by Peter Watt
She strained to differentiate every sound echoing in the corridor outside the cell door. There were the usual noises of men and women crying and moaning and the occasional clank of a cell door, followed by the high-pitched wailing of some poor soul being dragged away for torture or execution.
Despite her alertness, Ilsa found herself nodding off. She did not know how long she had been asleep when the door to her cell slammed open.
For a moment she thought it was Wessel, but then she realised with horror that it was Colonel Hitachi, and behind him was a Japanese soldier with his rifle and bayonet.
‘Get up!’ Hitachi screamed.
Ilsa had trouble rising, she was so petrified. She managed to get to her feet by leaning back against the wall and pushing herself up.
‘You come with me,’ he ordered and Ilsa obeyed, now beyond hope.
The guard gestured into a much larger, dank cell and Ilsa felt as if she would either vomit or faint when she realised the dimly lit room stank of human excrement and blood. In the centre of the room was a simple wooden table with two chairs – and one of the chairs was covered in a sticky-looking substance Ilsa guessed was blood.
‘Sit down,’ Hitachi barked, gesturing to the bloodied chair, and it was then that Ilsa noticed the naked body hanging limply from a rope swinging from the ceiling. Ilsa hardly recognised Captain Wessel, as his face was a bloody and pulped mask. Ilsa doubled over and retched.
‘As you can see, Captain Wessel is now dead,’ Hitachi said, leaning menacingly forward. ‘It seems your friend was planning to . . . how you say . . . spring you from here. But Captain Wessel has been under suspicion from my department since the fall of his country to the enemy. I am afraid that he was not a very brave man when it came to being subjected to his own methods of gaining information from reluctant prisoners.’
How fluent the Japanese officer was in the English language filtered through Ilsa’s terror.
‘May I compliment you on your excellent English, Colonel,’ she said and her flattery caused the Japanese officer to blink.
‘I learn when I live in Hawaii before the war,’ he replied. ‘Captain Wessel tried to rescue you and I want to know why you are so important that he would risk my anger.’
‘I am not important,’ Ilsa replied. ‘I am just a war correspondent and a prisoner of war – that is all.’
Hitachi moved very fast for a man of his bulk, and Ilsa felt the heavy blow of the back of his hand, sending her flying from the chair. She hit her head on the stone floor and saw a red haze. So, death was going to come to her as it had to the Gestapo officer; she could only pray it would be quick. Ilsa felt hands roughly lifting her to her feet and she was then slumped back in the chair.
‘You answer question with truth or you will beg for death with your screams,’ Hitachi said.
Ilsa could taste blood in her mouth and her head was reeling.
‘I am a war correspondent and American citizen,’ she whispered. ‘My father was once a member of the Nazi party in Germany, but he defected to the United States when I was a child. I do not know why the Nazis would want to question me.’
Her answer seemed to please the interrogator as he leaned back in his chair, placing his hands on his belly. ‘Himmler was a stupid man. He used his country’s resources to wage war against the Jews, and that helped our German allies lose the war. When we inflicted terror on the Chinese at Nanking, it sent a message that resistance was futile. We did not kill for the pleasure of killing.’
Ilsa heard the words but her head was still spinning. ‘I will answer any question you ask me,’ she said. A Japanese soldier entered the room and moved nervously to Hitachi’s side. He said something that Ilsa didn’t understand but brought a frown to the Kempeitai officer’s face.
Hitachi rose from his chair and turned to the armed guard hovering in the shadows at the edge of the room. He said something and the guard stepped forward. Ilsa felt a surge of panic but Hitachi turned to her and said, ‘You will be taken back to your cell. I have a matter to attend to.’
Ilsa rose from the chair unsteadily and allowed the guard to prod her with the tip of his rifle towards the doorway. She stumbled back to her cell and, for the first time, felt pleased to be back inside. At least she was out of that room of pain and death, even if it were only for the moment.
