by Nigel Barley
‘We’re all agreed then. The Japs are getting jumpy. They could wipe the lot of us out at any time. We’re not sitting here waiting to made into roadfill. We’ll at least die for a worthwhile cause. Our best hope is to get across the strait to the mainland and join the MPAJA before the massacre starts. Your mate’s job here is to cover our tracks for 24 hours to give us time to get clear and across the water. Like I say, all he has to do is not notice our absence when he does roll-call in our hut. After that, he can do whatever he has to do to save his own arse. Make sure he understands that.’
‘He understands.’ Higgins worried at the end of a loose thought. ‘Why should you trust him—after you’re gone? What’s to stop him sounding the alarm anyway just to take no chances?’ String vest smirked and grasped Dong-ju’s head again, squeezed rhythmically as if appraising the skull for ripeness.
‘Oh. That’s easy. Didn’t I mention, Higgins? You’re coming with us under the wire. If anything goes wrong, we make sure you’re the first one to get it, sunshine, so you’d better hope he really likes you. No, I mean, really likes you. Right?’ They all laughed. ‘You tell him that.’ He bent and addressed the Korean with exaggerated mouthing as you would a dog, looking into the worried and confused eyes. ‘You comprendo?’ and waggled his head in a forced doggy nod.
* * *
Captain Oishi was dazed and baffled. Respectfully prostrate on the floor of his quarters, as was proper in the presence of divinity, he began to wonder how much longer the Emperor’s broadcast would last. The odd, poetic palace language was difficult to understand, even for a graduate such as himself, and it was made worse by the hiss, showing it to be not the true Emperor but a phonograph recording that might be the Emperor, except that no one had ever heard his voice before, so how could you tell? It could all be some terrible trick by the enemy. He felt the air go out of him, like one of his wounded balloons, at the thought of such infamy. This must surely be some new exhortation to greater effort, stauncher resistance, acceptance of deeper suffering. His back was aching. He humbly accepted the pain for the nation.
‘… Moreover, the enemy has begun to employ a new and most cruel bomb, the power of which to do damage is, indeed, incalculable, taking the toll of many innocent lives. Should we continue to fight, it would not only result in an ultimate collapse and obliteration of the Japanese nation, but it would also lead to the total extinction of human civilisation.’
With horror, he realized that this was something far worse. It must be an invitation to the Allies to negotiate a ceasefire. He had heard rumours of this new weapon, even more terrible than his own balloons. His friend in the radio room at headquarters had whispered that major cities had just gone off the air, suddenly, one by one, and no word could be got from them. Perhaps paratroops had already landed? Now his neck hurt.
‘… Such being the case, how are we to save the millions of our subjects, or to atone ourselves before the hallowed spirits of our Imperial Ancestors? This is the reason why we have ordered the acceptance of the conditions of the joint declaration of the powers …’
This was no mere ceasefire. This was surrender. He had no idea what these conditions might be but such a thing was unthinkable, unimaginable …
‘… We are keenly aware of the inmost feelings of you all, our subjects. However, it is according to the dictates of time and fate and we have resolved to pave the way to a grand peace for all the generations to come by enduring the unendurable and suffering what is unsufferable …’
He sat up. The world was at an end. Kneeling here like a fool, in deliberate pain, made no sense any more.
‘Beware most strictly of any outbursts of emotion that may engender needless complications, and of any fraternal contention and strife that may create confusion, lead you astray and cause you to lose the confidence of the world …’
The rest became a blur and then, through it, he was aware of the announcer coming on and explaining, in a strangulated voice, that what the Emperor had been saying, what he was trying to express, what he really meant, was that Japan had surrendered, then there was gloomy, martial music thudding through the speaker. He groped for some deep, focussing thought that was worthy of this experience of the end of the world but was aware only of the hardness of the floor against his buttocks and his own deep puzzlement, for it seemed that it was only moderate, brooding trouble that ate away at a man and not sudden, total catastrophe such as this, which somehow carried its own calmness within it. It was eleven o’clock in the morning, far too prosaic an hour for the end of the world. The idea could not be grasped. He felt like a man trying to manoeuvre a tank up a spiral staircase. He could only think a word he had learned from Dr Pilchard.
