Black Sun, Red Moon

by Rory Marron

  Suddenly they were tense and silent, waiting to hear who would accompany him on this most important of missions. Sarel looked at Lamban. ‘We will leave at dawn.’

  Djatingaleh, Semarang, 15th August 1945

  Clad in kendo armour, Ota and Nagumo were on a former grass tennis court practising bayonet combat with elongated, rifle-shaped staffs when a young private came trotting up excitedly to interrupt them.

  ‘Excuse me, Sirs,’ he gasped breathlessly as he saluted. ‘The Major’s orders—the battalion is to assemble for a ten o’clock radio broadcast by His Imperial Majesty!’

  Ota and Nagumo exchanged glances. Ota looked at his watch. It was nine-fifteen. ‘Understood,’ he said calmly.

  ‘Sirs!’ The soldier saluted and sped off, the long stock of his Arisaka rifle banging against the back of his thigh with every step.

  Nagumo let out a long sigh. ‘So, it’s time. The Yanks will soon be here. But at least the Emperor is to honour us before we die.’

  Ota felt the knot back in his stomach. ‘Come on, there’s not much time.’

  The two men got changed quietly and walked briskly towards the compound in silence. They paused by the barracks gate and, almost as a reflex action, straightened their uniforms and belts. Ota noticed a streak of mud on one of his boots. He would have to clean them before the parade but he decided he would first check in at the Officers’ Mess.

  The sentry gave them a formal salute as they entered the barracks. Men were milling around the parade square awaiting the full complement of their platoons prior to forming ranks. They all knew the reason for the parade and their mood was subdued.

  Two technicians were busily stringing a cable to a large, bell-shaped metal speaker fastened to a veranda pillar. Nagumo noticed some of his platoon across the square and left Ota to see to them. Ota carried on to the Mess.

  As he entered, he saw several of his superiors, including Kudo, standing around the large map table at the far end of the room. Two other officers, one a lieutenant and the other a captain, stood to one side, talking quietly. Ota saw the black kenpeitai chevrons and realised the captain was Shirai. Ota switched his attention back to Kudo, who was giving a briefing.

  ‘We cannot defend Semarang, obviously, so we’ll fall back from the port hinterland towards Ambarawa, fighting a delaying action until we reach our prepared positions in the mountains above Magelang.’

  Ota was halfway to the table when Shirai’s voice stopped him in his tracks. ‘Lieutenant, you are about to be addressed by His Imperial Majesty and you are wearing dirty boots.’ Although the tone was casual, it cut across the room. Conversation at the table died. Heads turned except for Kudo who still stared at the map.

  Blood drained from Ota’s face. Being incorrectly dressed on parade was a serious offence. He was about to stammer an apology when Kudo spoke. ‘Ota, this meeting is for officers with the rank of captain and above. No doubt you have only just heard that His Majesty will speak to us. I suggest that you first see to yourself and then to your men. Some of them may also have dust on their boots.’

  Ota was still trying to think of something to say when he saw Captain Seguchi, who was standing behind Kudo, cast a slow and deliberate look towards the door.

  ‘Ye—Yes, Sir. At once!’ Ota saluted Kudo and Shirai, then turned and left the Mess in a cold sweat. Nagumo was about to mount the steps. Ota lifted his hand to stop him going inside.

  ‘We have visitors. Kenpei.’

  Nagumo pulled a face. ‘They’re getting jumpy these days,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t give them any excuse!’

  ‘Too late! I’m in their book for insulting the Emperor.’

  Nagumo gaped. ‘What!’

  ‘Don’t worry; the Major got me off the hook. I think....’

  Inside, Kudo waved his hand dismissively after Ota. ‘Captain Shirai, I’m sorry you had to trouble yourself with such sloppiness. But as you see, everyone is rushing to prepare for the broadcast and what will follow.’

  ‘Does that excuse an officer in the Kudo Butai being improperly attired, particularly when addressed by His Imperial Majesty?’ There was the barest hint of challenge in Shirai’s voice.

