by Peter Albano
Stiffly, like a wide-eyed automaton, Brent turned toward the Takii sword. He reached up, grasped the scabbard and the leather-wrapped tang (grip). The sword came free from the bracket with a loud click. The attendant stopped reading.
“The north — my head,” Takii hissed. Brent nodded understanding. Buddha had died with his head to the north. A devoted Buddhist, the pilot knew dying with his head in the same direction would improve his karma and enhance his chances for reaching nirvana. Slowly, the American pushed the foot of the bed around until he estimated Takii’s head pointed to the north. One of the rubber tired wheels squeaked.
The attendant looked up curiously.
With one quick motion Brent tugged on the handle and the fine steel blade leaped eagerly from the scabbard with a high, ringing sound like a temple bell struck by a priest.
The attendant came to his feet.
Gripping the sword with both hands and raising it over his right shoulder, Brent chanted a litany of Buddhist supplications, “Death is as ephemeral as a wave of the sea and rebirth awaits you, dear friend. May you walk the Noble Eightfold Path with the Blessed One at your side, find the middle way and the Four Noble Truths to the peace that passeth understanding, Yoshiro-san.” But it was not enough. He spoke to the samurai with lyrics from the Kamigayo (anthem) and verses he remembered from the Hagakure: “Corpses on the mountains, corpses in the sea, I will die for the emperor and the gods shall smile…”
The attendant threw a switch turning on the ward’s bright overhead lights. He stared the length of the room. “No!” he shouted, bolting for the door.
Tightening his hold on the silver fittings of the tang and raising the sword higher and higher in the classic posture of the coiled and charged samurai, Brent looked down at his friend with a measure of his own peace. A samurai was born to Shinto rites; died as a Buddhist. He had done his best. He stared at the tiny neck. It would not be much — very easy, like chopping through a sliver of balsa. He heard heavy footsteps racing near, the shouts of “No! No!”
Brent smiled. “Good-bye, dear friend,” he said. With all of his strength he whipped the blade over and down in a vicious semicircle. A fabled blade drawn in the seventeenth century by the master Yoshitake, the Takii sword was fashioned like the incomparable Damascus blade, layered and tempered metal, folded and drawn nine times, as finely wrought as jewelry and sharp and spare as a haiku verse. Born to the task, the sword hissed through the air with a high, lilting note — a gay, hungry sound that ended in a crunch and whacking thud as flesh and vertebrae were sliced and severed. Striking with every ounce of the American’s two hundred twenty pounds behind it, the blade not only severed Takii’s head, but the mattress was slashed all the way to the springs as well.
Brent pulled the sword free and dropped it to the deck with a loud clatter. He stood stiffly, staring down at his friend, the head that had rolled down to one side and lodged against the body’s right shoulder. Blood was hosing from jugulars and the body was twitching in its final spasms. “Find peace, dear friend,” Brent said.
*
“He is a murderer, Admiral!” Chief Hospital Orderly Eiichi Horikoshi screeched, standing before Admiral Fujita’s desk in the admiral’s cabin. The chief orderly’s face was livid, lips a thin white line, bushy white eyebrows almost meeting above the snapping black eyes.
Brent, dressed in green number-two combat fatigues, which was the uniform of the day, stood rigidly at the opposite end of the desk. The cabin was well furnished with two leather chairs flanking the large oak desk, and four more straight-back chairs were clustered around a small table bolted to the deck in the center of the room. In the corner, a petty officer sat at communications center equipped with two phones and a pad. Two armed, burly seaman guards stood at the room’s lone entrance. A large equestrian of Emperor Hirohito hung from the bulkhead behind the admiral while charts of the Pacific and the Japanese home islands were attached to the sides. There were no computers or monitors in the cabin.
“It was cold-blooded, premeditated murder. Savage, unconscionable…”
Admiral Fujita removed his small steel-rimmed glasses and stared up at Brent Ross. Silently, the old man studied Ross as if he were trying to penetrate the expressionless mask and read the wildly churning thoughts racing through the young man’s mind. Despite the turmoil, Brent was at peace with what he had done and had not explained, tried to justify. Somehow, the lieutenant felt he would demean Takii’s memory. “You won’t speak, Mr. Ross,” the admiral said.