‘Bugger!’ he said.
He needed to walk to headquarters. In the street, soldiers were on guard as normal. Locals bowed deeply to him as he passed. Nothing had changed yet. None of this was real. The sun still shone and his shadow was attached to his feet, as always. At headquarters, he found part of his squad in a shed at the back of the motoring pool, looking lost and abandoned like some piece of outdated military hardware. He felt a pang of guilt. As he approached, one of them was saying, ‘I know all about it. The record was smuggled out of the palace to the radio station in a basket of dirty knickers to fool the army coup-leaders. But I don’t see the problem. They say if you wear white clothes these new bombs have absolutely no effect on you.’
‘What are you saying?’ Namura, a royalist maker of boxwood combs from Nara was aghast. ‘The Emperor doesn’t wear knickers and certainly never makes them dirty. At most a white, silk fundoshi cloth, forever honoured by contact …’
Captain Oishi snapped. ‘Sergeant Eno, assemble the men.’ They shuffled to their feet and formed two short lines. They were all older and bigger than him, some unshaven, and he found them intimidating. He put on his barking, gravelly army voice. ‘You may have heard rumours …’ He faltered. ‘… rumours about … adjustments in the war. I can tell you nothing about this. It remains for us all to follow our orders. The orders I have for you are directly from General Yamashita, whom we have the honour to serve. The General, as you will remember from your own efforts at the shrine, was devoted to the cause of the construction of the glorious Syonan Jinja to our former comrades.’ They dutifully bowed their heads. ‘General Yamashita was a far-seeing man and left orders with me concerning our duties in the event of … of … the unbearable.’ That made about as much sense as the Emperor’s broadcast. ‘We are to return to the shrine to construct a new garden. This time it is to be a Devil’s Garden.’
They looked at each other. What the fuck …?
Sergeant Eno had been a fishmonger in the world before the war, a cool, bone-picking man. ‘Begging your pardon, Sir. Perhaps you can clarify. What exactly is meant by a Devil’s Garden? What kind of devil are we speaking of here?’
Oishi smiled, crossed his arms, got into the swing of it, walked up and down as he spoke, delicately excised the skeleton of the idea for them.
‘I have learned that a Devil’s Garden has two meanings. First it is a term used by botanists at the Botanic Gardens. In the forests of South America, there lives a certain ant that depends for shelter on a particular plant that has hollow stems. These provide it with a secure home in which to live and raise its young. The ant is very clever and systematically poisons all other plants by injecting them with formic acid so that only this species of tree flourishes and spreads, taking over great areas of the jungle until it becomes so large that the ants can no longer defend it. The Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere is a Devil’s Garden of this kind and we are its ants.’ Only Sergeant Eno laughed. He turned the idea over and flensed the remaining flesh from the bone, forming the second fillet. ‘The other sense comes from our German allies. The Devil’s Gardens are defensive structures that were built by General Rommel in the African desert, consisting of a maze of hidden mines, barbed wire and ditches that took the lives of thousands of British soldiers when they attacked th
em. It is this that we shall build at Syonan Jinja to wait for the British who will surely come.’
The men hesitated and looked hopefully at Sergeant Eno as he weighed the information. Captain Oishi smiled to himself resignedly. They respected Eno more than him.
‘What about the fresh news, Sir, the Emperor’s broadcast? The men have all heard about it.’
Oishi looked at them, uncertain, uneducated. They needed faith. As an officer, he must give it to them.
‘The broadcast? I find it impossible to believe it was genuine. Have you all heard the story of the Forty-Seven Samurai?’ They made sour faces. ‘Then let me tell it to you now.