  Inwardly Kudo was irritated by Shirai’s pettiness but he was furious with Ota for providing Shirai with an opportunity to embarrass him in his own Mess. But Kudo knew he was on dangerous ground. A report citing poor discipline would mean an inquiry at the very least. His reputation would count for a lot but disciplinary overreactions were rampant in the face of Allied gains. Like most career soldiers, Kudo had nothing but disdain for the kenpeitai but he had to be careful. A kenpei officer could arrest anyone up to three-ranks his senior. Kudo was within Shirai’s range. An official charge of allowing one of his officers to insult the Throne, however flimsy, would see him in the cells in minutes, and Ota with him.

  ‘Captain,’ Kudo replied calmly, ‘I can assure you that any of my officers and men found to be improperly attired will be punished. But as all my officers and men will be correctly attired by the time of the parade our discussion is surely academic. So please, Captain, sit down and have some more tea. No doubt we will not be enjoying these pleasant surroundings for much longer.’

  For a full two seconds the men’s eyes locked. Then Shirai gave a polite, clipped bow. ‘Your confidence in your junior officers is most encouraging, Major. Thank you, but I do not think this is a time for tea. We shall wait outside.’ Shirai strode out of the room with his lieutenant at his heels. Tension remained in the room.

  Kudo read the concern in the faces of his officers and shrugged. ‘We could do without such distractions at this time. Seguchi, go and make sure that Ota is as spotless as a guardsman at the Imperial Palace!’

  They laughed and their mood lightened. Kudo made some more comments on their defence plans for a few minutes then straightened his collar. ‘It is nearly time, Gentlemen,’ he said formally. ‘Let us go outside.’

  One by one they filed out behind Kudo and took their places in the square. Kudo stood on the veranda and surveyed his men. Their lines were sharp, their equipment polished and their faces expectant. Kudo allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction over the thought that Shirai would have found nothing amiss on his surreptitious inspection.

  The ranks were drawn up facing east, the direction of the Emperor in Tokyo. Kudo glanced up at the flagpole. The Rising Sun flag was hanging limply. He checked his watch again and stepped down to the front of his men. His commands rang out in the stillness. ‘Attention! Bow!’

  Behind him the five hundred men of the Kudo Butai bent to seventy degrees as if joined at the hip. Kudo held the bow far longer than usual.

  ‘Yame!’

  It was nine fifty-nine. In Tokyo it would be two hours later. Undulating whistles and hissing came through the speakers before the sombre strains of the anthem ‘Kimigayo’ filled the parade ground. When the music stopped, men stood up straighter, anticipation on their perspiration-streaked faces. None of them had ever heard the Emperor speak. The ‘Voice of the Crane’ was just one of many Imperial mysteries.

  Kudo prepared himself, certain that His Imperial Majesty would refer to Java and Sumatra and declare Sonno foi!—Revere the Emperor! Drive out the Barbarians! How his men would cheer….

  After a few, crackling-filled seconds a hesitant voice began…

  Watakushi-tachi no… Our most loyal subjects… Following considerable reflection on the conditions in the world and within our Empire at this present time, We have chosen to seek a solution...

  Poor reception and the oscillating signal made listening difficult, but it was the flowery, formal language of the Imperial Court that caused Kudo the most difficulty. One thing was clear; this was not a battle cry.

  …an unexpected course of action…instruct our diplomats to open negotiations with the United States, Great Britain, China and the Soviet Union…

  Kudo’s mouth half-opened in shock. He could barely believe what he was hearing.

  Although everyone
has done their utmost to secure victory—our soldiers and sailors, our civil servants and our one hundred million devoted citizens—the going of the war has continued to progress to Japan’s great disadvantage both within the Empire and beyond…

  Finally the full implication of the announcement rocked Kudo to his core.

  What is more, our enemies now posses a new weapon of incalculable destructive power that threatens the lives of millions. A decision to continue our valiant fight would result in the Japanese nation being obliterated from the face of the earth…In grave recognition of this prospect we shall instead embark on a journey of peace for all those generations to follow by enduring the unendurable and suffering what is insufferable….

  Gradually the voice faded, leaving only the crackling from the speakers. Again the anthem was played, but this time there was no straightening in the ranks. No-one was listening.

