“Now you, my precious Samurai,” the Colonel said in a venomous voice, “withdraw that katana! Let us discover if it is useful for anything besides digging me a toilet!” One of the soldiers, a homely man with buckteeth, guffawed. Katsu shot him such a furious look that the man ducked his head and was quiet.
Katsu did not like to draw the sword unless he intended to use it. It was certainly not for showing off. Yes, he had killed enemy soldiers with it in hand-to-hand combat, but when this group invaded the Sepik, he did not require anything other than a rifle.
Now, under a direct order from his Commander, he reluctantly withdrew the blade from the scabbard. The eyes of the men widened as the shining steel came out. Katsu kept it clean, oiled and free of rust. While none of the others had personal experience with a priceless antique such as this, they knew enough to recognize the genuine article.
“How beautiful!” one of them sighed.
“Yes, beautiful,” the Colonel sneered. “A beautiful relic from an outlawed caste. Where was it made?”
“Bizen,” Katsu said. The name of the place was also one of the names of the blade.
“And you, Takano. I expect you know kendo?”
Katsu had trained faithfully in the martial art, two hours or more a day, six days a week, since he was a boy.
“Yes, honored Lieutenant Colonel Matsui,” he replied with exaggerated courtesy.
“What dan are you?”
“I have been fortunate enough to achieve the fifth level.”
“Impressive, Captain,” the Commander said, while his tone implied the opposite. “And no doubt you are also a master of iaido?”
This was the martial dedicated exclusively to swordsmanship. While kendo involved sparring, the exchange of blows with body parts and wooden swords, in iaido there was solitary practice only. Katana were far too deadly for sparring.
“I am third dan.”
“Again, impressive.” The Colonel struggled to curl his downward-cast lips in a smile. “Well, Takano. Let us find out if that katana has some value. Use it now—behead these men! I command you!”
When the sword had slid from its scabbard with an audible ring, the white men glanced at Katsu in terror. The younger was the short one, his head bald on top. The elder had shaggy gray hair in need of a cut. Both men wore well-washed shorts and shirts, and sandals on their feet.
The bald one began to pray in a panicked voice, begging God to spare their lives. The older man told him to be calm. Then he, too, began to pray, but in a quiet, firm voice.
“Our Father, who art in heaven…” The younger priest joined in, his voice steadying as he continued.
Katsu had existed in distress for a long time, but now he found himself in an impossible dilemma. He was a career military man with a renowned father. He was accustomed to submitting himself to the absolute hierarchy of the Army. Orders were to be obeyed at once, without question. Yet it was clear these gaijin were exactly what they said they were, Catholic missionaries. He had never even imagined that one day he would be ordered to kill a priest, whether Christian, Shinto, Taoist or Buddhist.
“I am sorry, honored Lieutenant Colonel Matsui. These men are civilians, and priests at that. I cannot see any reason…”
“Silence, Takano!” the Commander bellowed. “Do not be insubordinate, or reveal yourself a coward before the men! There will be immediate consequences!” The Commander held his rifle at his waist, aimed at the Captain.
“Do as I command at once—or give me the sword!”
“…lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil,” the priests intoned.
Katsu saw the entire fate of his career, and the honor of his family, hang on these seconds. Abruptly he reversed the sword, holding it by the blade, the handle toward his superior. The Commander grew even more furious.
“Just as I thought Takano! You are a coward, and absolutely useless!” The Commander shoved his rifle to a soldier and marched over. He grabbed the handle and jerked so that Katsu would have lost fingers if he had not released it fast enough. The Colonel clutched the weapon and raised it in the air. Katsu saw immediately that he was a clumsy amateur.
The Colonel spun and slashed at the younger priest’s neck. The blade chopped into the flesh like butter, but it was a bad cut that did not reach the spine. The man screamed and his companion shouted in horror. The soldiers held the struggling priest in place as he tried to clamp a hand to his neck, which poured blood.
