Sealing the paper he placed it in his case and poured more tea for himself. He did not mind the heat here – the heat was something that one could regard as rather pleasant after a time – but he hated the flies. They crawled over your skin and on your eyes as you slept; they buzzed around your face and caused a gentle breeze to blow eerily across your skin. Once again, he swatted one but it evaded him and flew out of the tent. Yamashita arose, crossed the tent and lay on his small mattress. He sighed to himself. These days of war were torture for a man of his sensibilities. What did he really care about General MacArthur escaping from Corregidor, under the very noses of the Japanese army; the ‘Death March’ to Bataan, and deaths of thousands of Filipino and American soldiers? He had always thought of himself as more of a peacemaker than a warrior. How cruel fate could be. With a groan he eased himself down and lay, gazing up at the ceiling of the tent, where the sun illuminated it. His eyes closed and he heard the faint sound of the men as they worked. He could feel himself drifting off to sleep.
He awoke with a start, realising there was someone next to his bed. He sat up and quickly grabbed the gun that he kept beside him. As his eyes opened, however, he realised it was only Amichi. ‘Yes?’ he said, angrily. Amichi held a piece of paper in his hands. He nervously fidgeted with it, rolling it over in his fingers, creasing its edges. ‘This came, sir.’
‘What is it?’
Amichi held it out before him. ‘I think you should read it.’
Yamashita rose and took the paper. He crossed the tent and picked up his reading glasses from the small desk. The script was hastily written with a pencil that obviously needed sharpening. It said that General MacArthur had landed on Leyte and was pushing northwards. Yamashita eyes widened and he grunted in disbelief, the time was nearly up, the Americans had killed hundreds of thousands in one day, and that he had to return to Manila and then go on to Tokyo.
Yamashita slowly sank down into his chair. He thought to himself for a moment. He knew what this meant. In war, you do what you can, you survive for that day only, you are happy when it ends and you can say to yourself, ‘I have made it for another day’. You sleep and then the next day it begins all over again. This strategy only works, however, if either the war continues or you win. In war the loser loses everything. Amichi hovered over the General’s shoulder. He knew too what the letter meant. He knew that the dead in the hills and the gold could not be found. He knew that nothing of what they had done here could ever get out to the Americans or the world that they represented. The new world that was coming closer and closer with each day. Amichi leaned closer, until his breath flecked the side of the general’s face. ‘General?’ Yamashita was silent.
‘General? What will we do? General?’
Slowly, the general turned. His face was splashed with beads of sickly sweat that emanated not so much from the heat as from the situation. Again Amichi spoke. ‘General? We can’t leave the tunnels as they are. We can’t leave the area like this for . . .’ He stopped briefly. ‘The Americans.’
The General looked again at the paper he held in his hands and brought his face up to the level of Amichi. Avoiding his gaze and staring straight ahead he whispered, ‘Blow up the tunnels.’
Amichi had feared this moment. He recoiled. He had lived this moment for the last few months. He knew that there would come a time when the choice would be made, but there was nothing to say now. ‘Make preparations, Amichi.’
Amichi left the tent and crossed the small patch of land to the tunnel entrances in a daze. He knew what this meant. For there to be no sign of what they had done here, for there to be no record, those who had worked the tunnels day and night for a year or more would have to be buried with them. He just didn’t know yet if he was to be one of them. The day seemed darker now, the sun a little dimmer, the flies a little closer. He found it hard to breathe as he surveyed the tiny holes cut into the side of the hill, out of which small men like ants constantly appeared.
He called a sergeant over and ordered all the dynamite they had to be brought up to where he stood. From where he was he could see the rest of the jungle. It seemed so peaceful, so serene and so still. Somewhere he heard the striking of shovel or pick on hard earth and it seemed to sound on forever. This was a sound he had heard every day for longer than he cared to remember. He knew what was happening here. He knew that this was merely the outcome of one man’s ego. He knew that all these deaths were avoidable, that they were a product of a mind that had become diseased and removed from reality. He knew that there would be nothing for him unless he took it and made it his own.
Quickly he ordered the explosives to be piled high in the tunnel entrance. These were good soldiers of the Empire – they acted without thinking, without questioning. When it had been done he walked to Yamashita’s tent. ‘The tunnels are primed, sir,’ he said. Yamashita was sitting in his chair, head bowed in a strange intensity which seemed to transcend the tiny surroundings. He was silent and his eyes were closed. Amichi moved over and stood beside him. Still the older man said nothing. ‘The tunnels, sir . . .’
Yamashita raised a hand to stop the other from talking. Quietly, he lowered it again and placed it on his knee. The two men stood together in a silence that lasted for minutes.
Suddenly, Yamashita opened his eyes and stood. ‘Shall we prepare?’ he said, and walked out. Amichi, thinking that his time was ripe, reached a hand out and grabbed the small book where he had seen Yamashita hide the map of the tunnels. Quickly he placed it inside his shirt and followed his general outside to the heat of the day. Yamashita stared at the tunnel entrances. ‘Is there enough?’ he asked, nodding at the explosives.
