by Hiroo Onoda
“Right.”
Needless to say, when the time came, I intended to make sure I was dealing with the real Major Taniguchi, but there seemed to be no point in bringing this up now.
By way of testing my newfound friend, I said, “Why don’t I go with you to your camp and stay with you? Then you can take your picture in the morning.”
My real object was to keep him under guard until morning. That meant staying awake all night, but that was just part of my work. Anyway, the idea excited me a little.
Arriving back in front of his mosquito net, I sat down on the sand, put my pack beside me, and laid my rifle on it. The wind had died down, and the night was dark.
From his rucksack, Suzuki got a fresh pack of cigarettes, a can of sweetened beans and a bottle of gin. He offered me a drink, which I refused.
“I tried drinking when I was in China,” I told him, “but I didn’t like it.”
“Too bad,” he said. “I was hoping we could sit here and talk over a couple of drinks.”
He seemed so disappointed that I said, “I’ll have some of the beans instead. I like sweets.”
He started sipping his drink, but noticing that I had no spoon for the beans, darted into the mosquito net and brought one out, sticking it into the open can. I took a spoonful in my mouth and savored the wonderful flavor. I felt that for the first time in thirty years I was eating something fit for human beings. My tongue, my whole mouth, melted.
Suzuki said, “I’m lucky. I never dreamed I would meet you after only four days here.”
Puffing on my cigarette, I looked up at the moonless sky. This was the first time I had ever sat in such an open place so long, even on very dark nights.
I answered his questions about my food, the weather on Lubang and the islanders. I even told him about my life in Hankow and my experience in the army before I came to Lubang. I jumped from one subject to another and digressed a number of times, but that did not seem to bother Suzuki. What I was really trying to do was try to find out something about him—what kind of person he was. He, for his part, seemed to grow sleepy from the gin, which he finished off, but from time to time he would open his half-closed eyes and ask another question.
“If you’re sleepy,” I said, “go to bed. I’ll stay here by you until the sun is high enough for you to take your picture.”
He straightened up and began telling me about himself. He said he had wandered about all over the world, working his way through about fifty countries in four years. I thought to myself, somewhat admiringly, that he looked like the type who might do something like that. He reminded me a little of myself in those erratic days before I went into the army. I felt myself drawn to him to some extent.
Later he wrote somewhere that I had talked all night without interruption. Although I will admit that I talked a lot, it was not because I was fascinated with the sound of my own voice. In the hope of eliciting some sort of reaction or information from him, I fed him a wide selection of facts that it would do no harm for him to know. But when he asked how many bullets I had, I flatly refused to answer.
Eventually he stood up and said, “I’m hungry. Let’s cook some food.” He started over to the river to get water, and I took the precaution of going with him.
When he took out his mess kit, my suspicions were suddenly reawakened. It was of the type that American soldiers carried.
I was further alarmed when he plucked some leaves off a nearby tree and said, “Let’s put some of these in for flavor.”
He explained that he had learned this from the Lubang islanders. Although I had been on the island for thirty years, I had never watched the islanders preparing food, nor had I ever seen leaves in the pots they left behind in the mountains. I did not even know the leaves were edible. I also found it odd that he put in a flavoring made by pickling in salt a small fish found around the island. I knew the islanders ate this, but would a tourist who had been here only four days know about it?
I considered both the leaves and the seasoning ample reason for suspicion, and when he served the food, I was careful not to pick up my chopsticks until after had had started eating.
He disarmed me somewhat by saying, “It never occurred to me that I might one day be sitting here with you eating from the same pan. I am honored.”
As he was making coffee, the wind came up again. There was not enough wood on the fire, and the smoke blew off into the distance. We picked up some pieces of bamboo that were lying around and put them on the fire, but the smoke continued to rise up toward the clear sky and then blow off toward the river. Not having for years dared build a fire without keeping the smoke to a minimum, I could not help feeling uneasy. When we finished our coffee, I said, “Let’s go to the mountains.”
As he hurried to get his camera, he pulled three or four photos from his rucksack and handed them to me.
“Do you like nude photos?” he asked. His tone sounded as though he thought I had never seen one before.
I laughed and told him I was not interested. I also gave him back the novel he had given me the night before. This was hardly the time to take up reading as a pastime, even though it was a novel about samurais and the samurai spirit. Strange as it may sound, most of the time I was too busy to read.
Going ahead of him, I climbed up to a place somewhat higher than the place where I had camouflaged myself the evening before. I sat down in a spot from which I could look down on the river, removed the leaves and twigs from my hat and jacket, and turned the clothing right side out. After putting my jacket back on, I rolled up the left sleeve and held up my arm so that Suzuki could see the scar there.
“This,” I told him, “is what they call my ‘distinguishing mark.’ Make sure that it and the chrysanthemum emblem on my rifle show up in the picture.”
The scar was from a wound I had received in middle school. While we were practicing kendō, my opponent’s bamboo sword had broken and pierced my arm. My brothers and nearly all of my middle school friends would recognize the scar.
