The Persimmon Tree

by Bryce Courtenay

I could hardly believe my eyes! It was a Clipper, the very same species I had boxed as Anna’s keepsake! Later I was to tell myself that it wasn’t such an amazing coincidence — the Clipper is found throughout the islands, and though it is not common it could not be called scarce. But it was spooky and at the time I thought of it as an omen, though whether a good or bad one, I couldn’t yet say.

  On the ground beside him lay the net made from mosquito netting, a twist of wire and the bamboo stick I had seen him carry. It was basic, but perfectly adequate for the task. The little enemy soldier, I hoped it was ‘Goat’, was humming what I took to be a Japanese tune, every once in a while singing a snatch of words, then returning to humming, meanwhile painting the lovely butterfly whose wing pattern was reminiscent of a sailing ship.

  It was a situation beyond my wildest imagining; even if he wasn’t ‘Goat’, this man’s life was as good as spared. His uniform was in tatters but clean, his hair, which fell down to his shoulders, was also clean, and more surprisingly, his cheeks and chin were shaved. I glanced over to the stream to see resting on a rock a cut-throat razor placed on a ragged scrap of towelling. This was a man who, despite his isolation, was trying to keep himself together.

  It was ten minutes past noon. ‘Good afternoon,’ I said, greeting him in Japanese. ‘Hajimemashite [I am pleased to make your acquaintance].’

  The sketchbook went flying from his lap and he leapt to his feet to stand to attention without turning to look at me. I could see he was shaking, obviously terrified. ‘I can explain, sir. The cloud cover — I cannot use the radio — I am not neglecting my duty, sir,’ he stammered.

  He was standing with one boot planted on the big leaf with one of the Clipper’s wings protruding from its toecap. He had mistaken me for a Japanese, a tribute to all the listening I had done over the months. I felt a shock as I witnessed the crushed butterfly under his boot. Was it a bad omen, telling me that Anna was dead, crushed like an insect under an Imperial Japanese boot?

  ‘You may turn around. I am gaikokujin and you are my prisoner,’ I replied, informing him I was not Japanese.

  He turned slowly to face me, lifting his arms above his head in the universal gesture of surrender, his expression showing astonishment – perhaps it was at my size as he couldn’t have come to more than halfway up my chest. ‘Ah-meri-can, sir?’ he asked in a trembling voice.

  ‘No, Aus-tra-lian,’ I pronounced carefully. He didn’t reply, merely nodded his head and so I said, pointing to the crushed butterfly, ‘I am sorry to have caused you to crush Parthenos sylvia.’

  He glanced down at his boot, withdrawing it in horror at what he’d inadvertently done. Then he asked, ‘This is its name, sir?’

  ‘Latin name. In my language it is called a Clipper.’

  ‘Clip — clip — Clip-purr,’ he finally managed. ‘You are konchugakusha? [You study insects?]’ he asked.

  ‘No, I am a butterfly collector,’ I answered, realising that if he knew the word for ‘entomologist’, he probably wasn’t a peasant. ‘Please, bring your hands down and relax. I am not going to kill a man who carries no weapon.’

  ‘Oh, but I have one, sir.’ He glanced in the direction of the cliff face, then added somewhat ingenuously, ‘I think it is rusted.’ Visibly relaxing, he brought his hands to his side. ‘What will you do now?’ he asked.

  ‘You are the radio operator who monitors the aeroplanes leaving? The only one?’

  ‘Yes, sir, there is only me.’

  I grinned. ‘You are very good, your morse fist is fast and smooth.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I was trained in the Telegraph Department of the College of Engineering in Tokyo.’

  In retrospect this sounds like a ridiculous conversation to have with a just-captured Japanese soldier — gruff-voiced instructions, a bit of assertive manhandling and prodding with the barrel of the Owen was the recommended method. But unless he was a very cool-headed master of kung-fu or jujitsu and was trying to lure me to come closer, he was physically incapable of harming me. Nevertheless I remained standing to one side of him and out of reach of either his feet or his arms. ‘After that you joined the army?’ I enquired.

  He looked horrified. ‘No, sir, watashi wa minkanjin desu. [I am a civilian.] I was required to attend Takunan-juku, the school run by the Ministry of Colonisation. I was kaigun rijisei [a cadet attached to the navy].’

  I looked surprised. ‘Navy? I am also in the navy.’

  ‘It is only technical, sir. I was given the token title of Naval Commissioned Officer Trained in Radio Communication.’ It seemed somewhat amazing that he too felt he was not entitled to his rank. Then he added, ‘I have never been in the navy, sir. I was sent to Rabaul to work for the Minseibu, the civil administration. I worked in the Electrical Communications Unit.’

  ‘Then how did you get here?’ I asked.

  ‘In the cave?’

  ‘No, to Guadalcanal.’

  ‘I was seconded, sir. Malaria caused too many casualties amongst the field radio operators. I was sent to train others.’

  I glanced up, indicating the cliff face with a jerk of my head. ‘And now you are up there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It is demanding work requiring the use of ciphers and long-distance transmissions. Most field operators would not have these skills. I was happy when it was agreed I should go.’

