by Rory Marron
Kudo soon observed that the General’s aide looked particularly uncomfortable. He was dabbing regularly at his forehead. In contrast, Yamagami was genuinely enjoying himself, untroubled by the red dust speckling his uniform and the heat. There was only a faint sheen of perspiration at his temples. To his aide’s dismay he also had barely touched the glass of the iced tea placed beside him. His own glass stood empty.
Throughout the day officers from neighbouring units had been visibly anxious to please Yamagami. Kudo had not been concerned. None of the others had fought the Russians and Chinese, who had nearly killed them both on a number of occasions, or experienced the extreme heat and cold of China.
Yamagami was glancing quickly down a list of competitors. Suddenly he looked up. ‘Er, Ota Kenichi? Is he by any chance the same Ota who won the University Championships in ’41?’
‘That’s him, General,’ said Kudo. ‘You have a good memory.’
‘I was there as a guest. He’s such a skilful fencer and so fast!’
‘Today, he’s the second seed,’ replied Kudo. ‘Last year’s champion, kenpei Captain Shirai, is the first.’
‘Really?’ Yamagami raised his eyebrows. ‘He beat Ota last year?’
‘No. Ota was on manoeuvres.’
They settled down to watch the remainder of the competition. The seeding was proving accurate as both Ota and Shirai progressed. Ota qualified for the final with a quick despatch of a kenpei lieutenant. So far he had not conceded a point in four bouts. The scoreboard showed only one other fencer with a clean sheet. It was Shirai. Ota waited, sitting under an awning for competitors, as Nagumo prepared to take on Shirai in the other semi-final.
Nagumo had also done well, taking only three hits in five bouts. The year before he had lost easily to Shirai, so Ota was pessimistic about his friend’s chances. Earlier in the afternoon Ota had seen Shirai quickly despatch two average fencers. Their later bouts had always coincided, so Ota had only managed to catch glimpses of his technique.
Around the arena, spectators quietened in anticipation. All eyes were on the two men bowing to each other and the referee. Army kendo did without the traditional garb of thick jackets and very wide, ankle-length pleated trousers. Instead, the competitors wore standard PT kit of calf-length cotton shorts and a thin, short-sleeved shirt. Only the target areas—head, chest and wrists—were given protection. Their padded, grilled helmets were close-fitting, resembling a baseball catcher’s mask. A narrow, reinforced leather flap hung down to deflect thrusts to the throat. The chest armour was a lacquered bamboo breast-plate fastened behind the back. Thick gauntlets covered their hands, wrists and forearms. In place of a sword was a four-foot length of tightly bound, thin bamboo slats called a shinai. A simple red or white ribbon attached to the rear ties of the breast-plate distinguished competitors. For this fight Nagumo wore white, Shirai red. At each corner of the competition area sat a judge who would raise red or white flags if they saw a point land.
‘Hajime!’—Begin! Nagumo and Shirai began to circle each other warily.
To his surprise, Ota saw Nagumo lifting his shinai to take a high guard, one favoured by Ota, rather than his preferred middle defence. Ota soon realised what his friend was doing. Damn it, he thought angrily, he’s showing me how Shirai defends. He’s throwing his own chance away! The clashing of bamboo echoed over the arena.
Nagumo was soon in trouble. He parried three quick attacks but then tried an ambitious counter. He was a fraction too slow. ‘Wrist!’ Shirai shouted in triumph. Two red flags from the judges acknowledged the point. The referee brought the fencers back to the centre for the restart.
Ota watched carefully, noting Shirai’s rhythm, balance and posture, watching for any tell-tale twitches or pauses that preceded an attack. Nagumo was defending well but he was forced into giving up ground and was warned for stepping out of the area. A few seconds later, again inches from the boundary, Nagumo countered Shirai’s attack with a fast cut to the head. At the last second Shirai dodged and the blow landed, not scoring, on his shoulder. Immediately Shirai caught Nagumo with another whip-like crack to the right wrist. Red flags shot upwards. The bout was over.
Nagumo bowed to Shirai and walked backwards to the edge of the arena where he gave a final bow to the judges. He was panting heavily as sat down next to Ota. He pulled off his gloves while Ota undid his mask.
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ Ota hissed quietly.
Nagumo, his face flushed, was unrepentant. ‘I know. But the sod was going to beat me anyway. I wanted you to see his counter to the wrist. It’s fast!’
