by C S Gibbs
Pulling on his officer's cap and slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder, he set off for the deck and the awaiting Walrus sea plane which was to take him to the docks.
He passed through via the hangar, in the hope of spotting Archie and Stilton. They were there, as ever, hard at work on a Seafire.
“Ey up, lads, I've just come to say 'cheerio' – I'm off to Tokyo to go and help out with the POWs!”
“Why, bonnie lad!” smiled Archie, “As if them poor buggers have not got enough to worry about, they're sending you over there to complete their misery!”
Stilton rose up from underneath the wing and grinned from ear to ear.
“'Ere, sir, d'you reckon you might bring us back one of them geesher girls? I thinks that they're proper pretty!”
The bonhomie was halted as Cully appeared in the nearby hangar doorway. He glared at Ben and moved toward him with an arrogant swagger.
“So, little mister coal miner gets his day at the sea side, eh? You never knew your place, here, so perhaps you'll go down a treat, there? Seeing as you were so bad at killing the Japs, you ought to do a better job of kissing up to them.”
Ben ignored his remark and turned back to Archie and Stilton.
“I'd best be off. I'll see you tomorrow, I think. Cheers, lads.”
“That's it, off to be with your little yellow friends,” spat Cully as Ben slowly turned to walk past him.
“Go and get your fill of your geesha girl while your at it, eh, Hutchinson? Mind you, it might be a tricky fit for you – everyone knows that Jap girls are slit the other way, eh?”
Cully's backside hit the floor before his brain knew anything about it and he found himself forced to choose from one of three reasons as to why he was in such great discomfort. The first reason was the pain in his cheekbone, caused by the satisfyingly accurate blow that had just been administered via a much-deserved and long-overdue haymaker, courtesy of Ben's right fist. The second, equally painful reason was the jarring in his hindquarters, which began the very instant that Cully had collapsed to the hangar floor in a manner befitting a large sack of potatoes. Or, perhaps, the greater pain was the psychological one of having been knocked senseless by an insubordinate of the lower echelon. Bruises to the face could heal, but a dented ego would always bear a scar.
Reeling to, he slowly clambered to his feet as a crowd gathered. After nearly two weeks of cease fire, this was the first bit of excitement in a while.
“You . . . you struck an officer! Come back here, Hutchinson! I'll see that you're court-martialled for this!”
“Court-martialled for what?” asked Rydall, who stepped through the surrounding throng of onlookers who quickly and quietly dispersed upon his curt order, “Back to work, chaps.”
“But,” spluttered Cully, “You saw it! They all saw it!”
“Listen,” said Rydall, “You've always insisted that a man should know his place, haven't you, Cully? Well, you've just been put in yours. Now, go and clean yourself up and then take over as squadron archivist whilst Hutchinson's away. Off you go.”
Rydall nodded at Ben, who returned the gesture and set off for the flight deck.
Beneath the Seafire's wing, Archie grinned at Stilton, “Well, he did knock him down in a friendly manner, I thought!”
Chapter Forty-three - Road Trip
As Ben alighted from the Walrus flying boat in to a small launch, he could make out the figure of Corporal Ron Latimer standing at the dockside. He was not difficult to spot amid the flurry of American uniforms. He was a solidly built, swarthy fellow and those standard issue baggie shorts, which exposed the equally standard pasty legs and knobbly knees marked him out as British. Such garb would never have made the grade with the US military. Say what you like about the Yanks, thought Ben, but they don't half dress well.
“Mr Hutchinson, sir? I'm Corporal Latimer. Please come with me.” Came the opening line, in broad London accent.
The harbour was teeming with ships, men and supplies, just as Ben had seen in Sydney, Auckland, Buenos Aires and Lisbon. Japan had been conquered and the victors were moving in.
The pair walked towards a couple of waiting trucks which had American drivers sitting at the wheels, waiting for the off.
“These two trucks are for us, sir,” said Latimer, “It's all the Yanks can spare us, but it'll do for now. We might have to do a few runs, depending on how many fellas there are. We've got some clean uniforms and some food, though, so they can have a feed whilst we're sorting things out.”
Ben looked in to the back of the truck, which was laden with tinned food and spare uniforms.
“They can spare us all this and the trucks, too?” exclaimed Ben.
“You know what they say about an army marching on its stomach?” asked Latimer, “Well, from what I've seen, nobody marches on a fuller one than the Yanks!”
Before the first truck sat a jeep, which was to be Latimer and Ben's mount for this adventure. The two men clambered aboard and Latimer turned from the steering wheel and nodded to the driver of the first truck, who nodded back and started his engine.
Through the checkpoint and in to Tokyo they ventured. Ben looked around and tried to take in his first glimpses of the city at ground level, to somehow take everything on board and absorb every sight and sensation.
This was no sight seeing pleasure cruise, though, as the streets were war torn, dishevelled and broken. What remained of shop and office buildings were now rubble. The people still busied themselves around these places, though and Ben wondered what they were doing. Back in Britain, despite the air raids, the factories had been protected at all costs and there was always some industrial hive of activity, somewhere. Yet here, there was nothing – this is what happens to a city under attack when it can no longer defend itself, he thought.
