisters?’
‘No, there’s just me.’
Hayama said nothing and the two of them continued to eat for a while in silence. The captain was glad he had not taken the life of a mother’s only son. For whatever reason the gods had stayed his hand and he knew they had been right to do so.
‘Tell me a bit more about yourself,’ said the captain.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘I don’t know. Anything. Why did you become a pilot?’
‘I knew there was going to be a war, so I joined the university air squadron.’
‘Where were you at university?’
‘Oxford. But I was only there for a year. When the war came I was called up into the RAF. We were trained in Scotland before being sent to France.’
‘And after that you were shot down.’
‘Yes, during the Battle of Britain.’
‘Ah, I remember your Winston Churchill talking about “The Few”. He is greatly respected in Japan.’
‘Why is that?’
‘He is from a noble family and he served and fought as a soldier before becoming a politician. It is the best way. It is how Japan is governed. The army carries out the Emperor’s will.’
‘And your Emperor is a god?’
‘Yes. We have many deities and he is one of them. The difference is that the Emperor is living on this earth.’
‘So the war is his will?’
‘It is the will of all Japan. It is a struggle for national survival.’
‘And if you lose this war?’
Hayama stopped eating and putting his chopsticks down, he looked at Strickland as if what he had just said was not only absurd, but impossible.
‘Japan cannot lose this war, because Japan will never surrender.’
‘So the war will go on forever.’
>
‘No war goes on forever. One day there will be peace.’
‘Then we can all go home.’
The captain gave a melancholy smile. He had not been home for four years. He would love to go home and see his parents. He wondered how much they had changed. His father would probably be a little greyer and a bit more stooped, but his mother would doubtless be the same. Always fussing over him, making sure he had this and that and preparing his favourite dishes. How his heart ached to go home.
Hayama looked at the table in front of them. The food had all been eaten and the sake was cold. The lamps in the hut burned low and stifling a yawn with his hand, the captain suggested they turn in.
The pilot got to his feet and thanking his host he left the hut, feeling sated and slightly drunk. He stepped outside into the cool night air and looked up at the heavens. A shooting star cast a pale streak across the sky, disappearing into the abyss. Strickland saw it as a good omen and made a wish. The pilot continued staring up at the constellations littering the heavens, until finally he turned away. He ascended the steps of his hut and went inside, closing the door behind him. He was tired and going over to his bed, he undressed, putting his clothes on the chair. He then raised the mosquito net of his cot and got in. Strickland lay under the muslin veil and listened. The forest was quiet. Only the cicadas stirred occasionally in the stillness. Their rhythmic music was like a narcotic and soon the pilot was asleep.
FIVE
When Strickland woke the next morning the sun was already high in the sky, the shutters of his room lit by its rays. Beyond the hut the cicadas chirped madly and monkeys chattered in the trees. The pilot lay on his bunk and wondered where he was. He had been dreaming he was in France again, but he could see that he was alone and he did not recognise his quarters. His gaze wandered to the shelf on the opposite wall and he saw the photograph of Ensign Aoki and he remembered. He was on the island. The Englishman yawned and levering himself out of bed, he stretched his long limbs. In spite of the strange surroundings and the shortness of the bed, he had slept well. He saw there was a pitcher and a bowl on the table by the window and he padded over to it.
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