Letters to Mrs Hernandez

by C S Gibbs

  “Hey, Katsuhiro, we are going for a walk up to the hills. Are you coming?” The two men were hurriedly drying themselves and clambering back in to their clothes.

  “No, thanks, I think I'll just carry on keeping a look out for you. And I think I'll check out this eastern side of the bay.”

  “Well, you have done a good job, so far, Kimura!” laughed Yamazaki, “We might have been ambushed by the whole US Marine Corps if you had not been there!”

  “Enough, now,” cut in Nakamura “Sometimes we just need a bit of piece and quiet. Let's face it, we are all in each other's pockets on the base. Leave him be if he wants to have a stroll around by himself.”

  Nakamura's words seemed to pacify Yamazaki and the mood softened.

  “Just take some time to relax, Kimura. You should have a little swim whilst we're gone. That would do you some good.”

  Feeling vindicated, Katsuhiro gave his comrades a cheerful wave and watched them disappear in to the trees around the walking track that would lead them ever further uphill.

  Relax, though Katsuhiro? What was there to relax about? Such a thing would be a sign of weakness, unpreparedness and vulnerability. He needed to stay alert and focussed if he was to remain in readiness for the call. Of course, he had been stuck in this backwater for months, now, but things can change in an instant during wartime – for all he knew, they could be shipping out, tomorrow, to some front line destination.

  Again, he took in the panorama of the bay, looking for the best places for defensive positions, wondering about the logistics of moving men, weapons and munitions to awkward looking outcrops. But could they be obscured from the view of those attacking from the sea? There was only one way to find out – he would have to take that swim, after all.

  He admitted to himself that the gentle surf did, indeed, look warm and inviting, so he began to disrobe, setting himself the target of swimming out to the rocks, just as his friends had done.

  The hot, golden sand burned his bare feet, so he skipped lightly forwards and took a plunge, submerging himself and feeling invigorated as his body merged with the water. Coming back up for air, he looked about him and saw the beauty of the place, the cloudless blue sky and verdant green of the forest, then set off for the rocks – but he would do it faster than the others, he decided.

  And faster he was, with better technique, reaching the rocks and treading water for a couple of minutes in order to make mental notes on his chosen points in the hills, before turning gracefully and heading back with swift, sure strokes, showing no hint of tiredness. This is what a truly capable officer can do, he thought. Now that he had proved himself, he took a moment to tread water again and look at the delightful little bay from this new vantage point. Looking up to the rocky outcrop on his right, he actually caught sight of Nakamura wandering up the pathway, who then stopped, returned the gaze and then called Yamazaki to him. The two stood and waved, audibly cheering their introverted friend's decision to have that much-needed swim. Katsuhiro waved back and smiled as he felt an unaccustomed, warm rush of comradeship between himself and the others. It was as if they were his only family, out here. He thought of his own family.

  Without any conscious intention, his train of thought suddenly became derailed. And with the force of just such a heavy locomotive careering from the tracks, his long-held, blinkered mind set took the most enormous of blows: just what, he finally asked himself, was the point of all this?

  He was alone on a remote beach, far from the military camp, with no need to cower before senior officers and with no regular soldiers to berate, with no sign of a war and, for the first instance since he started his basic training, no need to act like a soldier. After being taught nothing but propaganda at school and having every last ounce of individuality beaten from him by his army training, there had been no need to question anything, but now he suddenly felt a veil lifting.

  The others had talked of their wives, earlier, whilst he could do no such thing - he had been married to the kokutai and had allowed himself no time to pursue such matters. For the first time in weeks, he thought of his home.

  I will write to mother and to Setsu, he told himself. I have been so busy trying to be a good soldier that I have not been a good son or brother. Yet, he would still be a good soldier, and a good soldier can have a swim – it is good exercise and might come in useful, depending on where he might be sent to fight. It was time to swim for the shore.