‘It began over two hundred years ago. The lord, Asano, was instructed to receive the envoys of the Emperor with proper ceremony and was taught the proper forms by Kira Kozuke-no-Suke Yoshinaka of the Tokugawa Shogunate. But Asano refused to give him the presents he desired and he insulted him so badly that finally Asano attacked Kira and wounded him within the shogun’s castle. This was a grave offence and he was ordered to kill himself. His lands and goods were confiscated and his followers were made outcasts. Under their leader, a man with the fine name of Oishi, they swore a secret oath to avenge their lord and concealed themselves by becoming humble tradesmen or monks. Oishi divorced his wife, though he loved her dearly, to make sure that she would not suffer for what he intended to do. Then Oishi took to drinking, sleeping with prostitutes, keeping bad company and Kira’s spies were all deceived and believed he had no thought of vengeance. A Satsuma man even came and spat on Oishi as he lay drunk in the gutter as a disgrace to all samurai and he bore that dishonour in silence.’ The Captain blushed at his namesake’s shame, thought of Orchid, his mother, his loyalty to General Yamashita. ‘Slowly, so as not to arouse suspicion, the rest of the outcasts gathered around Oishi in Tokyo and gained admission to Kira’s house, working on it in his absence, as the simple workmen they now were. Then, two years later, in a heavy snowstorm, they learned that he was at home and attacked the house, that they now knew well, announcing to the neighbours that they need not fear for they were not robbers but men engaged in an act of honour. Many of Kira’s family and army were killed but, when he burst into his bedroom, Oishi found the bed still warm but empty. In a secret room, they finally found a man hidden but he refused to confirm who he was and they were only able to identify him by the scar on his neck. Oishi kneeled respectfully before Kira in recognition of his rank and invited him to kill himself but he only trembled and cried. So, finally, brave Oishi cut off his head and carried it to the grave of their lord in Sengaku-ji. Then they gave all the money they had to the abbot of the temple, washed and waited. The people begged the Shogun to spare the outcasts who had only avenged their lord but they had also disobeyed the order of the Shogun and so all forty-six must die but were allowed to kill themselves. Their tombs are still there and a great place of pilgrimage for people who would honour them. The Satsuma man who spat on Oishi came and asked forgiveness at his tomb and killed himself there and was buried nearby.’ He waved his arm aloft and punched the air. ‘Banzai! Banzai!’
The men looked at him blankly, arms half raised in prevarication, nor sure what they were supposed to be cheering for. What were they to make of all that fancy killing and dying?
‘Now I remember,’ said one, letting his arm drop. ‘I saw the film in Kakura but it was dead boring, so I left and went to a baseball game.’
Sergeant Eno frowned. Baseball had been popular before the war but was now perceived as American and therefore bad. He changed the subject.
‘“All forty-six must die” but I thought there were forty-seven samurai.’
‘Er … well … I missed out unnecessary detail. There was another man but the story is confused.’
‘What happened to him then, Sir?’
Oishi sighed. ‘There is a lack of agreement. Some say he was frightened and ran away and lived the rest of his life in regret. Others that he was sent as a messenger to announce the death of Kira. Then he was pardoned by the Shogun on account of his youth and lived until the great age of seventy-eight and was then buried honourably with his comrades.’ They nodded enthusiastically and broke out in conversation.
‘We, too, are all still young and would be pardoned.’
‘They were samurai, bold warriors, pretending to be workmen. We are workmen pretending to be samurai, fish out of water.’
‘The case is not the same. Perhaps the lesson is that they were wrong to disobey the shogun’s order just as we would be wrong to disobey our Emperor. Perhaps they should have laid down their swords and lived—perhaps even happily.’
‘They were fighting Japanese. When you are fighting gaijin, the rules, surely, are different.’
‘It is one thing to die at home, another so far away. I too would be happy to die honourably at their tomb in Sengaku-ji at the age of seventy-eight.’
Sergeant Eno swivelled on the spot and turned to the Captain, looked at him with deadpan face and saluted crisply. In such a Devil’s Garden, they would all die like fish being shot in a barrel.
‘The men enthusiastically embrace your orders, Sir, but there is a problem with the equipment. Our ordinance has been quartermastered by General Itagaki’s men and fully incorporated into their own stores. We would need a signed order from the General, himself, before they would agree to release it to us. I think, Sir, this problem might not be resolvable.’