‘I saw it all right!’ Ota said, kneeling and reaching for his own mask. Nagumo moved behind him to help tie it. He also added the white ribbon that identified his corner. As the surface was swept for the final, Ota pulled on his gloves. The judges also changed, handing over their flags with crisp bows. Ota and Shirai were called forward.
‘Hey, do your best!’ Nagumo called out encouragingly.
Ota rose and bowed to Shirai who stood on the opposite side of the arena. He was conscious only of his own breathing and the aggressive look from Shirai behind the grille of his mask. Ota, his face set, stared back confidently.
The two fencers came together for the traditional salute. Slowly they extended their bamboo swords, towards their opponent. Letting the tips cross, they lowered into a straight-backed squat, then rose, sword tips still crossed—still within hitting distance—their eyes fixed on each other.
‘Hajime!’
Neither Shirai nor Ota moved for several seconds. They stood poised and tense. Then Shirai jumped neatly backwards and launched a running attack to Ota’s head. Ota parried high, deflecting the sword to his right, then stepped forward with a horizontal slash to Shirai’s exposed right side. Shirai anticipated and blocked by bringing his sword almost vertical in front of him. Their weapons slid against each other, then locked at the guards, glove against glove. Their faces were only a foot apart. They glared at each other unblinking.
Ota felt Shirai’s breath on his face and could see the perspiration on his cheeks. Suddenly Shirai jerked his arms back and slammed his sword hilt at Ota’s fingers at the same time sweeping his front leg forward in an attempted trip. It was an old trick and Ota caught the hilt cleanly on his, nimbly stepping over Shirai’s leg. They jostled, pushing then and shoving, sensing the other’s movement, each wary of a throw or grab.
‘Zaaah!’ Shirai bellowed and heaved, spattering Ota with spittle. Ota absorbed the shove smoothly but was forced to give some ground. He felt the greater strength in Shirai’s arms and backed away again. Shirai’s eye’s shone as he sensed Ota give and he pushed again. Between them the crossed hilts began to rise. Whoever broke away first would also be vulnerable to a fast counter. Both men continued to push. Suddenly Ota jumped backwards. Shirai reacted a split second later. Both went for the head strike and the swords thudded down onto the padded masks.
‘Men!’—Head!—‘Men!’ Two shouts merged as each claimed the point.
Their movements had been lightning fast. Ota knew he had been the quicker and looked expectantly for the two white flags, certain the point was his. Two whites were up but incredibly, two reds as well. Ota looked to the referee who hesitated then crossed his two flags together in front of him making the signal for simultaneous hits. No points scored! Ota was incredulous.
Shirai darted forward catching Ota with a snapped flick on his lower right arm. ‘Wrist!’ Shirai claimed loudly.
Ota was stunned because the referee had yet to signal a proper restart. Once again the same two judges raised red flags. Open-mouthed, Ota turned to the referee to see him also raise a red flag. Only then did Ota notice the judges flagging red wore black kenpei chevrons. He grunted in frustration. Shirai had a half-point lead.
At the restart, Shirai attacked with a fast wrist, head and trunk sequence but Ota was ready. He dodged the first two and as Shirai slashed for his open right chest, he took a half-step back to parry verticall
y by crossing his wrists, squatting low and pulling his sword close to his body. It was a classical battlefield defence. The bamboo weapons slapped together.
Ota’s unusual block caught Shirai by surprise, leaving him stretched and slightly off balance with his arms extended uselessly. Ota took his opportunity and deftly stepped to the side to cut neatly for Shirai’s wrist. The thwack of the hit on his opponent’s glove was clearly audible. White flags shot up. The half-point was Ota’s. Shirai bowed.
The referee brought them together for the last time. ‘Begin!’ Shirai attacked furiously with torso and head combinations. Ota was parrying neatly but backing away. He knew he was close to the edge of the area.
‘Halt!’ The referee pointed to a red flag raised by one of the kenpei judges who indicated he had stepped out of the area. Ota knew he had not done so but accepted the warning with a bow. If it happened again he would lose the bout.