Turning my rifle sideways, I laid it across my knees. Suzuki focused his camera and took several shots. Assuming that he was finished, I started to leave. I could see no purpose in staying any longer.
But Suzuki said, “Wait just a minute. If I don’t take a picture of the two of us together, people might think I faked the shots.”
Squatting beside me, Suzuki said, “Let me hold the rifle.”
I did as he requested. I did not know whether he was a friend or not, but I was pretty sure by this time that he was not an enemy.
When the picture was taken, he said, “Don’t you want to see cherry blossoms again? Wouldn’t you like to see Mount Fuji?”
Without answering these questions, I said, “I am fifty-two years old, but physically I don’t think I am more than thirty-seven or thirty-eight. So long as my body is healthy, I am strong enough mentally not to do anything to destroy my own life.”
“Onoda-san,” he said seriously, “if there are official orders from your superior, you really will come out, won’t you? You’re not joking, are you? If I name the time and the place, will you really come?”
“Yes,” I replied rather impatiently, “I’ll come. If you say so, I’ll come.”
Since last night, I had told Suzuki everything I had to say. Even if he should turn out after all to be an enemy, I felt sure that one way or another my message would reach Japan, and that my description of the death of Shimada and Kozuka would be relayed to their families.
I was relieved to have that off my chest. I myself might still be killed by an enemy agent or die alone of illness, but I could do so now without regrets. I also felt more cheerful for having been able to talk to someone in Japanese after so many months of solitude.
“I’ll come back for you as soon as I can,” said Suzuki. “The press will make a huge story out of this. You won’t believe it!”
He laughed and then saluted. I nodded and shook his hand. He was genuinely happy, and I thought he had a good,
honest face.
I said good-bye and shouldering my pack started walking toward the mountains. The sun was high now; it was getting hotter. I quickened my pace. Suzuki might have an honest face, but if in spite of everything he was working for the enemy, I had better move as far away as possible before he had a chance to report.
A little farther on I saw three or four islanders cutting trees. I crossed the valley and hid in the bushes on the opposite slope. Already I had ceased to put much store by Suzuki’s parting remarks. I thought of Kozuka, who had often said, “Let’s wait for the people to come for us, but let’s not depend on it.”
The next morning I went over to Snake Mountain to check on the ammunition that I had hidden there.
It was my intention to hold out on this island, if necessary, for twenty years more. As I had told Suzuki, I considered my body to be no more than thirty-seven or thirty-eight years old. I was confident that I could last another twenty years.
The main reason for checking on the ammunition was to make sure I would not lose track of its exact location. I also wanted, however, to check on the number of bullets left, divide the number by twenty, and determine how many I could use per year.
During the early years, I had used about sixty rounds a year, but in the years just before Kozuka died, this number had fallen to only about twenty. Now that I was alone, I might have to use more in case I encountered enemy patrols, but I hoped that I would be able to hold the number down to no more than forty or fifty a year.
Having counted the bullets, I put one third of them aside as reserve ammunition, in case some unforeseen need should arise. Dividing the number of the remaining bullets by twenty, I found that I could use thirty bullets a year. I decided that I would just have to make do on that.
About ten months had gone by now since the departure of the search parties in which my family and friends had participated. I had expected a friendly army to land at almost any time, but there had been no further word. I was beginning to think that the plans had been changed.
That, I thought, was all right too. If ever I did manage to return to Japan, I would still have to work and sweat every day, and I could do that just as well on Lubang. Staying here even had one advantage: if I died, it would be death in the line of duty, and my spirit would be enshrined at Yasukuni Shrine. That idea appealed to me.
Before allowing Suzuki to photograph me, I had said to him, “You apparently risked your life to come to this island. Now it is my turn to gamble.”
I did not really believe what he said about the war being over. In several instances, his account agreed with what I had heard over the radio and read in the newspapers, but I still saw inexplicable discrepancies. If the war was really over, why would such a large search party as the last be sent to Lubang? Why would they call themselves a “search party” when their purpose was to survey the island? Wasn’t this survey proof that Lubang was considered very important from the strategic viewpoint?
Surely the war between America and the East Asia Co-Properity League was continuing, and as long as it continued, I could not neglect my duties for a single day. Until some new secret orders arrived, I intended to fight to preserve the territory I was “occupying.”
Still, I found that I could not completely ignore Suzuki’s explanation of how things were. Ninety-nine percent was unbelievable, and I was in doubt about that remaining one percent. It was actually on that one percent that I was betting when I let Suzuki take my picture. If the war was really over, as he said, then he would immediately tell Major Taniguchi about his meeting with me, and Major Taniguchi would send word of some sort to me.
But I was sure that this would not happen. Major Taniguchi knew perfectly well the nature of the orders under which I had come to Lubang, and he knew that I could not leave the island unless those orders were properly rescinded.
That was the key point. The strategic command had not rescinded my orders; that meant simply that they wanted me to stay on the island.
According to the newspapers, Major Taniguchi was now a bookdealer living in Miyazaki Prefecture. I suspected, however, that this was merely for public consumption, and that in fact he was still a secret agent, disguised as a civilian. It is not so easy for people engaged in secret warfare to return to civilian life.
