The pilot crawled towards the bags to see what was in them and opening one, he pulled out a handful of rice. He began to open others, but they only contained rice or beans. He went over to the barrels and found them all sealed. There was some Japanese writing on the side, but since he did not know the language he could not decipher it. The wood smelled faintly of alcohol and he presumed they were filled with wine. Strickland retreated to his corner and sat down on the ground, pulling his knees up to his chest. Although his body hurt and his head ached, the beating had not broken his spirit. On the contrary it made him even more determined to resist. He refused to give in to his captor. He realised he would die here and he did not care. He should have died many times before. He should have died in France. He should have died above the hopfields of Kent. He should have been killed like so many of his other comrades had been. All of them brave men and all of them gone.
The pilot knew he had run out of lives long ago and that it was only a matter of time before he too was lured like Orpheus into the underworld, unable to resist the siren call of Eurydice and the gods’ strange music. He was quite prepared to die, or as prepared as any man could be and being a combatant in war, he was more prepared than most. But if there was one thing that troubled Strickland as he sat there alone in the gloomy storeroom, it was that Hayama had not left him to drown. If his captor had done so he would have quietly slipped beneath the waves and that would have been it. The pilot was sure the captain had his reasons, but he would never know. Whatever they were it did not actually change anything, since he might as well be dead. He only had one desire and it was this: that he would not break during any further interrogation. With this thought in his mind Strickland lay down to sleep and soon he was transported far away from the tropics and the island that had become his prison.
The pilot’s dreams were filled with the faces and voices of his dead comrades, as they emerged unbidden into his subconscious like a host of bright angels. It was during the fall of France and he and his brother officers were sitting in deckchairs, enjoying the early summer sun. A breeze stirred the flowering limes that lined the airfield and the air was drowsy with the hum of bees. On the wind came a scent of dog rose, hawthorn and elderflower, along with a tang of manure from the byre. Standing upon the farmyard midden, a scarlet-combed cockerel raised its head and let out a full-throated cry.
The retreat at Dunkirk was still a month away and they were playing cricket against a neighbouring squadron. Strickland’s team had already bowled out the opposition and now it was their turn to take the wicket. Padded up and swinging his cricket bat so as to loosen up his shoulder, the young flight lieutenant walked out to the crease along with his opening partner Archie Lambton. The duo made an incongrous pair as Lambton, then a squadron leader, was squat and dark and clasped his bat firmly under his arm while his blond, willowy companion whirled his around his head like a farmhand with a flail.
When they got to the pitch they took up their positions at opposite ends, with the younger of the pair taking the strike. Strickland aligned his bat against the stumps and called for ‘middle and leg’ and when the umpire indicated that his bat was in the right place, he used it to score the hard ground in front of the wicket. Lambton stood nonchalantly at the other end, leaning on his own bat as if it were a shooting stick and apparently without a care in the world. His partner looked on as the bowler prepared his run up, gently tapping his bat against the side of his boot. As Strickland did so he kept his eyes fixed on the bowler who waited for the umpire to drop his arm before starting to run, racing ever faster towards the wicket as he raised his arm and let the cricket ball fly from his hand. The ball hurtled down the pitch, striking the ground a yard in front of off-stump and went whizzing past Strickland’s bat straight into the hands of the wicket keeper. The bowler was deceptively quick and his pace drew ironic comments from the slips, but the batsman ignored them and stepping back from the crease, he gazed up at the sky as the keeper threw the ball to mid-on who polished it briefly on his trousers, before throwing it back to the bowler.
Strickland watched as a feathery cloud passed across the face of the sun, the sky a washed-out blue. Nothing compared with a Normandy summer and he marvelled at the swifts’ acrobatics, as they flew above the outfield catching insects on the wing. He looked away and saw the burly figure of Lambton facing him as the bowler turned and began to race towards the wicket once more. The man raised his arm and the ball flew like a missile towards the batsman. The bowler kept the same line and length, but this time Strickland was ready and stepping forward with his left foot he struck the ball firmly through the covers.