‘Enough to blow five times as much,’ Amichi said.
‘And the captives?’
‘All but a handful still digging inside.’
‘What about Japanese?’
Amichi looked around him, quickly counting in his head.
‘About thirty.’
Yamashita bowed, Amichi did not know whether in prayer or in guilt.
‘Give the order,’ Yamashita said and Amichi raised his hand.
In the tunnel Bayani first heard the explosion then felt the shockwave as it blew through him and the others. At first, of course, he thought that it was collapsing but pretty soon he realised that no collapse was ever so strong or so violent. He felt the bodies of those around him falling; he could hear the breath being torn from their chests and could sense the fear in the air.
Suddenly, someone said that the tunnel had been blown and that there were dead men by the entrance, so he pushed his way to the front. He could smell the rich smell of blood as his fingers scrambled over rocks and bodies and the remains of the wooden boxes. Behind him someone lit a match but was told to put it out quickly. Above the sound of panic he heard clearly the voices of the Japanese soldiers attempting to calm each other down and assure themselves that it must have been some kind of accident. They will be digging, they said to each other, they will be digging us out even now.
Bayani knew, however, that never did the entrance of the tunnel collapse: the entrance was shored by thick wooden beams; there was no chance on earth they would have collapsed.
He knew that for some reason it had been blown.
He dug with his hands at the wall of solid earth that stood before him but after a few minutes gave up. The fallen beams and the earth had formed a thick wall which completely covered the inside of the tunnel. There was no way out. He slumped down onto the floor and placed his head in his hands.
To his right a fight started out. Two Japanese guards had been arguing over what to do next and voices were raised. The air in the tunnel got thicker as they screamed and screeched at each other, pulling at each other’s clothing. One of the guards pulled a gun and fired. The noise reverberated around the tunnel and caused clods of earth to fall from the roof. Bayani jumped up and made a lunge at the guards in the darkness. He found the gun, wrenched it from the hand of the guard, then made his way to
end of the corridor, where he sat again.
All about him men were moaning, in pain and in fear, their voices – some in Japanese, some in Chinese, some Filipino, some in dialects he could not understand – had a strange eerie quality about them. The panic had receded now and all that was left was the dim roar of humans trapped like animals.
For hours, they waited for the digging but no one came.
Bayani, coughing with lack of air, crawled through the tunnel to where he had stood as the explosion happened. The voices were less now, there was less movement. As he made his way across the bodies that now seemed stacked almost to the roof, there was very little resistance. He felt each one as he passed and realised they were dead, either from their wounds or from suffocation. He reached the area of the tunnel that was clearer and sat, gently rocking. The guards who had been desperately trying to find a way out had stopped now; mostly he could hear them gently crying in the dark or talking to loved ones or saying nothing at all, just breathing deeply as the air became thinner and their heads became lighter. He felt the urge to cry but no tears fell from his dehydrated eyes, his thoughts were of his wife and family, hopefully they had made it to the hills, just as they had planned in case the Japanese occupied their village. He wondered if their little Nipa hut was still standing, he had spent his life there and had never gone to Manila in search of a job like most of his friends. He loved the life in the village, the sounds, the smells, the children playing Bahay-Kubo.
When he could hear no more, Bayani reached for the gun and lifted it to his head. He closed his eyes. Outside nothing was disturbed by the single gunshot that came from deep within the tunnel. All the soldiers had gone now, moved out in the past six hours. All the captives had been killed or else had escaped back into the jungle. The sun was down and only the empty tents fluttered slightly in the evening breeze giving signs that the life that had been here was here no longer.
Manila 1946
The trial had ended and the verdict was in. Anyone who watched it was in no doubt as to the outcome: these were some of the worst crimes of the Second World War. The litany of inhumanity seemed to stretch on forever and no one really knew how many had died on the various missions of General Tomoyuki Yamashita. The General was taken into the holding cell to wait for his time. The fall of Singapore on the 15th of February 1942 seemed like a distant memory. Yamashita remembered how proud he was as he led his 30.000 men to a famous victory over the 130.000 British, Indian and Australian troops. The largest surrender of British-led personnel in history. He was proud of his nickname, the "Tiger of Malaya".
Whatever happens, he would remain dignified. He had served his Emperor to the best of his ability and had no regrets. Outside in the street people were smiling as they heard the news. They had followed the trial ever since his capture and were glad that it was finally over. Most people knew someone or had heard of someone who had been killed by Yamashita’s troops and now they were satisfied that the justice that had been promised to them was coming. Only a few mumbled and moaned about the paucity of real justice, the imbalance – one’s man’s life for thousands. Most, however, smiled and slapped each other’s backs, thinking the war had finally delivered its last victory and it was theirs.
