Dragons in the Forest

by Peter Yeldham

  “We came for rugby practice,” Claude said. “Where is everyone? What the hell is going on?”

  “The club’s shut,” the secretary told him. He was flushed and upset.

  “Until when?”

  “God alone knows. For the bloody duration, I’ve just been told.” “But why?” Alex asked.

  “We’re a security threat. Would you believe it? A fucking security threat.” The Irishman was making no attempt to conceal his resentment. He had been the Secretary here for almost a decade. It had been a way of life. Now his office had been locked, his keys taken, and he was being removed from the premises like an intruder.

  “Security threat?” If Alex had not been aware of the man’s distress he might have laughed. “What threat?”

  “We’re foreigners,” the secretary replied. “Dangerous people, Alex. As the club has a view of the harbour, the authorities believe we could spy on ship movements from here. Have you ever heard such codswallop?”

  “Never.”

  “Nor have I. But we’re locked out. Rugby practice is suspended until further notice.”

  The local racetrack was turned into a prison camp and enclosed with barbed wire. The American Marianist Brother teachers were taken there, along with British businessmen, missionaries and other enemies. On the turf where horses had galloped, wooden barrack accommodation was being erected. Prisoners were ordered to build the huts and did so willingly, for until then they were billeted in tents. The winter was already chilly and tents would soon be bitterly cold and unpalatable.

  Sentries with rifles and bayonets patrolled the perimeters. Most of them were veteran soldiers on the brink of retirement who had an air of stoic regret, wishing they were with their victorious army that was cutting such a swathe through the neighbouring territories. The spectacular onslaught was front page headlines in every newspaper, and shown on the screens of cinemas where crowds came in droves, not to see the feature film, but to applaud the newsreels. There, in the motion picture dark, they watched Japanese troops in their drab uniforms and canvas shoes taking territory after territory.

  Hong Kong fell on Christmas Day, the Philippines only a few short months later. General Douglas MacArthur fled his impregnable fortress — taking both his family and his furniture — and departing for the comparative safety of Australia, although rumour was rife that Australia would be the next to fall in this lightning strike across South-east Asia. Nothing seemed to stop the meteoric momentum.

  The British battleships, Prince of Wales and Repulse, both considered the navy’s finest and unsinkable, had been sunk soon after the war began. By the middle of January, an army — many on bicycles — was proceeding down the Malay Peninsula to Singapore to make a mockery of the great naval bastion’s legendary guns. Realising these faced resolutely out to sea, the Japanese approached from behind, across the causeway. The guns — all pointing the wrong way — had no opportunity to be fired in anger. Singapore’s British and Australian defenders were overwhelmed and captured. Meanwhile, in the East Indies, the colonial Dutch were driven from Java. Indochina fell, then Malaya and Rabual. Incredibly, all this had taken less than six months to accomplish.

  In Indochina the Vichy French regime had no alternative but to bow to their quasi-allies the Japanese, and make them welcome. It was a grim choice; extend an invitation, or face invasion. Reading this in the Nippon Times, Alex felt a deep concern for his father but there was no means of finding out what might have happened to him.

  “He’ll be all right,” his mother declared. “If there’s one single thing to be said in Edward’s favour, he’s a great survivor.”

  It did not sound like a compliment and Alex knew she was worried about the future. Most of his father’s capital had been invested in his business and a lot had been expended in establishing the new branch in Saigon. Forced to leave the country without arousing suspicion, he had been unable to cash securities or transfer funds, and had to abandon his thriving export firm in Kobe. No-one knew what would happen; most of the staff and a manager were still employed there, but without him the business was unlikely to prosper.

  Marie Faure realised that if the war lasted beyond a few months the outlook could be bleak. She had some savings in the bank which would keep them for a time. But if it continued for long they could be in a perilous position, with nothing to live on. They were still free, but now on tolerance as neutral foreigners, and while accepted as such they knew there would be no financial help. The French Embassy had made it clear it could not provide monetary assistance. Alex had six more months before graduating and after that who knew? Jobs were scarce and liable to become even moreso, as so much industry had turned to war production and aliens might be excluded from such work. So, quietly and selectively, she had begun to sell a few of her diamonds.

