Dragon of the Mangrooves

by Yasuyuki Kasai

  Even if they had been able to turn him in to Japanese military police, no one could have guaranteed that the MPs wouldn’t torture him and make him a live target for a bayonet practice. For his bereaved family, this might seem like the deed of devils. But he and his compatriots had burned many Japanese patients alive in the field hospital that couldn’t evacuate from the battlefield of Kohima and had just killed Murakami here. All compassion was useless. It was too late for pity after the war broke out. The chain of hate had already long since linked up.

  Trying to keep his mind detached, Sumi continued the inspection but couldn’t find anything like a directive or an operation map. There was no evidence they had gained information about the rescue party.

  However, he thought it too early to feel reassured, because he still didn’t understand how the British could have found them. He asked Shimizu about their respective positions before the battle and figured out that Murakami, who had casually carried his model thirty-eight cavalry carbine, had been on the end of the line. Sumi guessed that his rifle might have attracted the attention of the British, who had caught up with Murakami.

  But Sumi doubted it soon, telling himself, “Could they tell the difference between rifles from a distance? Wasn’t a man with a Japanese rifle always a Japanese soldier, even if they could?”

  Then he happened to look at Murakami’s feet and was astonished. Despite Sumi’s order to disguise himself as a Burmese, Murakami had worn a pair of rubber-soled canvas tabi, traditional footwear made with a split between the big toe and the second toe, with wrapped puttees under his lungi. He might have thought it convenient for mountain walking. Sumi deduced that the very characteristic Japanese footgear had no doubt attracted a quick British eye.

  Though they were Asians, the Burmese or Gurkhas didn’t wear those shoes.

  “Why didn’t I see this before? Had I checked their disguises more thoroughly, it might not have happened. Was it an avoidable death?” Sumi said to himself, suffering badly from guilt.

  Abruptly, Arima’s voice cut in. “Take a look at this, Lieutenant.”

  Arima pointed to one of British sacks. “They’ve shot birds,” said Arima.

  Amazingly, a dead pheasant-like bird fell out of the sack. Arima had also found a shotgun lying on the ground nearby, and a pouch full of bird shots. Per-haps off-duty servicemen had come into this mountain by chance to hunt birds along the same road. He didn’t relax until he knew they were not trackers.

  But the soldiers gathering there were astounded to know the opponents against whom they fought, at the risk of their lives, had diverted themselves in leisure.

  “Bird-shooting during a war! Incredible!”

  “What on earth are these Engli bastards thinking?”

  “They simply want to kill more. We Japanese aren’t enough to satisfy them.”

  Clamoring one and all, they openly vented their anger.

  The British forces in the Burma front had kept back the white men in relatively safer zones and used colored troops like Sikh, Punjabi, Dogras, or Gurkhas as their shields. But those British had come all the way into such a backland only to shoot birds. The enemies might assess the Battle of Ramree had nearly ended, and they possibly roamed around the whole island freely. Sumi got anxious and fretfully ordered their departure.

  Shimizu drew closer. “What do you think you are doing?” Shimizu protested.

  “We must bury Murakami.”

  Anger and remorse had already turned Shimizu’s face red.

  Sumi wanted to do so as well. And he knew that Shimizu, the drillmaster, had treated Murakami exceptionally kindly, as the two came from the same district.

  But it was dangerous to stay much longer there. After hearing sounds of the gunfight, enemy reinforcements might be on the way. Thinking of that possibility was very unsettling. How many men, including himself, should get killed to bury Murakami?

  Sumi said, “I’m sorry for him, but every second counts now. We’re in a hurry.”

  “What did you say? We’re in a hurry? If we’re so…”

  Although Shimizu had shut his mouth, Sumi understood what he wanted to say: If they were in a hurry, they had better force their way through Ramree Town. Even so, this chicken commander stupidly made a detour through the woods and threw them into these dire straits, after all. This cowardice caused Murakami’s death—or something to that effect.

  But Shimizu couldn’t put handle any more, and he said harshly, “Are you leaving him unattended? That’s too far! I never allow such heartless treatment!”

