Under the Sun

by Justin Kerr-Smiley

  On the fourth day of the pilot’s incarceration Hayama was sitting alone in his hut, deep in contemplation. He had had enough. The prisoner must be super human, either that or he was blessed by the gods. He should have been dead by now, but instead he was just as insolent as ever. Of course, Hayama had no idea the pilot had a secret provider and if he had he would, as Strickland had so rightly guessed, have killed him. But the Japanese officer did not know and he just did not understand. By keeping him in the punishment box, he had hoped to break the prisoner’s spirit. Yet, if anything the man seemed to be getting stronger. The captain knew that it could not go on like this, he was beginning to look foolish. Either he executed the Englishman, or he released him. Since he knew he was unable to do the former, it would have to be the latter.

  The captain got up and went to the door. He looked and saw a solitary soldier sweeping the compound. He called out and told the man to stop what he was doing and to go and fetch Sergeant Noguchi. The man ran off and the barrel-chested NCO soon appeared, bowing at his commanding officer. Hayama told him he had decided to release the prisoner and that he should inform the men. If the sergeant was surprised at the captain’s decision he did not show it, but simply bowed his head again.

  ‘Mr Strickland is also an officer and as my guest he is to be treated accordingly,’ added the captain. ‘Any man who fails to show him proper respect will be severely punished.’

  The sergeant required no further explanation and bowing once more, he went off to inform the men of the captain’s order.

  Hayama watched as Noguchi walked across the compound and disappeared into the other ranks’ quarters. He had made his decision and he raised his eyes to heaven and asked the gods to give him strength. The captain steeled himself and breathing deeply, he descended the wooden steps of his hut and walked out into the midday glare. The sun bore down upon the camp, chasing the shadows into the corners. The surrounding trees seemed to wilt in the heat, not a breath of wind stirred their leaves. Even the monkeys lay silently in the canopies, conserving their energy. The only noise was the incessant scream of the cicadas, the air vibrating in waves to their constant rhythm. The cacophany rang madly in the captain’s ears, as he walked across the compound towards the punishment box. Still the cicadas sang, their voices shaking the trees. But Hayama ignored the torrent of noise and going up to the corrugated box, he slid the bolts across and opened the door. The smell inside was rancid and instinctively he drew back.

  ‘Follow me,’ the captain said and without another word he walked away.

  Strickland sat on the floor, his arms covering his eyes, the light blinding him. He blinked, unaccustomed to the glare and removing his limbs from his face, he saw the khaki figure of Hayama climbing the steps of his hut and disappearing inside. What on earth did he want now? Was he going to get another beating? Or worse? The only way to find out was to follow him and so the pilot crawled out of the punishment box and got groggily to his feet. The heat and the burning sun made his head swim and shielding his eyes again, he staggered across the compound to Hayama’s quarters expecting one last interrogation session.

  Strickland entered the hut and saw the captain sitting at his desk, the light from the window glancing across his body, leaving his face in shadow. He looked at the prisoner and beckoned him forward.

  ‘Please,’ he said, indicating the empty chair.

  The pilot shuffled over towards the desk and sat down.

  ‘Cigarette?’ asked the captain, offering the packet.

  Strickland hesitated briefly before accepting one and Hayama produced his lighter and lit it for him. Then he took one for himself and lit that too. He sat there for a while puffing away, not saying anything, the tobacco smoke ascending the shaft of sunlight that streamed through the open shutters. The pilot watched and smoked, wondering what was going to happen. Finally, the captain spoke.

  ‘I have decided to release you.’

  The pilot was stunned, but continued to draw on his cigarette as if what Hayama had just said was perfectly natural.

  ‘Of course you cannot leave this island. But you are free to go wherever you like.’

  Strickland did not reply but simply exhaled, filling the air with tobacco smoke. He was trying to work things out. Why was Hayama releasing him when he had told him many times that he was going to die? Why did he not just kill him? The more the pilot thought about it, the more it did not make any sense. Perhaps the Japanese officer was psychotic and was simply playing games with him before he executed him.

  ‘I’m sorry but I don’t understand …’

  ‘I have no choice. I cannot kill you, so I must let you go.’

  The pilot sat there looking perplexed.

  ‘If you don’t want to kill me, you don’t have to release me either.’

  The captain sighed and flicked the glowing tip of his cigarette into the ashtray.

  ‘I know. But whether you are inside the punishment box or here on the island, you are still under my command. I have simply decided to grant you your freedom. The island is yours to wander wherever you wish. However, I do have one request.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘That you do not try and escape again.’

  Strickland took a final drag of his cigarette, before extinguishing it. The captain’s demand seemed reasonable. He knew the only way off the island was the boat and he doubted the ignition key would be left in the wheelhouse again.

  ‘Fine,’ he said.

  Hearing this Hayama visibily relaxed and he leant back in his chair and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, the butt glowing briefly before dying in a final curl of smoke. He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small knife. Strickland’s brow furrowed, but he need not have worried as the captain took hold of the pilot’s hands and cut the cords.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, rubbing his wrists.