Shirai sensed his advantage and came at him once again, lunging with a straight thrust at his throat. Ota stepped back, then aside. He cut quickly for Shirai’s right side, forcing him to dart backwards and snatch his sword back in a low-angled block outside his body line. Now Shirai’s left side was exposed. Ota whipped his sword up for a reverse trunk attack, a cut from high right to lower left. It was a rarely used technique because of the feudal-era legacy when a second, shorter blade was worn at the left side. For such an attack to be effective it would have to cut through the second blade and any armour beneath. For it to score it required immense force and perfect form. In reality, it was a desperate, last resort.
Ota cut high to the right and his legs flexed visibly as he strained to gain the extra power. Shirai pulled back neatly into a mid-range guard as Ota launched himself. Shirai’s parry would not stop the hit but it would impede it enough to deny Ota any hope of a point. Worse, Ota’s head would be exposed to a certain winning counter. Yet even as Shirai braced, he saw Ota’s wrists roll, flicking the sword over his lateral parry to a new target. A whip-like crack carried around the arena as Ota’s sword slapped Shirai’s head. Ota’s swept forward, past his opponent. ‘Heeaad!’ His shout was triumphant.
Awed gasps from the spectators were followed by thunderous applause. Ota knew he had won, biased judges or not. He turned to see two white flags already high followed, a little hesitantly, by two more. The referee then raised his own white flag confirming Ota’s victory. Behind his mask Shirai’s eyes blazed but his bows to Ota, the referee and the judges were courteous and crisp. Both men left the arena to a round of further applause.
Nagumo was elated and barely able to contain himself. ‘Brilliant! You did it! But why didn’t you take a high guard?’
‘That’s what he expected,’ Ota gasped. He sank down on to his knees and Nagumo began untying his mask.
Nagumo laughed. ‘That’s what they expected you mean,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t think all the judges were neutral!’
‘I would never have guessed,’ Ota smirked. Nagumo handed him some water and he gulped it down.
‘Well, well,’ Nagumo muttered as he glanced across the arena. ‘Look who’s with Shirai’s group! It’s Kato from Ordnance. He practised with us sometimes. The sneak never let on he was in with the kenpei. And the things I said!’
Ota looked at the sullen group of policemen who were keeping their distance from a clearly displeased Shirai.
‘Hey,’ Nagumo suddenly asked. ‘Why did you pull the reverse cut? You had him!’
‘Yeah,’ Ota heaved, ‘but there was no way the judges would have given me the point. They could rule all sorts: too weak, bad form, questionable sportsmanship….’
‘Shirai would do it. That wrist point of his was a joke!’
‘I was counting on that.’
Nagumo’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean you set him up?’
‘Well,’ Ota said nonchalantly, ‘I just hinted at the move. He did the rest.’
Nagumo guffawed. ‘Tonight, “Musashi-sensei”, the drinks and the girls are on me!’ Miyamoto Musashi was the most famous swordsman in Japanese history. ‘I’ll see you at six. Hey, you better look sharp, the General’s getting ready to present you with the trophy!’
By early evening, General Yamagami was in a relaxed, jovial mood. He was also slightly drunk, as was Kudo. They were sitting on the veranda of Kudo’s requisitioned house. Three empty porcelain sake flasks lay horizontally on the small, low table between them. A half-empty fourth was buried to its neck in a silver ice bucket.
Kudo, as host, was waiting patiently for his guest to say what was really on his mind. Yamagami’s inspection of radio communications, gun emplacements, ammunition stocks and tank traps had been very thorough, as Kudo had expected. It had also been a rather elaborate front to watch a kendo tournament. The General had appeared well satisfied with what he had seen. That, on top of the excitement of the kendo, a bath, a massage and then a sumptuous early dinner at the Officers’ Club had made for an unusually full but satisfying and pleasant day for them both.
The deep, melodious voice of a muezzin calling the faithful to the day’s fifth and final prayers hung in the air. Yamagami sank back in his chair with his eyes closed, listening until the last echo of the call had faded. ‘That must be one of my favourite sounds of Java,’ he sighed. ‘Such a restful yet haunting quality… Sometimes I think it’s a pity that Islam is forever closed to we Japanese.’ For several seconds he was silent as he mused on his casual heresy. When he spoke again he sounded flat, even tired. His eyes flicked open and fixed on Kudo. ‘Exclude all militia formations from your defence plans. Don’t trust them!’
There! Kudo thought at last. After four flasks Yamagami had finally unburdened himself. The General emptied his tiny sake cup and Kudo refilled it immediately.