  At St Joseph College, with only half the teaching staff remaining, most classes were swollen to twice their usual size, games were curtailed and discipline was lax. Alex and Claude Briand would be graduating at the end of the school year in June, and were relieved this part of their lives would soon be over. But they worried about the treatment of their American teachers. None of them were young men, nor used to hardship. They enlisted a group of their contemporaries, senior students who felt the same concern, and made an application to visit them at the racecourse internment camp. Somewhat to their surprise this request was granted.

  They each brought with them a small lunch box as a food parcel. These were subjected to a routine inspection by a cheerful elderly guard, but after a few minutes he simply waved them past after asking if they had any bombs or grenades among the kamaboko or umeboshi. He then advised them to tell their teachers that Admiral Yamamoto — the great one who’d planned the attack on Pearl Harbour — had predicted the war would be all over and won before the end of the spring. So that was good news, wasn’t it, he chuckled. The gaijin would then be free to go peacefully home to America, although they might find when they arrived there that Japan owned it.

  The teachers were surprised to see them, and grateful for the visit. They said they were not ill-treated, but food was severely rationed. After eagerly consuming the fish cakes and fruit in the lunch boxes, they asked about the war news. Daily they were told by the guards of Japanese victories, but felt doubtful if it could be true. Surely not these continual conquests, almost every Pacific and Asian country beaten, and Japan at the borders of Burma, India and the gateway to Australia. The Cockroach, in particular, refused to believe it.

  “Impossible,” he announced dismissively. “It’s totally out of the question, and they must think we’re complete idiots to accept their lies.”

  “I’m sorry, Brother Abromitis,” Alex was studiously polite to him, “but they are not lying.”

  “They must be. What they’re claiming is ludicrous. Perhaps you’ve never heard of propaganda, boy?”

  “Yes sir, I have. But I’ve also been to the cinema and seen the newsreels. Seen hordes of Japanese troops occupying Manila, Hong Kong and Malaya … as well as Singapore.”

  “Ridiculous. For a start, Singapore is completely invincible — we all know that. They’d be blown to pieces by the guns. Film can be faked.” The Cockroach was intransigent in his opinion. The weeks in captivity seemed to have hardened him.

  “Not this film, sir.” It was Kieran, an Irish diplomat’s son, lending support. “We saw the British troops captured, and the battleship Repulse on fire and sinking. They’re winning everywhere.”

  “Which would no doubt please the Irish, if true. I think you’ve all been deluded by camera trickery and lies in the press.”

  “That’s quite enough, Abromitis,” said Brother Wilton, who taught history. “I believe what they’ve said. I’m also gratified they took the trouble to come and visit us. I think they deserve our sincere thanks — not an argument.”

  “They deserve an apology.” Elderly Brother Hudson only murmured it, but they all heard him, and waited for some reaction.

  “Very well. I
n that case I apologise.” The Cockroach spoke with no hint of penitence. He turned and walked away, as the others watched him, and Brother Wilton sighed.

  “I’m sorry. He’s finding it difficult to come to terms with what’s happened. We all are.”

  “He’s frightened,” Brother Hudson said quietly. “I don’t say it with any degree of censure, because I’m too old to be afraid. My life is nearly over. But he’s a young man and he’s never been sure of his faith.” He paused for a thoughtful moment, as if wondering whether he should continue, then did so. “Also, he’s aware he’s not a good teacher. You boys will soon be adults. I can talk to you about adult matters,” he smiled. “Especially here in this place where we are all equals — or perhaps I’m being unduly optimistic. Perhaps myself and my colleagues are less equal than you.”