“I won’t degrade Lieutenant Yoshiro Takii’s memory with excuses, sir.”
“Of course. No one expects that.” Fujita drummed the desk with fingers gnarled like dead roots. As usual, the old man’s insights were almost metaphysical. “He requested it — death by his sword. Is that not true?”
Brent sighed, spoke softly. “That is true, Admiral.”
“Nonsense,” Eiichi shouted. “He could not talk.” He glared at Brent. “You were tired of the burned body — the groans — the smells.”
The admiral’s eyes moved back and forth from one antagonist to the other with that strange, calculating stare Brent had seen so many times when conflicts had erupted before him. Sometimes Brent felt the old man enjoyed the bitter exchanges and even physical combat that had exploded in his presence. Or was it a catharsis, a washing clean of antagonism by exposure that he had learned to tolerate, even encourage, during the forty-three-year confinement at Sano Wan? No. Brent had seen pleasure on the old sailor’s face.
Brent felt heat grow in his chest, a formless anger that uncoiled like a hot snake and beat against his ribs for release until he thought he would burst. Unflinchingly, he stared down into Horikoshi’s eyes. “That’s not true. He deserved better than what you would give him. He couldn’t go on as a burned vegetable. And I don’t give a damn if you or anyone else don’t like it — he got the death he had earned.”
Horikoshi’s voice was acid with derision, “Oh, are you not the warrior? So you gave Takii a samurai’s demise. I find your gallantry overwhelming.” He thrust his jaw toward the American and his voice hardened. “We had him stabilized. He was growing stronger — could have lived for years.”
Brent said, “Yes, indeed, kept him alive. And for what? No eyes, no nose, almost half of his flesh destroyed, perpetual pain. Is that the goal of medicine? To torture — inflict pain?”
Horikoshi shook a finger at the young lieutenant. “You inflict the pain! You are the killer! I repair what you destroy. Preserve life. All you know is death!”
Brent brushed the finger away with a big hand like he was chasing a fly. “Don’t you ever stick a finger in my face.”
Horikoshi’s sarcasm was palpable. “What will you do, Mr. Ross, kill me?”
Refusing the bait, Brent’s tone was casual. “No. But I might break your hand.”
Admiral Fujita took charge: “Enough!” Silence filled the room, only the sounds of blowers and the high whine of auxiliary engines intruding. The four enlisted men stole looks at the admiral as he spoke. “I can understand your feelings, Chief Horikoshi. You are devoted to the saving of life and I commend you.” He moved his eyes to Brent. “Sometimes, Mr. Ross, your thinking is more Japanese than any one of us.” He gripped a single long white hair hanging from his chin with a thumb and forefinger, tugged it meditatively. “I understand your decision — and even if Yoshiro Takii could not speak, he deserved what you gave him.” Horikoshi winced. Brent sighed and felt the tension drain away. “It is the way of the samurai — the way of Bushido.” He shifted his eyes to Eiichi Horikoshi’s face. “I find no crime here.” He gestured at the American. “His actions were appropriate — even commendable.”
Horikoshi was out of control. “This is insane! Murder commendable?” he stabbed a finger at Brent. “He should be court-martialed! Hanged!”
Fujita came to his feet slowly. “Return to your duties immediately or I will have you thrown off the ship.” He punched the desk with a tiny fist. “You do
not challenge my judgment. Ever!” He pointed at the door. “You are dismissed!”
Glaring, Horikoshi turned and left. Brent knew it was not over.
*
Brent’s cabin was in “Flag Country,” the former quarters of a long-dead staff officer. Still, it was small and Spartan, not more than eight feet long and six feet wide with a narrow bunk, small table, two chairs, a sink, and a mirror. However, it did have the luxury of a shower-equipped head tucked away in a tiny alcove.
Brent had no more than sagged down on his bunk with a double Chivas Regal in his hand when Yoshi Matsuhara knocked and entered. As the pilot seated himself, Brent rose, pulled a bottle from a cabinet beneath his sink, filled a small porcelain sakazuki with sake and handed it to the air-group leader. “You served Yoshiro Takii well, Brent-san,” Yoshi said after taking a long drink. “The perfect kaishaku.”