  It was no way to talk to an officer, but all military ranks were pushed aside for the moment. Sumi had been disgusted with Shimizu’s insolence many times, but he knew he couldn’t get angry under the circumstances.

  “Do as you like,” Sumi said upon seeing the stiffened face of Shimizu.

  Then he beckoned the other members and said calmly, “Help Sarge, everybody.”

  Sumi’s response surprised Shimizu, who had a look of puzzlement. But he turned and began the burial.

  They had no shovels or picks, so it was quite laborious to dig a hole. Scraping off the ground with a bayonet or a billhook, everybody raked out the soil with his hands. Most soil in that woods was humus, fortunately, and they managed to make a hole sufficient for one man. Once they had set Murakami in it and covered him with Ramree soil, the sun was setting.

  Pondgi plucked some nameless roadside flowers, then started chanting an unknown sutra in Burmese. His distinctive religious attitude made the funeral look better.

  The Sumi rescue party set off for Yanthitgyi again; after all, its members had paid a silent tribute to Murakami’s spirit.

  The forestry road sloped gently down toward Payadgi Plain. The sunlight gradually grew weaker, telling them dusk was nearing.

  At the front of the line, Sumi walked quietly, except for short stops to check their present position with his compass. He ordered each soldier to wrap his firearm in a rag. He also put Yoshitake, who had combat experience and physical strength, at the end of the line and made him guard against an attack from the rear.

  Everyone seemed fatigued, both in mind and body.

  Sumi heard Morioka mutter to himself, “I wonder what comes to enemy soldiers if they land on Awaji Island or somewhere else in Japan in small numbers.”

  “Where is Awaji Island?” Arima asked.

  “Awaji is the biggest island in the Inland Sea of Japan and is as big as Ramree Island. It’s very famous. You really don’t know about it?” Morioka said.

  “No. What’s so wrong with it?” retorted Arima.

  Shimizu said, “Of course, they’d be captured or killed by local police or Army.

  But what are you trying to say, Morioka?”

  Morioka answered, “I mean we’re now in a similar situation.”

  “Yeah, it’s a nasty state. We have to look after ourselves,” Arima said in agreement.

  Sumi thought they were right. They could have gotten firepower support from other units if they’d been in normal action. But they now were completely isolated in this island overrun by enemies. Besides, their own firepower was very weak. Although they had managed to make it through the previous encounter, everybody had chalked it up to luck. At the same time, they’d been made acutely aware of the limit of their firepower. The British group had been small by chance.

  But if they had taken on a platoon or more, no one would have survived. It was quite natural to get demoralized. The gunfight had also cast another shadow, other than Murakami’s death, on them all.

  It was easy to explain their rescue mission but hard to promote. Sumi recognized the difficult task anew.

  As long as they walked on that road, they ran the risk of encountering enemies. Sumi knew it was dangerous and instead took a route through the jungle.

  More than a few drooped their shoulders upon starting this sudden

  bush-wading. “Keep it up. It’s not so far,” Sumi called out, trying to raise their spirits. “We’ll
take a rest after we’ve cleared this jungle.” Wielding a billhook, Sumi kept cutting through the thicket, but he also had been tired out.

  Upon exiting the jungle, they came to a thin coppice comfortably exposed to the declining sun. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief. A refreshing breeze wafted through the coppice and cooled everyone’s flushed skin. But branches and leaves grew sparse overhead, offering them little cover from above.

  Suddenly the sound of exhaust was heard, and three Lockheed P-38 interceptors appeared in the northeastern sky. All flew so low that Sumi could distinguish each pilot’s face. The flyers passed over them quickly, like arrows, and went off toward the setting sun with wings sparkling.

  “Did they spot us, Lieutenant? Those aircraft have radio sets,” Arima asked worriedly.

  His face darkened. Sumi felt ill at ease but didn’t have enough energy to discuss anything else. And he also knew it wouldn’t get them anywhere if they did.

  “As long as we can’t down them, it’s senseless to worry. Now we take a rest for half an hour here as we planned,” he snapped.

  Arima still seemed unable to shake off uneasiness.

