Even though Shusun Pao’s trust in him was boundless, he did not think to name Xu Ox as his heir. As a secretary or steward, he considered him matchless; but it would be difficult to conceive of someone with such an appearance and character serving as the head of one of Lu’s most distinguished families. Xu Ox was, of course, fully aware of his situation. As a rule, he assumed an extremely polite attitude toward Shusun’s sons, particularly toward the two sons who had returned from Qi, Mengbing and Zhongren. For their part, they found something odd and disagreeable about him and regarded him only with contempt. Confident in the superiority of their own characters, they never felt any real jealousy toward him, notwithstanding their father’s obvious favoritism.
After Duke Xiang of Lu died and was succeeded by his son Zhao, Shusun’s health began to decline. Returning from a hunt in Qiuyou one day, Shusun went to bed with a fever and eventually lost the use of his arms and legs. Xu Ox came to assume responsibility for everything, from caring for the invalid to relaying his bedside orders. His attitude toward Mengbing and his brother, however, grew only more deferential.
Before he had taken ill and retired to bed, Shusun had decided to have a bell cast for his firstborn son, Mengbing. He had said to him: “Since you have not yet become acquainted with the various officials of this country, it would be a good idea to invite them to a banquet when the bell is ready. You can consecrate the bell’s completion and get to know the officials better as well.” It was clear from this conversation that he had decided to name Mengbing his heir.
The bell was finally completed some time after Shusun became bedridden with illness. Mengbing sent Xu Ox to ask his father to set a date for the banquet they had spoken of previously. Barring special circumstances, the rule was that no one other than Xu Ox was allowed to go in and out of the sickroom. After receiving Mengbing’s request, Xu Ox entered the room, but he did not say a word about the celebration to Shusun. Then a short time later, he came out of the room and told Mengbing that the master had selected such and such a day, mentioning a random date for the celebration. On the appointed day, Mengbing cordially greeted and entertained the guests he had invited to the banquet and struck the new bell for the first time.
On hearing the sound of a bell ringing from his sickroom, Shusun grew suspicious and inquired, “What is going on?” Xu Ox answered that Mengbing was holding a banquet to celebrate the completion of the bell and that many guests had gathered. The invalid’s face turned livid when he thought how presumptuous his son was behaving, carrying on just as he pleased without even obtaining his father’s permission and acting as though he were already the heir. Xu Ox further informed him that some relatives of Lord Mengbing’s mother had traveled all the way from Qi to attend the event. Naturally, he anticipated that Shusun’s mood would worsen instantly whenever the topic of his adulterous former wife was mentioned. Enraged, the sick man struggled to rise, but Xu Ox held him back. What could he do now that he had lost his health? Grinding his teeth, Shusun muttered angrily, “Mengbing has started to do exactly as he pleases, since he’s already made up his mind that I will surely die from this illness.” He ordered Xu Ox to arrest Mengbing and throw him in jail. Xu Ox was to kill Mengbing if he resisted arrest.
When the banquet ended, the young master of the Shusun house graciously saw his guests off; the following morning his body was discovered in the bushes behind the house.
Mengbing’s younger brother, Zhongren, was a good friend of one of Duke Zhao’s close retainers. One day while he was visiting this friend at the palace, he happened to catch the duke’s eye. While they were exchanging a few words, he apparently made a good impression on the duke, who, when he was leaving, presented him with a jade ring as a token of their friendship. Because he was a very well-behaved young man, Zhongren thought it would be wrong to wear the ring without first reporting the matter to his father, so he sent Xu Ox to inform his father of the honor and to show him the ring. Ox brought the ring into the sickroom but did not show it to Shusun. In fact, he did not even mention the fact that Zhongren had come. Returning, he told Zhongren that his father was delighted and said that he should wear it at once. Hearing this, Zhongren put on the ring for the first time.