“Horikoshi does not agree,” Brent said.
“I know, Brent-san. I heard.”
Brent was not surprised at the pilot’s knowledge of the conversation that had taken place only minutes before. Four enlisted men had heard the violent exchange and Brent knew the news had spread on the ship’s mysterious “unofficial telegraph” like wildfire.
Yoshi continued, “It makes no difference, Brent-san. Eiichi is a farmer, despises Bushido, fights us but saves our lives.”
“A living, walking contradiction.”
“Yes. And more Japanese than any of us for it.”
Brent nodded understanding but was still confused by the irrational concept that a man’s strength lay in the number of contradictions he could entertain without conflict; the greater the number, the stronger the character. “There is no doubt he is a man of great strength of character, Yoshi-san.”
The pilot nodded solemnly and emptied his cup. Brent refilled it. “You did a great service for your pilot. He was cremated this morning and soon his ashes will rest honorably on a sepulchral pillar in the Temple of the Calm Light at Kyoto. His family was from Kyoto.”
“But his spirit lives at the Yasakuni Shrine, Yoshi-san.”
A smile widened the strong jaw. “Good, Brent-san. With the heroes — with his navigators, Morisada Mochitsura and Takashiro Hayusa.” He made a temple of his fingers. “This is important. Takii was a follower of Nichiren. You must understand this.”
Confusion beetled the young American’s brow with tiny crow’s-feet. “It is a Buddhist sect which is the most Japanese of them all,” Yoshi explained. “It was founded by the old monk, Nichiren, seven hundred years ago. Takii was a follower, believed Buddhism had been corrupted with metaphysical nonsense. Like all good Nichirens, he felt he must return to Buddha’s original teachings. In the West, he would have been a Protestant rebelling against Catholicism.”
Brent nodded. Drank. Felt the warmth spread while his mind was occupied with thoughts of the strange teachings of Gautama Buddha that challenged the foundations of his western mind and governed his best friend’s consciousness: the belief that all men are essentially meat and bones with minds was mere illusion, and only the belief that this was actually the case created each other. The fact that Yoshi Matsuhara was big, strong, brave, and the finest fighter pilot in the world was essentially an illusion, a fabrication of Brent’s consciousness, which was an illusion, too. There could be no objective and external universe, no reality existing eternally, absolutely and independently of mind and observations.
Yoshi continued, “Takii lived his faith with more fervor, with fewer dogmatic trappings, simple ceremonies — pristine and clean.”
“That’s how he checked out.” Brent swallowed the last of his Chivas Regal. Poured another drink. For the first time, he felt relaxation spread in warm waves.
The Japanese stared at the bulkhead behind Brent. Narrowing his eyes, he spoke softly. “If he could have prayed, it would have been simple — Namu Amida Butsu. Namu myo-ho-renge-kyo.” He smiled at the questioning look on Brent’s face and continued, “Literally, ‘Let us worship the Buddha Amida — the future — and the doctrine of the good law’.”
“You should say those words over his ashes.”
“I already have, Brent-san. In the Shrine of Infinite Salvation.”
“You’re a good man, Yoshi-san.”
Grinning, the pilot tapped the table with a forefinger. “There are other words, Brent-san — we owe Captain Kenneth Rosencrance a debt. Not only Takii, but my wingmen, Masatake Matsumara and Subaru Kizamatsu cry for vengeance.”
“The vengeance of ‘the Forty-seven Ronin’?”
“Yes. And more.”
“More?”
Yoshi took a long drink. “You’ve heard the story of Ono Doken?” Brent shook his head. “He was a famous samurai who lived in the seventeenth century. He was unjustly accused of cowardice and condemned to death by fire. When his enemy came to check his remains, Ono grabbed the man’s sword and stabbed him to death. Then he dissolved into ashes.” He drank again. “You will find this tale in the Ohanashikikigaki by Naoshige.”
Brent was not surprised by the story. It was fanciful, and in a way ludicrous, but very samurai and he knew Yoshi believed it just as firmly as Christians believed biblical parables. “I haven’t read Naoshige, but I intend to soon,” he said. “But Rosencrance did escape — the only one who got away?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think his staffel is operating out of the Marianas, Yoshi-san?”
