Corrigan's Run

by Colin Falconer

  Corrigan folded his arms truculently. ‘Your friend looking for something?’ he said to Kurosawa.

  ‘Tashiro-san look for gun.’

  ‘Haven't got oner. I'm a pacifist.’

  ‘You are English?’ Kurosawa said.

  ‘Just because I’m white doesn’t make me a bloody Englishman. Just because you’ve got slanty eyes doesn’t make you a Chinaman. I'm Irish.’

  Tashiro took the drawers out of the desk and tipped them onto the floor.

  ‘I hope your friend's going to tidy up afterwards.’

  Tashiro rifled his papers and his logs, giving them perfunctory attention before dropping them on the deck. The muscles in Corrigan’s jaw rippled.

  When he was done he turned and looked at Corrigan. The big Irishman gave him a boyish grin. ‘What can I do for you, short arse?’

  The blow took Corrigan by surprise. Suddenly Tashiro had his revolver in his hand and slammed it between Corrigan’s legs into his groin.

  Corrigan gasped and dropped onto the deck and lay there, writhing with pain. He was only vaguely aware of the two Japanese shouting at each other.

  It was a while before he got control of the pain. He retched onto the deck and opened his eyes. Tashiro stood over him, the revolver held loosely in his right hand. His eyes were very bright.

  He barked something at him in Japanese.

  ‘You must to get up now,’ Kurosawa said. He looked frightened.

  Tashiro nudged him with his foot.

  Corrigan rolled on to his knees and dragged himself shakily to his feet. He couldn’t stand straight. He retched again.

  ‘Your friend's … a real hero,’ he said to Kurosawa.

  ‘So sorry,’ the Japanese officer said and Corrigan realized that he meant it. ‘Tashiro-san very strict man. He say must teach you respect for Japanese officer.’

  Corrigan dropped to his knees again and rummaged through the papers scattered around the floor. Every movement was an agony. He finally found what he was looking for. ‘My passport,’ he grunted. ‘See? I'm Irish, damn your bloody eyes.’ He glared at Tashiro. ‘A neutral, understand? I've got nothing to do with your bloody war.’

  Tashiro snatched the passport out of his hand and gave it cursory inspection. He tossed it back at Corrigan and barked out a command to Kurosawa.

  ‘Tashiro-san wish to know where English kiap hide.’

  ‘Sydney, I think.’

  ‘Bullcrap,’ Kurosawa said.

  ‘Nice English teacher you had.’

  ‘English priest also say he run away. But some native say kiap still on island.’

  ‘I'd take the priest's word if I were you. Man of God wouldn't lie.’

  Kurosawa turned to Tashiro and told him what Corrigan had said. Tashiro spat out another command.

  ‘You go now,’ Kurosawa said.

  ‘What do you mean - 'go'?’

  ‘So sorry, boat now property of Imperial Japanese Army. More better you go now. Not be hurt if you co-operate with Japanese soldier.’

  ‘This boat's mine! It's how I make my living! If you think you can waltz in here and take it, you can . . .’

  Kurosawa glanced nervously at Tashiro and drew himself up to attention. ‘Tashiro-san say if you not go now he shoot you.’

  Corrigan heard Tashiro click the safety off his revolver. For a moment he thought about taking the gun off him, shooting both of the little bastards. Then he thought about the platoon of infantry waiting on the wharf. For once it might be a better idea not to let his temper rule his head. What are you going to do, Patrick, take on the whole Japanese army?

  Manning was right, after all. He should have left when he had the chance.

  He picked up his passport and staggered out, still bent over and clutching at his groin. He heard Tashiro laughing. I’ll get you back, you little yellow bastards, he thought. You’ve won the round but you haven’t won the fight. Patrick Corrigan will settle with you one way or another.

  Chapter 17

  That night Lieutenant Tashiro wrote in his diary: ‘We have successfully subjugated Santa Maria. Everywhere our armies are sweeping across the Pacific, crushing all resistance. Nothing can stop us now . . .’