Several days later, Xu Ox recommended to his master that Zhongren ought to be formally presented to the duke, inasmuch as he was certain to be named Shusun’s heir now that Mengbing was dead. Shusun replied, “Not at all. I have not yet reached any such decision on that matter. So there is no need to do anything of the sort right now.”
At this, Ox responded, “Whatever you as his father might think, the young master has apparently made up his own mind on the matter. He has already presented himself directly to the duke.”
“It’s impossible that he could have done such a foolish thing,” Shusun cried out. Nevertheless Ox assured him it was a fact that the young man was wearing a jade ring bestowed on him by his lord, the duke. Zhongren was summoned immediately. Indeed, he was wearing the ring and said it was a gift from the duke. Angrily, the father lifted his ailing body from the bed. Turning a deaf ear to his son’s explanation, he commanded him: “Leave this room at once and repent!”
That night, Zhongren secretly fled to the state of Qi.
Shusun’s illness gradually reached a critical stage, and the time came when he had to seriously consider the urgent matter of naming his successor. Naturally, he thought of calling back his son Zhongren and ordered Xu Ox to do so. Upon receiving the order, Ox left the room. But of course, he made no attempt to dispatch an emissary to Zhongren in Qi. Later he reported on his mission, saying that he had immediately sent a messenger to the son but that Zhongren had refused to return to the home of his unjust father. Upon hearing this, even Shusun finally began to harbor suspicions about this retainer’s sincerity. “Are you telling me the truth?” he snapped back.
“Why should I tell you something that is untrue?” replied Xu Ox, but now the invalid saw that the corners of his lips were twisted in an insolent sneer. This was the first time such a thing had happened since this man had entered his house. Furious, Shusun tried to get up, but he had no strength and fell right back into bed. From above, the dark bestial face looked down coldly on this scene, wearing an unmistakable expression of scorn. This was the cold-blooded face he had hitherto reserved only for his peers or inferiors. By long-established practice, it had reached the point that Shusun could summon no one, not even his family members or personal attendants, without passing through this man as his intermediary. That night, the ailing lord thought of his murdered son Mengbing and shed bitter tears.
Starting the very next day, a cruel charade commenced. Since the invalid did not like coming into contact with other people, it became the practice for the cook to carry his tray to the anteroom and set it down there. Thereupon Xu Ox would bring the meal to his bedside. From that day on, however, he no longer offered the invalid his meals; instead, he himself would devour everything that was set before him and then place the empty tray outside the room. The cook, of course, would think that Shusun had eaten. Even when the invalid complained of hunger, the ox man would only sneer at him in silence. He no longer even deigned to reply to his master’s words. And Shusun had absolutely no way to ask someone to come to his rescue.
Shusun’s chief steward, a man named Duxie, came one day to pay his respects to the master. The invalid complained to Duxie of Xu Ox’s treatment. But Duxie, well aware of the master’s habitual confidence in his attendant, dismissed his complaints as a joke and paid no attention to his words. When Shusun’s appeals grew even more earnest, he began to suspect that the master’s mind might be deranged by fever. From the side, Xu Ox exchanged knowing winks with Duxie and rolled his eyes as if to imply that his patient’s waywardness was driving him to the end of his tether. Finally, the sick man, so exasperated that tears streamed down his cheeks, pointed to a nearby sword with his frail hands, and cried out to Duxie, “Take this sword and kill him. Kill him! Quickly!”
When Shusun real
ized that no matter what he did, he would only be treated as a mad man, he wept so bitterly that his feeble body shook with sobs. Knitting his brows, Duxie exchanged a meaningful glance with Ox, then quietly left the room. As soon as the guest left, a faint, mysterious smile appeared on the ox man’s face.
