One Man's Justice

by Akira Yoshimura

  Himuro pressed his right hand hard against his forehead. ‘They might come looking for me at work,’ he said, glancing furtively over his shoulder.

  ‘That’s right. Who knows when they’ll come? You know it’s too risky to go back there. You’ve got to run for it now while you can,’ said Takuya.

  Himuro nodded in agreement, a look of utter consternation in his eyes. ‘Where will you go?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. It’s best if neither knows where the other’s going. If one of us is caught and ends up being tortured, the other might be found. Neither of us needs that. I’m not trusting anyone from now on. There’s no way I’ll let them put a noose round my neck,’ said Takuya in a clear, determined tone. Himuro nodded again, without replying.

  ‘One thing, though: you’ll need to get some money and food before you make your move away from here. This will help,’ said Takuya, pulling the carefully folded identification papers out of the inside pocket of his jacket.

  ‘If you show this you can get a ration book. Shirasaka gave me two, so you can have one of them. He told me to pretend to be from Okinawa and to say that going back there isn’t an option. Just choose an Okinawan name and write it on the identification paper and you’ll have a new identity.’

  Takuya handed the form to Himuro. The square, red ink seal of the Western Region’s Hakata administration office for demobilised servicemen validated it as identification for the bearer.

  ‘Well, I’d best be on my way. Don’t get caught,’ said Takuya, squeezing Himuro’s bony arm before he moved from behind the telegraph pole. He took half a dozen hurried steps across the road before stealing a glance back over his shoulder. Himuro had already gone.

  Takuya headed back toward the scorched ruins. The area around the myriad makeshift huts in front of him was teeming with people. To get to the station Takuya would have to make his way through the crowd, so he pulled his cap down over his eyes to hide as much of his face as possible. He had last shaved when he left home to go to Fukuoka, so he now sported a considerable beard.

  As he moved into the throng he heard a steady drone of hoarse male voices coming from huts on both sides of the path. Once he had worked himself comfortably into the flow of pedestrians, he craned his neck past the people walking alongside him to peer into the huts. He was taken aback by what he saw. There were people ladling curry from large pots into steaming bowls of rice and others selling steamed dumplings. People were handing over money in exchange for bowls of soup, vegetable porridge and noodles, and between these food stalls others hawked mud-brown cakes of soap or little open boxes of cigarettes. The pungent smells wafting from the stalls and the bustling air of the market left Takuya dazed as he arrived in front of the station.

  There were men and women sitting everywhere on the cracked concrete floor inside the station, some curled up sound asleep.

  Takuya found space to sit on the floor near the waiting-room and started to think about where he should go. Perhaps he should go north. If he went up to Hokkaido he should be able to find work in a mine without too much trouble, but the thought of heading in that direction and having to go through Tokyo, where SCAP headquarters were, weighed on him heavily.

  Perhaps he should go south instead. One of his subordinates in the anti-aircraft tactical operations room had gone back to Tanegashima, and Takuya thought there was a good chance that this man would give him shelter. But getting there would involve passing through Kyushu, where the majority of those involved in the executions of the American airmen were living. Since investigations were likely to be centred in that region, it was difficult for Takuya to bring himself to head that way.

  He tried to visualise the faces of comrades who hadn’t taken part in the executions, searching his mind for someone who would treat him the same way as during the war, despite the collapse of the military and the scarcity of food and other essentials.

  The face of one man came to mind, a corporal named Nemoto Kosaku. He had been attached to the tactical operations room and had always gone out of his way to help Takuya, ordering the soldiers on duty to change his bedding and make tea for him. Takuya remembered that Nemoto was from a little fishing village on Shoodo-shima in the eastern Inland Sea. An anti-aircraft observation post had been located there during the war, but there had been no other military facilities to speak of, so the occupation forces were unlikely to have stationed troops there. The fact that it was a fishing village also meant that they would probably not want for food.

  Takuya also recalled that Nemoto had said he could get from his village to Kobe or Osaka by ferry, an option much more appealing to Takuya than another ride on a jam-packed train.

  He stood up, walked over to the ticket window, and asked the way to the Osaka harbour ferry terminal.

  ‘The pier?’ muttered an old station worker sitting on a stool beside the entrance to the platforms, who then grudgingly told him the way.

  Takuya started walking.

  5

  The ferry left Osaka that afternoon and arrived in Kobe in the early evening. For some reason it didn’t depart that night, as it should have done, but stayed in port until early the next morning. The boat was jammed with passengers, but Takuya managed to find a spot on the deck to curl up and close his eyes. Shutting out the light focused his mind on himself.

  An itchy sensation spread slowly down his back and he felt as if tiny creatures were crawling over his skin. In the crush on the train from his hometown to Fukuoka his clothes must have become infested with lice.

  The ferry trip was long. The boat steadily threaded its way past islands of all sizes and shapes, but Takuya paid little heed to the view beyond the bulwarks, lying on his side munching a sweet potato.

  He recalled the look of panic on Himuro’s face and wondered whether his friend had taken his advice and fled straight away rather than risking going back to work. Maybe he had first tried to reach his wife to say goodbye. Either way, very soon the authorities would move to make an arrest, and whatever happened from now on, Takuya felt good knowing he had at least been able to warn his friend and give him the identification papers to help him on his way.

