by Meira Chand
Matsui could not rid himself now of unease. Rumours blew about and his intuition was alerted. General Nakajima and General Yanagawa, in command of the divisions who with Matsui’s own 9th had advanced from Shanghai to Nanking, were younger men who in their youth were posted to Paris with Prince Asaka.
Lean and silent Asaka was a professional soldier who, in spite of privilege, had enjoyed few favours in his career. In the army mutiny the year before he had sided with the military revolutionists, and been censured by Hirohito. His appointment to the front, by order of the Emperor, must carry some special directive. If performed according to Imperial wishes it might be a way for Asaka to return to favour.
Yanagawa’s command did not trouble Matsui. Yanagawa, disgraced like Asaka after the mutiny of 1936, would do anything to return to Imperial favour. ‘It is as if I were recrossing the Styx out of Hades; I can see the light ahead,’ he declared at his sudden resurrection.
But everyone knew General Nakajima’s reputation. He had been chief of the Kempeitai, the secret police, a specialist in thought control, intimidation and torture. He was known to everybody as a man of sadistic personality. Many tales were told of his grim exploits. It was whispered he had come to Nanking with special oil from Peking for burning bodies. Such rumours did not set Matsui’s mind at rest.
In the forward regiments, under these commanders, battle fever raged, soldiers taut with nervous exhaustion. The traditional inter-unit rivalries ran easily out of control. In the heat of the race up the Yangtze delta, men were frantically burning villages, slaughtering cattle, carrying off women, to deprive other units of billets, food and entertainment. Such things happened, General Matsui knew, when men reached a razor’s edge.
Akira Murata unrolled his blanket and settled down in a corner of a ramshackle hut. The billet was better than those of the last few nights. There was little sleep to be had in a shallow, muddy, frozen trench with no protection from cold or snow. At times it seemed the Army expected them to sleep while on the march. Once they were clear of Shanghai, it had become a race to reach Nanking. The chronic stress of battle, with little sleep, poor food, forced marching, and an unpredictable enemy had reduced them all to exhaustion. Every night they slept with freezing gales whipping around them, hunger unappeased. The smell of filthy uniforms was overpowering.
Akira never talked much with the other men. A few already slept, a group chatted in a corner. Others scribbled in notebooks; most of them kept a diary. Through the crumbling wall Akira could see the distant glare of fire. The routine was always the same. Whenever they entered a village the first priority was to steal the food. Next was to rape the women. Then there was the killing. Men, women and children, not one must be left. To leave a single witness meant risking the Chinese troops learning of their locations. To sleep easily at night they must exterminate each village. These were their orders. All the way to Nanking they were to employ a scorched earth policy, burning as they went. On the other side of the Yangtze, the other divisions would be doing the same.
Such things were all done in the name of the Emperor. They were fighting his sacred war. Soldiers were instructed to die with his name upon their lips, but in their last minutes most men seemed only to call for their mothers. When Akira began to think like this nothing made sense any more. He stared out through the broken wall at the blazing horizon. The majority of men in his unit were decent types, concerned for their families at home, not the kind of men he would readily think of as doing the work they were put to do here.
When he rejoined his regiment in Shanghai after his leg was healed, he had hoped the war would soon be over. They had waited in boats to land on Chinese soil. It was dawn and Shanghai was still some distance away. On the open deck their guns were greased and bayonets polished. As the light grew a thick mist was observed. They had come in quietly over the water, protected by night. There had been little rest in the dark hold of the swaying ships. On deck in the cold, they waited, sleepy. Through the fog came the grumble of anchor chains, winches creaked as assault boats were lowered. There was a ripple of query through the rows of men, unable to tell how far from shore they were. All they knew was they faced the Yangtze delta. A man coughed, another sneezed.