  After treading water in the upright position, he tipped himself forward, ready to begin a strong breaststroke back to the shore, but he was halted by a sharp, searing pain in his right thigh and suddenly his legs lost all of their strength, quickly followed by his arms. His breathing became desperate and his heart pounded like a drum.

  Floundering, he could barely keep his head above water – and even if he could have done this, he could barely breathe, anyway, whilst his dizzying mind and blurring vision were both short of focus.

  “Kimura! Kimura! What's wrong? We are coming!” called Yamazaki as he raced down the track to the beach, with Nakamura in close pursuit. By the time the duo reached the beach, they could see Katsuhiro's limp frame floating in the water, motionless.

  Not wasting an instant, they ran in to the water to retrieve him and within frantic moments, they had dragged his sorry body on to the sand.

  Tipping him on to his front, Nakamura knelt over Katsuhiro and thumped his back in a vain attempt to clear his lungs, but he was limp and barely able to breathe.

  “Look at his leg!” called Yamazaki, pointing at the long, swollen, red marks on Katushiros' right thigh, “It must have been a jellyfish! We need to get him help.”

  With a desperate sense of togetherness, they lifted their ailing friend and carried him to the car, driving back to base as fast as they dared.

   

   

  Chapter Thirty-one - Capital Punishment

  The sound of the air raid sirens was now so familiar that everyone in Tokyo knew what to expect and what to do. Masako and Setsu were no exceptions and they quickly donned their fatigues, arming themselves with their water buckets and mops before heading to the local air raid shelter.

  Unbeknownst to them, this raid was to be anything but routine, as the United States Air Force was on this night approaching in numbers so vast that no one on the ground would have been able to envisage them.

  What remained of Japan's withered air defences could not contend with the sheer weight of numbers before it – a fact of which the Americans were only too aware. Well over three hundred and thirty B-29 bombers would be flying without fear at invitingly low altitudes, largely stripped of their defensive armament, so that they might carry yet more payload. Despite this, only a handful of fighters would be available to make a feeble attempt at resistance. To make matters all the more deadly, on this night, each of the sleek new bombers carried a cargo that would reduce the largely wooden structures of Tokyo to ash: napalm.

  At first, mother and daughter stood in the air raid shelter, ready with the other members of the Neighbourhood Association to spring forth and do battle with whatever fires came their way. All were silent, wondering if they would be needed, as on many a night, there were other districts that were hit more severely, and they had never really been faced with a major blaze in their area.

  Setsu looked around her at the people in the shelter: wives and mothers, elderly men and women, some small children – most had been evacuated – whilst all available young men were now away fighting, or training to fight.

  Propaganda broadcasts on NHK had been steeling the people to make greater efforts in their fight for Japan – to embrace still more hardships and austerities for the greater good. At the school, she had been given a list of government guidelines for healthy eating which suggested mixing sawdust with flour to make dumplings or eating acorns and used tealeaves for starch and minerals, respectively. The children in her class had squirmed in their seats at the suggestion of eating silkworm cocoons, grasshoppers, mice
, rats, moles and snakes. Apparently, if well sterilized, the rats tasted like small birds. 'Eat this way – Endless supplies of materials by ingenuity' read the title, but it all sounded rather desperate to her.

  Every day the bombers came. Every day there was more and more destruction from the Americans and less and less resistance from Japan. How much longer could they carry on?

  She stood up, straightened her monpe – baggy pantaloons that were gathered at the ankle – and flopped her cloth firefighting hood over her head. Grasping her bamboo mop with its rope-strung head as though she were a Roman standard bearer, she marched to the door.

  “I'm going for a look – it sounds like we might be busy, tonight.”

  Mr Sakamoto and Masako followed her and the trio made their way up the wooden flight of steps to the entrance of the shelter, which had been dug in to the ground behind the local bath house a couple of years earlier. From above ground, it resembled a very low-rising pyramid, or a badly rising cake – an underground wooden shed covered in sandbags and earth, which offered a modicum of protection from near-misses, but gave those unlucky enough to receive a direct hit no comfort other than the fact that in already being buried, the funeral costs would be lower.