On they drove, attracting surprisingly little attention from the locals. The Americans and British had been hurrying around Tokyo for over ten days, now, so they were hardly a novelty any more. The ruins gave way to districts that had been spared the bombings and had only been subjected to occasional attacks. Ben now felt that he was seeing something resembling the real Japan.
Out of the city and in to the farm lands, Ben used his map and focussed on the hills that were now the only thing between his little convoy and the POW camp. As they rounded the hill, the camp came in to view, its white signage still clear on the roof top.
The gates of the camp were open and no Japanese troops were in evidence. On seeing the approaching vehicles, there was a flurry in the central courtyard as men rushed in to the barrack houses to fetch fellow prisoners, or to grab items of uniform.
Sure enough, plenty emerged again, hastily donning shirts and berets, smartening themselves up as they lined up on parade for their illustrious liberators.
“I hope that they're not expecting Lord Mountbatten, or anything!” said Latimer.
“Hmm. If they are, then they're in for a disappointment. A subbie, a corporal and two yanks is hardly red carpet material, is it?” laughed Ben.
The trio of vehicles came to a halt and Ben led Latimer and the two Americans toward the parade.
“I'm sorry, lads,” said Ben, turning to the Americans, “But I never asked your names. I didn't mean to be rude.”
“No offence, sir,” came the reply from the nearest one, “I'm Private Leonard Spenkmeier and this is Private Ira Levin. We've already met with Corporal Latimer.”
“Well, then that just leaves me. I'm Ben, but you'd better call me 'Sir'. Let's go and meet the inmates.”
Before them, in perfect rank and file stood some two hundred men, clothed in rags and with their ribs showing, but still clinging to military discipline and order. Most of them had been captured in places such as Singapore, Burma and Malaya during Japan's initial victories after Pearl Harbor and had spent the vast majority of their time in the military in captivity.
The quartet moved towards the assembly and a sergeant major
called the men to attention. The commanding officer strode forward – this man reminded Ben of Mr Bartholomew, back at the club in Buenos Aires – over three years as a prisoner had done nothing to diminish his training and standing as an officer. He stood bolt upright and gave a cast-iron salute that Ben reciprocated.
“Major Terence A'Court, Royal Engineers.”
“Sub-lieutenant Ben Hutchinson, Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve.”
“Good God, a subbie from the wavy navy! I thought we deserved more than this!” laughed A'Court.
The 'wavy navy' had earned itself a reputation in the forces for being rather lax in its ways and casual in its attitude to military discipline. Ben felt a compulsion to maintain these fine standards.
“We can always clear off again, if you like?” grinned back Ben.
“Far from it,” said A'Court with a sense of relief as he reached forward to shake Ben's hand.
“We've been here so long, we'd have been happy to see Mickey Mouse turn up!”
“Well,” Ben turned to Spenkmeier and Levin, “We've brought a couple of yanks, if that counts? And this young cockney marine is Corporal Latimer. Shall we get the ball rolling? It's time you and your lads went home.”
The parade was split up in to details to distribute the supplies from the rear of the trucks under Spenkmeier and Levin's direction, whilst Ben and Latimer began to process the prisoners and the order in which they were to go home. The most infirm were first, followed by those who had been captive for the longest time.
Both young men could not help but smile at the way in which some of the prisoners, now clad in their first new uniforms in years, gleefully opened tins of saveloys and devoured the contents as if they were children with ice cream.
The two trucks were filled to the brim with homeward bound men and it was time to leave. There was no time for a return run, so it was agreed that the remainder of men would remain overnight, with their new supplies, ready to be collected in the morning, prior to which another Avenger laden with further supplies would be dispatched at first light.
With that, the jeep and two trucks set off.
As they wound their way back to the harbour, Ben's mind was brought back to his other mission for the day. As they again passed through some of the devastated areas of Tokyo, his mind began to race once more on where Setsu might be and whether or not she was still alive. Was it really worth risking so much, today, just to find her house?
Of course it was. When else was he going to be this close, he asked himself.
At the quayside, he shook hands with A'Court and waved him and his men farewell as they made their way to HMS Speaker and their long journey home.
Suddenly, he was consumed by the need for a plan. How could he get out of here and find his way to Koto?
All of his life, Ben had been a paper boat, carried along by the stream of circumstance. He had been lucky enough to be guided on his way by a succession of kind souls who had steered him clear of danger and made sure his passage was one of progress. He had been guided to learn a trade, to South America, to New Zealand and ultimately to the land of the woman he loved.
For the first time, he was faced with making a life changing decision on his own. Setsu had to be found and now. But how to go about it? To go through proper channels would be pointless and ignored, whilst to do nothing was unthinkable. All that remained was to do the unacceptable: he would have to find his way out of the harbour and search for her alone. If he was caught, then he would certainly be court-martialled, sent to jail and left to rot, but he was too close to turn back, now. If he could not find Setsu, then there was nothing else to look forward to – they could do what they wanted with him.
He looked around for inspiration and found it quickly. In fact, it had been staring him in the face, all day.