Weeping from hunger and fatigue, the invalid eventually dozed off and had a dream. Or perhaps he was not asleep at all but was just hallucinating. The atmosphere of the room grew oppressive and stagnant, filled with ominous presentiments, and in the center, a single light burned silently. It gave off a whitish light, without luster. As he gazed at it fixedly, he came to feel that it was shining from a great distance, perhaps ten or even twenty li2 away. Just as in his dream long ago, he felt that the ceiling directly above his bed was beginning to descend little by little. Slowly but surely, the pressure from above increased. Though he wanted to escape, Shusun could not move a limb. Looking off to one side, he saw the dark ox man standing there. This time, the man did not extend a hand, even when Shusun cried for help. He simply stood there without saying a word, sneering. When Shusun begged him one more time in utter despair, his face suddenly assumed a stern, angry expression, and without batting an eye, he glared down at Shusun fixedly. Just as the pitch black heaviness was about to cover his chest, at the instant he was about to scream for the last time, Shusun regained consciousness. . . .
Night apparently had fallen, and a single whitish light glowed from the corner of the dark room. It was probably this light he had seen in his dream just a moment ago. Also, just as in his dream, he saw the face of Xu Ox off to the side quietly looking down at him, a face so full of cruelty it scarcely seemed human. This face was no longer the face of a human being but seemed like a thing rooted in black primeval chaos. Shusun felt chilled to the very marrow of his bones. It was not the terror he would have felt toward one man who was trying to murder him. Rather, it was close to humble awe toward what might be called the relentless malice of the world. The anger he had felt until a moment ago was overwhelmed by his sense of awe in the face of destiny. Now he had lost even the will to lift a hand against this man.
Three days later, Shusun Pao, the famous official of Lu, died of starvation.
ŌOKA SHŌHEI
Like so many of his contemporaries, Ōoka Shōhei (1909–1988) developed an early interest in French literature, particularly in the work of Stendhal, some of whose fiction he translated into Japanese. But Ōoka’s scholarly and artistic life vastly changed when he was drafted and sent to the Philippines during World War II. He wrote two books of extraordinary intensity about his war experiences, Fires on the Plain (Nobi), published in 1952, and an autobiographical account of his experiences as a war prisoner, Taken Captive (Furyoki), published in 1948, the first chapter of which follows.
TAKEN CAPTIVE (FURYOKI)
Translated by Wayne P. Lammers
Chapter 1: My Capture
It is not from goodness of heart that you do not kill.
—Tannishō (a thirteenth-century Japanese Buddhist treaty)
On January 25, 1945, I was captured by American forces in the mountains of southern Mindoro in the Philippines.
The island of Mindoro, situated to the southwest of Luzon, is about half the size of our Shikoku. It had no military facilities to speak of, and the forces deployed there comprised but two companies of infantry nominally occupying and patrolling six strategic points along the coastline.
My unit had been assigned to patrol the southern and western portions of the island in August 1944, and my own platoon was stationed together with the company command at San Jose in the far southwest. Two other platoons were stationed, respectively, at Bulalacao in the southeast and Paluan in the northwest. The western coastline between San Jose and Paluan—which is to say, virtually the entire hundred-mile length of the island—remained open, and local guerrilla forces could freely obtain supplies from American submarines. Fortunately, they did not attack our San Jose post.
On December 15, 1944, an American task force of some sixty ships had landed near San Jose. We immediately retreated into the hills and cut across the island through the southern mountains to join up three days later with the Bulalacao platoon, now bivouacked on a ridge overlooking that town. American forces had not come ashore there, but the platoon had heard the roar of the bombardment at San Jose and had taken refuge preemptively, bringing with them their food stores and radio gear. The food supply was quite ample—sufficient to last more than three months even after our numbers swelled to nearly two hundred with the arrival of some survivors from a seaplane base near San Jose, a group of marooned shipping engineers, and a number of noncombatants. This expanded company remained encamped at that location for some forty days, until an attack by American forces on January 24 sent us scattering in every direction.
U.S. warplanes flew back and forth in the skies overhead day in and day out, but the Americans were in no hurry to pursue us.
“Those bastards are obviously too lazy to come after us all the way out here,” one of the noncoms said, as he supervised the construction of the crude huts that were to become our barracks. “And if they’re not coming after us, why should we go out looking for trouble? The war’ll probably be over pretty soon, anyway.”