  “Don’t worry, Arima. We’ve disguised ourselves. And it’s already gotten darker. All Engli pilots are night-blind. They can’t even find an elephant in an open field. We didn’t get strafed on the boats last night, did we?” Yoshitake said to encourage Arima and others.

  He uplifted their spirits a little. Each soldier smiled, unloaded his equipment, and sat down on the spot.

  Having been detected by the British unit and with the double setback of the death of Murakami, they no longer trusted their disguise much. But some credibility of their disguise was restored when they weren’t strafed by aircraft. They, all tankmen, had dreaded aircraft as their natural predators.

  Sumi stuffed his mouth with a stale rice ball and gulped water from his canteen. He remembered he hadn’t been frightened to see the P-38s up close. He had never thought of himself as brave. Far from it, he sometimes mocked himself as a wimp. The buzz of an aircraft flying low was often inaudible until it was close, and it was frightful enough up until then. His sense of fear might have worn down, and, if that was true, it could signify disaster.

  However, the effect of a rest was significant. The soldiers’ spirits seemed to have picked up again. Some started chatting and burst into laughter. All the men got into their rhythm as one team. They had grown accustomed to the tense atmosphere of infiltration duty and the physical hardship of forced marches.

  Sumi stood up and climbed up a nearby ridge alone to get a wider view for orientation.

  A thin ocher line of a road meandered gently from east to west beneath his eyes—Payadgi-Ramree Road. It was no distance at all. He figured they could reach it within half an hour.

  The march on the forestry road had been faster than expected. He spread out his map under the red evening glow and located their present position with his compass and binoculars. It was about the middle point between Ramree Town and Payadgi Plain. Surrounding hills offered them good cover and made it an ideal point for crossing.

  But there were problems. Enemies occupied the road.

  He could see several dark green trucks parked on the shoulder of the road. Soldiers of about one company were mending the road. Many turbaned Indians, stripped to the waist, were swaying their picks or shovels ardently, stirring up yellow dust. The roads here were no more than oxcart trails when the scramble for Ramree broke out. The enemy was expanding it in a hurry, probably to construct an arterial road for their mechanized troops.

  Hiding himself behind one tree after another, Sumi crept in closer and peered into his binoculars.

  These soldiers were not well armed. He saw some bolt-action rifles, like the Japanese model thirty-eight, here and there among them. But there were no automatics. None of the four trucks he saw had an onboard machine gun. One M3 middle tank guarded them. It was troublesome. But unlike Japanese tanks, this tank had neither a machine gun nor a pistol port in its rear. His men could out-

  flank it easily. Indians were not supposed to continue laboring after dark, so they would probably pull out before long. The rescue party could break through at night if they encamped nearby.

  When Sumi returned to the party, the soldiers were looking around and talking among themselves in whispers. They were watching an east ridgeline facing the coppice.

  “What’s up?” Sumi asked in a hushed voice.

  “Oh, we’ve been waiting for you, Lieutenant,” Yoshitake said. “Morioka and Pondgi say they saw some soldiers that might be friends moving in that mountain some time ago.”

  Sumi peeped through his binoculars, but the mountain was in the shade of the ridge he had climbed up a little while before. Although he strained his eyes, he could find nothing.

  The two said they had seen several small things that looked like Japanese helmets moving in a group below the ridgeline. Further, Pondgi insisted he had seen the glitter of a bayonet’s reflection.

  Sumi always relied on Pondgi’s excellent eyesight. He could see a very long distance and often saw things before others did.

  “Are you sure those helmets were ours? Not Engli type?” asked Sumi.

  Pondgi answered, “Yes, the shape of the Engli helmet is much different, Master Sumi.”

  “Well, how many soldiers did you see?”

  “Five or so. I wasn’t certain because they went over the ridge.”

  As Pondgi said, a British soldier usually wore a strange helmet that looked like a washbowl. It was distinctive enough that this sharp-sighted man couldn’t have mistaken it.