  Kudo was incredulous. Japan had surrendered! Or had it? His Majesty had not actually said ‘surrender’… He had said, ‘accept provisions’ and ‘pave the way to a grand peace’. Wasn’t that the same thing? It was so vague… And the new bomb! What on earth was it? A few days earlier, Radio Tokyo had mentioned explosions in Hiroshima and Nagasaki where ‘all living things had been seared to death by the tremendous heat’. The Emperor had said ‘obliteration’… Kudo felt a chill run through him. What had happened to his beloved homeland? He thought of his wife and children in Tokyo and prayed that they were safe.

  Shuffling and sobbing behind him brought him back to the present. He looked at his men. They were still at attention but many were tearful. Some had bowed their heads. Others were in shock, their expressions blank and confused.

  Kudo tried to think. It had been a simple enough defensive plan: fight to the death, taking as many of the enemy with them as they could. Now there would be no last stand. The war was over and he was still alive! What then for him, an officer in a beaten army? Surely honour called for his own death to atone for this terrible failure? To his surprise, he dismissed the thought immediately. The Americans would occupy Japan! His family needed him alive…. His expression began to soften as he realised he might take his men home after all.

  Ota’s mind was spinning. Defeat had been expected, eventually, but his fellow officers had always avoided the subject. Instead, they had talked about ‘sacrifice’ and ‘death’ but never surrender! Their Field Code specifically forbade surrender. Japan would never surrender! Now they were all shamed. But they were alive….

  His private, most innermost hopes and fears had always been protected and hidden by a maze of subconscious mental walls. The sudden gift of life from what had been certain death left those walls shattered. Sadness and guilt surged through him, followed by immense, near-euphoric relief. His private nightmare, a haunting image of his father, mother and sister charging with bamboo spears against American machine guns, was now nothing more than a bad dream. With life came hopes. Now he might see his family again, even find a wife. In his mind he saw green eyes and blonde hair….

  He peered along the ranks looking for Nagumo. Ota watched him scratch his cheek absentmindedly. Then Nagumo, too, snapped out of his shock. Guiltily, he looked around to see if anyone had noticed his lapse. His eyes met Ota’s.

  A crash of splintering wood and the clang of twisting metal silenced the muttering. Heads turned. The radio speaker, now dented, was rolling on the ground, tethered by its cable. Up on the veranda Shirai was glowering. He held the remains of a chair.

  ‘It’s not true!’ Shirai screamed. ‘It’s an American trick. That was not our Emperor. Japan will never surrender!’

  Kudo faced him. ‘I believe you are mistaken, Captain. I suggest you return to the Mess.’

  Shirai glared. ‘You, of all people, Kudo! ‘You believe these lies?’

  ‘I obey His Majesty’s orders.’

  ‘Fool!’ Shirai screamed, almost hysterical. ‘The Yankees will shoot you where you stand, all of you. And in Japan they will take their pleasure with your wives, daughters and sisters before they kill them as well!’

  Murmuring began among the ranks, and men shifted uneasily.

  Shirai raised his hands in a frantic appeal. ‘Surrender is treason! It is the Army’s duty to protect the national essence. True faithfulness to the throne demands it, even if it means temporary disobedience to the Emperor! Can you live with the shame of watching your families suffer under the enemy?’

  All eyes went to Kudo. Just as he was wondering how to silence Shirai, a figure broke ranks. It was the kenpei lieutenant. He was walking dejectedly, head down, toward the flagpole. Shirai saw him, too.

  ‘Matsuba! Come here!’

  The kenpei made no acknowledgement. He stopped beside the pole and looked up briefly at the flag. Then he dropped weakly to his knees. Too late, Kudo realised his intention. ‘Don’t—’

  Matsuba drew his pistol, put it against his temple and pulled the trigger. He slumped forward, legs twitching in death spasms.

  Shirai stared at the dead man then, without a word, turned and strode to his car. Tyres screeching, he sped out of the compound.

  In the ranks men were talking loudly. Kudo knew he needed to restore his authority and quash any rash urges among his own officers.

  As Kudo stepped back up on to the veranda, Sergeant-Major Tazaki called the men to attention. In an instant the lines were sharp and silent but many of the faces were questioning. Kudo wasted no time. ‘Well, men, it appears that the war is over. You must, as I do, feel shocked and confused. Whatever has happened, I remind you that you are still soldiers in the Sixteenth Army. You have not been defeated in battle. Our future is now uncertain but we are loyal soldiers of the Emperor and we will obey the imperial command.’