  The trio poked their heads out in to the dark, spring night. The sky was clear but the air was anything but crisp. From all directions, sounds of the exploding bombs began to get closer, whilst in the distance the flames became more and more visible – reaching up to the skies in a reckless dance.

  Above them, they could clearly see the bombers in the midnight sky, some of which were flying at around five hundred feet. Their long, sleek, silver airframes reflected the orange glow of flames from the ground.

  People began appearing in the streets, running to the west. Normally, the dutiful people of Japan followed their orders and stayed in their shelters, but there had been a collective realisation that no shelters would save them, tonight. Policemen and firemen, both powerless against the waves of fire, were ushering people along the streets toward the bridges and possible safety. Where they were able, the firemen doused the passers by to give them a faint hope of protection, whilst others ran towards buckets and barrels of water that were placed in front of people's homes and hurriedly splashed any available water over themselves.

  The napalm bombs scattered their liquid flame in all directions, raising the temperature ever higher. People's clothes began to ignite spontaneously, either from their ankles, or starting with their cotton hoods – burning people ran, crawled and died in the streets.

  “We cannot stay here!” declared Mr Sakamoto, only just competing with the approaching thunder of destruction. “What use are buckets of water against this? If we don't burn, the heat and smoke will get us!”

  “But where should we go?” asked Masako.

  “They are heading for the canals and the river,” said Setsu, “The flames are everywhere and if we stay here, we will certainly die. We have to go, now! Tell everyone in the shelter that they need to come with us!”

  Mr Sakamoto hurriedly urged all those in the shelter to make their exit and as they moved along the streets they were joined by more and more people – human tributaries all making their terrified way to the Sumida.

  Buildings of paper and wood vanished in the flames, whilst those of brick and stone that were not yet crumbling were houses of inferno – the flames flashing and spitting from the window frames where the long-gone glass had either shattered or simply melted from the merciless heat.

  Many fell and were trampled in the rush: the infirm, the elderly and mothers laden with their infants. Bodies lay burning and unmoving. Everywhere Setsu looked there was terror. The air was thick with the choking stench of petrol from the napalm, mixing with the smell of burning flesh and making her stomach turn, whilst the din of the explosions, the whooshes of flame that crashed and crackled over the screams of the frightened made it almost impossible to make herself heard when she tried to speak to her mother.

  Masako and Setsu had held hands as they ran and staggered their way to the river, losing touch with all those others from the shelter. By the time they reached the riverside, the waters were filled with people in their thousands – shoulder to shoulder, thrashing and screaming.

  Those who were not drowning in the water were drowning in their own fears.

  The two women tried to push their way through the mass of bodies, many of which were dead and black from the fire. Suddenly, the Japanese sense of order and communal discipline was gone – panic had taken over and the blind desire to survive was ruling the minds of many. People had sunk in to the mud, only to be squashed by others.

  Those on the bridges found no safe haven, as the structure's metal frames began to buckle and the bridges themselves gave way under the weight of so many. They fell or jumped in to the water, landing on others below, or simply drowning in the depths.

  In some areas, the river heated to boiling point and those hoping to find sanctuary in the waters found yet more damnation.

  On land, the bombs had whipped up a monstrous firestorm and the winds gusted in a demonic dance of flame. There was no safe place to be found. They fought to hold on to each other, to stay afloat in the water, pushing, shoving to stay alive in the heaving mass. Setsu looked at her mother, who was consumed with fright.

  “We have to stay alive!” she screamed. “We have to survive this night!”

   

   

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Trincomalee,

  Ceylon

  May 8th, 1945

   

  My Darling,

  I hope that this letter finds you safe and well. Once again I am globetrotting and now find myself here in Ceylon. Again, it is hot – so hot I cannot believe it. At night, we have to sleep with nets over our beds because of the mosquitos – mind you, the locals can be just as dangerous.

