Two ferries were tied up against a long pier. The companies marched onto the pier and stopped. With some shouting and pushing, the Japanese filled the ferries to the point of overcrowding with the first two companies. The remaining three companies stood on the pier and watched the ferries steam toward one of the larger ships. They could see the prisoners disembark, and within half an hour the ferries were on the way back.
Johnny had been at attention for a long time, and he was feeling faint. Several men had collapsed. The Japanese, unusual for them, didn’t beat or kick the fallen men but simply let them alone. Johnny thought about feigning a faint just to get some rest but didn’t do it. He was the captain.
The ferries returned, and it was time for Companies Three and Four to board. With gestures, the Japanese indicated the prisoners were to carry the collapsed men with them. Johnny’s ferry was crowded with the two hundred men of his company. He made sure the seats went to the men who needed them most, and he stood.
Again the ferries returned to the large steamship in the harbor. Johnny could make out its name: Noto Maru. The ferry pulled up alongside a gangplank, and in response to more Japanese orders, the men marched aboard. The ship, a large cargo vessel, seemed spacious enough. But their destination, he soon learned, was the hold below. The first two companies were already inside. It was hot inside—suffocatingly hot.
Companies Three and Four made it a very tight fit. Company Five would make it unbearable.
The Japanese closed the hatch. Some light filtered through small openings in the hatch cover. After his eyes became adapted to the dark, he was able to get an idea of the space he was in. It was a large cargo hold, with the overhead deck about twenty feet above. The space was rectangular in shape. There was no bathroom; there was no water supply; there was nothing.
It was obvious they were being moved to secure facilities away from the Americans. Maybe Formosa, maybe Okinawa, Johnny thought. Or maybe Japan.
Johnny reached into the rag he called a shirt and pulled out the many sets of dog tags he was wearing. He looked at them. One set was his. One had belonged to Max Kellerman, a man he had never known. Johnny had carried those tags for more than a year. A third he had had since 1942. They were engraved with the identification of a man who had become his friend… the pilot who never had a plane. He could barely read the name on that one in the dim light: David Hansen.
David … I’m glad you missed this part, Johnny thought, looking at the dog tags.
The hatch clanged shut above him. The diesel engines churned, and the ship moved toward the open sea.
• FRIDAY, 17 NOVEMBER 1944 •
GINZA DISTRICT, TOKYO, JAPAN, 2120 HOURS
The taxi stopped, and a short man wearing civilian clothes and a white gauze mask got out. The white gauze mask was not unusual. Most often, such a mask indicated that the wearer had a cold—but this man was very healthy. The civilian clothes were more unusual, because his hair was military short. His eyes were expressive and warm. His posture was slightly stooped. The middle and index fingers of his left hand were missing.
In his right hand, he carried a rolled-up copy of Asahi Shimbun. The most important news story of the day was buried in a one-column story below the fold on the front page:
NAVAL DEFENSE FORCES LUZON JOIN GENERAL YAMASHITA IN BAGUIO CITY
One had to understand the situation to appreciate the beauty of that headline. The “Naval Defense Forces Luzon” was actually the Manila Naval Defense Force. For a month, they had fought savagely house-to-house in Manila against the Americans, killing huge numbers of Filipinos in the process. Their ragtag remnants, those who did not manage to die gloriously for the emperor, had finally withdrawn and joined Yamashita’s army, also in retreat. It was bad news, even if only a few could understand just how bad.
The entrance to the Nakamura-ya okiya, or geisha house, was plain and unmarked. The man entered through the street door, walked down a short, dark corridor, and slid open a second door to find himself in a tasteful and elegant room. The floor was dark, polished wood, the walls were screens with images of cranes, a pagoda, and elegant, long-limbed trees.
A coiffed and elaborately dressed geisha bowed. She was an “older sister,” a middle-aged woman whose waist had thickened and whose features were no longer as delicate as a china teacup, but her artistry was of the highest quality. This was her establishment, and she was an old and dear friend to the man in the gauze mask.
