by Meira Chand
They came forward then and picked him up, looking at him oddly. The old woman they threw back into the house and after her the lighted bundles of straw. They did not bother to bring out the girl or her baby. It had been a long night. Instead they watched the hut flare up. All they wanted now was their breakfast. They dragged Akira with them along the road, and the cries from the hut grew fainter. For a distance the odour of smoke hung upon the air.
At last they let Akira free and he trailed behind them. Tears streamed down his face. He could not forget the old woman. He had killed so many times before, why now must he get so worked up? Suzuki turned a cracked smile upon him, gold tooth glinting in the sun. Someone guffawed.
Suzuki was like those older conscripts who had been attached to new recruits in the military training camp in Japan. For the first three days of the training, Akira remembered, they had treated recruits like friends. Then everything changed. The day was long and the new recruits ran frantically from one task or exercise to another. At the end of the day they collapsed exhausted onto their bunks. Within ten minutes the older conscripts came, and the beatings began. There were beatings for failures during the day. Beatings for insubordination, real or imagined. Everyone was beaten for all were equally responsible for mistakes in their group. Their bodies were permanently bruised, the inside of their mouths cut and swollen from blows about the face.
‘Why are they doing this?’ Akira had asked the boy in the bunk below him, when at last they were allowed to sleep.
‘They’re turning us into machines. By day we’re deprived of time for thought, at night we’re beaten to a pulp. We’ve already lost our self-respect and any sense of achievement. Is there anyone here who wants to do more than eat and sleep?’ the boy replied.
Slowly it became clear the bigger part of their training was this assault upon their personalities. Many of the new recruits had long ago learned to accept a high degree of brutalisation in life. They came from rural backgrounds and endured harsh lives. In the camp they were at the mercy of their surroundings as they had always been. The men who beat them were from the same social strata. They vented upon their subordinates an anger formed long before entering the army. Everyone in the camp understood this, even the authorities, who turned a blind eye. It suited their objective of strengthening men.
It had been the excuse the older conscripts needed. ‘We beat you not for personal pleasure, but to raise your fighting spirit.’ In their turn they too had been beaten as new recruits.
Once, someone had tried to smuggle a letter of complaint out of the camp to his family. The next day they were called to the parade ground.
‘We have a soldier in the company who is not loyal to his country.’ The commanding officer read out part of the letter but ordered no punishment for the culprit.
It was left to the older conscripts. They took the recruit outside and beat him behind the ammunitions shed. Afterwards he had been sent to an outside hospital for treatment, and did not return. It was rumoured he had died.
In the camp the diet of brutality continued. They had lived in a haze of bruising and exhaustion, passing from day to day in a mechanical way. As soon as the training was finished, Akira was drafted to China. He found it difficult to react to things in the way he had before. He knew how to fight and to handle a gun. He had practised bayoneting straw barrels while thinking they were men. He knew how to break a neck or sever it cleanly with a sword. He had developed the fighting spirit and ‘the will that knows no defeat’. Something in him had hardened. For a time he felt hate for everything.
Now, he stared at the raucous group of men ahead of him. Suzuki’s bandy legs and crooked body gave him the look of a pariah dog. And then, he suddenly realised, this was what they reminded him of, nothing more than randy dogs. Their khaki uniforms were as nondescript as the mangy coats of animals. Their bony frames and bandaged legs appeared almost canine. They panted, mouths open, showing teeth, their eyes agleam. They were animals. They were all of them slowly turning into animals. Perhaps, at this very moment the metamorphosis was taking place. They would never be men again.
‘We are animals. We are turning into dogs. We too will eat corpses next,’ he yelled up the road to them. They turned to stare at his glazed face.
‘You’ve gone mad,’ Suzuki yelled. The men walked on, embarrassed.
Soldiers from a different unit ran out of a house some yards ahead. They had the same rapacious look about them. Akira slowed down in fear. As he came level with the house he heard a sound inside, and went in.