At last the mist began to rise and the green line of the shore was visible. There was the outline of a walled town, and its first dawn stirrings: the call of a cock, and the work chants of coolies coming over the water. The shoreline was laced by canals crowded with sampans and junks. Had they attacked in the mist, without a view of the terrain, confusion and casualties would have resulted. On the shore figures moved who would not live to see the day. Row after row, the men stood silently on order, and filed to the waiting assault boats.
They were crammed in so closely Akira’s arms were pinned to his sides. The recruit next to him was a white-faced youngster on his first sortie. All types were coming out now from Japan, most with little experience. He gave the boy a word of encouragement.
‘I had only a few weeks’ training. I’ve never killed before,’ whispered the boy. His face was long and pale. Dark rings smudged his eyes and, in spite of the cold, a line of sweat edged his upper lip.
‘You only kill the first time, after that it’s all the same,’ a man across from him shouted. ‘And afterwards you get to fuck any women left over.’ The boy cringed.
‘If you don’t want to do it, just tell them to drop their trousers so you can have a look. They never wear any underwear. They’re just the same as other women. You’ll soon be doing it like everyone else. While you fuck ’em they’re human, when you kill ’em they’re pigs.’ The man laughed, not unkindly, at the boy’s shocked face. ‘Listen, it’s against official military regulations to have ’em, so you’ve got to destroy the evidence. Even the commanding officers will tell you to do that much.’
‘You’ve shot birds, killed a rat, cut off the head of a wriggling fish? These Chinese are no better than animals.’ An older man with a tough peasant face leaned towards the boy. ‘Don’t look at their eyes when you stab. Remember that and you’ll be fine.’
‘It is for the Emperor. It is his will,’ the first man reminded. Others in the boat nodded assent.
It went smoothly. The Chinese soldiers in the area were not the quality of the men fighting nearer Shanghai. They were country boys with little training and straw hats. They ran in all directions and fell like pigeons on the wing. In the village the Japanese soldiers wasted, as ordered, few bullets, stabbing instead with their bayonets. By midday Akira’s uniform was wet with blood. He hardened himself against those he struck. Their screams seemed of no more importance than the crash of waves on the beach behind him. Someone threw a baby in the air and he caught it on his bayonet. The bodies cowering before him, pleading, screaming, were only objects to be stopped in their tracks, contained in the town, killed in one stroke for economy. They were not people.
In the evening they had made camp. Men went off to look for women who might be hiding about the ruined town. Then they pushed on the next day, moving from village to village. Through the weeks, with each mile they took, with each new district under their belt, the sense of excitement mounted.
Now, the sight of bodies, bloody, mangled, charred beyond recognition or chewed by hungry dogs appeared no longer abnormal. Killing and the sight of killing, day after day, had also entered the sphere of normality. All sense of horror was gone. Akira could look at these sights now, as could they all, without emotion. The nature of their circumstances no longer struck them as extreme. It was kill or be killed. From some deep place, a hidden splinter of themselves stepped out, anaesthetised to horror, to do what they were asked. Things that in ordinary circumstances they would shrink from, were now done without emotional involvement. Akira too observed this mechanical creature step from himself, to perform his obligations. Death appeared more common than life. For the first time he understood its place in the order of things. And yet, in spite of all he had done, he could not boast of his exploits as the others d
id. Instead, against his will repugnance threatened to overwhelm him. The others seemed not to share the emotion. Shame of this aberration consumed him and would not go away.
So much of his time seemed spent hiding this disability. Already the others thought him weak. The shadowy double he summoned forth to wield his gun and bayonet, he could not stow back within him. He felt disorientated, unbalanced. Others appeared comfortable to live beside their double. They allowed it to strut permanently about, absorbing guilt and query, as if a bargain had been struck with this other man. What price must later be paid though, Akira was not sure.