  “You’d never be that, Brother Hudson,” Claude Briand said. The others echoed their agreement. The aged Marianist looked at them all in turn, and nodded his appreciation.

  “Thank you,” he replied quietly. “Sometimes a teacher begins to feel his work has been in vain; that his pupils don’t listen, or don’t care. If I ever considered that, your visit to us here today has proved me wrong. God bless you. We do not know what the future holds for any of us, but I wish you all well.”

  It was a quiet afternoon in April when the boys at St Joseph’s heard the sound of approaching aircraft. As the bombers came closer, classes were abandoned, and people in the vicinity began to emerge from their homes, for there was something different about the look of these planes. Then as they flew overhead everyone could see the stars painted on the underside of their wings, and a neighbour shouted that the Americans had come to bomb and kill them all.

  There were no air raid sirens, because the government had officially announced American planes could never fly far enough to reach Japan. Alex and his friends knew there were no shelters either, although voices were calling out to take cover, and some people did start to look for places to hide.

  But the boys from St Joseph’s were too excited. They could see the planes high above, continuing in the direction of Tokyo. There were 16 of them and Claude Briand, who knew aircraft identification, said they were B25 bombers. It was later heard they attacked some harbour installations in Tokyo Bay, but there was no mention of it in the papers for days and, when the authorities did release the news, the stories insisted the raid had done no damage.

  But it had an affect on morale, for people had been promised they would never see enemy aircraft in the skies above Japan. How could they have flown so far? In time it was learnt they had come from aircraft carriers and, after the raid, had flown on to China to land there. If the raid achieved little, the psychological affect was monumental. Alex and his friends wanted to cheer this first sign that Japan was not invincible, but this was no time to show which side they were on. Far better to conceal his hopes to the pages of the diary, although that was currently occupied with another rather diverse item.

  ALEX’S DIARY: MAY, 1942

  For weeks we have been giving part of our lunch to Roland Doumic who is only 14 years old, and says his family is so badly affected by the war that they cannot afford to give him money to buy food. They are almost penniless. We feel sorry for his parents, but there is nothing we can do, except to each give him food from our lunch, so that at least he has enough to sustain him. We feel bad, and talk about how terrible it must be to not even afford a cheap lunch.

  But the truth, we have just found out, is slightly different.

  Each Friday at lunchtime young Roland goes missing, and he reappears at two o’clock, just as the school bell is ringing. We’ve discovered that every Friday he spends an hour with a local prostitute, which costs him all his lunch money that he has saved for the entire week.

  Her name is Mitchiko, and she is exactly twice his age. A highly experienced and randy 28-year-old, is how he describes her to us, now the jack is out of the box. At 14, he has a lusty lunch on top of Mitchiko-san each Friday, and every other day of the week we all help feed him so he can afford to indulge himself, and return to school with a huge smile on his face. Cheeky little bastard.

  We wanted to laugh, but we are too angry — and jealous. Not one of us in the sixth form want to admit we’re still virgins. Especially since this sex-maniac has been shagging Mitchiko every week since his 12th birthday. It seems highly immoral, and we are all furiously envious.

  There had been reports for months that some of the internees at the racecourse prison were to be moved, but no-one knew where. It was obvious the Brothers were deeply disturbed by these rumours, for there was talk they might be transferred to a civil prison, or one of the grim camps in the north where captured Americans were being held. The appearance of American soldiers and sailors, under guard in prison fatigues and working in road gangs, supported the growing Japanese confidence that victory was close.

  In fact, according to the Nippon Times, the war was virtually as good as won. They eagerly quoted Winston Churchill’s rare defeatist comment with a front page picture of him, one that was carefully chosen to make him appear like a beaten bulldog. In Churchill’s words, “From San Francisco to Aden or Cape Town … there is no surface fleet capable of fighting a general action with the navy of Japan.”