Ilsa collapsed into a corner, with her knees up around her chin and gripping her legs. Her body trembled uncontrollably and she wondered how long she could remain sane now that all hope of getting out of this hellhole was well and truly crushed. Only then did she consider means of killing herself. It would be better to die by her own hand than experience the fate of Captain Wessel.
*
Karl Mann could feel every nerve in his body stretching to breaking point. He was deep in Saigon and in the company of Pham, whose knowledge of the city was all that was keeping him alive. The two men, dressed in civilian clothing, made their way through an open marketplace filled with men and women wearing broad-brimmed conical hats. The air was filled with a thick, pungent smell Karl could not identify. From the market, they stepped out onto a broad boulevard and he was struck by how European the buildings were in this far-flung colony of France.
A convoy of Japanese military lorries prevented the two men from crossing the street and, as they waited for it to pass, Karl was surprised to see that the Japanese seemed oblivious to him. But when he glanced up and down the crowded pavements, he could see other Europeans amongst the Vietnamese, and presumed that they were French nationals.
‘The man we will meet is a Chinese merchant whose shop is off the street,’ Pham said under his breath, lest he be heard speaking English. ‘He is Viet Minh.’
‘Can we trust him?’ Karl asked, surprised.
‘At the moment we have a common enemy,’ Pham replied. ‘The Moslems I served with in North Africa had a saying – the enemy of my enemy is my friend. It is very appropriate for these times in my country.’
Karl followed Pham off the broad, tree-lined boulevard into what was no more than an alley, until they came to a doorway marked in Chinese and French, identifying the occupant as a healer and seller of medicinal herbs.
Both men stepped inside the tiny shop that was filled from wall to ceiling with jars of strange items hardly recognisable to Karl’s western eyes. There was in the air a strong smell of incense, which he was familiar with from his time staying with Doctor van Nuyen.
Karl was surprised to see a man of about his own age standing behind a cluttered counter – he had half-expected to be met by a wizened old man with the look of an Asian Merlin. Pham spoke in Vietnamese and Karl knew that he would be exchanging code words to identify them to the Viet Minh operative.
‘This is our man,’ Pham said, turning to Karl. ‘He does not speak English, but he has invited us to join him inside his house for tea.’
Karl followed the Chinese herbalist through a curtain, into a tiny room where a young woman was sitting with a baby in her arms. She looked alarmed when she saw Karl and Pham said something to reassure her.
‘I told her that you are not French,’ he said. ‘I told her that you are British. She is the wife of the herbalist.’
Karl smiled at the young woman, who hugged her baby close to her breast; then her husband said something to her and she left the room. Pham said that they were to sit down on the floor.
Within minutes the wife returned, placing a tray of glasses and a pot of tea on the floor between the men before leaving again.
The herbalist poured tea and passed the glasses to his guests. Pham began conversing with him in what Karl guessed was Vietnamese. After a pause in the conversation, Pham turned to Karl.
‘He says that he no longer has the radio transmitter because of the danger its presence meant for himself and his family. It has been taken to another area of the city, but he does not know where.’ Unknown to Karl, the vacuum created by the Japanese turning on their former French Vichy allies had been filled by Ho Chi Minh’s fo
rces in the southern part of the country. The Viet Minh took the opportunity to seize resistance arms and equipment, sometimes killing their former allies against the Japanese occupiers. The valuable radio transmitter was now in Viet Minh hands, and any agents for the OSS and SOE were keeping a low profile. This left Karl and his operation under the scrutiny of the nationalist Indochinese.
‘Ask him if he knows anything about a German woman being held by the Japanese in the Saigon prison.’
Pham turned to the herbalist and questioned him. ‘He says that he has heard there is a European woman being held by the Japanese, and the last thing he heard was that she is still alive, although Colonel Hitachi is not prone to keeping his prisoners alive for very long.’
Karl’s hopes were dashed. With the radio he might have been able to send a coded message south, to be picked up and relayed to Featherstone. He wanted clarification of his mission, or a reason to abort it and get the hell out of Indochina.