At first he saw only disorder. Quilts were ripped open, chinaware and furniture smashed, drawers pulled out of chests. Then, he saw the two women laying in a corner, blood thick about them. The old woman was already dead, the younger still breathed and groaned. Akira bent over them, shaking his head. It was as if someone other than himself propelled him. The words tumbled from him again, although he knew the girl could not hear him.
‘I am a farmer. I am not to blame.’ He repeated the words as if they would wash him clean. He found a threadbare blanket and wrapped it about the girl. Her blood soaked quickly through onto his uniform as he picked her up.
‘I am a farmer.’ He told her again as he staggered with her from the house. In the street the morning sun shone on the dusty road in a white glare. He could still see Suzuki in the distance. ‘She is like my sister, Nami,’ he called. Suzuki turned in disbelief. Akira remembered that once before he had been down this road. He knew where he must take the woman and immediately felt more cheerful.
‘Soon you will be better,’ he told her. The woman made no sound. He walked on awkwardly up the road with his bloody bundle, and drew level with the waiting men.
‘She will be better soon,’ he told them with a smile. He heard somebody guffaw.
‘Don’t go near him,’ Suzuki ordered.
At last he saw the hospital, with its great arc of English words above the door. Inside, he had been told, there were foreign doctors. They would help the woman. The door was locked and he began to thump upon it. An old coolie let him in and Akira pushed past him. Once inside he was surprised to see the hospital crowded. Only the streets outside were empty. The smell of antiseptic reminded him of the prefectural hospital he had been to once in Japan, when he broke an arm as a child.
‘Get me the doctor,’ he shouted. The coolie did not appear to understand. Eventually, a nurse appeared and looked in horror at his uniform. He began to shout louder. He showed them the woman whose blood now covered his jacket, sodden against his skin.
‘I have not done this. I am not to blame,’ he yelled at them. People stared at him in silence. Frustration coursed through him.
Suddenly a foreign woman stood before him, elderly and grey haired, wearing the white coat of a doctor. When she spoke her voice was authoritative, although he could not understand her words. He knew this was the person he had waited for and held out his bloody bundle.
The doctor’s eyes blazed, although her tone of voice did not alter. Two coolies came forward with a stretcher. Akira placed the woman upon it. The doctor knelt down and drew back the quilt. There was a sudden intake of breath from the crowd of people. The woman on the stretcher no longer groaned. Perhaps, already, thought Akira, the doctor had made her better. He repeated the words he had carried about with him all morning.
‘I am a farmer. I am not to blame,’ he explained.
Nobody returned his smile. Instead, he saw row upon row of eyes banked silently before him. He stepped back in confusion. The foreign doctor looked up from where she knelt and shook her head at him. He realised then that the girl was dead. The doctor rose and pointed to the door. He saw suddenly how he must appear to her.
‘You don’t understand. We Japanese are a decent people. We are no different from you. We are not to blame for all that is happening. I am a farmer. This is a land of farmers, like Japan.’ The door was against his back. He fell out into the street. While he watched, the door was shut and locked again. Te
ars streamed down his cheeks.
He returned to the billet in the school, and ate his breakfast at a table where children had recently squabbled, while shovelling rice into their mouths. It was as if he could hear the echo of their laughter and the knock of chinaware as the empty bowls were stacked together after their lunch. It was no different from his own school in the village. Suzuki and the others sat at a table a distance away and made no sign of welcome. He got up, anxious to explain his point of view to them.
‘If you’ve finished, the Colonel wants to see you,’ Suzuki said when Akira stopped speaking, and turned his back upon him.
In what had once been a teachers’ common room, the Colonel sat at a desk. He was not given to outbursts of temper, nor to unnecessary words. He was known for his fairness towards his men, and his care in difficult moments.
‘I have heard strange things concerning you, Murata. What is going on in your mind?’ The Colonel leaned back in his chair, and looked Akira up and down.
