The road was sometimes little more than a rutted path. They passed rusted out vehicles and even a crashed plane—one wing stuck high in the ground like a banner. Green vines had already begun to cover the wreckage, even though most of the terrain was shell-pocked and barren to the rock.
The stones hurt Kiyoshi’s feet through boot soles worn thin as paper. The material was dried stiff and rotting, and it chafed raw against each ankle. Officers’ boots were not designed for marches but for riding above the troops in vehicles like those the common American soldiers sat in so casually.
Kiyoshi’s group passed through the remains of what had been a fishing village—to judge by the scattered nets. Only a few old Okinawan men and women were there to watch the prisoners pass by. Faces more Chinese than Japanese, wrinkled and thin. Short people, brown as the earth to which they seemed anchored. Most of them stared without emotion. Only one, a woman, caught Kiyoshi’s gaze. She spat. Worthless peasant, he told himself, and turned away. But what would his own father and mother look like after years of war?
Death to expiate defeat would have been the easy way.
The group of marching prisoners had reached the edge of the shore. Small waves lapped nearly up to their feet. In the water waited a boxlike vessel that one had to enter by a ramp.
“Okay, move along. Move along there!” barked one of the American soldiers.
“You must advance quickly with no delay,” the interpreter translated. “Go. Go. Others are coming behind you. Do not cause delay!”
“Hai, go!” snapped prisoner Captain Kiyoshi Tsurifune, and he led the way into the water.
Once aboard the vehicle, the seawater that had filled his decrepit boots dribbled through holes worn through at the ankles.
They were packed to standing for the trip to a warship at anchor, supporting each other shoulder to shoulder as the clumsy landing craft rolled and bounced. A man beside him—a common soldier—vomited on Kiyoshi’s shoulder. Nothing to be done about it. Kiyoshi stared ahead as if he didn’t notice and made no acknowledgment when the man tried to bow an apology in the serried quarters.
At the ship’s side they were confronted by a clacking ladder constructed of footboards held together by rope, while their own craft surged up and down against the gray steel hull.
“Grab ahold and climb,” shouted a voice above in English. “Look lively there!”
Another interpreter called down in Japanese: “You must one by one boldly grip the ropes and climb upward. This is necessary, so do it quickly.”
One man found a handhold on the ropes just as a sea swell raised the slippery deck he was standing on. He cried out, loosed his grip, and fell back against the others hemming him. Some of the men began a mutter close to a moan.
“Oh shit,” laughed one of the Americans at the ship’s rail above. “This’ll be a fuckin’ circus. We got some kind of dip net aboard?”
Kiyoshi elbowed his way to the ladder. In the old days as a youth, he had ridden aboard fishing vessels and the mothership owned by Father and Grandfather. He knew what to do now.
“Watch,” he commanded and grabbed the rope as the deck rose. “Take hold and then do not let go. Be courageous. Do not let them see you are afraid. Do not be disgraced by their laugh.” Step by step he climbed the ladder until he was suspended beyond the surging rail of the barge. “You must move quickly to this height for safety,” he called down. “Then, if necessary, stop for breath. Then quickly upward.”
Panting, he reached the ship’s rail, tried to mount gracefully, and ended by rolling over it on his belly.
“That’s the way, baby,” laughed one of the Americans, steadying Kiyoshi with a hand on his arm. The touch and voice were firm but friendly. Kiyoshi righted himself to bow, but the man had already turned his attention back to the ladder.
“Name. Rank. Age. Home province,” an American sailor with a clipboard demanded impersonally. An interpreter beside him barked the questions in Japanese. Kiyoshi braced himself to attention and snapped crisp answers.
The American sailor stopped writing. A scar down his face exaggerated the hardness of his stare. “Yeah, yeah, fellah, act big. But you ain’t a soldier now. Just one more Jap what needs to be shot or fed. How many of us did you kill? Wish I could ask that and put it in your record here. Tell him to stand over there until the rest of them come aboard.”
The interpreter, a stiff, slight young Japanese, glanced uneasily at Kiyoshi. “Excuse me,” he prefaced, and translated only the instruction.
Two other men clambered up the ladder successfully. Then one, already halfway up, fell back screaming.