  An editorial proclaimed this proved Churchill’s wish to surrender, and if only Australia and America realised the futility of continuing the conflict, terms of surrender could be amicably discussed. Admiral Yamamoto, a popular hero since Pearl Harbour, declared if the enemy was sensible and gave up the fight, it could be considered an honourable defeat.

  The guards at the racecourse conveyed all this to the Catholic Brothers with considerable relish. Each time Alex went to visit the teachers he noticed their increasing pessimism. But then, in late May, came news that none of them had expected. The teachers were indeed being transferred. But not to a gaol or a prisoner of war camp. They were going home to America.

  It began as a rumour at St Joseph’s which at first no-one believed, but it was true. The teachers, together with several American diplomats, were to be exchanged for some Japanese envoys who had been left stranded in the United States. Delicate negotiations had been going on since the outbreak of war, and had now been finalised. A neutral ship to be used for the transfer was already in Yokohama; in a few days’ time they would be embarked and, within a month hopefully, would be safely home.

  Alex went for a last personal visit to the racecourse. He shook hands with them all, with the exception of the Cockroach, for he was a solitary figure in the distance, in his traditional black suit. Despite their having endured six months’ internment and being obliged to perform physical work, the teachers still dressed the way they always had at St Joseph’s, managing to look as neat as if they were attending mass.

  “We’ll pray for you, Alex,” Brother Wilton said.

  “Tell the others, your friends, that I’ll always remember you boys.” Brother Hudson’s grizzled old face creased in a fond smile. “I believe you gave us the will to survive here. The first day you came to visit us with your food parcels, I could hardly credit our unruly and sometimes mischievous young students were doing this for us. That was a rare and precious moment in our lives.”

  The others besieged him with anxious enquiries. Was there any reassuring news of his father? Would the family be able to manage, if this war went on much longer? When he graduated at the end of the term, which was so close now, what were his plans?

  He wished he could give them hopeful answers, but all he could do was deflect the questions. About his father, he replied, there was no direct word from Saigon, but those who knew him well felt sure he was safe. As far as his mother and sister were concerned, they would cope somehow, even if the war went on for another year. As for his own plans when he finished school next month — that was slightly more difficult. His hopes to study at Harvard in America were at an end. And they all knew that while the war lasted there could be no jobs available for foreigners in
Japan — but he promised he’d find something. Even a part-time job. Anything. He had come to appreciate their concern, and did not want them worrying, so despite his secret doubts he tried to convince them that he’d manage.

  Alex was on his way out of the internment camp when he heard a voice call. He turned and saw the Cockroach approaching. When they met there was a moment of hesitation, and neither said a word. Then the teacher took a letter from his pocket.

  “I wrote this for you. I hope you’ll accept it.”

  “What is it, Brother Abromitis?”

  “To whom it may concern,” said the Cockroach, and held it out. “The guards allowed me pen and paper.”

  Alex took the letter. It was neatly written in both French and English. He could see at once it was a reference. A glowing one.

  “In case you need a testimonial, when you leave school.”

  “For me?” He was stunned.

  “You were my best student. That’s what I’ve said here, that you have a special talent and would make a first-class accountant. I don’t know if I taught you satisfactorily … I rather doubt it … but perhaps some day this letter will be of use to you.”

  Before he could be thanked he turned and walked away.

  ALEX’S DIARY: JUNE 1st, 1942

  They’ve gone!

  We’d heard nothing, so Claude and I went to the racetrack and asked our friendly guard. He said yes, they were on their way, the ship left yesterday, and by the time they reach home he expects America will have surrendered. According to him that’s what Admiral Yamamoto thinks — and the Admiral is never wrong.

  We didn’t tell him what we thought, which is this: If Japan is about to win, why are they so keen to exchange their diplomats and rescue them from the United States? Bugger what Yamamoto says. Claude and I have a theory this war is nowhere near over. Which is good and also bad. Good, because we don’t want Japan to win. But it’s bad because we’ll never get jobs, and God knows how we’ll exist.