He opened his diary. His corner was dark, a hurricane lamp swung from the end of a rope, but gave little light. He watched a man shut his notebook and settle to sleep, and wondered what he had written. The number of miles marched, the score of Chinese killed? Men boasted of the numbers they had dispatched. No one voiced distaste. There was even the rumour that two officers in another detachment were in competition to determine who could cut off the more Chinese heads. The minimum number was to be one hundred. It was said the race was being reported daily back to newspapers in Japan, and followed at home as if it were sport. Akira was confused. He could not sort out the strange conflicts within him. Those like himself, suspected of strange scruples, were made to feel their distance from the core of things. He looked over at Ida, who snored open-mouthed. He was a Christian and had funny ideas, yet he did his work efficiently. I am first a Japanese, he said when goaded by the men. And they left him alone, satisfied by proof of his deeds in the field. It was only by intuition that Akira knew those who felt as he did.
It was difficult to understand whether the feeling that gripped him was cowardice, or some integrity of his former life, clinging to him still. Those others whose thoughts matched his own also kept to themselves, ashamed of their innermost feelings. In an indirect way each knew who the other was, like a secret group within the group. They aimed their guns clear of a target or disappeared from the scene of a rape, and kept silent with regard to these miscarriages of duty when they noticed them in others. There were one or two who had gone mad with it all, and they disappeared mysteriously. There was also the case of Takahashi, who sobbed and refused to bayonet, and was shot by an officer before them all. Akira looked at the blank page of the diary before him and began to write.
Today I killed a child, a boy of about thirteen, no older than my brother Jiro. I had no choice. I might have pretended not to see him or to misaim, but he was there in the hamlet we entered and saw what was done to the women. He was hiding under some bales of straw. We pulled him out. It appeared his family had already fled but he had been left behind in the hurry. The men treated him like a toy. They shot bullets about his feet so that he jumped and squealed. I too used my gun, it was harmless fun. Then there was talk of how to kill him. In spite of the blindfold he began to cry. I remembered Jiro and suggested they let him go, for he was but a small shrimp. He will report on what we have done. We have been told to do away with those that can report, even the women, they said. Besides, he will grow to hold a gun at us. I felt the old suspicion turn upon me. You kill him, they said, and we will watch. Those that felt like I did looked down at the ground and did not meet my eyes. I remembered Takahashi and could not help but feel some sympathy for him. I knew I must steel myself. It was my duty and he was after all only a Chinese, but the image of Jiro would not leave me. It was made worse for me by the crying and sniffling of the boy. It suddenly struck me that perhaps I could help him in his last minutes. I said a few words to the others to set their minds at rest and then removed the boy’s blindfold. I told him as best I could in sign language and the one or two Chinese words we had all picked up, that he was free to return to his mother. I told him to run off as fast as he could. He wiped his eyes and stared at me disbelievingly. Then he turned and ran. My aim is good when I want. I shot him in the head before he was but a few yards away. The others were pleased with me and laughed thinking it all a great joke. But I felt differently. I wanted only to help him die without fear and with the hope of seeing his mother again. He did not have to face the point of a gun, waiting for death, snivelling and trembling. However deluded, he died free and instantly. It was all I could do. Such are the ways I now devise to avoid the feeling blunt killing gives me. I admit I am a coward. I despair of myself and am filled with shame at my failure to do my duty. I know these Chinese are our enemy and it is our duty to kill them, but sometimes I feel these common people know as little as we do as to why we are here. If the others had known how far my thoughts and motives were at that moment from their own, I would be gunned down no doubt, like Takahashi.
He closed the diary and lay down. It was true, nobody really knew why they were here, living like animals, doing things that in normal life they would refuse to do. To the best of their knowledge they understood only that this was a war initiated by the Chinese against the Japanese; that was what the newspapers said, what their commanders said. It was called a sacred war. They were to liberate the Chinese from the oppression of their own kind. Why then was the killing of innocent peasants actively encouraged? It appeared they had been sent to terrorise rather than to liberate. If liberation was the quest why did they not enter undefended villages peaceably, why was their presence not greeted by cheers?