  ‘You must be thirsty. Would you like something to drink?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  The captain called out and his orderly appeared silently at his shoulder, like a genie that could be summoned at will. His commanding officer asked him to bring them some tea and bowing, the man disappeared again. Behind the screen, which separated the kitchen from Hayama’s living quarters, came a clatter as a kettle was pulled off the stove, followed by a clink of porcelain as a pot was filled and cups were gathered. Ito presently reappeared carrying the tea on a tray. He set it down in front of the captain and without meeting his eyes, he bowed and went away again.

  Hayama leant forward, picked up the teapot and began to pour. He raised his cup and smiled at Strickland. The pilot lifted his own cup and beyond its rim, he could see the captain’s smiling face. He returned the look before sipping his tea. It was scalding and sweet and delicately scented and Strickland, having spent four days in the punishment box surviving on a diet of coconut and water, thought he had never tasted anything so good. The tea revived and invigorated him. He finished his cup and put it down on the table.

  ‘Some more?’ asked Hayama, his hand on the pot. The pilot nodded and the captain poured him another cup. This time Strickland drank it slowly, savouring its aroma. Although he enjoyed the tea, there was something else which troubled him and he wondered if he should ask the captain. His captor appeared relaxed and he thought that he would not mind.

  ‘I’m still curious as to why you rescued me.’

  The Japanese officer refreshed his own cup and took a sip, before putting it down again. He looked directly at Strickland as he answered, his dark eyes upon him.

  ‘To be honest I wasn’t going to, but you sent out a distress flare, which meant that you must have survived the crash. I had to look for you. If you had been picked up by your own side or by the Americans, you would have given away our position.’

  ‘But I didn’t know there was anybody on the island.’

  ‘I couldn’t be sure of that. And besides if you had been rescued your superiors would have drawn their own conclusions. How was it that
our submarines could remain at sea for months on end, without being replenished in port? At the very least they would need food and fresh water. There had to be other bases in the South Pacific.’

  The pilot smiled at the thought of an enemy soldier saving his life in order to preserve his own and was certain he would have done the same. The irony was that had he known there were Japanese on the island, he would never have sent the distress flare.

  ‘Do your superiors know about me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  The captain looked down at his cup and ran his finger around the rim. Plainly he had asked himself the same quesiton.

  ‘I don’t know. At first I thought you were going to die, so it didn’t matter. And now …’ the captain’s voice trailed off and he simply shrugged. He looked up and saw the pilot’s scarred hands, which held his cup. The skin was thick and discoloured like meat that has been left out in the sun, while the index and middle finger on the left hand were fused together.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, indicating the pilot’s hands.

  Strickland studied them, as if he had only just noticed.

  ‘I was shot down …’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In England. I was attacked by a Messerschmitt. It was entirely my fault.’

  ‘Your plane caught fire?’

  The pilot nodded, the memory of his escape from his burning aircraft still vivid.

  ‘You’re lucky to be alive.’

  ‘Yes, I am. I spent six months in hospital.’

  ‘The doctors must have been skilled.’

  ‘They were. It was only because of them that I survived.’

  ‘And they let you fly again?’

  Strickland shook his head and took another swig of tea.

  ‘Not at first. To begin with I was grounded and could only do observational duties. But I wanted to fly and eventually my commanding officer relented.’

  ‘Why did you want to fly again?’

  ‘I wanted to fight. We were short of pilots and I hated being on the ground, while my friends were being killed in the air.’

  Hayama nodded and noticed the purple and white ribbon above the pilot’s breast pocket.

  ‘Is that a decoration?’

  ‘Yes, it is. It’s a DFC.’

  Hayama raised his eyebrows briefly.

  ‘A Distinguished Flying Cross. It’s a gallantry medal. I didn’t actually deserve it. They gave it to me because of my wounds. I wasn’t expected to be airborne again.’

  ‘You must be very determined.’

  ‘Stubborn, perhaps.’

  ‘You tried to swim to the island.’

  ‘I didn’t get very far.’

  ‘It would have been impossible. The current is too strong. You should have drowned.’

  The pilot smiled laconically and drank his tea.

  ‘I did try.’

  The captain looked quizically at him, not understanding at first. Then he realised it was a joke and he too smiled.

  ‘I’m sorry I saved your life.’

  ‘There’s always a reason.’

  Hayama stopped smiling and looked directly at Strickland.

  ‘Yes, there is,’ he said. ‘There is a reason for everything. Everything under heaven.’

  ‘And that is why we are here?’

  Hayama did not answer but studied the pilot with a fierce intensity, his energy pent up inside him as if he were an animal about to seize its prey. For a moment Strickland thought the captain was going to strike him. Instead he put the tea tray to one side and pushed his chair back.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said, rising to his feet.

  Strickland got up and watched as the captain marched out of his hut and descending the steps, he went over to an adjacent building and disappeared inside. The pilot followed and entered the hut behind him. The place was similar to Hayama’s quarters although not quite as spacious and there was no kitchen at the back. But it was dry and well kept, with a bed in one corner, together with a table and chair and a rack of shelves against one wall.