  Sumi realized the credibility of the information and secretly bubbled with excitement. If Pondgi’s eyes were right, it meant that they had finally found a friendly troop. If he could catch them and head to Taungup with them, he would save his face as a rescue party leader. He wouldn’t have to take the trouble to go all the way to Yanthitgyi.

  Shimizu abruptly intervened. “Did you really see it? Why would Japanese soldiers be roaming around here now? All the garrison has already gathered at the east coast far from here. Think before you speak, or I’ll make you pay for this!”

  His voice was sharp and fierce, and he seemed still on edge.

  “Sarge, I heard the battle in the north part of this island was also a hard-fought one. Maybe those are some of the troops from that battle. They might have gotten lost or failed to follow the main body for some reason,” replied Morioka timidly.

  Sumi thought Morioka might be right, but, at the same time, what Shimizu said also sounded reasonable. The enemy landed at Kyaukphyu nearly a month before, and it was more than ten days since the main body of Ramree Garrison had retreated to the defense position in Hill 509. Therefore, Sumi couldn’t assume that any friends were wandering around in these mountains. Moreover, if Pondgi was right, he couldn’t make out why the soldiers kept their bayonets fixed during a march in mountains. Anyway, nothing would be verified until they actually saw these alleged comrades.

  “Well, it’s useless to argue,” Sumi said. “If they’re really friends, they’ll go toward Yanthitgyi, for sure. We can meet them somewhere between here and there later.”

  The dark of the night soon wrapped up the whole coppice. Led by Second Lieutenant Sumi, the rescue party descended the ridge. Nobody spoke, and only faint rustles of clothing were heard.

  They reached the foot of the hill in no time. Sumi stopped them briefly to listen to a distant sound. The mumbling exhaust note of a tank could be faintly heard. When it faded away, he let the party advance to a growth of weeds just beside the road. From there he saw two tail lamps of the tank wavering in the far west. Soon they also faded out, and complete darkness enshrouded them all.

  “Listen, men. We’re going to go across this Payadgi-Ramree Road. A wasteland with no cover spreads out over the road. And you’ll find woods on the far side of it. It’s the next rendezvous. Be on the lookout for enemies.”

  Sumi deployed the soldiers in a li
ne along the road. Some security guards remaining behind the tank might be strolling around, so it was time to be fully on the alert.

  “Go!”

  Sumi thought back to the supposedly friendly troop in the east ridge. He thought that the soldiers there might have been waiting for darkness, like they had been.

  After he had seen the soldiers vanish into the wasteland one after another, Sumi warily bent forward and stepped onto Payadgi-Ramree Road.

  Squatting down in his foxhole at the foot of Yanthitgyi Hill 604, Superior Private Minoru Kasuga intently hulled rice in his helmet. He had gotten this precious rice in a settlement of Yanthitgyi some time before. He had filched it from a farmhouse that had been evacuated and then uninhabited. When the sun set, he had to go down to a stream to wash and boil it with his portable solid alcohol stove.

  In Imphal and Guadalcanal, things were in terrible shape. Starvation was rampant, and comrades were driven to the verge of cannibalism. Fortunately, Ramree Island was a rice-producing district. Kasuga had not yet faced such a critical situation. But nobody knew what would come next.

  It had almost been a month since this battle had broken out. He couldn’t expect new supplies or provisions anymore, so no one was overanxious for food.

  He must collect as much rice as possible and devote what little time he could to boiling it. There was no guarantee that he would have another opportunity to do so.

  “Hey, Kasu. Are you still alive?”

  With a raucous voice, the stout body of Sergeant Keiichi Tomita fell into the foxhole. Kasuga cautiously lifted up his helmet to save his valuable rice from spilling.

  “Keep this with you,” Tomita said and presented a small packet wrapped in oil paper.

  “What’s this, Sarge?”

  Kasuga opened it and found a brown sooty chip inside. It was a chip of bone.

  Hit on his head squarely by an ammunition box blown away by the blast, he had lost consciousness for a while in the Battle of Mountain Maeda. So his memory of their retreat had been somewhat vague. Still, he had clearly remembered Tomita cutting hands off from KIA corpses with a curved billhook called “dah.”