The Colonel raised the sword and hacked again. It was another inept blow that did not even strike in the same place. The victim began sobbing, while the older man tried to struggle up, yelling at the men to be human! Katsu’s heart was moved, but he betrayed nothing on his face.
Twice more, Matsui struck. None of the blows were terminal. The priest struggled weakly until at last he choked on his blood and died.
Katsu felt a strong new emotion sweep through him—pure contempt. The Lieutenant Colonel went around and stood beside the older priest.
“Lord help me!” the Australian cried, and Katsu realized he was about to intervene. He ran at Matsui and, as the Commander raised the sword to strike again, he put his hand over the other man’s and squeezed. The Colonel tried to jerk away, but Katsu’s grip was like iron.
“Please step aside, honored Lieutenant Commander Matsui,” he said. The older man felt his fingers being crushed, and now he noticed the blood splashed all over him. He nodded and let the Captain take the sword.
“Your turn then,” he said. He stepped away to watch. Katsu raised the blade and the old priest looked up at him.
“One blow, son,” he said, “Please! One blow!”
“Yes Father,” Katsu said. “Forgive me.”
“May God forgive you.”
Katsu raised the blade, all his force focused, and down it flashed. The priest’s gray head tumbled from his shoulders and rolled away.
“Good job, Captain,” the Commander said in a smug tone. The troops let go of the bodies and stood.
“Perhaps you are not entirely obsolete, after all.”
Katsu faced the older man, the bloody katana comfortable in his grip.
“Please do not speak to me just now, honored Lieutenant Colonel Matsui!” he said. For the first time, the Commander realized the mortal danger he was in, and felt fear. He gazed at the warrior standing before him. The man’s shirt was a rag that hung open, and his trousers were a disgrace. But he also saw the bunched muscles in the arms, shoulders and stomach. Most clearly, he saw his own death shining in those dark eyes. At once, he bit off the insulting retort he’d been about to make.
“Yes, well….” Hastily he took a few steps and turned as if to admire the view. Katsu gasped for air and regained control of himself.
The natives, including the Sepik guides, saw the slaughter of the white men in mounting alarm. Someone shouted, and they all panicked and scattered.
“Shoot them!” the Commander called. The solders raised their rifles and brought the runners down. Minutes after they had arrived in Kissim, twelve bodies lay scattered on the ground.
The squad of nine took control of a nearby hill. They excavated a pit at the top and built a bunker of logs. Here, they lived and kept watch. Here, they were reasonably safe. But still, they must go for water, and scrounge for food, and then they were vulnerable.
Indeed, a patrol was ambushed. Two of Katsu’s soldiers were killed with arrows. It was a terrible way to die, he thought, as he observed the spiked bodies. He ordered his men to set an ambush. They captured a native man and brought him before the Colonel. As it turned out, the prisoner knew some of the trade language.
The Colonel revealed a hidden talent. He sharpened some bamboo slivers and went to work on the captive. He slid them slowly under the man’s fingernails. Within five minutes, the native had divulged that there were two more white men hidden with the villagers. The Commander ordered the man to take them there, at once. He balked.
Matsui had his men untie the nat
ive’s loincloth and continued to work his spikes into sensitive areas. Within minutes, the fellow was hobbling through the jungle on his way to betray his people.
This time, although Katsu did not like the Colonel’s methods of interrogation, he was in agreement with his leader. If they allowed the slaughter of their men to go unpunished, they would all die. They were outnumbered, running short of ammunition, and they must respond with strength. They hunted down and shot the white men, and every villager they saw. Peace returned to Kissim.
But then the enemy aircraft brought more soldiers. The Commander and all the Japanese were slaughtered, except one. Katsu was the last of the squad.
But what a disgrace! At least the men had not lived to see this—their Captain, a prisoner. And the thing that ate at Katsu’s mind all the time since, was that he had been disarmed by a brute animal. Certainly, it was a fearsome monster. But it was a crocodile that had delivered him to the enemy.