“Oh man. Be here all night like this,” said the friendlier of the two Americans. “Go tell the captain we’d better break out the fuckin’ cargo net.” Thus, the prisoners came aboard like cattle. Belowdecks, the first of the prisoners were crowded into a mess hall with long tables. Others kept coming down the metal stairs. As hours passed, late arrivals were forced to group themselves in the passageways as best they could. Soon the odors of sweat and rancid breath filled the air. At anchor the ship barely rolled, but even this motion was enough to make some vomit. Any trip to the toilets required stumbling around others, then waiting in long restless lines.
Word spread that they were being transported to the Japanese mainland. It would take more than a day to reach a port on the southernmost island of Kyushu. What then? Were they still soldiers? Were they to be released and allowed to find a way back to their homes? For Kiyoshi, the journey north would need to cover some thousand kilometers more.
With such crowding, they received only boiled rice passed in pots among them to be scooped out by hand.
“Better than you yellowskin bastards ever gave my brother in Bataan,” muttered the cook who distributed the pots from the galley. “Just give me my way here for a day—.”
Kiyoshi looked in disgust at the clotted white mess that grimy hands had already stained brown. He started to refuse, then thought of the strength he’d need to reach home. He scooped himself one mouthful, then another before the pot was pulled away.
Throughout the day, the crowding steadily worsened—along with the stench. The prison stockade had held about three hundred men by Kiyoshi’s estimate, while the landing vessel had carried only about twenty per hour-long trip. Kiyoshi decided to try for air. He elbowed through the others, stepping around vomit, until he reached the metal stairs that led to open deck. A single armed American guarded it. When a new Japanese group descended in a pack he wriggled among them like a fish moving upstream, and then, at the top of the group, he crawled aside. The sky was already dark. He slipped unchallenged into a sheltered corner by an open doorway.
Through the doorway could be heard the roar of unseen engines below. The air that blew from the opening was hotter than even that from which he had just escaped, and thick with oily odors, but Kiyoshi felt a rush of excitement. It was the first time in months that no other bodies were pressed against him.
At long intervals, prisoners continued to arrive in bunches, ignominiously in a sagging cargo net. Cattle indeed, all his countrymen, now. Dishonored.
Two men clambered up a ladder from the engine room and out onto deck for a smoke. Kiyoshi crouched in the dark, and they did not notice him.
“Shit. No cooler up here,” one of them said. A short while later, they ground out their cigarettes and returned below. Alone again, Kiyoshi crept from his corner and grabbed the two butts. One still had a spark of glow. He drew on it and extracted a lungful of comforting smoke before the spark died.
At last, the cargo net was dragged off, and the loading appeared to be finished. Sailors hosed the deck with seawater while a static-laced voice issued orders over a loudspeaker. From below, the noise of the engine grew louder, and the deck where Kiyoshi stood began to throb. He heard a distant thump of what might be the anchor chain. Yes. Leave this cursed Okinawa—. Whatever might be waiting for him in the homeland.
They moved past the lights of other ships,
then beyond the harbor, into the dark. The ship began slowly to roll. Yes! Like in the years before the military when he’d traveled aboard fishing boats belonging to Father and Grandfather’s small company, the nosing of this vessel into the sea signaled severance from land and all that remained upon it. He dared not venture into view on deck for a taste of breeze caused by the ship’s motion, but even the air around his corner began to lighten. Whatever lay ahead, Kiyoshi recognized for certain now that he no longer yearned to be among the honorably dead. Perhaps they were passing out more rice below? That meant returning to that cramped space where he felt like cargo and perhaps not being so lucky a second time to escape. Hadn’t he learned by now, through necessity, to live with hunger? He chewed the tobacco shreds from the two precious butts. They released a raw flavor that itself gave comfort. Each morsel was savored and slowly swallowed. When the last shred was gone, Kiyoshi doubled up in his corner against the hot metal walls to allow only minimal visibility and prepared to pass the night. Survival would need to be done an hour at a time.