Now, he recalled again the anti-war graffiti he had seen scratched on the walls of station toilets or factories when he had been released from military hospital in Tokyo. He remembered one statement.
Even if we fight China, it is certain we shall lose because Russia is behind China. In Russia if a worker dies his funeral is paid for by the State, but our Japanese government will not do such a thing. In times of war we poor people become depressed and cannot make a living. The government should stop this war. I am against the war because it kills people.
They seemed to him now like the true feelings of the nation, scratched out with a nail in the dark when no one was looking. Even the military hospitals now gave only cursory treatment and returned men to the front before complete recovery. More and more men were shipped to hospitals in Korea or Taiwan so that in Japan the real number of casualties would not be known. There were even reports that some hospitals were free of badly wounded men, fanning rumours that such patients were done away with. Kill or be killed. There seemed no choice now. All Akira could remember was the eyes of the boy who looked like Jiro.
11
The Panay Incident
The weather had brightened. Donald Addison stood on the deck of the gunboat, his face to the December wind. The Yangtze was broad about the Panay, anchored near the Nanking Bund. In places the sun reflected opulently, then grew sombre under clouds. He imagined the river stretching across great swathes of China, goring through rock, spilling over plains, unifying the immeasurable. Day and night, life and death, good and evil were as nothing to the pulse of the river, constantly forming itself anew. A kestrel wheeled overhead. He followed its flight, high above the sudden burst of flame from inside the walls of Nanking. Soon, another orange flowering exploded in the town. Already, the first Japanese detachment had entered Nanking, breaking through the Kunghwa Gate. He returned his eyes to the kestrel high above the placid water. River or bird, they were without boundaries. His vision drew back from the arch of the sky to his feet on the deck of the boat. In the distance was the crack of guns. He seemed forever trapped within himself.
The Panay’s engine purred, then cut out. The silence was sudden about him. He listened to the lapping of the river against the bow. The American gunboat stood by on the Yangtze maintaining communications with the outside world, ready to take on any expatriates still in Nanking. The boat was to anchor in midstream until the battle was over. The remaining staff at the American Embassy slept on board and returned to the town by day. Foreign correspondents crowded the ship, converting the sick-bay into a newsroom. In Nanking the only foreigners who remained were four reporters and the twenty-three men and women who had opted to organise the Safety Zon
e. At the urging of the Japanese almost all other foreign nationals had fled. That day the last city gate had been closed, and the foreigners left in Nanking had forfeited their right to board the gunboat. Soon the Japanese would launch the last onslaught.
‘Come for a beer, Addison,’ Marco Mariani, a cameraman with Movietone News, shouted as he came along the deck. Donald shook his head.
‘No good, all this thinking,’ Mariani scolded. His short plump shape rolled with the rhythm of the ship. A cigar hung from the corner of his mouth. He stood at the rail beside Donald.
Some days before Mariani had borrowed a car on Movietone’s account, and with Donald drove out of Nanking into the battling countryside. Mariani had a name for catching on film the rawest moments in the rawest manner. There was no war he had not covered. He approached death with blatant objectivity. Donald admired the coolness of the Italian who drove as if on a Sunday outing through the embattled countryside. He stopped once to film a cart of charred corpses, pushing away sobbing relatives to better record the grimace of death, his camera cranking noisily on a tripod.
Every mile along the roads they had seen barricades ready. Trees and bamboo were felled to a knife-sharp stubble, to hinder the approaching Japanese. There was the permanent odour of smoke on the wind. From a hillock they had looked down upon roads thick with people trudging inland. Across the burned winter countryside the lines of refugees appeared in the distance like long, grey caterpillars creeping slowly forward. The whole country seemed on the move.
Nearer Nanking fires raged everywhere, set by the Chinese to clear all cover for the invading army. There was something medieval about these open field engagements in sight of walled towns. Sixteen miles from Nanking they drove into a village where the remnants of a Chinese division were billeted. The Captain offered to show them the front.