Kudo raised his eyebrows. ‘All ten battalions?’
‘Our spies tell us that mass desertions are planned for immediately after the American invasion.’
Kudo frowned. ‘After?’
‘Yes, it seems the nationalists intend for us and the Yankees to fight it out and then pick up the pieces.’
Kudo nodded. ‘It’s understandable. They must be assuming the Americans can’t commit unlimited men to Java. It’s what I am hoping for.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Yamagami. ‘At least not until…Japan falls.’ The two soldiers stared at the floor rather than each other, uncomfortable with the thought of defeat.
Yamagami cleared his throat. ‘I have advised Tokyo that we cannot hold Java for long. I also urged them to evacuate the Sixteenth to China where we could combine with our Kwantung forces. They are self-sufficient and could continue fighting even if Japan was…occupied. Officially my idea was rejected for “strategic reasons”. In fact, we don’t have any troop ships left.’
Kudo pursed his lips. ‘So we’re in another tight corner!’
‘Yes, my friend, and this time we stand alone. Anyway, I’m ordering the militia disarmed. Tactfully, of course, but they’ll certainly be unhappy.’ He placed his palms flat on his thighs and made a barely perceptible bow. ‘I think I’ll call it a night.’ When he stood up he rocked a little. ‘I’ll leave this way,’ he said indicating to the path that led around the side of the house. For the first time Kudo noticed the deep lines around the older man’s eyes.
Kudo rang a bell and there was a brisk, soft padding of footsteps, as a woman appeared carrying Yamagami’s tunic, sword and boots. She bowed formally, almost horizontally. A red bougainvillaea flower appeared to float in her lustrous coiled hair. Her pale cream shoulder-covering kebaya bodice glittered with silver floral motifs and a line of moonstone buttons accentuated the swell of her breasts.
‘General,’ said Kudo cheerfully. ‘Let me introduce Lena-san.’ Kudo read Yamagami’s envious look and continued quickly. ‘This was her home. Her husband served in the Dutch Navy. He was killed in the Battle of the Java Sea. She is now my housekeeper.’
Yamagami stood mesmerised. ‘Here’s another of my favourite things about Java! I’d forgott
en the advantages of lower rank. Alas Generals have far too high a profile!’
Lena looked up and smiled, revealing porcelain white teeth behind sensual, full lips. Both men laughed but only Kudo knew the hollowness of the look and the simmering pride it disguised.
Yamagami finished dressing. ‘Kudo, one more thing,’ he said half turning. His tone was serious again. ‘Whatever happens, don’t count on the Navy. Ishida’s a slippery one. Sometimes I think he and his boss Shimizu are more interested in Indonesia’s future than Japan’s!’
Kudo wondered at the implications. Vice-Admiral Tadakatsu Shimizu, the senior Japanese Navy commander in the Indies, was based at Surabaya. ‘There are only a few companies of marines at Surabaya, General,’ Kudo replied nonchalantly.
Yamagami shrugged. ‘Yes, you’re right. What can they do?’ He bowed formally. ‘Thank you, Kudo—quite like old times… We will declare Djakarta, Bandung and Buitenzorg open cities. I don’t want to see those attractive buildings destroyed.’ He paused. ‘At the end, if you have no objection, I’ll try and reach your unit….’
Kudo bowed equally formally. ‘We would be honoured, General,’ he said with total sincerity.
Yamagami turned and, unbidden, Lena sped daintily down the path to see him to his car.
Kudo watched, admiring her poise and style. Then he walked back into the house, pausing to finish the last of the sake as he went upstairs. He threw off his shirt and trousers and lay on the carved teak four-poster bed, enjoying the light breeze and moonlight coming through the open French windows that led to the balcony. He dozed, waking every few minutes in a pattern ingrained from years at the front line.
From the heady bougainvillaea scent he knew Lena was close by. He pretended to be asleep because otherwise she would insist on fetching him ice water from the kitchen. He sensed her move away and he half-opened an eye. She was sitting, bathed in moonlight, combing her waist- long hair. He watched the tresses rise and fall and was reminded of waves lapping up a night-time shore. Her thin-strapped nightdress was gossamer light and when she stood the moonbeams undressed her. She stood staring at the stars for several seconds before turning suddenly and arranging the thin mattress on the floor at the foot of his bed. Then she lay down out of sight.