  ‘Happy to be so isolated?’

  He smiled, looking down at his boots and shaking his head slowly. ‘I am not a fighting man, sir.’

  ‘No? A painter of butterflies then?’

  ‘Shirouto [amateur], sir. There are so many in the jungle and they are interesting, fascinating to me.’

  I laughed. ‘What — to eat or collect?’

  ‘Some to eat,’ he said, taking my little joke seriously. ‘It is shameful, all are beautiful.’

  ‘You are shirouto no konchugakusha [an amateur entomologist]?’ I asked.

  ‘I am not worthy of even the amateur title. I have no reference books. These are not insects I have seen in Japan, I simply try to paint them without knowing their Latin names. My painting too, it is unworthy, shirouto no gaka,’ he said shyly, stating his amateur status once again, then looking in the direction of the fallen sketchbook.

  It was time to introduce myself, though I still kept my distance — if he was an expert in unarmed combat my own knowledge might not be sufficient to compete and I really didn’t want to have to shoot him. ‘My name is Duncan Nick,’ I said, reversing the order and stating my surname first in the Japanese manner.

  ‘My name is Gojo Mura. D — Da —.’ ‘Duncan’ is a difficult name to pronounce in Japanese, and he was having trouble getting his mouth around it.

  ‘Nick, call me Nick,’ I allowed quickly.

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir — ah, Nick-san,’ he said, chuckling at his own clumsiness. It was the first time he had laughed aloud.

  ‘You do not need to call me “sir”, Gojo-san. We have the same rank in the navy. Would you like something to eat?’

  ‘I thank you for the honour, Nick-san, but I have eaten — a little rice this morning.’

  ‘Rice with insects and weeds,’ I replied. ‘It is probably better for you than my C rations — my soldier’s food,’ I corrected myself. ‘Some insects I have eaten myself, they can be good protein.’ Then I pointed to a plant growing close to me. ‘When boiled this tastes a little like seaweed. Maybe later you will be hungry?’

  I realised that, with the exception of the crackers, there was not a single food item in my rations with which he could possibly be familiar; the bread portion maybe, though bread made from wheat is not part of the Japanese diet which is based on rice, fish with seaweed and various green vegies. Fish and rice were both absent from any C rations and canned carrots and peas were the only vegetables. Moreover if he was starving (and his appearance gave that impression), I would have to give him very
small amounts of whatever he could stomach of my Western food.

  He grinned. ‘You try a bit of everything, insects and plants, if they don’t make you sick then you can eat them. It is like life, trial and error with occasionally a little good fortune.’ We were silent for a while, then he said, ‘When will you shoot me, Nick-san?’

  I smiled. ‘Gojo-san, I can tell from your family name that you are well-born, and we are both officers in the navy. It is not in my nature to kill a man who goes into the jungle without a weapon to paint butterflies.’

  ‘I am not worthy of such generous treatment, Nick-san. It is not what we were led to expect from the enemy.’

  ‘We butterfly people have to stick together,’ I replied, somewhat embarrassed. Then I admitted, ‘I confess, I have killed some of your soldiers in combat, but it was in the heat of battle — them or me. I am not a cold-blooded killer.’

  He nodded sympathetically. ‘What will happen now?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, if we agree as officers and men of honour that you are my prisoner, and you give me your word that you will not attempt to escape, I will take you to safety.’

  ‘I will not be tortured? I am ashamed to admit I have no courage, no fighting spirit. I am a civilian. That is why I am here, so I cannot fight the Ah-meri-cans.’

  I had just met the Japanese version of the little bloke from Chicago and the fat one from Brooklyn, the duo who shared the one mantra: ‘I want ya ta unnerstan’, I ain’t no fuckin’ hero!’ Hero or not, it takes a fair amount of character to starve slowly on a diet of insects and weeds as Gojo Mura was doing alone on the mountain.

  ‘No, Gojo-san, you will not be tortured. But you will be interrogated. I will probably be the interpreter. You may have information we need.’

  ‘Then will I be shot?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ I replied once more. ‘You will be sent to Australia or America, where you will be interned as a prisoner of war.’ I wasn’t sure about the destination, though as a prisoner of the Americans it would probably be the States. ‘Gojo-san, I will need to go up to your cave. I am sure you have some small personal things you want to take with you?’

  ‘I would be most grateful, Nick-san. There are two sketchbooks and a photograph of my family.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘Where you will take me I do not think I will need the butterfly net.’

  I pointed to the sketchbook lying on the ground. ‘May I take a look?’ I asked, knowing I could do so if I wished, but wanting to ask anyway.

  He looked at me shyly, stooping to pick up the sketchbook and handing it to me, in the Japanese manner using both hands. ‘It is not worthy, Nick-san, I am shirouto [amateur],’ he protested again.