“Koben-wa,” she said. Good evening. “Eighty-sen, how wonderful to see you! It has been such a very long time. Will you have time for a game of mah-jongg when your business is concluded?” It was an old tradition between the two. The man called Eighty-sen loved to gamble and spent many hours and many yen in geisha houses playing games of chance.
The man bowed courteously in return. “Ah, Toshiko, nothing would give me more pleasure. If only I could quit the navy and become a professional mah-jongg player, my life would be perfect. I would see you every day.”
Toshiko laughed. It was a high-pitched, pretty sound. “And what would your Chiyoko say?”
“As long as it was only mah-jongg …,” replied Eighty-sen and laughed as well. “Has my guest arrived?”
“Yes. He is in a private room, and Umeryu is taking care of him. She was always the best—except for me, of course—until you stole her away. So tonight she is coming out of retirement, just for this. I’ll walk you across as soon as you change.”
Eighty-sen stepped into a small booth, pulled the privacy curtain shut, and removed his shoes, coat, shirt, and trousers. He left his white mask on. A kimono, plain in design but well made, clean white socks, and woven sandals had been laid out for him. All were in his size. He dressed quickly, then pulled the curtain back and emerged.
A small courtyard was all that separated the Nakamura-ya from the Umenojima, and that was deliberate. Kawai Chiyoko, whose geisha name was Umeryu, or Plum Dragon, established her own geisha house right behind the okiya where she had been working. And when Chiyoko retired, Furukawa Toshiko of Nakamura-ya acquired a second establishment. This could be particularly useful when private meetings had to be arranged, because each party could take a separate route and enter a separate way.
The courtyard was a Japanese garden, exquisitely laid out and maintained. A cha yo nu house for performing the tea ceremony, barely large enough for two people, overlooked a small pond. A wooden bridge crossed the pond. Tonight, a gibbous moon was reflected in the still water. In less hectic times, the man called Eighty-sen had spent many happy hours in that garden. He knew it well.
On the Umenojima side, four sliding doors made of paper and wood faced the small courtyard garden. All were closed. Toshiko stopped before the fourth and last of them. She bowed again. “Mata omeni kakaritai to omoi masu,” she said. I hope to see you again. She slid open the door and he walked inside. The door eased silently shut behind him.
The private banquet room formed a rectangle about twelve feet wide. The far wall, which was another sliding door identical to the one that led to the garden, was about fifteen feet in front of him. Wainscoting of cherrywood covered the two sides to waist height. The upper portion of the walls was painted white. A square wooden table in the center was surrounded by cushions. A man in a similarly plain kimono sipped tea and ate salty edamame from a bowl. He was not wearing a mask.
The geisha, Umeryu, was breathtakingly beautiful. It had been a long time since she had taken on her professional identity. It was the reason Eighty-sen had first fallen in love with her.
Eighty-sen removed his mask. He was a handsome man. His bones had an almost feminine delicacy about them. His lips were full. His expression was slightly melancholy.
“Koben-wa, hachiju-sen-san,” the geisha said, her melodious voice a delight. Her bow was low, languid, and highly erotic.
“Koben-wa, Umeryu-chan,” he said, bowing. He turned to the other man and bowed more deeply. “Koben-wa, Kido-sama.”
“Good evening to you as well, Admira
l,” the Marquis Kido replied. “May I ask, how did you acquire the nickname Eighty-sen? It seems a little cheap for the admiral of the Combined Fleet.”
Admiral Yamamoto Isoroku held up his three-fingered left hand and nodded at Umeryu. The geisha tittered, holding her fingers to her brightly painted mouth. “In the Shimbashi, the regular charge for a geisha manicure is one yen,” she said in her melodious voice. “But that is for all ten fingers. The admiral gets a discount.”
The emperor’s lord privy seal roared with laughter. “He pays only eighty sen because he’s missing two fingers!”
Yamamoto, laughing as well, joined in. It was a mark of honor and respect to be given a nickname by geisha. And it was also convenient to have a private identity so he could escape into the Floating World without the nuisance of prying eyes.