In the morning they took the General, who had freshly shaved, and led him to the gallows. The day was bright and hot as many days are in Laguna. They led him up the 13 steps to the platform and placed a rope around his neck. There was a small crowd gathered outside the prison where the execution was being carried out; men and women jostled for position, straining to hear anything from inside the walls, but it was impossible. A seller of fruit wandered among them, lifting the atmosphere to one of market day or carnival and the look on the faces of each of those attending was of quiet joy, tinged perhaps with anxiety that all should go well. Inside, they pulled the lever and the General fell. The gates were opened and a guard let the crowd see the body, gently swinging in the sunlight. The crowd cheered, some women hugged each other, men pushed and shoved so that they could get a better view, desperately wanting to make sure it was him, that it was Yamashita and that he was finally dead.
Towards the back of the crowd, a man with a large head scarf stood quietly contemplating the scene. He felt that the trial had been a bit hurried, as if it had taken place to appease all those who had suffered at the hands of the Japanese Imperial Army, as if General Yamashita was somehow responsible for each and every death. In his hand he held a book close to his chest and in the book a map was concealed. On the back of the map he had written his name, Amichi, so that history would know his own culpability, his own guilt.
Chapter One
Hong Kong, present day
Professor Okada sat at one of the long desks that faced towards the window. The sun was just dipping below the line of the harbour and it threw startling patterns of light on the wall. He raised a prism-like geodesic crystal to the window and watched as the light refracted and sent spectral shafts of different colours around the room. No matter how many times he did this it still delighted him as much as it had when he was a little boy. He was fifty, balding, and had been a Reader in Geology at Hong Kong University for almost twenty years, but it was the simple things still that kept him going. Classes were almost over for the summer and he was looking forward to the fishing trip he had planned. Fishing was never really his thing; he liked to sit and watch the water. Often he would forget to bait the line specifically to avoid the accidental catching of a fish that he found so ugly and unwholesome. He looked forward to spending some time at his cabin by the river, where he could collect samples from the local rock formations and sit and watch the water for most of the day, seeing in its brightness something that was lacking for most of the year spent in the big city.
He carefully placed the sample back into its case and brushed off the dust that had gathered on its top. Then he replaced the whole thing back in the drawer and hopped from the tall lab stool he had been sitting on. Really, one of these days he should start that diet he was always meaning to go on. Really, one of these days he should start looking after himself a little. The door to the lab swung open suddenly and a bright young Japanese girl danced in.
‘Lisa,’ the professor exclaimed.
‘Hello, uncle,’ she replied. ‘I’ve come to take you home. You will be here all evening if I don’t drag you away.’
The professor smiled and touched his nose with his index finger. ‘You know me too well. But I must just finish up a few things.’
‘Uncle . . .’
‘Just a few things.’
As he pottered about with slides and charts that meant nothing to Lisa she idly looked around the room.
‘What are these rocks?’
‘They are samples. Some I collected myself, others were donated, others have been here for years. As long as I can remember, anyway – longer than twenty.’
‘Some only look like rock.’
The professor laughed.
‘Some only are rock. Geology is ninety per cent rock, nine per cent volcano and one per cent gold.’
‘You have gold here?’
‘Yes, a piece somewhere, but it’s unprocessed. It would leave you highly unimpressed.’
‘That’s life, I suppose.’
‘Well,’ the professor said. ‘That’s geology anyway.’
Lisa picked up a stick of chalk and started signing her name across the blackboard. The professor winced as the chalk scraped and whistled its way across the surface.
‘I may be some time yet,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you go to the machine down the corridor and get us both some coffee?’ He handed Lisa some change and set about arranging charts and books, depositing some into his briefcase, dropping most on the floor.
At the coffee machine Lisa hesitated for a while, making the momentous choice of tea or chocolate. From the corridor on the fifth floor you could see right into the heart of Hong Kong. She liked to watch the bustle and the business of the streets at this time, when it was
at its busiest. Down in the street, however, today, something caught her eye. In amongst the thousands of people milling to and fro was a young woman, dressed in bright red, running.
Lisa moved over, nearer to the window and leaned her forehead on it. Squinting, she could clearly make out the face of the girl – she looked Japanese and was clearly running for all she was worth. Lisa adjusted her glance along the street and saw she was indeed being chased by four men dressed in smart but plain clothes. The first of the four men wore sunglasses and had a shock of dark black hair. His hand was permanently placed inside his jacket as if concealing something – perhaps, Lisa thought to herself, a gun. She shook herself. How ridiculous, she thought, the girl was running away from the police, or she was running to catch a taxi, or else she was running from a jealous boyfriend. These things happen all the time in a big city like this. She had, after all, been told many times that she could be obsessive and compulsive and that someday her imagination was going to get the better of her. She took the cups from the machine and made her way back to the classroom where the professor was clearing up. Something, however, made her stop; something made her put the cups down on the ground and make her way back over to the window. Something made her press her nose up against the glass again and look downward to the street below where she saw the girl in red enter the University by the front door, leaving the men chasing her at the entrance unsure of whether they could chance going in. Lisa once again shook herself. There was, she reasoned, nothing to be concerned about: it was a student late for an appointment, a date at the library or cafeteria, or with an important deadline to meet. She bent down and picked up the cups again then made her way to the classroom of her uncle and kicked open the door.
The Mystery of Yamashita's Map Page 2