‘Yes!’ he shouted to his partner, who was already thundering down the pitch. Strickland also took off and as they passed each other, both men saw the fielder running towards the boundary. They made their first single and began another, completing the second just as the man dived and stopped the ball from crossing the rope. If they were quick they could still make one more.
‘Come on!’ shouted Lambton, who took off again.
Strickland knew he would have to sprint and he raced up the pitch as the fielder retrieved the ball and threw it back to the bowler, who caught it just as the batsman made it to the crease. Three runs and a chance now for the younger man to rest, while his partner took up the strike.
Lambton was an altogether different type of player to Strickland. Not for him the snatched single and a dash between the wickets. For the burly Lancastrian it was the boundary or nothing. He had only run the third because he knew it would give him the strike. Now he settled in and after calling for a mark from the umpire he took up his position, looking up at the bowler as the man prepared to make his run. Again the bowler raced towards the wicket and again he raised his arm, hurling the ball down the pitch. Lambton met the ball head on and with a well timed swing of his bat, he lofted it straight over the player’s head. The ball ascended into the sky, rising ever higher until it was consumed by the sun. His partner watched and waited for it to drop, but it never did. The ball had simply vanished into the blue.
Strickland looked away and tried to make out Lambton at the other end, but he seemed indistinct, almost ethereal. There was a strange luminosity to the air, as if a golden mist had descended. The batsman could barely see his partner who was enveloped in a haze and indeed all the other players seemed to have the same spectral vagueness, as if they too had become ghosts. A wind blew and the men floated away above the ground, the air burning brighter as they did so. Strickland called out as the players drifted away like dandelion seed on the breeze, but either they could not hear him or else his voice made no difference. As they disappeared the light increased, becoming a celestial brilliance which burned ever more brightly. Such was its intensity that Strickland closed his eyes, but still the heavenly light shone and he raised a hand to his face.
The pilot awoke and found himself blinking in a shaft of sunlight, which had crept across his body as he slept. Although his limbs still hurt, the pain of the beating had diminished and he lay there quietly, realising he had been dreaming. He remembered his comrades’ faces so vividly, even though they were all gone. Everyone he had served with in France was now dead, including Armstrong and Hay, the two friends who had collected him from the hospital at East Grinstead. Shortly afterwards Armstrong had ditched in the Channel and his body was never recovered. Hay became an instructor and was killed in an accident while training glider pilots for the D-Day landings. Even the indomitable Lambton was no more. Bored of a later desk job in the Air Ministry, he transferred to a Mosquito squadron and had been shot down over Holland during the battle for Arnhem. Of the squadron’s original 1939 intake, only Strickland survived.
The pilot sat up and drew his knees to his chest. He looked at his wooden prison and thought it a wretched place for a man to die. But he accepted his fate and knew it would not be long. Today, or perhaps tomorrow. He would know soon enough. Strickland sat with his back against the bamboo wall and waited. In the distance came
a steady throbbing sound. He cocked his head to one side and listened. He could hear the faint noise of a diesel engine and wondered what it was. The pilot got up and went towards the opposite wall and peering through a gap in the bamboo, he could see the grey outline of a patrol boat as it made its sluggish way across the harbour. Now he understood how the Japanese had rescued him. He watched as the boat pulled up to the jetty and the crew secured it to the wharf with ropes. The pilot could see it was a sturdy vessel, capable of crossing the roughest seas and a thought sprang into his mind. With this boat he could escape from the island. He doubted whether the Japanese would be able to follow, as he was sure it was their only means of transport. He need not travel far as he would no doubt soon be spotted by friendly aircraft patrolling the area. He could also tell them of the enemy presence on the island. The idea gave Strickland hope which lifted his spirits out of all proportion to its possibility.