And then, at the pivotal moment when he had the choice of death or surrender, he had succumbed. He let himself be taken prisoner. Of course, the situation was always temporary, he reminded himself now. My escape was only a matter of when.
Do not think so much, it is a mistake, his father’s voice said in his mind. Take rest when you cannot act, act the instant you can. This is the way of the warrior.
The storm continued to rage. Katsu opened his eyes. He saw the enemy and knew he was fading like the day itself.
All that stands between me and freedom is this pitiful ogre. And he, too, is sick, I can see it. Still, I will not act. He points his rifle at me, but this is sure. In minutes, I will take him, and regain my katana. Again, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
The sword “Bizen,” known to the men of my family as “Katsumushi-maru,” has sung in battle in my hands, and the hands of my father, and his father, and all our forefathers, for three hundred years. I will regain the blade I was named for, and I will take my enemies’ lives. Then I will go down the river and rejoin my countrymen. I hope we will be shipped north to defend our homes and families when the gaijin invade. But if we must stay here and fight to the death, so be it.
The Australian grunted when the cramps squeezed his belly, and again Katsu opened his eyes. He watched the man as a snake studies an injured bird.
Footy knew he was in terrible trouble, and he glanced at Johnny, still slumped in the rain. No help there. He flashed another look at the enemy and saw him staring coldly back.
“You move, Jap, and I’ll shoot!” The pilot kept him covered, while his other hand undid his shorts. Footy jerked them down and sat back on the root as the first stream spewed out. On and on it went, wave after wave, until he grew faint and panicked.
Shoot him now! He ordered his finger to pull the trigger, but somehow the rifle barrel was in the mud. With enormous effort, he hauled it up.
Katsu looked into the metal hole and was fascinated, wondering which beat of his heart would be the last. But suddenly the Australian doubled over.
Footy’s vision seared white, and static deafened his ears. He was aware as if from a long way off that he was falling.
Katsu watched the enemy topple into the mud, the rifle dropping from his hands.
Now act!
He stood and went to kill the man.
CHAPTER 16
It was during Gwyn’s second month in London that she fell for the English pilot. Reginald flew fighters and had come out on the losing end of a clash with the Luftwaffe. She’d assisted in the surgery where most of the shrapnel was removed from his side. A few shards were too tangled in nerves and blood vessels, and these he would have to live with.
The pilot’s friend and squadron leader, a man not much older than the patient, came by when he could. He told Gwyn the aviator was from northern England, somewhere near the border with Scotland, and had only his infirm mother left alive. The pilot was alone, and Gwyn came by to visit on her own time. The flyer, who insisted she call him Reggie, was obviously grateful.
Professionally, Gwyn nursed Reggie back to health, while privately, she tumbled for him. He had a rakish look—a flop of auburn hair and sleepy, knowing eyes. He had the dry, self-deprecating humor she’d learned to appreciate in her father. But beneath his sardonic exterior, Gwyn perceived that he was kind, intelligent, and mature beyond his nineteen years.
It developed that many nights, her shift done, Gwyn sat with him for several hours. On one occasion, while the rest of the ward slept, Reggie reached for her hand and she did not pull away. At first ironically, and then more seriously when she did not make fun of him, he began to draw word pictures of a life they might share after the war.
They would find a cottage in the countryside near Bowness-on-Solway, where he was from. He said he’d raise sheep and do some fishing. He told her it was the most beautiful country in God’s world, but he also was anxious to hear about her home. Gwyn described the wild mountains and orchard country of British Columbia. Reggie said maybe he was wrong: they’d live there instead. He had read as well about skiing and the hot springs in Banff, in Alberta’s Rocky Mountains, and was keen for a visit.
A few nights later, he put his hand behind her head, drew her to him, and kissed her on the mouth. Gwyn found her heart beating like a humming bird’s wings.