  Yesterday, a group of us were put in the back of a truck and sent to a radio station at the top of a mountain. The driver was a Sikh chap and he suddenly steered us towards the edge of a cliff, then back again in to the side of the road, tipping over the truck and sending all of us tumbling out of the back!

  Fortunately, everyone was just about in one piece and when we asked the driver what on earth he was doing, he told us that he saw a snake in the road and that it was a bad omen for him to run it over. He did not seem to think that killing all of us was a bad omen.

  I have been training hard, here, and soon I will be moving on. I cannot tell you where that will be, but I have a feeling that it will somehow lead me closer to being with you again.

  The longer that I am away from you, the farther I seem to travel, the more and more I need to see you again.

  As ever, please be safe, be happy and keep me in your thoughts as I keep you.

   

  All my love,

  B.

   

   

  Chapter Thirty-three - A Small World

  Ben thought that he had seen busy harbours in Lisbon, Buenos Aires and Auckland, but now he stood at the quayside in Sydney and his jaw dropped at the vastness of it all.

  The colossal Harbour Bridge was almost insignificant amidst the assemblage of naval tonnage that crammed the waters: aircraft carriers, battleships, cruisers, tankers, destroyers, troop ships and more stood at their moorings like slumbering beasts as launches taxied uniformed men of great import to and from places where vital decisions were being made.

  Among these ironclad behemoths was the aircraft carrier HMS Indefatigable, which was to be his home for the immediate future and he set about trying to find it.

  His new uniform felt good and reminded him of that trip to Taplin's Tailor's back in Buenos Aires – the two years that had passed since that time now felt like an age. He was now dressed in black, with a double-breasted jacket, fronted with eight brass buttons and on the end of each sleeve was a wavy gold band which made a single loop over the top of his wrists, denoting that he was now a Sub-Lieuten
ant in the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve.

  Tipping his white-topped officer's cap back a little to take in the view, he paused and took a moment to reminisce about how this latest episode of the odyssey had played out. From New Zealand, to Canada, to the Naval Operational Unit in Sri Lanka, then all the way back to the Antipodes to Australia and the NAS training centre at Schofields, near Sydney, where he had crammed in as many hours as possible in a Seafire, including the hair-raising take offs and landing-on to a carrier deck.

  “Well, will you look at that! They'll let anyone in to the wavy navy these days!”

  The last thing Ben expected to hear on the other side of the planet was an East Midland accent. He whirled around and was even more astounded than he had been by the sight of the fleet to see his old friend Tom Pleasance standing before him in an almost identical naval uniform.

  “Small world, eh, m'duck?” said Ben.

  The two men shook hands, grinned and laughed. The markings on Tom's sleeves showed two wavy stripes, again with a single loop above the wrist.

  “Hey,” said Tom, “Who are you calling 'duck'? Y'should be calling me 'sir'! I'm a Lieutenant, now – not one of you subbies!”

  “Flippin' 'eck, I'd better get used to that! Have you got time for a cup of tea?”

  “Tea? Do you remember the last time we had a drink together? It was a bottle of water! Let's go and get something a little stronger, shall we?”

  The two men made off in search of a bar and found themselves in a typical dockside pub that was teeming with sailors, airmen and marines. Outside, American and Australian military police hovered around and it was hard to tell if they were keeping the peace or looking for trouble. Either way, there was none to be found from these two pilots and upon getting themselves a couple of pints of foaming Australian ale, they made a dash for a snug that had just that moment been vacated by a fast moving GI and a bleach-blonde prostitute, neither of whom had any time to waste.

  Ben did his best to recount his journey so far, with the glaring omission of a certain Japanese lady, but then turned the conversation to his old friend.

  “So, you're in the navy, then? What about the RAF and that Typhoon you fancied?” asked Ben.