  Even as he was speaking, Kudo was puzzling over the fate of the Emperor. Clearly the broadcast was a recording and could have been made days before. What if the Emperor had already committed suicide? Where did that leave his armies? Kudo realised that if he had had trouble understanding the speech then so would most of his men.

  ‘Obviously, His Imperial Majesty has not ordered his armies to surrender so that they can commit mass suicide. Since the Emperor has denied it for himself, it is denied to us all.’ Kudo searched for something positive. ‘Tonight, everyone is to write to his family so that they can plan for your eventual return home.’

  At the mention of home and family, faces brightened. With relief, Kudo could see he was settling them but he also wondered if he were raising false hopes. ‘There will be a parade at 0700 tomorrow when I will give you more information. Your letters will be collected then. In the meantime all regular duties and patrols will continue as normal but the preparation of defences shall cease.’ He was about to dismiss them when he remembered General Yamagami’s warning. ‘Also, you are not to mention or discuss the end of the war with anyone other than members of our unit. Unfortunately, the local Javanese must now be considered potentially hostile. That is all. Dismissed.’

  Before him the ranks broke up. Some men sat alone, others stood talking in small clusters. Kudo went into his office to await instructions from Saigon and Singapore. He sat down heavily at his desk and pulled out an unopened bottle of Bols gin from a bottom drawer. Three years earlier, the former Dutch commander had left it behind in his rush to leave. Kudo had been saving it for a special occasion. He broke the seal, poured himself a long drink and sat back. A proverb came in to his mind: ‘After the battle, tighten your helmet cords!’ It had been coined by the great seventeenth-century shogun, Tokugawa Ieyasu. Kudo raised his glass to the official photograph of the Emperor on his office wall. ‘To tight helmet cords!’ he said gravely, draining his glass.

  Kroja, Central Java

  Lamban was awake very early. He had never travelled by train before and he was looking forward to seeing Djakarta for the first time. The group gathered to see them off, regarding Lamban with open but good-natured envy.

  At Kroja station Japanese soldiers were checking travel papers bu
t Sarel produced documents issued by the Navy Liaison Office and they were waved through. Sarel then bought two return tickets. The train was late. Sarel sat contemplating the ripped and faded 1942 timetable on the wall facing them. ‘Look at that,’ he said after a while. ‘At least the Dutch could run a train service. There used to be seven expresses a day each way. Now there’s one slow train—if we’re lucky!’

  Their train, six carriages pulled by a straining, dilapidated locomotive eventually arrived over two hours late. At least sixty people were waiting by then and Sarel just managed to find a seat. Lamban chose to stand by a window. In a few moments the corridors were jammed tight with passengers and he lost sight of Sarel. As the train moved off, Lamban found himself smiling. He marvelled not only at the scenery but also at the railway itself, the Dutch railway.

  ‘Remember, Lamban,’ Sarel had told him while they waited, ‘it was built by the Dutch to take the wealth of Java, our wealth, to the ports and then on to Holland. This railway helped destroy our way of life. It tied us down with Western hours and minutes and brought the Dutch overseer with his whip; and Dutch soldiers to put down revolt. Our sultans’ palaces, once sacred sites of pilgrimage, are now minor stations on the way to those ports.’

  Sarel had then given him a sudden, quizzical look. ‘Should we therefore hate and reject this Dutch machine?’

  Lamban’s confusion amused Sarel. ‘Perhaps. But it also brought the Dutch doctors who circumcised you with a sterile scalpel instead of some doddering priest with a rusty knife! It has brought Dutch engineers with knowledge of irrigation; and rice and wheat when there was famine. Now it helps us distribute our pamphlets and attend rallies. It’s working—very inefficiently, I admit—but it’s working, finally, for Indonesians without the Dutch. That’s what matters!’

  He thought about Sarel’s words as the train ran through wide valleys, inside long, neat brick-lined tunnels or crossed gorges and canals on graceful stone and ironwork bridges. He thought of the knowledge—the Dutch knowledge—behind such construction.