Another week, and Reggie dared slip his hand under her blouse. Aroused and alarmed, Gwyn permitted some exploration, and then pulled away. By training, she was a modern woman—by her morals, an old fashion one. Both aspects warned against rushing into a sexual encounter. In addition, there was the sobering reality of the men in the other beds who were sleeping—or worse, pretending to.
Gwyn was determined that, as far as consummating a relationship was concerned, she would wait for marriage. It might be quaint, but she was a virgin. She intended to find the love of her life and live with him forever. During high school in Peachland, one of her teenage friends had gotten “in the family way,” as it was whispered. She vanished for a year. The girl’s parents put it about that, on account of her asthma, she was staying with relatives. But as some wag said, the infection had entered somewhat lower than the lungs. In fact, as in all small communities, the truth was known to all.
Then, at the nursing school in the city, three students were forced to drop out due to pregnancies. She made a solemn vow that such ruinous behavior would not sabotage her.
Gwyn’s weeks with Reggie became two months, and the doctors told him he could return to duty. His squadron leader had been his only regular visitor. At first Gwyn thought his visits did Reggie good, but when she realized that all the man talked about was the desperate need for pilots, she developed an aversion.
The night before he was to be released, Gwyn stayed with Reggie all night on the ward. He was quite mobile again by then, if a little weak. At midnight, he took her by the hand and led her down the stairs. They skirted the bombed out wing and entered the courtyard. For much of the day, it was crammed with staff and patients smoking, but at this hour, it was deserted.
Reggie went on a knee and proposed marriage. Her emotions awhirl, she barely heard him say he had no proper ring to give her. He swore there was a diamond coming, but in the meantime, he begged her to accept his signet ring. He also offered a photograph. Gwyn asked for more time, but she accepted his gifts, and in her heart she had already said yes. He rose, took her in a passionate embrace, and kissed her.
Early next morning, Reggie departed for his base. He left with a promise to see Gwyn the coming weekend. The car drove off, and it came to her that she’d never even been with him away from the hospital.
Saturday morning, however, it was not Reggie but his commander who showed up. Gwyn was at work on the ward when he took her by the elbow and guided her into a hallway.
Bluntly, he told her Reggie’s Spitfire had been shot down. They were returning across the Channel from a successful mission, when the Messerschmitt came out of the blue. It opened up on Reggie from behind, and the attack was over in seconds. Th
e squadron leader had been flying right beside him. He dove his own plane down, all the way to the water, even breaking radio silence to beg the pilot to bail out. But Reggie had not.
“Was there any chance...?” Gwyn rushed to ask, but the tears that formed in the man’s eyes gave her the answer, and all her own hopes crashed and burned.
In the crucible of her suffering, Gwyn vowed never to get involved with a military man again. Through no fault of their own, they were untrustworthy. All she had left of Reggie were the pitiful gifts from the night he proposed. There was the ring, and the picture of him in the cockpit of his fighter, one hand raised, that ironic half-smile. Over Ruthie’s protests, she shoved it into the coals and watched him bubble and flame away. She posted the signet ring back to his squadron leader with a note to return it to Reggie’s mother.
Since meeting the flyer, she had written page after page in her diary. Now as she read it, she found it unbearable, the mawkish gushing of a schoolgirl. She locked the book, stuffed it in the bottom of her trunk, and did not touch it again.
Her anguish, Gwyn discovered, made her work far more difficult. It was hard to muster a kind word for a patient when she, herself, was in torment. Yet every day there came a new batch of patients who deserved nothing less than her best.
From then on, Gwyn put her calling first. She continued to treat everyone with compassion, while keeping a hard rein on how involved she let herself get with any individual.
But after her flyboy was gone, Gwyn found it difficult to remain at the hospital. The halls were haunted by more than the usual ghosts. She decided she must leave. She had read the news about the shortage of medical personnel in the South Pacific conflict, and made a decision she announced to Ruthie. To her surprise, her friend said she wanted to come along. She hadn’t left Ireland, had she, only to meet more Englishmen! Could they not go together? And so the two applied for reassignment.
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