The two men exchanged pleasantries as Umeryu prepared skewers of yakitori on a small grill and kept both men’s teacups full. This was a private business meeting, not an entertainment, and besides, Yamamoto didn’t drink.
“I am honored,” Kido said, “that you have entrusted me with your secret name. If this evening’s meeting yields the need for further contact, may I use that name when I need to see you privately?”
“As my lord wishes,” Yamamoto said. “I am at your service in all things, and you do me an undeserved honor by your presence.”
“On the contrary,” Kido replied. “It is I who am grateful for your masterful handling of events, your loyalty and service to the empire, and the burdens of work and danger you shoulder so ably. It is a privilege to be permitted to share this evening with you.”
The warm, comfortable rhythm of compliments given and refused put both men at ease. This was how civilized men dealt with difficult and sensitive issues. It could be painful to deal with cultures that insisted every emotion be expressed in the rudest, bluntest, crudest way possible.
In the fullness of time, the conversation turned to the subject of the meeting. It was the marquis who opened. “His Imperial Majesty has asked me to obtain opinions as to the current strategic situation from more sources than just those that go into the official report. He would like to know, for example, more about those elements in the war that are not necessarily developing to His Majesty’s advantage. When decisions are reached, they must be good decisions. I’m sure you would agree, Admiral.”
Yamamoto scratched his nearly bald skull. His liquid brown eyes seemed softer and sadder than expected from the admiral who had conceived of the attack on Pearl Harbor, who had won the battle of Midway, who had done so much for his nation and his Emperor.
“So sorry, Lord Kido, but I do not entirely share your view. It is my observation that leaders exist for the primary purpose of making bad decisions.”
Kido frowned. “Is that a joke, Admiral? I must confess I don’t understand the humor. And I’m certain you did not mean to suggest that the Emperor’s decisions might be in some way faulty.”
Yamamoto smiled. “I’m quite serious. A good decision implies that for a problem, there exists a good choice. That is how my unworthy mind perceives it, at any rate. Good choices, in that sense, are easy. But what happens when all the choices are less than ideal? What if they are unpleasant, or inelegant, or contain high risk, or carry the certainty of secondary problems? Such decisions cannot be labeled ‘good,’ yet they are more difficult and more challenging to make. Thus, they are reserved for those of higher rank and position. The worse the problem, the higher is he who must decide.”
Kido nodded. “I see. A novel outlook. If I understand correctly, you would argue that ‘bad’ decision making is a skill superior to ‘good’ decision making.”
Yamamoto smiled. “My lord understands. The leader who believes he must always make a ‘good’ decision may fall into self-deception. He cannot accept the lack of a good choice, so he creates an illusion for himself. He makes a decision based upon the illusion. That cannot help. It will, in all likelihood, make the situation worse.”
Kido nodded. “I can see that. The true leader must above all see clearly. For example, what might a true leader do if there were a need for a decision on continuing the struggle or … ah … pursuing the alternative….”
Even in such a private setting, broaching the ticklish subject of a possible end to the war carried risks. Yamamoto appreciated the indirectness of the lord privy seal’s approach. “An insightful example,” Yamamoto replied. He paused to consider his wording carefully. “As elements of the conflict have not necessarily evolved in the manner preferred or intended in all cases, continuation carries a wide set of risks and problems. The alternative is, of course, unthinkable.” He stopped, laid the copy of Asahi Shimbun on the low table, and quietly sipped his tea.
“The Americans are proving to be a very impressive foe,” commented the marquis, looking at the paper and nodding. “Yamashita’s men are still battling valiantly for the Philippines, and yet the enemy has the strength to strike close to our home.”
“Ah, Okinawa,” Yamamoto agreed with a solemn nod. “It has been home to Japanese people for a very long time. When MacArthur’s armies landed there, I confess I felt it as a blow to my very soul. And now that he holds those great airfields, our Home Islands come into range of his fighters. The situation is grave.”
“But the battle for Okinawa is not yet over, is it?” Kido queried. “I understand that our strongest defenses are in the mountainous south of the island. Surely many Americans will perish in the effort to take that ground?”