It was impossible to know where to begin or what was most important. Already, all the things that had happened during the day were beginning to drop from his mind. As a child, at temple festivals, he had loved to catch goldfish in a rice paper net. It was never easy. Before the net was lifted from the water the paper dissolved beneath the fish, and the creature wriggled away. One moment it was within his grasp, luminous in the sun, and the next it was gone. Things were now dropping from his mind in exactly the same manner. Perhaps he should tell the Colonel this, perhaps this was the starting point.
‘Goldfish?’ queried the Colonel. ‘Enough. You are as mad as they say. It happens sometimes in these circumstances. It is not easy here for any of us. Follow me.’
They left the school and turned into the street. The Colonel held his face to the sun, as if enjoying its winter warmth. Wherever it was they were going the Colonel was in no hurry. He looked from left to right and seemed without a plan. He strolled up the road which curved behind the school. A pond lay at the back. The Colonel stopped some yards before it, and looked about again. A thin layer of ice edged the water, melting in the morning sun. Akira followed, puzzled at the randomness of the Colonel’s behaviour.
At the far side of the pond stood a few huts. An old man poked about in a pile of rubbish, thrown out from the billet. The Colonel shouted to him, gesturing towards the pond. The old man looked up and stared in fear. The Colonel gestured again until the man began to wade out into the water. Eventually, the Colonel ordered him to stop. He stood shivering, water to his chest. Terror and bewilderment filled his lined face. The Colonel turned to Akira.
‘Shoot him.’
Akira stepped back and shook his head. The Colonel repeated the order. Akira stumbled further from the pond. ‘Then I will shoot you,’ the Colonel announced, withdrawing his gun from its holster. He raised it towards Akira.
In the pond the old man, seeing the attention was no longer upon him, began to wade out of the water as fast as he could. The Colonel turned and fired a shot that skimmed across the surface. The old man stopped where he stood.
It was either the old man or himself. For a moment Akira considered the relief of his own death, but in this there was also the matter of dishonour. For the crime of dishonour, no remains would be sent to his mother. No priests would chant prayers for his journey onwards. How would his family live with the disgrace of his dishonour? He raised his rifle until it was level with the old man. The Colonel stood expressionless.
‘Now,’ he ordered.
The retort of the gun jumped against Akira’s shoulder. The old man disappeared beneath the water. Ripples flowed out from where he had stood, in ever widening circles. Akira turned to the wall and vomited. When he straightened up he saw the contempt in the Colonel’s eyes.
‘I have given you this chance to show yourself a man. If you do not pull yourself together I will shoot you myself for insubordination. We have a job to do. We are under orders. We are here in the Emperor’s name. His honour is at stake.’ The Colonel marched back in the direction of the billet.
Akira turned to face the pond. The surface was calm again. Only about the outer edge did ripples still slap the crumbling ice.
18
March of Triumph
General Matsui was still unwell. In the midst of war his sick-bed held him prisoner. The tubercular fever flared, coughing racked his body, distancing him as much as his newly elevated command from the vital days of the war. But Nanking was now secure. Only days before he had received a cable of congratulations from the Emperor himself. Pride flushed him as hotly as the fever; he had done as his Emperor commanded. Surely now Chiang Kai-shek would surrender. Reports came to him daily on the success of the Nanking operation. Although there had been some reports on the disorderly behaviour of troops, he hoped this had now been righted. A diplomat from Tokyo by the name of Hidaka had been to see him with complaints. Matsui had instructed Prince Asaka to enforce a greater discipline. He presumed this had been done. Because of the mistaken attack on the Panay, troop deportment was even more important. The eyes of the world were upon Japan.
President Roosevelt had complained to the Emperor over the Panay incident, and set the Western world in a self-righteous uproar. Japan had apologised. The Japanese public had also reacted with shock to the news of the Panay’s sinking. It was said Colonel Kingoro Hashimoto was involved. He was long known for his part in intrigue and plots. It was Hashimoto’s fervent hope that war with China would lead to war with Britain and America.
‘Those countries are the Setting Sun. The universe will come to life only with the bright sun of Japan blazing in the sky. Watch me, I am no man to sit and talk,’ he had boasted as he set foot in China.