  Takuya was as bewildered as Himuro that they had been found out despite their having left nothing that could be used against them. Colonel Tahara had called a meeting of all those involved in the executions to stress the importance of ensuring that not one scrap of evidence be left behind.

  Although none of the POWs was alive to testify, there remained the problem of what would happen if the occupation authorities found out that forty-one American airmen had been transferred from the kempeitai to Western Command. Obviously, their first question would be about what had happened to those men. One suggestion was that they say they had all burnt to death when the camp in Fukuoka was destroyed in the incendiary raids. The problem with this, someone pointed out, was that they had no plausible explanation as to why the burnt bodies could not be exhumed for inspection.

  After some debate, they had agreed that their story must involve the bodies disappearing altogether. Colonel Tahara had already sworn to silence all those who participated in the executions, and had told them that, if questioned, they were to say the POWs had been sent to Tokyo. It was decided that the story should be an extension of that, namely that the prisoners had all died in transit; that, given the already desperate situation in mid-July, and with no military aircraft available, two large fishing-boats had been requisitioned to transport the men. They were all told to say that both boats had sunk in the Kanmon Strait after striking American mines. If questioned further, they were to say that American aircraft and submarine activity had forced the two vessels to leave Hakata port under cover of darkness, and that no sooner had they entered the Kanmon Strait than both hit mines and sank without a trace. That area of water had been literally peppered with mines and such incidents had become an everyday occurrence, so this story had the ring of plausibility.

  The only thing left
was the actual disposal of the bodies. Almost half had already been cremated and the rest buried in a nearby graveyard, but it was decided that they should all be reduced to ashes and then disposed of at sea. The bodies were exhumed and hurriedly cremated and the ashes placed in urns before being loaded into a lorry, together with the ashes of those cremated earlier. Takuya rode in the front cab as the vehicle wound its way down to Hakata port. His charges sat on the wooden benches in the back of the truck, staring blankly anywhere but at the forty-one urns in front of them, now in bundles of threes and fours. A large fishing-boat moored to the pier was ready to take Takuya and his men far enough offshore to dispose of what the boat’s crew had been told were boxes of military documents. About four kilometres east of Nokonoshima, Takuya ordered the forty-one urns dropped overboard.

  By this time a wave of panic had struck northern Kyushu. Alarming rumours were circulating that, within hours of the Emperor’s radio broadcast announcing defeat, US troops had begun landing in Hakata Bay, that black American soldiers had raped large numbers of local women, and that the Soviet Pacific fleet was steaming ominously toward Kyushu. The hysteria was fanned when many local government offices instructed their female staff to evacuate immediately. Crowds of frantic people carrying their belongings swarmed to the railway station in hopes of escaping to somewhere safe. The Moji Railway Company went so far as to bring in extra engineers and organise special train services to evacuate as many people as possible. Even on government-run lines, passengers were encouraged to board the trains without paying, to save time, and instead were given tickets requiring payment when they got off at their destination. These trains headed inland from northern Kyushu several times each day. Those who couldn’t force their way inside the cars through doors or windows clambered on to the roofs, sat amid the coal in the engine tender, or even stood precariously on the cowcatcher at the very front of the engine.

  This confusion had reigned for several days, but Takuya and his comrades felt secure in the knowledge that they had disposed of all evidence linking them to the executions. Even if the American military did come and occupy the burnt ruins of Fukuoka, he thought, how on earth could they ever discover that forty-one airmen had actually been taken prisoner?

  Such confidence meant that Shirasaka’s revelation that the Americans knew everything about what had gone on came as a tremendous shock, of course, and the realisation that they had seriously underestimated the Americans’ investigation had filled Takuya with fear. At the same time, he felt ashamed that his lily-livered superiors had been so quick to break down under interrogation and tell all about the experimental surgery and the beheading of the surviving POWs.

  The Americans were obviously not an enemy to be taken lightly, thought Takuya. They would certainly have ordered the Japanese police to move to arrest those suspected of war crimes, and would surely be carrying out independent investigations as well.

  The boat sounded its steam horn and its progress through the water slowed as the engine was eased back. Takuya sat up and turned his gaze in the direction of the prow. The shore was not far away now, and he could make out a number of houses nestled below the low hills behind the village. Lines of small boats were moored at the shore on both sides of a short jetty sticking out at a right angle into the water.

  Slowly edging forward, the ferry drew up alongside the little pier. Crewmen threw ropes to others waiting on the jetty, and in a moment the boat had stopped moving altogether. Takuya stood up and looked at the little village. Houses dotted both sides of the narrow, winding road that ran parallel to the shoreline. Almost all were of a single storey. The slopes behind the village were covered with terraced fields.

  Takuya thought this looked an ideal place to hide. There was no chance of American lorries or jeeps appearing on the road, and a police station was highly improbable in a village this size. There would be very few people coming and going, so there was little chance of his being spotted by someone who might recognise him. Once familiar with the villagers, he thought, he should be able to get a job and stay here for quite some time.