  During cadet school he had been afraid that events would move too quickly; that the war would be over by the time he was transferred to the battlefront. He had dreaded being just a spectator in Japan's greatest and most glorious hour.

  He still remembered that crisp winter's morning late in 1941 and Captain Hiraide's voice crackling over the radio: ‘Here is an announcement by the Naval Section of Imperial Headquarters. Today, December 8, before dawn, the Imperial Navy conducted a death-defying air raid upon the American fleet and air force stationed at Hawaii ...’

  He had been home on leave. That same night he dressed in his cadet's uniform and accompanied his father to the Imperial Palace. Thousands of children had converged on the palace gates to celebrate the news, each of them carrying a globe-shaped paper lantern, hung on a pole.

  Tashiro had felt both proud and envious; proud to be a part of the Army that had brought the Emperor his glory; but also envious that he had not yet taken part in any of the battles.

  In the middle of February, Singapore fell. One hundred thousand British, Indian and Australian troops surrendered, shattering two hundred years of Western domination in Asia. It was irrefutable proof of Japan's destiny in the shaping of the world and of the Yamoto-Damashii - the invincible spirit of Japan. After all, his country had not tasted defeat in three thousand years.

  Now, in his new quarters in the Residency bungalow, he set about his nightly devotions. Clad only in shorts, his hard and compact body glistening, he knelt on a bamboo mat in front of the picture of Emperor Hirohito he had placed in the middle of the floor. His coarse black hair, shaved close to the skull, gave him the appearance of a monk.

  He carefully removed the black sandalwood stopper from a bamboo incense tube and placed a stick of incense inside it. He placed it beside the framed picture and lit it.

  He fingered the incense tube lovingly, remembering the day his father had given it to him. It had been the day of his last visit home, just before they sent him to the Solomon Islands with his unit.

  He had taken the train home. His family lived at Ogama in Saitama prefecture, to the north-west of Tokyo. The metal rail cars had been stifling hot that day, paper fans fluttering like a thousand butterflies as the women in their mirokasa tried to keep themselves cool.

  There were no seats; the government had requisitioned them, converting the wood into rifle stocks for the military. Tashiro had to squat on the floor the whole way.

  His family lived in a wooden grey-tiled house. The sliding screen rattled as he drew it aside. His father was sat cross-legged on a tatami, playing shogi. His face had betrayed no emotion when he looked up; he rose gravely to greet him and they both saluted. Then Tashiro knelt at his feet and received his father's blessing, in the traditional Samurai manner.

  His father had killed five Russians with his sword at the Battle of the River Shain in 1904. It was a Yamoto sword, made of the finest blue steel, and it still hung on the wall above the kamidana - the household Shinto altar. On the blade above the hilt was his name: Hiroo Tashiro.

  His father was an imposing man; despite his seventy years he stood ramrod straight. He had long grey hair that he wore tied behind his head, and a long wispy beard. His face was stern; Tashiro had never seen him any other way. He had been told that even when the great Kanto earthquake of 1923 took his first wife and a baby daughter, Tashiro-san had remained utterly composed. not shed a tear, or displayed his grief openly to anyone. Even when Tashiro's two older brothers were killed during the invasion of Manchuoko, the old man retained the inscrutability that his son tried always to replicate.

  Tashiro's mother brought them sushi with green tea and his father showed him the large coloured map of the Pacific he had pinned to the wall. Each new military conquest was marked with a small Rising Sun flag. They bot
h studied it and marvelled; Guam, Luzon, Borneo, Wake Island, Manila, Hong Kong, Rabaul, Java, Singapore ... his generation would be the greatest Samurai of all.

  The next day his sisters and cousins and even some of his father's friends came out to the train station to honor his departure. His mother gave him a thousand stitch waistband, the traditional belt of cotton cloth to which each of his family and friends had sewn a single stitch with a five or ten yen piece and a short inscription for good luck.

  His father was the last to say goodbye. Gravely he had handed him the incense bamboo holder for good luck; and then, unbelievably, he had handed him the Yamoto sword that had hung over the kamidana for as long as the young Tashiro could remember.