Later, still in darkness, Kiyoshi awoke from a dream: chased by faceless enemies as he fell from the edge of one cliff to another, ranged like terrible steps. Wind-driven rain now slashed across the lights on the deserted deck. He was shivering, but it was not from cold—not in the still-thick heat. An overhang sheltered him from the rain and the eyes of the Americans. The swallowed tobacco had given him diarrhea. Go back safely below with the others? No, solitude was surely too precious. Instead, he gripped a handrail, swung around so that his buttocks faced into the rain, and defecated. Back in his shelter he huddled once more and prepared to return to sleep, despite the malaise of the dream that remained strong.
He woke next to water splashing over his body. It was daylight, but the sky billowed in shades of deep gray and black. He rose against heavy motion, gripping the handrail for support. The ship swooped high, thudded down, twisted, pitched. Wind blew through the ship’s rigging with the sound of a human whine. Objects unseen clanged and thumped. Beyond the rail, waves roiled in dark foaming walls. With the ship’s roll, the long deck he faced sometimes slanted clear to the water. And then, rearing in the opposite direction, it carried scoops of sea that raced in to his corner and bubbled around him. It was only because he had wedged himself in that had he not been swept out or overboard.
He watched three American sailors labor their way across the deck. They were made to bend forward into the wind, moving by spurts in the moments when the deck stabilized between rolls. Finally, they reached a lifeboat—its canvas cover flapping wildly loose. The wind nearly drowned their shouts and so pressed against their pants that the contours of their knees were clearly defined. The Americans tightened the canvas with heaves on its guy ropes. At times, seawater rushed so high against their legs that they needed to grab hold of some part of the lifeboat for support. When they turned to leave from the direction they had come, the wind pushed them from sight as quickly as if they had been running. Kiyoshi heard footsteps on the engine room grating, and clutching the rail, he swiveled around the corner and out of sight. The hatch of the door thumped shut. He looked in time to see the handles that secured the door turn from the inside to lock it. Now he was truly alone. And he was hungry. At least when he extended his raised face beyond the overhang he could lick fresh rainwater from his lips.
Long hours passed. At one point an edge of canvas on the lifeboat flapped loose. The wind, like a beast at its meat, tore and tore until only shreds of cloth remained. Finally, the shreds themselves flew off in pieces. No men appeared now on deck. The black seas swelled and deck lights glistened on the walls. The foam on their tops gleamed whiter than anything else in Kiyoshi’s horizon. Unseen objects still crashed with booming thumps, and the wind swept deep ripples in the water that scudded steadily across deck. Seawater, sometimes as high as his knees, surged into his corner, drenching him. The seas began to seem full of life, trying to pull the man away with them. Kiyoshi gripped the rail tighter.
Suddenly the deck rolled deep into water, and a great waved crashed over the lifeboat. When the water surged away, the lifeboat was gone. Only pieces of rope remained, flapping wildly from a broken davit.
Kiyoshi began to laugh. He started cautiously, afraid to be heard. But the roaring wind drowned the sounds even from himself. He was free to shout as loud as he pleased. Shout till his throat burned.
“Ai! Ai! Why has Japan suffered disgrace?” He shouted it. “Japan has been betrayed!” He shouted this too. “Honored Supreme Emperor, why did you allow this? Are you guilty? Who is guilty? What becomes of me? Of my father? Of sacred Nippon itself? Ai! Ai!” He shouted it all until he doubled over, coughing. The wind and rain blew into his tears.
The handles on the hatch to the engine room grated loose one by one, and a man threw open the heavy steel door. “Hey,” he called. “Fuckin’ Jap out here, Mike—that’s the noise. Watch out. Maybe he’s tryin’ to blow us up somehow.”
Kiyoshi gripped the rail and edged away. I’ll defend myself, he decided. They won’t catch me alive. Then he stared down the slanted deck at black waves foaming where the lifeboat had been. Death was waiting, if he let go of the rail.
Not ready any more.
“Oh shee-it,” the man called out again. “All skin and wet—no place on this one for a bomb. He’s just stuck in the blow. Hey, Jap, you! What the fuck you doing out there in typhoon season? Get in here!”
Another man appeared in the doorway. He also wore a white seaman’s hat. “Get him in if he’ll come,” he said. “Otherwise let him blow away—one less Jap. We’ve got to batten down.”