On 11th December a Navy squadron flew into the Chinese town of Wuhu to receive Hashimoto’s instructions.
‘Bomb everything that moves on the Yangtze river below Nanking,’ Hashimoto ordered. He might not have meant British or American craft, but nevertheless, the incident had occurred as he must have known was possible.
Matsui’s outrage at Hashimoto’s actions was unprecedented. The Panay incident was a deed of immense ramifications from which Matsui’s command might never recover. He immediately attempted to discipline Hashimoto. And just as immediately found his way was blocked in Tokyo. Matsui had stormed at Prince Asaka, but he too had refused to reprimand Hashimoto. General Matsui appeared the odd man out in a dangerous, devious game.
The day of 17th December was cold but bright. General Matsui shivered beneath his heavy coat. There was to be a Victory Procession though Nanking that day. A naval launch was to take him upriver to the city from his headquarters in Soochow. Now that he was to enter Nanking in triumph, his mind was full of his late friend, Sun Yatsen. It was eight years since Matsui had stood as a mourner on Purple Mountain at the time of Sun’s entombment, twenty years since they discussed their shared vision of Oriental Unity. What would Sun say now? Matsui felt the weight of responsibility for those dreams he once shared with Sun Yat-sen. He must do his best for China.
The engine of the launch kicked into life and vibrated beneath his feet. The boat nosed away from its moorings. A bleak winter landscape passed before Matsui. Burned fields or rotting bodies and crops lay beside the ruins of silent, empty villages. The migration inland had drained the Yangtze delta of its teeming life. This was not what he and Sun had dreamed about. Sadness settled upon him. He must make this sadness known to the Chinese people. He must hold a memorial service for all the dead, both Japanese and Chinese. That great vision of brotherhood between their two nations, and the birth of a Greater East Asia, must not die but rise instead like a phoenix from the ashes of their dream. His sentiment grew as they neared Nanking and the devastation increased.
A car stood by the jetty. General Matsui was driven to the Mountain Gate on the eastern side of the city where the procession was assembling. From the window of the car he observed the further ruin of Nanking and his melancholy deepened. At the gate a chestnut horse w
ith a white blaze waited for him at the head of the calvalcade. Prince Asaka, riding behind, was already astride his horse. General Matsui was helped into the saddle.
Here more than ever, at the Mountain Gate, he remembered Sun Yat-sen. The elegant gate with its triple arches that he recalled so well, was now battered, shaken by bombs and cannon fire. The great Mausoleum was up the hill to his rear. On the day of Sun’s entombment a sizeable group had attended from Japan. Now, of those many men, only Matsui remained alive or without discredit, to carry on the movement for Sino-Japanese co-operation.
His horse tossed its head, disturbed. Matsui turned in his saddle. He was shocked to see Colonel Hashimoto ushered into third place in the cavalcade, directly behind Prince Asaka. The insult rang through him. He stared down the road before him, lined with tens of thousands of Japanese troops. There was nothing he could do. Nanking was Prince Asaka’s command territory. To draw attention to the insult would underline his own loss of face. Especially as Colonel Hashimoto sat upon a thoroughbred horse, larger and finer than General Matsui’s sturdy chestnut. His rage had no place to show itself. He could imagine the smirks behind him.
A fanfare of bugles sounded. The cavalcade set off. General Matsui, in spite of illness, sat on his horse with a bearing that became his rank. The road was lined deeply with his troops. The flash bulbs of photographers popped, blinding him for an instant. The Japanese radio had been allowed into the city for this event, as had also the cameras of the Japanese newsreels. General Matsui reared his horse smartly to face in the direction of faraway Tokyo and the Emperor’s Palace. Nearby, a radio presenter announced into his microphone that General Matsui would lead a triple banzai for the Emperor. Three times they would cheer for the Emperor.
From his horse General Matsui looked out over the sea of khaki-clad men, and up to the sweep of sky above Nanking. The same bleak winter sun could also be seen from Tokyo. This thought gave him comfort. He took a breath. His voice had the thinness of a reed pipe, its notes released in the wind.