Levin was loading up another truck with supplies and would surely be out of the harbour in no time. He wandered over to the American and shook his hand.
“I just wanted to say thank you for everything, today.”
“Much obliged, sir. Hey, you're awful friendly for an officer.”
“Well, I'm only wavy navy, we're almost human, you know. Hey, mate, where are your off to with that truck, now?”
Levin showed him on a map and Ben could scarcely believe his luck. The route was passing within a mile of Koto! All he needed now was a way to get on board one of those trucks.
“Oh,” he exclaimed, racking his brain for a good lie, “That reminds me, our squadron lost one of our fighters, there. Do you think that I could come along with you and if we see it, have a quick search? There . . . there might be some things on it, like maps, or something, that we need to keep from the Japs. I'll go and let my CO know that I'll be riding with you.”
He ran back to Latimer before Levin could say anything.
“Corporal Latimer! I need that check sheet of yours for a minute.”
“What for, sir?”
“Er . . . well, there might, I think, be some discrepancies . . . yes, discrepancies, with the saveloys and I . . . need to check them.”
“I'm not sure I follow you, sir?”
“Oh . . . just give it here!” Ben snatched the clipboard from the bemused Latimer.
“Ah, yes. We didn't get enough supplies for the return visit, tomorrow. Levin says that if I go with him, we can pick up some more saveloys.”
“But sir,” gasped Latimer, “I'm sure we left them with plenty of saveloys. It's not like we want to see them again!”
“Don't argue with an officer of the King's Navy!” snapped Ben, “Just know your bloody place, eh?” He scurried away before any more argument could be offered and was too transfixed by his goal to realise that he had just paraphrased his worst enemy.
Levin was starting his engine and Ben leaped up in to the cabin to sit along side him.
“Are you sure that you've got clearance, sir?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, yes. No problem. My job is done for the day, so they've let me go.” he bluffed again.
Levin shrugged and steered the truck out of the docks as just one of a long train of vehicles that were en route to setting up new bases as Japan prepared to become an occupied country for the first time in its history.
Ben kept his map pressed to his lap and prayed that the roads had not changed since it was printed. He checked every junction and street, looked for every landmark and public building that was still standing to give him an indication of where he was, whilst also checking with Levin as to which street was coming next.
After half an hour, he saw that they were close to Koto, but that the trucks at the front of the convoy were now heading in a different direction. It was time to go it alone.
“This'll do, mate!” he called. “The Seafire went down about half a mile down there.” He pointed in what he hoped was the right direction.
“Sir,” said Levin, “I'm not sure that I should let you do this on your own. It could well be dangerous. I might get in to trouble for bringing you here.”
“No, mate, you'll be fine,” Ben assured him. “Besides, I'm an officer and I told you to bring me here. You were only following orders.”
“It's your funeral, sir,” said Levin. “Are you sure you know what you're doing?”
“Yes,” said Ben with conviction. “Well, perhaps not . . .”
“Good luck, buddy!”
Ben thanked Levin and set off with determination, but no real direction. Only a blind will to find Setsu drove him forward.
This, indeed, was Dante's vision made real. Ben marched forward through street after street of ruin, populated by shadows that once stood as people – their gazes averted, heads bowed in browbeaten bewilderment, still trying to absorb the very concept of defeat, of surrender and impending occupation.
How is one to find a way through this, thought Ben to himself? There is nothing here but destruction – how do I find something that has been destroyed?
Like their fellow sufferers across the globe, the people of
Tokyo had responded to their bombing by carrying on. The streets were being cleared, all were getting by as best as they could under the circumstances. But these clear streets had no landmarks left – the wooden buildings were rendered faceless by the countless tons of napalm dropped by bombers that had swarmed in numbers of a thousand at a time.
Despite being ignored by the vast number of Japanese around him, Ben had attracted the fixed attention of two conquering heroes in the near distance. They made their own presence and intention clear with the oncoming sound of their jeep, which ploughed a singular furrow in Ben's direction through the bomb damaged Tokyo street, pulling up along side him with a screech of the brakes and a flourish of air-raid induced ash and dust from the tyres.
The jeep's two stern-faced occupants sported the white-banded helmets of the United States Military Police. For Ben, the invader, surrounded by his vanquished foes, there was now no greater enemy than his so-called allies. The MP at the jeep's wheel was first to speak.
“Now, with legs that white, buddy, you gotta be a Limey!” The Brooklyn accent was instantly recognizable – true to form, the voice was housed in a large framed man, sporting olive, Italian skin and brown eyes which had clearly seen it all many times over and commanded a strong stare. The figure in the passenger seat echoed the first sentiment.
“I do declare that I have not seen flesh so pale since I was last at my grand-daddy's chicken farm in Virginia!” The tones were the product of several generations of Southern Gentlemanly lineage. His face was long, thin and a perfect mount for piercing blue eyes that longed to gaze again upon those blue, rich mountains. The Son of the South continued.
“My companion and I would be much obliged if you could justify your person being here in this current predicament.”
The Brooklyn accent intervened with a translation, “What my partner, here, is trying to ask you is, what in the name of Tokyo Rose are you doin' out here, pal?”