As far as Karl was concerned, he had an obligation to make contact with the woman – despite the fact Germany had been defeated. ‘Ask him if the Viet Minh have any armed forces in Saigon,’ Karl said.
Pham raised his eyebrows but turned his attention back to the herbalist, who was sipping his tea. Karl could see that the question caused the Chinese man some discomfort, as he squirmed in his cross-legged position.
‘He says that a request for armed forces could only be cleared by Ho Chi Minh himself, and he is up north. But I know the Viet Minh do have armed guerrillas in the city,’ Pham explained.
Karl smiled at the herbalist. ‘Tell him to somehow make contact with Ho Chi Minh and get permission to use any forces he has here for an operation against the Japanese. I have no doubt that this Colonel Hitachi has some Viet Minh in the prison.’
Pham translated and Karl could see that the herbalist was considering the suggestion. He spoke slowly when he gave his answer.
‘He says that it will take a little time for any message to be sent north, but he thinks Ho Chi Minh would look favourably upon an operation against the enemy in Saigon. It would be good for the people’s morale in the south, and there are Viet Minh leaders being held by Hitachi. He wants to know if you have a plan.’
‘Tell him I will have a plan,’ Karl replied. ‘I promise that we will do a lot of damage to the Japanese if he gives me the men and weapons I need.’
When the meeting was over, the herbalist gave Pham the address of a safe house where they were to wait. Karl left with a buoyant feeling of hope. Finally he might have the chance to strike at his enemy; he was sick of sitting around for wasted weeks, drinking tea and all the time looking over his shoulder. He was back in the war and, with any luck, he’d soon be able to make up for lost time.
*
Ilsa had almost become used to the tormented screams of the prisoners around her as they were dragged past her cell. A huge cockroach nibbled at her leg and she barely had the will to flick it off. Wessel was dead and all hope of escape gone. Even the little comfort she had found in Herlinde’s company was gone – when she had badgered her Vietnamese gaoler with Herlinde’s name he had run his finger across his throat, which had left Ilsa in no doubt as to the woman’s fate. It was only a matter of time before she herself was killed. She comforted herself with the knowledge that Wessel had been able to contact the International Red Cross, informing them of her whereabouts. At least Clark would know where she died.
She spent hours thinking about him; it was a place to retreat to, away from all this torment. She would remember how strong his arms had felt around her, think of the gentleness in his touch and voice. Often these memories were taken over by visions of huge, juicy steaks sizzling on the barbecue plate at his parents’ Montana ranch and Ilsa would feel guilty that those memories seemed even stronger than the memory of Clark’s face. Her ration was barely enough to keep her alive and she thought with bitterness that she would probably starve to death before she was executed.
Her gaoler came to her cell and pushed a tin plate of rice in fish sauce across the floor to her. Ilsa fell on the meal, eating with her hands and licking the dish while the guard stood back watching her. He seemed to be struggling to say something and finally one word tumbled awkwardly from his lips.
‘Hope,’ he said before retrieving the plate and closing the door behind him.
Ilsa thought she had heard wrongly. Why on earth would the man say that? She dismissed the incident as a figment of her imagination – after all, malnutrition had a way of causing hallucinations – but that night she found herself clinging to one word . . . Hope.
SEVENTEEN
They were all around him and Fuji cursed himself for remaining in this campsite for too long. He had traded some of his Australian shillings for food, then hidden away in the bush again. But the men of the village had realised their Japanese occupiers were not returning and they were growing bolder. They wanted Fuji’s money and would not hesitate to kill him for it.
Fuji lifted his rifle and checked the last three grenades to see that they were primed. It was near dark and he could feel the hair on his neck stiffen. A tiny crack of a twig from the thick bush around him and the ominous silence of the native birds warned him that he was being stalked.