The pilot went back to his corner and thought about his predicament. Plainly he must try and escape, but how? As the prisoner entertained such thoughts of freedom, he heard voices and the sound of bolts being drawn aside. The door was thrown open, revealing the two guards.
‘Shujin, tachiagaru!’ ordered one of the men, beckoning with an outstretched arm.
The Englishman stood up and the soldiers grabbed him, marching him out of the hut, across the compound and up the steps of Hayama’s quarters. The captain was sitting at his desk typing a report and looked up as his prisoner appeared at the doorway, flanked by the soldiers. The guards bowed, while Strickland remained standing. He felt a sharp blow on the back of his head and one of the soldiers bellowed at him.
‘Ojigi, ohei na inu!’ ordered the soldier with his hand on the pilot’s neck, forcing his head down.
‘Koko ni kinasai,’ said the captain. The guards marched the prisoner over to the captain’s desk, next to which was an empty chair. Hayama motioned Strickland to take it. He sat down and the guards withdrew, but only as far as the doorway.
‘Cigarette?’ asked the captain, pushing a packet across the table.
‘No … thank you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘As you wish. They’re Kinshi. An excellent brand. Much better than American cigarettes,’ and the Japanese officer took one from the packet and lit it, exhaling a thin cloud of smoke. He looked at his prisoner.
‘Water?’
Strickland nodded and Hayama poured him a glass from a jug on the table. The pilot drank thirstily and when he had finished, he put the empty glass down.
‘Thank you.’
‘More?’
The pilot nodded again and his captor poured him another glass which he also drank.
‘You are lucky.’
‘Lucky?’
‘Yes. You should have drowned. It was a miracle we found you. The currents here are strong and the sea is full of sharks.’
‘Instead I am here.’
‘Yes. The gods have smiled upon you.’
‘I wouldn’t put it that way.’
‘There is no other explanation.’
The pilot observed the Japanese officer with his right eye, the left was still swollen and closed. He realised that this was going to be another interrogation session and he wondered if it would be as brutal as the first. There was a silence and Hayama took a long drag on his cigarette before speaking again.
‘You are stubborn. That is why you were beaten. It is much better to talk. That is all I want to do. Talk.’
Strickland continued looking at his captor with his good eye. He knew that he owed him his life, but that did not mean he was obliged to give him any information. He said nothing.
The Japanese officer returned the prisoner’s gaze, observing him with all the concentration of an artist examining his subject. The man had fine features, if somewhat bloodied and beaten up. A long Grecian nose, now broken of course, thick blond hair and bright blue eyes, only one of which was visible and which remained fixed on him. He was handsome in that peculiarly English way which spoke of learning and sensibility, mixed with a residual toughness. He was sure the pilot came from a warrior caste like himself. There was a Greek word which perfectly described the man who sat before him and he tried to recall what it was. Then the captain remembered. It was ‘stoic’. Hayama the naturalist could not help but admire his subject. He was a fine specimen. As an aesthete the Japanese officer appreciated the sublime and in different circumstances, he wondered how their lives might have played out. They could even have been friends. It was a pity that he had to kill him.
‘So you refuse to talk?’
‘That’s right.’
‘It would be better for you if you did.’
‘I am a prisoner of war, you have obligations under the Geneva Convention of which Japan is a signatory …’
Hayama gave his desk a resounding thump with his fist, making the empty glass jump.
‘I have no obligations to you whatsoever! We are not at the League of Nations now. We are on an island in the South Pacific, which is so small and insignificant that it does not even have a name. Nobody knows you are here. No one will come looking for you. Your squadron thinks you are dead. Your family will have been informed that you are missing in action, presumed killed. As it is you are a prisoner of the Imperial Japanese Army. I am trying to conduct an interrogation in a civilised way, but you are being most disrespectful. The beating you received was entirely your fault. I have never known such insubordination. If you were in the Imperial Army you would have been executed for impudence!’