“Grab my hand, Jojo,” called the first sailor.
Kiyoshi stared at them. He understood but did not move.
“Nobody’s goin’ to hurt you, Jap. But ain’t coming for you in this, either.” The first man gestured with his arm. “Closing this fuckin’ hatch, Jojo. Get the fuck in here!”
Slowly, Kiyoshi edged toward them. He came close enough that the man grabbed his arm and yanked him inside. The other helped propel him through the opening, and Kiyoshi landed on his back. He heard the clang of the heavy door and the scrape of the handles. Rough metal grating pressed through his threadbare shirt.
“We’re on typhoon shutdown—no time for this,” said the second man. “What’s around to tie him with?”
“He ain’t going anywhere, Mike.”
“Geez, Tommy. Still don’t know much about Japs, do you? They’re treacherous.”
The two Americans ended by directing Kiyoshi to go before them, down flights of metal stairs to the level of the engines. The heat and noise increased at each landing. Massive blocks of machinery moved with the ship’s sway. Some spouted oil. Every handhold was slippery. The men now had to shout to be heard.
“Look what we caught, Chief!” exclaimed the man named Tommy.
The man named Chief, older than the others with a face that was red and blotched, began to curse. They started to argue over what to do with the prisoner.
Kiyoshi stood. He felt dizzy, but out of pride he controlled the impulse to sway. There in a corner, strapped against a wall and covered by a lid, stood a large glass container full of water. It splashed with each roll of the ship. Clear and pure. A ladle rested beside it. The three men turned and looked him over. Kiyoshi bowed and pointed to the water, trying not to appear desperate.
“Oh, now I guess he’s thirsty,” said the hostile Mike.
“Then give him a drink,” said Chief. The man named Tommy unscrewed the top and plunged the dipper in.
“Not in what we drink out of, shithead!” shouted Mike. With a grin, Tommy drank a sip himself and wiped the rim with his finger, before passing the dipper to Kiyoshi. Tommy towered a full head over Kiyoshi. Light-colored hair stuck like straw from beneath his cap.
Kiyoshi bowed. He tried to control himself, but instead drained the contents of the dipper in a gulp. The water was warm—not refreshing—and he swallowed so fast that he choked some of it
back up.
“Better than what you gave some of our boys took prisoner,” muttered Mike. He was likewise tall, but with dark hair cropped close to his head. His eyes glared from a sunburned face that was all bone. Kiyoshi started to bow again, stopped himself, and instead glared back. Let this one be angry, he decided. I am defeated, but I’m not your dung.
“Huh,” said Mike after a pause. “Guess he’s thirsty after all. Might as well give him more, now the dipper’s fucked till we wash it anyway.” He shrugged, went to a corner, and returned with pieces of cheese wrapped in a napkin. “What the hell, Jojo. You hungry too?”
Kiyoshi hesitated, then accepted with the slightest nod. He ate slowly, remaining dignified despite an impulse to tear into the food. At a clang on one of the metal walkways above them the Chief looked up.
“Uh oh. Word gets around fast. Here comes the Exec.”
An officer arrived at their level. He frowned at Kiyoshi while wiping his hands with a cloth.
“Just happened, Mr. Crawford,” said Chief. In surprise, Kiyoshi noted how this engine room worker did not address his superior by the proper title. Far too informal, almost friendly. There would have been great punishment had one of the men under Kiyoshi’s command spoken to him so. “Too rough on deck to send him back with the others till the storm’s over.”
“Guess you’re right. He giving you any trouble?”
“We could take care of anything like that, sir!” offered the seaman Mike. “I don’t doubt that, Petrofski.” The officer, a man younger than Kiyoshi, had the straight bearing and intelligent face expected of a man in charge. He turned to Kiyoshi. “You. Speak any English?” His words were harsher than his tone.
Kiyoshi drew himself up straight. “Little much. Little much only. Captain.”
“Well, that’s something. Just have to keep him here till we get out of this. If he tries anything you’d better . . . hell, bang him over the head, I guess.” Chief laughed. “No problem, sir!”
WARRIORS Page 3