The same area now was filled with soldiers. A mother was waving goodbye as our train pulled away. She shouted, “Come back to me.” Such emotions were to be unspoken in wartime; we Japanese were expected to bear our burdens silently. It was considered an honor to give up a son to the war. A police officer grabbed her and shoved her into a telephone pole, opening a gash that bled into her eyes. “You are lucky I do not arrest you for sedition, old woman,” he said. “You should be congratulating your son, and be grateful the nation will take him. You are a disgrace, go home.” I knew it was her son near me in the train carriage when he looked away.
I understood then there are horrors apart from death. I stayed on the train.
Eichi Nakagawa: Japanese Imperial Army Training Center, North of Nishinomiya, 1946
I WANTED TO SHAKE myself like an animal to tear off the rain, but whenever anyone moved, a soldier would come and slap him. As we became colder and our movements not our own, the soldiers would punch us, and I could see blood run from the nose of the boy next to me, and just as quickly be washed away by the steel of the rain. I had never paid attention to how red fresh blood is. What a strange thought, and what strange things I was learning!
We stood on the muddy parade ground, so close in ranks that I could feel the breath of the boy behind me on my neck. The rain had so softened the earth so that each boy’s weight pushed him deeper into his own puddle. Around us were the barracks we would live in. They were wood, with tar paper roofs, thrown-together structures standing intact enough to say we were perhaps worthy of shelter, but not of comfort.
An officer walked forward, his uniform crisp somehow. I believed the rain was afraid to fall on him. He demanded we bow, which we did as a group. We had long practiced such signs of respect while in school, readying us for this moment as if it was an entrance exam. The officer’s voice was harsh, and he used a command form of Japanese we had only heard before aimed at slow-moving farm animals. He had so much army in his blood. I wished to be him. I could see the others were afraid, but I was not, not of the officer. My only fear was failing him.
“I am Major Yamada. Here are two rules for your survival. You have a mouth but you cannot say what you wish. And you have a brain but you cannot think as you wish. Now you. How old are you?”
“I am 48, sir,” one of the other recruits said.
“Why are they sending me old men?” Major Yamada said.
“My factory burned down and I had no work so I was sent here.”
Major Yamada looked down, testing the ground for its worthiness, then spat. The rain quickly washed it away.
“And you? Are you the factory man’s baby boy?” he said.
“I am already 17-years-old, sir,” I said. “My name is Eichi Nakagawa. My father has a small shop, sir.”
“Peddler’s sons for the Emperor. I guess we cannot be too strict any more in who we must use as consumables,” Major Yamada said. Without warning, he slapped me. “Do you think I care about you, Nakagawa?”
“No, sir.” He slapped me again, removing his glove this time and using it like a whip against my face. The rain hid what the pain caused to well up in my eyes. I tasted blood from where my teeth tore inside my cheek.
“You are wrong. I do care,” Major Yamada said. “I care because I am ordered to do so by my superiors. I was told to prepare children to defend Japan. You will become a game piece in the hands of others. So I care about a pustule like you without regard for my own feelings. That is why I am here. Why are you here, Nakagawa?”
“To serve my country,” I said.
“Wrong. There is only a single correct answer: You wish to feel the blood of an American run down your bayonet blade. Repeat that out loud, you little bastard,” Major Yamada said. “Are you ready to learn what I must teach you, Nakagawa?”
“I will fight, sir.”
“Fighting is what boys do in the schoolyard. I am going to train you to die, Eichi Nakagawa. That is gyokusai, striving for an honorable death. When you are ready to not fail at that, your training will be over and you may then be able to contribute something to this country with your wretched life. Let us start. Nakagawa, you are a dog.”
“Yes, Major,” I said.
“Now bark.”
“Yes, Major,” I said.
“Do not say ‘Yes Major,’ bark, dammit, let me hear you. Ah, good. Do you know why you are a dog, Eichi Nakagawa?”
“No, Major,” I said.