  ‘This is where you will sleep,’ announced Hayama. ‘You will dine in my quarters with me. I have already informed the men that I have released you and they are to treat you according to your rank, regardless of the fact that you are the enemy. I have also told them you are my guest and that you are answerable only to me.’

  The pilot merely nodded as he surveyed his new quarters, it was certainly better than the punishment box. On one of the shelves was a framed photograph of a young Japanese officer in uniform. Strickland picked it up, wiping the dust from the glass.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he asked, as he held the picture towards the captain.

  ‘His name is Shinzo Aoki. He was my second in command. He was a naval ensign and responsible for the patrol boat. He died of a fever. These were his quarters.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the pilot and he replaced the photograph back on the shelf.

  ‘I suggest you rest now and return to my quarters for supper. You should have everything you need here. There is a shower outside if you want to wash.’

  Strickland knew that he must stink after his incarceration and was grateful for the opportunity to purge the grime from his body.

  ‘I’m afraid I do not have a spare razor, but if you wish to shave you can borrow mine.’

  The pilot rubbed a hand across his jaw which now showed the beginnings of a beard, the hair wiry and blond. The shave could wait, but he certainly needed a shower.

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied and before he could say anything else Hayama turned and, without another word, left the hut.

  Strickland remained alone in the room, with only the ghost of a naval lieutenant for company. He hoped the previous occupant would not be too concerned that an enemy pilot was using his quarters and would not haunt him. There was a door at the back of the hut and he opened it, stepping outside onto a small verandah. He descended the steps and beneath the eave was the shower Hayama had mentioned. It consisted of no more than a rainwater butt and a chain to release its contents.

  The pilot stripped off his clothes and laid them over the rail and stood there naked, the bucket hanging above his head. He pulled the chain and felt the tepid water sluice down his body. He then picked up a bar of soap and lathered himself all over. When he had scrubbed his body from head to toe he tugged at the chain again, letting the water cascade over him until he had rinsed the soap away, the suds running off his limbs and soaking the dusty earth. For the first time in days Strickland felt what it was to be human again, all the degradation and filth of his confinement lying in a soapy pool at his feet. He stepped out from under the shower and dried himself with his hands and put his clothes back on. After he had dressed, the pilot climbed up the steps and went back inside the hut.

  The wash refreshed Strickland, but his recent ordeal had also left him exhausted and he went over to the bed to rest. He removed his dog tags from around his neck and placed them on the shelf next to the picture of Ensign Aoki. He took off his shirt and drew aside the mosquito net, lying down on the thin mattress. His head on the pillow, he stared up at the wooden rafters. In the corner above him a pale gecko hung upside down on a beam, its head cocked as it listened for an unsuspecting insect to come its way. Strickland watched as it suddenly scuttled across the wood, evidently sensing something before stopping again. It hung there poised and perfectly still, its amber irises reflecting the afternoon light as it waited for its prey. The pilot closed his eyes. The bed was comfortable and soon tiredness overwhelmed him and he drifted off, watched over by the ever vigilant gecko. Shaded by the forest the room was dim and cool and Strickland fell into a deep slumber. Outside the cicadas screamed incessantly and the sun burned a hole in the sky.

  The captain sat at his desk typing his daily report. It contained the usual material about enemy activity in the area of which there had been plenty recently. They had spotted two American destroyers that day and his lookout had carefully plotted t
heir speed and course. He hoped 1–47 was still in the vicinity and that she would be able to continue her endeavors against the enemy. But there was one fact in particular which Hayama had failed to mention in his report and which would have been of considerable interest to his superiors in Osaka. And that was the presence on the island of an RAF pilot. Yet the captain continued to keep that information to himself and neither he, nor anybody else, knew why.

  Hayama stopped his typing and leaning back in his chair, he lit a cigarette. There was something else which troubled him, even though he knew his decision to release the pilot had been correct. There was a risk, albeit a small one, that his superiors would find out. It was true they were isolated and out of contact with other Japanese forces, but what if a submarine appeared unnannounced? It was unlikely, there were not many left in the vicinity and they always had advance notice. But it was possible a vessel might arrive in the middle of the night as they slept and discover that he had an enemy aviator in his hands. What then? The commander would certainly report it and Hayama would be questioned. Why had he not mentioned this before? He would be court martialled and probably executed for treason. His family would be disgraced and his father would commit seppuku.

  The captain knew only that his fate lay with the gods. He placed his cigarette in the ashtray and continued writing his report, occasionally taking a drag, before finally stubbing it out. When he had finished he tore the paper from the typewriter, put on his cap and left his quarters. With the missive in his hand, he wandered through the forest and walked up over the escarpment, whistling as he went. Hayama trotted down the narrow path that led to the signals hut, keeping away from the cliff edge where the sea crashed and boiled in a cauldron below. The contrast between the north and the south of the island fascinated him. Here the country was wild and rugged. There was no protection from the winds and nor was there any reef, so that it felt the full force of the sea which pounded the rocky coast. The palms that grew were not tall and graceful as on the leeward side, but bent and stunted and clung precariously to the soil. There were no monkeys here either, only birds. A colony of terns nested on the sheer cliff face, their white forms forever wheeling and screaming above the echoing surf.