‘As I’m sure you realise I am not in the Imperial Army …’
Again the captain struck the desk, cutting Strickland short. The Japanese officer’s face reddened and the pilot could see he was close to losing control.
‘This is not some sort of game! I have the power of life and death over you. Do you want to die?’ he asked, picking up his cigarette from the ashtray and angrily stubbing it out.
Strickland looked at him. He had already resigned himself to his fate, what did a few extra hours or days matter? It was obvious now why Hayama had saved his life. Firstly, he had wanted to stop him being rescued and thereby give away their position. But he also wanted to glean as much information as possible before killing him. If there was one thing the pilot could do before he died, it was to say nothing.
‘I might owe you my life, but I do not owe you anything else. Since I did not ask to be rescued, you cannot expect me to be grateful …’
There was a sharp blow as his captor struck him hard across the mouth with the back of his hand. Strickland reeled and felt blood trickle from his lip.
‘You are insolent! Insolent in the way that you talk to me! Insolent in the way that you refuse to answer my questions! Insolent in everything!’
The pilot wiped the blood from his mouth and then spoke.
‘This conversation is quite pointless. I’m not going to tell you anything other than what I am obliged to tell you under the conventions signed by our respective governments. Frustrating and inconvenient perhaps, but there it is …’
The captain shook his head and sighed. He called out to the guards standing by the door, who had not moved at all during the two men’s confrontation.
This time the pilot knew precisely what was coming as the soldiers advanced and set upon him once more, striking him about the head and shoulders and knocking him off his chair. After a time the various blows appeared to fuse together into one long, sustained beating as Strickland curled up on the floor, the guards furiously kicking and punching him. He lay there and waited, either for the beating to finish, or until he lost conciousness. Fortunately Hayama ordered the guards to stop, telling them that the prisoner had had enough and to remove him. The soldiers picked up the pilot and dragged him out of the hut and across the compound, before throwing him into the storeroom and padlocking the door once more.
Battered and bloody Strickland remained face down on the earthen floor, where the g
uards had thrown him. He did not move and lay there like a beaten animal, all sense of flight or resistance gone. He did not even have the strength to get to his knees and crawl away into a corner. Instead he lay on his side, his chest heaving with exhaustion. He ached all over, even swallowing was painful. He could barely breathe and drew air into his lungs in thin, painful rasps. Eventually the pain subsided and as it did so sleep came and drew away its sting. Strickland fell into a black pit of slumber, way beyond the realms of dreams. A pit so dark and deep that it seemed endless and still he fell further into it. He remained in that void for some time, oblivious to everything else.
A warm breeze stirred the fronds of the palms and an occasional cry came from the canopy of trees surrounding the camp as a bird burst into raucous song. Above the forest rose the mountain, a grey volcanic plug of igneous rock. A few white clouds floated above its crown like feathers in a headdress and the sky was a deep blue. The camp was quiet as the soldiers lay in their bunks sleeping, or whiled away the hours writing letters or playing cards. Music played on the gramophone and the men smiled as they listened and thought of home. The heat of the day made it pointless to venture out and even Hayama took the opportunity to rest.
The captain sat in his cabin annotating his collection of butterflies. There were scores of different varieties on the island and he was a keen entomologist. It helped fill the long periods of time between the daily reports that he made. Hayama would often go off on solitary expeditions into the forest armed only with a large butterfly net and a notebook. When he found a new specimen he would measure its wingspan, record its sex and type and sketch it. If he had not seen it before, or if it was a particularly fine example, he would take it home and add it to his collection. He picked one up in a pair of tweezers and held the lepidoptera up to the window, admiring its blue iridescent wings as they shone in the afternoon light. Just as Charles Darwin had noted with his South American finches, so the captain was convinced the surrounding islands contained several different varieties of the same species, each uniquely adapted to its own habitat. After the war he intended to donate his collection to the entomology department at his old university in Nagasaki. He was sure they would be glad to have it.
Under the Sun Page 5