“Why do you not know?”
“Because you have not told me yet, Major,” I said.
“Hmm. Fine answer. I shall keep my eye on you, Nakagawa.”
“PSST… NAKAGAWA, ARE YOU AWAKE?” It was one of the other recruits, speaking to me from the top bunk. “Nakagawa, tell me, are you afraid?”
“Of Major Yamada?”
“No stupid, of the Americans,” he said. “I am afraid of the Americans. When I was little, my daddy worked for a trading company and we were stationed in Singapore. An American warship made a port call and daddy took us to see it. They wore those white hats that look like trumpets. I remember how tall their sailors were.”
“No, they just look tall. I think when we see them up close they will be just our size,” I said.
“Nakagawa, they are tall. Don’t tell anyone, but I have seen them very, very close. Not in Singapore.”
The boy told me before he was sent to our training camp he had been staying with relatives on Kyushu, and had been trapped there for a long time after the Americans invaded. One day, some Japanese soldiers came to his relatives’ home and took him away. They brought him to a hidden spot in the woods, within sight of an American camp. They told him to walk up to the Americans, carefully counting his steps, and ask for chocolate. If he was not killed, he should walk back, carefully recounting his steps.
“I did exactly as I was told. And you know what the Japanese soldiers said? They said that night they would attack the Americans with mortars, and now, because of me, they knew the precise range—73 steps—from their hiding spot to the American camp and would certainly be able to kill the men who gave me the chocolate. It was called Hersey’s. I remember it tasted like things from before this war. I never told anyone, not even my parents.”
“I lay here at night thinking about my parents. I worry the Americans will harm them,” I said.
“They are safe near Kyoto, though, right? Mine are in Osaka. They live on a hillside and say sometimes the fighter planes come at eye level right past them, dive bombing the city.”
“They did everything for me and I cannot bear the thought of all of that being lost because the Americans came to our country,” I said.
“But my daddy says it could not be unexpected,” he said. “Do you want to be here, Nakagawa?”
“I like it here,” I said. “I just have to eat and train. Nothing more. I only have to think at night.”
“I envy you, Nakagawa. But I wish I was home now.”
“When I can kill one of them, I want to not hesitate. Just a week ago I worried about a spanking from Uncle,” I said. “Now, look at me, I am allowed a real rifle. Every time Major Yamada makes me do physical training in the cold, I think about what will happen to my parents. It makes me mad, and that makes me warm. Now I wish to kill one hundred of the Americans. I cried about killing one frog once, you know.”
“I do not always understand you, Nakagawa. Are you being silly?”
“I no longer understand silly.”
IT WAS AS IF it had never rained before in Japan, and now it was time to resolve that. As we did every day during training, we stood outside the barracks at attention, rifles on our shoulders, until our uniforms were soaked. The sergeants then inspected us, pushing and shoving shivering boys into straight lines, knocking off the caps of those who had forgotten to buckle their chin straps, and then screaming at them for not wearing a cap. I never imagined properly wearing a cap would become the focus of my being.
The way the caps themselves were designed added
to our discomfort. Because so much of the war had been fought in the jungles of Asia, and because there were few resources worth devoting to our comfort, each cap still had a flap on the back that was supposed to shield our necks from a blazing sun. One might have thought the flap would also help keep us warm, but in fact having a wet cloth held against our necks did not accomplish that.
Once the sergeants had either tired of their sport or grew cold themselves, they would notify Major Yamada. He would march out from his office and take charge of us. Some days he had us drill for hours. Some days we took shooting practice. Other days we conducted physical exercise, missing the midday meal, and then marched until daylight failed. Should a soldier need to defecate or urinate, he would have to wait until the alloted time. Should he violate the order to wait and soil his pants, he would be made to clean them in front of the group, using his hands if in the back, his tongue in the front. We learned not to question orders.