  He accepted it with a feeling akin to awe; and as the train pulled away from the station and he waved goodbye to his family he heard again the song he and his brother officers had learned at the military college:

  Faithful to the Five Teachings

  Lying a corpse on the battlefield

  From old the warrior's conviction

  Though not one single hair remains

  No one can regret dying for honour.

  The sword now lay beside him. He drew it from its scabbard and held it in front of his face so that the light of the candle reflected in the steel blade. Once more he whispered the oath he had first spoken in Tokyo many months before, dedicating his life to the service of his Emperor.

  *****

  While Lieutenant Mashita Tashiro dreamed of glory, Ian Manning thought about survival. He had been living in the hills overlooking Vancoro for three months now, waiting for this very moment. Finally the Japanese were here.

  Until now he had continued with his work as District Officer as if nothing had happened. He still visited the outlying districts, settling disputes and enforcing government laws. At every opportunity he had warned the islanders that should the Japanese come to Santa Maria, they were to have nothing to do with them and tell them nothing. Time alone would tell how effective his warnings had been.

  Every morning and every evening he sent reports of Japanese movements over the Coastwatcher's frequency, with a growing sense of futility. The Allies could not deploy any force strong enough to make use of the information he was passing on.

  Manning's radio picked up the news broadcasts from Australia and the news was mostly bad. Although sixteen American B-25's had carried out a largely successful daylight raid over Tokyo, elsewhere the situation was bleak. Rabaul had fallen; the Dutch had capitulated in Java; and worst of all, the Japanese had captured Corregidor and with it, crushed the last resistance in the Philippines.

  Despite these setbacks, Manning had decided he would stay on the island for as long as he possibly could. Some day - who knew how soon? - he might be needed.

  Sergeant Lavella and his six constables had remained loyal to him, as had his cookboy, Chomu. They had built three huts in the clearing, made from vines and poles hacked from the jungle, with kunai grass and palm leaf for the walls and roofs. One of the huts served as Manning's quarters, and housed the teleradio equipment; the other two were quarters for Lavella's men and a kitchen.

  They had adequate supplies; Sergeant Lavella went down to the shore every few days and always returned with a plentiful supply of fish. They used trade goods to barter with local villagers for vegetables and fruit from their gardens. Occasionally Manning hunted for wild pig.

  He had also taken the precaution of bringing the contents of the island's Treasury; although the currency was theoretically worthless now, the islanders still used it for trade, and would continue to do so, no matter who bossed the island.

  Manning knew that until the Japanese came looking for them, they could survive indefinitely.

  Their worst enemy thus far had been the jungle itself. Manning suffered badly from prickly heat. A red rash would form on his back, behind his knees, or across his chest where acid perspiration ate away at his skin. When new sweat touched these raw patches, it was like someone had stuck a handful of pins in him.

  After a while little sores developed. The islanders called it jungle rot. His crotch and armpits were gouged with little blisters that left small craters in his flesh that would not heal.

  But Manning was prepared to endure any hardship. His was not a glorious vision; just a longing to survive and prevail, and to prove to himself and his dead father that he too was a man.

  Chapter 18

  ‘It's an abomination. They are barbarians! Their treatment of the people here is shameful. Several of the women have complained to me they have been raped by Japanese soldiers. The men are used as beasts of burden. It cannot continue!’

  Father Goode paced the veranda outside his bungalow. He had worked himself into a frenzy, his fingers worrying the silver cross at his neck.

  Rachel watched him with growing concern. It frightened her to see him like this. There was no knowing what he might do. She took his arm and led him to a cane peacock chair.

  ‘Sit down, uncle. Please. You'll bring on another fever if you go on so.’

  Father Goode allowed himself to be placated but within moments he was on his feet again, tormented utterly by his dilemma.

  ‘I must do something! Satan is amongst us. We cannot sit idly by!’

  ‘Uncle, there's nothing we can do. Let us thank the Lord they have left us in peace here. They could shoot us and burn down our church if they wanted to.’