The fighter pilot shrugged, turned his palms up. “Our observers on Aguijan have not reported fighter activity. But we know Saipan and Tinian are occupied.”
Brent pondered for a moment. “If you shot down his wingmen and damaged him, maybe they just haven’t been able to reinforce. After all, their transport was sunk and we put a couple of fish into their Majestic.”
“Logical, Brent-san. But they’ll reinforce, even if they must bring them in by submarine. And they do have the subs.”
“A sweep. We must make a sweep with our air groups.”
The pilot shook his head. “I do not think Admiral Fujita would risk it. Remember, when we were attacking their bases in North Korea, they sank most of the Self Defense Force. Even the amphibious squadron.”
Brent spoke, thumping the table with a big fist for emphasis. “We’ve got to kill Rosencrance. He’s beneath humanity. An animal.” He looked up. “Why — why are there always these creatures roaming the earth. Why are good men always called on to stop them? Why must so many good men die?”
Yoshi scratched the afternoon stubble on his chin thoughtfully. His question took the American by surprise. “Have you ever read Julius Caesar?”
Brent knew Yoshi was an inveterate reader with eclectic tastes; first Naoshige and now Shakespeare. Nevertheless, the question seemed strange even for Matsuhara. “Why, yes. I enjoy Shakespeare.”
The fingers tugged at the chin. “Do you remember, I think it is in Act One before Caesar’s assassination, when Casca is troubled by the plots of evil men?” Brent stared expectantly. Yoshi moved on. “Caesar said to Casca, ‘Against the Capitol I met a lion, who glared at me, and went surly by.’”
“Rosencrance is the lion,” Brent observed.
“And Kadafi, Arafat, Khomeini. There are always lions.”
“But there are lion hunters.”
Matsuhara laughed. “Yes, Brent-san. We must pick up our pistols, chairs, and whips.”
There was a loud knock. Brent opened the door and Admiral Mark Allen walked in. He saw Yoshi Matsuhara and hostility flared in both of the men’s eyes. The old admiral seated himself as far from the Japanese as the small room would permit and faced Brent Ross. Brent knew the admiral liked his Scotch straight, too. Pouring a stiff measure, he handed it to the older man, who accepted it without comment. He was troubled and Brent knew what the trouble was. The old man came to the point immediately, “You killed a man, Brent.”
Brent answered without giving ground, “I know, sir.”
The admiral reached for Brent’s early Catholic training. “
A mortal sin you can’t erase. No penance…”
Yoshi Matsuhara interrupted. “He served a friend. Honored his duty in the finest tradition of Bushido.”
“He killed in cold blood — has done it twice.”
Brent squeezed in, “Please, Admiral. I know. I know. It was not an easy decision.”
Mark Allen showed his perceptiveness. “Admiral Fujita understands, doesn’t he?”
Brent sighed. “Yes.”
“No court-martial?”
Brent nodded. Took a stiff drink. “Horikoshi would have me executed.”
Mark Allen looked at the young lieutenant over his drink thoughtfully as he sipped the fiery liquid. “You should leave this ship, Brent.”
Matsuhara sputtered angrily, “That is nonsense. He belongs here.”
“Don’t you tell me what’s nonsense, Commander.”
“I will when you make no sense, Admiral.”
“You don’t speak that way to an admiral, Commander.”
“I am a line officer — a member of ship’s company. You are from the outside — from another navy. Another world. If this be insubordination, take it to Admiral Fujita’s desk. And I will fight you there.”
“Very well. Then that’s where it will go.”
“Yoshi-san!” Brent shouted, visibly upset. “Please leave.”
Silently, the pilot glared at the admiral. Slowly, he rose and stalked out of the room.
Brent turned to Admiral Allen. “Please, Admiral, understand him. He lost both of his wingmen — been under terrible stress.”
Allen emptied his glass. “I know. I know.” Brent poured the admiral another drink. “Haven’t we all.”
“Don’t put him on report, sir.”
“I can’t drop it.”
“If he apologizes?”
“I don’t know, Brent.” He shook his head as if clearing cobwebs. “There are more important things.”