On one of the last mornings of training, Major Yamada singled me out. It was an odd day, a rare time when the sky was blue with high clouds. The Major inspected my rifle, ensuring it was loaded. He handed it back to me, and had me pull back the bolt to prepare it to fire. As he heard the bolt click into place, Major Yamada took a deep breath, looked into that sky, ordered my bunkmate, the boy who had eaten the Hersey’s chocolate, forward, and placed the barrel of my rifle against that boy’s forehead.
“Kill him,” the Major said. The boy met my eyes, though I kept them empty. He cried, prompting a slap from the Major.
“Kill him, Nakagawa. That is an order.”
I could smell the soil beneath me, and nearly hear the clouds moving above. My finger was firmly against the trigger, and I paused when I realized how smooth the metal had been machined. We two had been expertly made to serve a purpose.
“Kill. Him. Now.” The Major was at my side, watching the boy and I. The boy’s eyes were seeing something far away.
I stood still.
“Lower your weapon, Nakagawa,” the Major said. He was close to my face, and I could smell sake.
“Why did you not kill him? You heard my order.”
“Sir, a soldier must strive for an honorable death. He must die fighting the enemy, or he must die by his own hand if he is able to accomplish a proper death through that means. If I had fired I would have violated those orders and denied this boy a chance to die through duty to our nation.”
The Major walked around me, a narrow circle, until he was directly behind.
“Had you pulled that trigger, Nakagawa, you would have disgraced yourself, and this army, and I would have been bound to strike you dead as you stood.” The Major squeezed my neck, pressing muscle against bone. “I would have pitied you enough to have used my sword, and of course to save a bullet for the Americans.”
Even though it was still hours until the midday meal, the Major dismissed us to our barracks and walked away.
THOUGH IT WAS AS late as night can be, he allowed only a single bulb. The dim light made his skin look like tired leather. He was behind his desk, and nodded as I entered and assumed the position of attention. His stiff uniform collar was undone, his sword unsheathed on the wooden surface that I could see had once been polished. There was an empty bottle. Another full one was awaiting his orders. I bowed deeply to Major Yamada.
“Do you want?” Major Yamada said. “Sake. This.”
The Major refilled his own drink, the sake gurgling out of the bottle as if he had squeezed the neck. Sake is usually taken in small porcelain cups, but the Major had a full water glass in front of him.
“Sir, I do not drink, I mean, I have never drunk, except only at the New Year, when my father allowed me a small sip,” I said. “Sir, pardon me, am I being tested once again? Is it not against regulations to drink on duty?”
“Am I on duty here, Nakagawa?” Major Yamada said. “Am I violating regulations?”
“I am not sure, sir.”
“Well, as your senior officer, am I ever wrong?”
“No, sir.”
“Let us test that. Are you still a dog, Nakagawa?” I barked.
“Good, good. This sake is from my hometown. About a day’s walk from Nishinomiya.”
“It must be very good, sir.”
“It tastes like urine. My father worked in this brewery. I told you I was from a family of warriors. That is not true.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Do not agree I am wrong. Only I say that, but I am never wrong. Now bark again, Nakagawa, dammit. Outstanding, your bark is still strong. Did you know my father died in some filthy part of Korea, guarding a small bridge. In the letter we received from my father’s superior months later, he referred to it only as ‘a bridge,’ no name. Is that not enough warrior blood for you, Nakagawa?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My father’s war is now his son’s war. Your mother was still wiping your ass for you when this began.” He looked down at a sheaf of papers in front of him, squeezing his eyes to focus on the tiny characters. “Nonetheless, we must continue. We are somewhat short of officers due to the unfortunate present situation in our nation. It has thus been ordered units once led by those trained in our finest staff college will now be led by non-commissioned officers, mere sergeants. You recall I had the men count off by ten before summoning you to this office. What was your number, Nakagawa?”
“Ten, sir.
“As a number ten, you are now to become a noncommissioned officer, a sergeant, in His Majesty the Emperor’s Imperial Land Army. Congratulations. Those who called out number nine are being sent to become kamikaze pilots.”