The arrow thumped into the tree trunk behind him, missing him by inches, and he swung around, spotting the fleeting shadow of the archer. Fuji brought up his bolt-action rifle and fired. The range was only around ten yards and the bullet took the archer through the side of his head. He did not scream but simply crumpled, dropping the long hardwood bow strung with a strip of thin bamboo.
Chambering another round, Fuji crouched, scanning the deepening shadows of the rainforest and spotting movement only twenty yards away. Three, maybe four warriors were moving to outflank him and he reached for one of his precious grenades. It would be difficult because of the thick foliage – grenades thrown in these circumstances had a nasty habit of bouncing back on the thrower. But Fuji could see a space and he tossed the grenade underarm to where he calculated the warriors would be. The grenade exploded, shredding leaves and causing a man to scream in pain.
Fuji pulled his long bayonet from its scabbard and clicked it into place on the end of his rifle, then slipped cautiously into the shadows of the forest. He stumbled on two semi-naked men attempting to drag their wounded comrade through the bush. They did not see the Japanese sailor behind them until it was too late and Fuji lunged from cover, his bayonet burying itself deep in the chest of one of the warriors. The warrior had swung around, raising a machete, but he had not had time to use it, instead only exposing his chest. Blood poured from the dying man’s mouth as he feebly attempted to wrap his hands around the barrel of the rifle, but Fuji simply twisted the long knife in his chest, inflicting even more damage.
The second man fled into the gathering dark.
Fuji allowed the warrior’s weight to drag the rifle down to the ground, then placed his foot on the dead man’s chest, dragging out the bayonet with a sucking sound.
He turned his attention to the man he had wounded with the grenade. He could see the fear in his eyes, and he did not hesitate. With a quick lunge he sank the bayonet into the man’s throat with such force that the tip of the blade exited his neck. The man struggled, flopping around until his life ebbed from his body.
Fuji felt no emotion – other than gratitude for the fact that he was still alive. He had killed the men who had come to kill him and take his money. He listened carefully for sounds of any other attackers, but could hear none. No doubt the remaining warrior would be halfway back to the village to tell of the devil guarding the silver coins. He did not think any others would wish to risk death for the sake of the coins, but he knew payback would be a consideration once the men spoke to one another in the meeting house. It was time to leave but he had no means of escape other than by sea. And if he did escape, he had no choice but to surrender. He knew the war was as good as lost.
He was determined to keep his promise to
Oshiro to return to his family; he would tell them he had died a hero’s death. He knew it was an impossible task, but he would stay alive to try.
Fuji groped his way back to his campsite, gathered up his last remaining supplies and, in the dark, made his way to the place he knew the fishermen from the village launched their canoes.
He slept in the jungle adjoining the beach and when the sun rose, he noticed a canoe at the edge of the forest. Gathering up his bag of supplies, he made his way down to the beach and the unattended canoe, all the while listening out for the sounds of the village coming to life. He dumped his bag in the bottom of the wooden vessel, pushed it into the calm waters lapping at the beach and jumped in. There was a wooden oar lying at the bottom of the canoe and Fuji began paddling as quickly as he could.
The craft was well built and sliced through the rising waves as Fuji put distance between himself and the shore. Soon he was well out to sea, and the canoe rose and fell on the ocean swell. When he looked over his shoulder he could see the great forested mountains rising up over the water.
Fuji knew that all he had to do was keep starboard to the shore and paddle until night came, when he would once again go ashore to camp. A promise to a dead comrade kept him alive, helped by his own innate toughness as an experienced warrior of the Emperor.
*
The safe house was located in the Chinese quarter of Saigon, and the people who lived and worked in the area had anti-Japanese sentiments. Karl admired the courage of people who resisted occupation at such great cost to themselves.
Karl was sipping from a bowl of tasty spicy soup when a messenger came to speak with Pham.
‘Hitachi has decided to transport your German woman to Japan but the messenger, who has contacts in the prison, says that she is an American prisoner of war,’ Pham translated.