His remark put in plain words the hope that many of us held silently in our hearts. That is to say, since it seemed quite apparent that the enemy regarded Mindoro merely as a stepping-stone to Luzon, so long as we stayed put in the hills, there was a good chance the fighting would leapfrog right over us and leave us untouched for the duration of the war, making our position one of the so-called forgotten fronts. For a small, isolated force like ours, cut off from any possibility of further supplies or reinforcements, this was our only hope for survival.
Unfortunately, it soon became impossible for us not to “go out looking for trouble”: We received orders from the battalion command at Batangas on Luzon to report on enemy activities in the San Jose area. Detachments of a dozen or more men were sent by turns to scout the hills in back of San Jose for periods of a week or ten days. One of those detachments was discovered and fired upon by an American patrol.
Eventually, the full Bulalacao platoon moved to a ridge overlooking San Jose and began sending back daily reports of what they had observed through their telescopes. We then relayed the information to battalion headquarters. The lookouts frequently spied convoys of several dozen vessels bearing northward past San Jose, and they saw squadrons of massive bombers taking off from newly constructed airstrips. The bay where we had previously anchored our boats to fish was now crisscrossed by the foamy wakes of American outboards.
At the beginning of the new year, battalion headquarters sent word that 150 commandos were being dispatched to Mindoro. As luck would have it, though, American troops landed at several points along the island’s east coast on the very day the commandos were scheduled to arrive, and we were unable to make contact with the boat transporting the special unit. To be sure, the news of their impending arrival was not entirely welcome, for it inevitably meant that several of our own number would have to accompany them as guides—a virtual suicide mission. We had no illusions about the success of 150 commandos against an American force brought to shore in a task force of sixty warships.
Subsequent orders took us back down to Bulalacao to meet the promised shock troops, but again to no avail. We looted the abandoned homes and took captive a local man unfortunate enough to have come back at the wrong moment to retrieve his belongings. In this way we recklessly went on multiplying cause for the local population to wish us eradicated.
Despite the utter hopelessness of our situation, we, the enlisted men, remained quite undisturbed. The company was made up entirely of reservists called into active duty in early 1944 and sent to the front directly from three months of boot camp, so we were too green to genuinely understand how dire the situation had become. Yet even if we had understood the true nature of our situation, it would have done us no good to spend the days
paralyzed in fear of impending attack by an impossibly superior foe, so perhaps you could say our ignorance was a blessing. The great majority of my cohorts were, like myself, over thirty, and we had no desire to force a speedy resolution of our predicament.
To begin with, life in the hills was not so uncomfortable. The dry season had begun, so we did not have to contend with rain, and even during the worst of the daytime heat, it remained cool in the shade. It was the perfect sort of weather for camping out with nothing but the shirts on our backs; we faced no immediate shortage of rations; and since each squad had its own separate hut, discipline was quite naturally relaxed, freeing us from the stiff decorum that normally dominates military life. We cooked our meals with water drawn from a nearby stream, just as we might have done on a camping trip back home, and we bartered with the friendly Mangyans nearby to obtain potatoes, bananas, and tobacco in exchange for red fabric and aluminum coins. (These highlanders, darker skinned and belonging to an altogether different tribe from the Tagalog people who lived down by the sea, were completely indifferent to the war.) Now and then we descended from the hills to shoot a free-roaming carabao and feast on its meat.
Trouble arrived, however, from an unexpected quarter: malaria.
Mindoro was said to harbor the most virulent strains of malaria in the Philippines, but by taking the appropriate precautions, we had never had more than a handful of cases during our occupation of San Jose. Unfortunately, the medical officer had left behind our supply of quinine when we fled into the mountains, and the disease spread rapidly through our ranks after that. By the time the American forces attacked on January 24, fewer than thirty men remained with the legs to fight. During the final two weeks of that period, malaria claimed an average of three men a day.
The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series) Page 107