* * *
Corporal Higgins dug into the bottom of the pan for a few lingering fragments of burned meat and licked the spoon. He had no idea what kind of meat it was. Frankly, he was beyond caring. After finding the shoreline too heavily guarded, they had walked vaguely westward for two nights and laid up during the stinking hot daylight hours. There had been nothing much to eat and precious little water and then they had come on this Japanese patrol, hiding out and cooking something for supper they had stolen from a village in a great iron pot. String vest and his mates had made short work of them with knives and bare hands and were sitting about crooning over their captured guns and grenades, cradling them in their sweaty laps, stroking them, happy as sandboys. It was like being back at school with the playground bullies. Matter-of-fact brutality of this kind was scary and Higgins had thought about trying to slip away from them but the truth was that he was afraid of setting them against him and, in this terrible place, he felt safer with all these big boys about him than he would alone in the dark. The Japanese bodies were dragged off the track and dumped like sacks of flour—rice really—and they came back grinning horribly and wiping knives, wearing their victims’ hats and smoking their cigarettes. Higgins was half-surprised not to see them chomping on human arms and legs.
‘Right,’ said string vest. ‘We’ll head north-west. They won’t be expecting that, not in the mangroves. Once we get to the shore, we can find a boat. There may be fishermen we can persuade to take us across to the mainland.’ He flexed the big, blood-flecked hands to show how very persuasive he might prove to fishermen. They shouldered the weapons and set off up the track, Higgins following in their wake like a dog, sipping from a Japanese water bottle.
The moon was very bright and cast dark, black shadows across the track, making it hard to tell which were mere phantoms and which solid roots to trip you up as surely as iron bars. Nameless things skittered off into the undergrowth and the air was rank and heavy with the smell of decomposition and loud with the whine of mosquitoes. As they moved across country, his nagging mind filled in the blanks in his vision so that it somehow kept trying to be a prosaic, English countryside. In the middle distance, hardly-seen tropical trees became staunch oaks. Undergrowth reverted to dogrose and blackthorn. The venom of Asian beasts was transmuted into the Cotswold honey and, out there, in the outer darkness, the patches that gleamed with silver phosphorescence and the flash of dancing glowworms became lost lamplight glimpsed through the leaded windows of thatched cottages. It was like the way you recognised, in the faces of strangers, traits of long-los
t loves. The thought enchained another and he wondered how poor Dong-ju was managing. After an hour or so, they came to a stream and stumbled across the rocks, water splashing like fire about their feet. He stooped to refill the water bottle. Something big with wings glided silently between them and the moon and threw a passing silhouette over them like a net and then, as they looked up, a bark of gunfire raked the ground.
Higgins stumbled, half recovered, then fell, full length, into the water. Bullets flew in all directions, pinged off rocks. Screams. He raised his head and saw a terrified Asian face hovering over him. An explosion and the face was gone. He lay trembling in the water, waiting for the inevitable shot to the back of the head or slice of the sword from an unseen enemy. He no longer cared. He was too tired, had lived too long. He closed his eyes and embraced his fate with perfect peace. When strong arms grabbed him and lifted him up, he was almost disappointed, annoyed even.
They were not Japanese faces. He had finally learned, thanks to Dong-ju’s giggling instruction, to tell a Korean face from a Japanese face but this was different again, Chinese faces. They wore smart new uniforms that he did not recognise and carried new automatic weapons of a kind he had never seen. Torches clicked on and blinded like limelight.
‘Oops!’ Two trim, grey men emerged from the glare and advanced, with the flat gait of middle age, smiling at him, into the clearing. One was European, one Chinese. Tweedledum and Tweedledee. ‘I rather think we owe you an apology. We assumed you were Japanese, you see. The hats, the dark. I’m afraid all your friends are dead. Bit of a balls-up, really. Bad show but can’t be helped. Cover up and carry on, as we say in the military. By rights, you shouldn’t have been in this sector at all, you know. Now, I’m Major Frobisher, Force 136, Malayan Section and this is my colleague, Chen Guang of the MPAJA. I’m afraid the state of your uniform doesn’t permit me to know who you are.’
‘I’m Corporal Higgins, Sir.’
Major Frobisher considered him with distaste. ‘In that case, I think we’d better have a proper salute.’