  Father Goode’s eyes blazed. ‘All these years of work! These are my people! I cannot stand by and leave my sheep to the ravages of these wolves.’

  Rachel sat him down again. The last few months had exacted a terrible toll. The Japanese had left them alone - so far. But it was an uncertain truce. ‘We can be of no service to the people in a Japanese prison,’ Rachel said.

  ‘It is a test of our will and of our faith. Remember our Lord in the garden of Gethsemane? Even He faltered then. It was His final test. If the heathen put us to the sword, better that than fail in our duty to God!’

  It seemed to Rachel that the Lord was being a little unreasonable, but she kept her silence. She knew better than to provoke theological argument when her uncle was in this mood.

  ‘We will pray about it,’ she told him. ‘God will tell us what to do.’

  Rachel didn't believe that for a moment, but she hoped it might serve to pacify her uncle for a time. She knew only too well the result of taking their protests to the Japanese commander, Nakamura.

  Father Goode put his head in his hands. ‘You don't think I've been praying these last few weeks? I have hammered with my fists on the doors of Heaven pleading with Him to deliver these people from this purgatory. The answer is always the same.’

  Rachel put a hand to his forehead. ‘You have a fever. It could be another bout of the malaria coming on. Let me put you to bed.’

  He pushed her hand away and jumped to his feet. ‘Stop fussing over me, child. I know what you're up to.’

  ‘All right then, go down to the Japanese Commander and give him the Sermon on the Mount and see what good it does you! And after they've tied you up and shot you like a dog, what's going to happen to me?’

  He seemed to accept this rebuke with uncharacteristic equanimity. ‘Very well,’ he muttered.

  They both fell to their own thoughts. Father Goode composed dark and brooding soliloquies on the iniquities of Man; Rachel wondered how much longer she could stall the inevitable.

  ‘He wants to be a martyr,’ she thought bitterly. ‘One day he's going to get his way.’

  The shadows inched away from them across the bare patch of lawn, as the sun rose in the sky. Father Goode shifted irritably in his chair. ‘Where is that damn Lelei? It's time for morning tiffin.’

  Rachel stood up. ‘I'll fetch it.’

  But he was too quick for her. He jumped to his feet. ‘Why should you fetch it? You're not a maidservant.’ He strode down the veranda to the kitchen, the hem of his soutane flapping around the worn leather sandals.

  ‘
Lelei!’ Then, roaring: ‘LELEI! Where is the blessed girl?’

  Suva, the cook-boy, appeared, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘I help for you, mastah,’ he said, bowing. ‘I get im tea for you.’

  ‘I want Lelei. Where is the blessed girl?’

  Suva looked over Father Goode's shoulder at Rachel, head bobbing obsequiously. Father Goode saw this conspiracy of glances immediately.

  ‘What's going on?’

  ‘Lelei she go,’ Suva muttered.

  ‘Gone? Gone where?’

  Suva looked at Rachel. She shrugged her shoulders as if to say: you might as well tell him.

  ‘She go stay longa Japoni boss,’ he mumbled. ‘Japoni boss he say he kill her finis she ever run way longa you.’

  Rachel thought her uncle was going to explode. His face flushed purple, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing.

  Rachel nodded to Suva and he ran back to the kitchen.

  Father Goode turned to his niece. ‘You knew about this?’

  Rachel nodded.

  Gathering the hem of his cassock he stormed back into the bungalow, the screen door slamming behind him. Moments later he re-appeared, a large straw hat thrust on his head. He jumped on a bicycle that was propped against the verandah steps.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I am not going to allow a child to be forced into prostitution by that monster!’

  Rachel stamped her foot petulantly. ‘Don't be so damned stupid!’

  But for once her uncle let the oath go unchastised. With a little wobble he peddled away in the direction of Vancoro. He had made up his mind and there was no power on earth that was going to stop him now.

  *****

  The Japanese had converted the Residency into their officer's quarters. All the relics of British colonialism - the books of poetry by Dryden and Shakespeare, the pictures of the King that had adorned the walls - had been thrown out and burned.