  Takuya followed the other passengers off the boat and on to the wooden pier. A group of old people were squatting on their haunches in one corner of the open area in front of the jetty, enjoying a chat with their friends in the sun. Takuya sauntered over to them and asked where he might find Nemoto Kosaku’s house. Without moving to stand up, and almost in unison, two of the old men pointed down the road and explained how far to go and where to turn. Takuya followed their directions, walking up the road until he came to a small wooden bridge, which he crossed before turning right on to a narrow path up a slight slope. There were a number of houses along the path, but the old men had told Takuya that Nemoto’s was the one on the left at the corner where this lane met the next. The house was quite small, but it had obviously originally been built to serve as a shop, too, as just inside the door, on the lower concrete floor section of the house, was an old counter. There were no goods for sale.

  Takuya hesitated. The outward appearance of Nemoto’s house suggested that the family was not likely to be able to put him up and feed him. Having been turned away by his own uncle, Takuya thought he should not expect too much from Nemoto. Defeat had swept away the obligations required of a subordinate to his superior.

  But then again, he’d come not because he wanted to impose upon Nemoto’s hospitality but to ask for assistance in finding a job. Reminding himself that all he wanted to do was start a new life here, and that there was no way he would allow himself to become a burden on Nemoto, Takuya stepped across to the entrance, slid the glass door to one side and called out to those inside.

  A man’s face appeared from behind the sliding door dividing the shop area from the rest of the house. It was Nemoto. His hair was cropped almost to his scalp, and he wore a vaguely suspicious look. The contrast between the bright sun outside and the shade inside seemed to make it difficult for him to identify who had arrived.

  ‘It’s Kiyohara,’ said Takuya, removing his service cap.

  ‘Lieutenant!’ said Nemoto, jumping to his feet. He was clearly taken aback, but his face was the same picture of loyalty it had always been during his days as a corporal under Takuya’s command.

  Stepping down from the raised tatami mats on to the concrete floor of what had once been the shop, Nemoto apologised for the poor state of the place, but invited Takuya to come through into the living-area. When they were both inside, Nemoto knelt on the mats, placed his hands in front of him and bowed low to Takuya, thanking him for his kind guidance during their time together at headquarters. This polite reception embarrassed Takuya, but fond memories of Nemoto’s devoted service during the war made him feel slightly more at ease.

  As Nemoto moved to prepare a pot of green tea, his expression betrayed a growing suspicion as to the reason behind his guest’s sudden appearance. When Nemoto knelt down again on the faded tatami mats, Takuya explained himself in a very calm, matter-of-fact manner. Nemoto, who knew about Takuya’s involvement in the executions, quickly grasped the seriousness of this being found out by the occupation authorities.

  Takuya went on to explain that he wanted to take refuge on the island and asked if Nemoto would help him find work.

  Nemoto nodded and said, ‘I understand. You’re welcome to stay here with us in the meantime. As you can see, it’s not the grandest place in the world, but what little we have is yours to use as your own.’

  Takuya told him about the situation in Fukuoka and the other cities and towns he had seen from the trains in the last few days. As he described the bustle of the black market in Osaka, the village merchant in Nemoto seemed to rekindle and he keenly questioned Takuya about the things being sold in the market. During the war his family had opened a general store, but shortage of saleable goods had eventually put them out of business.

  ‘Do you think it will be long before we can start buying things to sell again?’ asked Nemoto earnestly.

  ‘I have no idea,’ rep
lied Takuya. ‘Everybody seems to be stretched just getting enough food to feed themselves these days.’

  The rattle of the sliding glass door being pulled across was followed by the high-pitched voice of a small child. Nemoto got to his feet, stepped down on to the concrete floor and whispered something to those who had just come in. A little girl, five or six years old, peeped round the door at Takuya.

  Nemoto stepped back into the room, followed first by a woman of about thirty and then by an elderly lady. He introduced the older woman as his mother and the younger as his wife. Both women bowed politely, the mother affording her guest a friendly smile as she thanked Takuya for the guidance and kindness he had shown her son during the war. It struck Takuya as somewhat unusual that, despite the fact that Nemoto was no more than twenty-four or twenty-five, he was already married with a daughter not too far from primary-school age.

  As the two women led the little girl through the door into the next room, Takuya leant toward Nemoto and whispered that he did not want his part in the executions known to either of them. Nemoto nodded without saying a word.

  That evening, Takuya sat with Nemoto’s family at the low table in the living-room. The meal was rice gruel flavoured with pieces of potato, along with a little pile of tiny dried fish on a separate plate. In front of Takuya there was also one egg. Despite Nemoto’s protestations, Takuya moved the egg across beside the little girl’s chopsticks.

  After the meal Takuya pulled the bag of rice out of his rucksack and gave it to the younger woman. Nemoto tried to refuse this contribution also, but Takuya, insisting, pushed the bag back into the woman’s hands and pulled the cords closed on his rucksack. Seemingly resigned to accepting the gift, Nemoto guided Takuya to the third room, at the back of the house. Laying himself down on a futon for the first time in longer than he cared to remember, and soothed by the sound of the waves on the shore, Takuya soon fell into a deep sleep.