“If they try to take it,” the admiral cautioned. “I am not sure that MacArthur will do that.”
Umeryu rose gracefully to her feet and minced to the garden door. She slid it open, then came back to sit on her knees again. The two men turned to look at the exquisite small garden, and there was quiet for a while. Without turning away from the view, Kido asked, “In the practice of zazen meditation, are people not taught to ‘think the unthinkable’? How is that done, Admiral?”
How beautifully indirect, Yamamoto thought. “I am ashamed to say that I have only the most passing of acquaintances with zazen. But thinking about the unthinkable is good practice for the military mind. Battle has a way of upsetting one’s plans and expectations.”
“I am curious, and would benefit greatly from your notable insight and genius. Can you elaborate on this process?”
“Me? Not a genius, surely, but merely a struggling warrior whose poor intellect, such as it is, is in the Emperor’s service. I can’t imagine my sparse knowledge will be of any special benefit, but if it is your pleasure …”
“I would be indebted to hear your insights,” the lord privy seal said.
The proprieties having been satisfied, Yamamoto took another sip of tea. Both men having established their positions indirectly, they could now speak more directly to the issue at hand. “The first question is, ‘Should the unthinkable be contemplated?’ As reasonable alternatives have not yet been exhausted, the unthinkable is premature.”
“Do you think Ketsu-Go is a ‘reasonable alternative’?” asked Kido. “That is, if the Americans try to land on our Home Islands? You are a wise man. If, as contemplated, we sacrifice twenty million of the Emperor’s subjects in tokko attacks, will it bring the Americans to the negotiating table?”
“The Americans would indeed come to the negotiating table. I know them that well.” Yamamoto had lived in the United States for six years. “But it will not take twenty million to achieve this—as long as the Americans believe that we are willing to make this sacrifice.”
Kido nodded. “That is so.”
“But there is more to Ketsu-Go than that,” Yamamoto continued. “If the Americans attack Kyushu and face unacceptable casualities, for example, the equation changes. That is why I believe the time for considering unthinkable options is not yet upon us.”
Yamamoto took another sip of tea. “There is, of course, an alternative outcome, and that is that Ketsu-Go achieves an outcome less desirable than anticipated. Of c
ourse, this is highly unlikely. But if it should develop, it would be useful for those who would be burdened with such a terrible choice to have established a procedure among themselves for determining when or if the time has arrived.”
“A procedure. Without, at this time, action to bring it about,” Kido repeated. “I see. In doing so, we preserve our options and attempt to bring about the best outcome still possible.”
“‘When it is not necessary to make a decision, it is necessary not to make a decision.’ That is an English proverb but a very Japanese sentiment, I think. That is my humble opinion,” said Yamamoto.
“Wise words.”
Umeryu refilled Kido’s tea. He drank and contemplated for a while. Then he continued. “As I was certain they would be. Your insights truly illuminate the most difficult of decisions.”
“You are much too kind, Marquis Kido,” Yamamoto replied. “You do me honor far above my poor and limited abilities.”
“It was you, was it not, who suggested that the first major onslaught of aerial tokko be held back from the Okinawa defense and brought out in full when the Allies attack the Home Islands.”
“That was my poor and unworthy suggestion,” agreed Yamamoto. “To fight the decisive battle and achieve the Ketsu-Go objectives, the Allies must be lured into a major commitment of force against the Home Islands. If we are too successful in demonstrating our will to win, the Allies may not allow us to engage in the decisive battle at all. For example, MacArthur successfully resisted the temptation to take the whole of Okinawa. He merely took the half of the island with the airfields in order to use them against the Home Islands. The mountains in the south of Okinawa make strong defensive positions, but there is nothing to defend if the enemy does not attack. We hurl ourselves at MacArthur’s fortified positions, but the enemy has the defender’s advantage. If he had been unwise enough to attempt to take all of Okinawa, he might have been tempted to avoid a decisive battle altogether.” He sipped his tea before continuing.
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