Moreover, if the war had really ended thirty years ago, why should Major Taniguchi’s name come up only at this late date? Why could he not have issued new orders to me in his own name much earlier? The fact that he had not done so seemed to me proof that all this time he too had still been engaged in secret warfare. No doubt he had been given some new assignment that entailed his pretending to be an ordinary citizen.
True, thirty years had gone by, and it was unlikely that the Sugi Brigade of which I had been a member had continued on unaltered. Still, when the new army took over, the rolls and records of the old army would naturally have passed to it, and they must know my name and whereabouts.
Well, I had rolled my dice on that one percent. The only thing to do now was wait and see—without depending too much on the results.
When I finished counting the bullets, I started out on my usual patrol route. I could not afford to consider the meeting with Suzuki as anything more than an unexpected diversion.
LUBANG, SAYONARA
I almost never dreamed, and when I did, it was almost always the same dream.
I would be defending myself against an enemy patrol that had spotted me. Bullets were whizzing by me, and I was returning fire from behind a shelter of some sort. I would aim and pull the trigger, but the gun would not go off. Was it a bad cartridge, or was the gun not working properly? I would pull the trigger again, and again the gun would not fire. By this time the enemy’s bullets were nearly grazing my ears. One more try. Still no luck. The gun was broken. . . .
At this point, I always woke up.
In March I began to have a different dream, and a stranger one.
I dreamed I was awakened by a noise and started to ask Kozuka if he had heard it too. But Kozuka was not there, and I wondered where he was. Then I awoke and realized I had been dreaming. Kozuka was not there because he was dead. Only after this did I really wake up. It was a dream within a dream.
Kozuka would not appear even in a dream within a dream. Nothing made me feel more alone than that idea.
On March 5, near the mountain hut, I heard the excited voices of islanders. I wondered what they were doing so deep in the mountains.
Suddenly it occurred to me that maybe Suzuki had come back to the island. About two weeks had passed, plenty of time for him to go to Japan and back. I had given him my word, and I thought I ought at least to go and see whether he had come. If he had, it would not be right to let him down. He had been so elated and so earnest when he had promised to come again.
I went to the mountain hut, but saw no change. I decided that the excited cries I had heard meant nothing more than that the natives had caught a water buffalo. I had no objection to that. Let them be! I had a two-day food supply, and I did not plan to leave until I had eaten it. I spent the night on a nearby slope.
Two mornings later I remembered that Suzuki and I had agreed to leave messages in a box that had been set up by search parties on a boulder at Snake Mountain. Maybe I would find a message there. At dusk, I went to see.
A brand new plastic bag was taped to the side of the box; I knew he must have come back. I thought of Suzuki’s friendly, honest face and decided that maybe I had been wrong to doubt him.
In the bag were two of the photos he had taken as proof and a noted saying, “I’ve come back for you, just as I promised.” There were also copies of two army orders.
The minute I looked at the photos, which had been enlarged to eight by ten size, I was struck by my resemblance to my uncles on both sides of the family. It also seemed to me that I looked rather like generals Sadao Araki and Senjūrō Hayashi, and it occurred to me that if a man stayed in the army that long, maybe he could not help looking like that. Thi
s was the first time in thirty years that I had seen my face as anything other than a reflection in a river.
One order was from Fourteenth Area Army headquarters and the other from the Special Squadron. The first, issued in the name of General Yamashita, was the same as the order reproduced in leaflets dropped by search parties. The other, however, said that “instructions would be given to Lieutenant Onoda orally.”
Oral instructions! This was what I had been waiting for all these years. To men in special units like mine, there were always direct oral orders in addition to the usual printed ones. Otherwise, it would have been impossible to maintain secrecy.
Apparently Major Taniguchi had been sent to deliver my oral orders.
I laid my plans. The aerial distance from Snake Mountain to Wakayama Point was no more than about six miles, but the route involved crossing several mountains and valleys. The trip would take eight or nine hours of walking, but I decided to allow myself two days. For fear of running into islanders, I could only walk in the early morning and late evening, and I did not want to try to advance too rapidly, because haste tends to make a person careless about his surroundings.
That evening as I rested at Shingu Point, I asked myself what the oral orders would be. They might, of course, be simply to stay on Lubang and continue fighting. Or they might tell me to shift to a completely new location. Considering that so many people had come the year before to survey the island, it seemed possible that the strategic command now knew all it wanted to know and might completely relieve me of my duties. The only certainty was that if they were oral orders, they were secret.
“The time has come,” I said to myself, “to take a chance.”
Whatever the content of the orders, I must go and receive them. But there remained the possibility that all of this was the work of the enemy. Or maybe real orders were on the way, but the enemy had found out about them and was striking first. Still there is never an end to doubts. If you doubt everything, you end up not being able to do anything, and certainly it was high time that new orders be sent to me! My only hestitation was that after carrying on for thirty years, I did not want to let everything go down the drain because of some false step on my part. I had to be careful still!