Major Yamada tried twice before successfully coming to his feet. He picked up his sword and ran his eye along the blade’s edge, looking at the small nicks. The steel glowed angry in the room light.
“Sergeant Nakagawa. God, even saying that title in front of your name makes me bitter. You have not been trained enough to clean a field privy well.”
“Sir, you have trained us well, to kill,” I said.
“I trained you to hate. The killing part comes easy after that.”
Like pounding a frog into the dust. I remembered now.
Major Yamada looked again at the sword, seeing something I could not. “Do you know my final test at staff college, when we truly cared to train our men? After we were issued our swords—this sword, this goddamn sword—they marched us out to where some Chinese prisoners were trussed up. We always used Chinese as raw material instead of American prisoners, they were more… vulnerable? Our commandant showed us how to cut off their heads in one stroke. I braced and swung. The sword slid through the boy’s neck, as I was precise. Two fountains of blood shot up from the vessels on each side of the stump, then faded in their arcs. I will remember it always. It was the finest experience of my life. I loved the smell of the blood… it smells like copper, but you would not know, would you? I was no longer a recruit at that moment. I was the sword.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Afterwards, we cooked and ate his liver under a banner that read THE MORE WE EAT, THE BRIGHTER WILL BURN THE FIRE OF OUR HATRED FOR THE ENEMY. Could you do what I did, Nakagawa? Even today when I see a man, I think, oh, that one has a strong neck, or, his neck would slice easily. Like yours, thin and weak. It is the stringy type of muscle that makes it troublesome. The bones themselves cleave easily. Ah, I am wasting my time telling you this, like trying to explain music to a deaf man. Nakagawa, do you know what happened to our nation?”
“We were told the Americans are in Japan, sir,” I said.
“All military tell their young men about duty and tradition. Why otherwise would a young man strive to die before he is eighteen? How else can we convince the sons of farmers and trainmen and peddlers to fight? How else can I make you wish to please me by barking like a dog? Do you understand, Nakagawa?”
“I am not sure, sir. Do you wish me to bark again?”
“You will soon die, Nakagawa. I am trying to shove something import
ant into your thick peasant skull. Why would you want to live past this war? Give me a reason.”
“My parents, sir. I am their only son,” I said.
“My father is dead now, Nakagawa, and you are selfish to wish for what I do not have. My only brother died when his warship sank off the Philippines. My mother said she would never remarry, fearful of ever birthing another son. ‘I no longer wish to work for the military,’ she said. If I had a living son, he would be your… Nakagawa, listen closely. You can kill as many Americans as you like and it will not make a difference to this war. But you, you cannot live if you forgo obligation, and you cannot die well if you forgo obligation. This is thus not about your life, Nakagawa, but about your damn soul. So that is duty. Be better than me at that.”
Major Yamada picked up his glass. He screwed up his face as the sake burned.
“You have a girl who is arranged for you to marry?” he said.
“No, sir. My parents could not afford it. But when I was a boy there was a girl named Naoko I cared for very much. She left with her father for her safety, but perhaps I will find her. I will protect her from the Americans,” I said.
“Perhaps, Nakagawa, perhaps. Perhaps this Naoko has already has run off with an American soldier who gives her chocolate and nylons, yes? Perhaps your parents are already dead. What will you die for then?”
Major Yamada threw himself back into his chair, bumping the desk and sending his sword clattering to the floor. He pushed aside his glass and drank directly from the bottle. Looking at the label, he dribbled the last bit of liquor he held in his mouth down his unshaven chin.
“Want to see what a professional officer in His Majesty’s Army does now? Watch, with my seal impressed on this document, I have just certified every member of your group as Class A, ready for duty, even the 48-year-old who can barely climb stairs. Now, I disgust myself talking with you further. Get out, Nakagawa. Tomorrow I have to kill myself. But until then, my obligation is to this bottle.”
Hooper’s War Page 15