  I moved away a safe distance from him and slung the Owen. Opening the sketchbook I was astonished to find that he had painted at least twenty varieties of butterflies, and every insect big and small I could ever remember seeing in the jungle. Not only were they expertly done, they were exquisitely detailed and the colours were remarkably accurate. Every page was filled with a dozen or so drawings of creepy-crawlies and butterflies. I wasn’t an expert on watercolours, but I was one on butterflies and I had never seen more accurate depictions. Gojo Mura was both an acute observer and a delightful painter.

  ‘They are wonderful, Gojo-san!’ I exclaimed.

  He shrugged, dismissing the paintings, but I could see he was secretly pleased. I handed the sketchbook back to him. ‘It is not worthy but I would be honoured if you would accept it, Nick-san.’

  I thanked him. It was a wonderful gift. By this time, I would have bet London to a brick that Gojo-san was harmless and well-meaning, almost grateful to have been taken prisoner. Nonetheless the Japanese see things differently to us. I could hear Wainwright’s voice in my head: ‘Never take anything for granted, boyo. Never relax your guard and when on bivouac, stay cautious, even in your dreams.’ There had been several cases during the campaign where a wounded Jap soldier had waited until a marine medic was sufficiently close whereupon he’d pulled the pin on a concealed grenade, killing himself and one more of the enemy.

  I followed Gojo Mura up the tree, staying well back so that if he decided to commit suicide his falling body wouldn’t take me with him. I did the same on the narrow cliff path, though I’d decided that if he wanted to take his life by throwing himself over the edge, there wasn’t a whole lot I could do about it.

  The smallish cave, neat as a new pin, had a fairly wide entrance that allowed the natural light about halfway in so it created a twilight effect towards the cave’s end. To the left stood the dull grey metal casings of a sophisticated high-frequency receiver and transmitter, with the capacity for long-distance transmission and reception — probably capable of reaching Rabaul as well as the local command. How they managed to get it up to the cave was another example of sheer Japanese tenacity. As a unit it was far more elaborate than the Mark 6 sets I had trained on. Belgiovani would have lusted after it.

  I found Gojo’s rifle and he was right — the magazine was rusted in places and I had no doubt the barrel was also blocked with rust.

  ‘This rifle is a disgrace, Gojo-san,’ I laughed.

  ‘I have not got the courage to use it, Nick-san,’ he replied.

  I walked from the cave and hurled the useless weapon over the cliff.

  ‘Any hand grenades?’ I asked.

  He shook his head, horrified at the idea. ‘Did you know, Nick-san, they have just this one little pin and then, if it falls out, bang!’

  There was yet another test for Gojo Mura to pass. ‘Gojo-san, if I give you a frequency, will you set the transmitter for me?’ I asked.

  The Japanese radio expert nodded and I gave him the frequency belonging to Marine Command. If he already knew it, then he didn’t let on. It took a while for the set to warm up, but then I got through to Henderson immediately and asked them to patch me through to our Intelligence radio unit. To my relief Lee Roy Yamamoto answered, which allowed me to speak in Japanese in case any of the enemy operators had heard me speaking to Marine Command. Keeping my message suitably ambivalent I said, ‘Nick calling Yamamoto. I have got “Goat”. Will be back two days.’ I used the Japanese method of terminating a radio message. Private Yamamoto, I knew, would take the information directly to Colonel Woon.

  I smashed the transceiver and remembered Belgiovani’s last words to me, ‘Don’t cha forget da fuckin’ accumulators — da batter-ies, Nick.’

  Gojo watched dolefully as I dragged his precious radio unit to the edge of the cliff and pushed it over, followed by the batteries. ‘Gojo-san, do you have any code books?’ I asked. It was yet another test. I had seen them neatly stacked on a rock ledge.

  The series of code books Gojo Mura handed to me were, in fact, infinitely more valuable to us than ever his own capture might be. No field operator in the normal course of duty would have been trusted with them by the Japanese High Command. Gojo explained to me that it was only because he was in daily touch with Rabaul and several other centres that he had been permitted to possess them. The information concerning the fighters and bombers taking off from Henderson was thought to be critical to Japanese operations in the entire Pacific region. His instructions had been that if it seemed he might be captured he was to destroy the books and then kill himself. As for their importance to us, they allowed our Marine Command to gain access to Japanese encoded signals, enabling us to decipher their communication with Rabaul and possibly other Japanese war zones in the Pacific.

  Going down the mountain was as hard as going up, though with the constant slipping and sliding the descent was considerably faster. On the way back to Henderson base we shared four meals together using my C rations. Gojo Mura ate very little — the food was totally unfamiliar to him and besides, his stomach had shrunk — but he loved the sugary tinned pears. On one occasion when I’d foolishly given him a Hershey bar I heard him vomiting up the chocolate violently during the ni
ght, although he said nothing to me the next morning.

  I guess that if he’d wanted to he could have bolted; apart from my having to sleep, there were several occasions when we became separated and he could have attempted to escape. I wasn’t overly concerned. I knew I’d track him down soon enough. When I slept I took the precaution of removing the Owen magazine and kept it in my pack, on which my head rested. However, I would have been very surprised if Gojo Mura knew how to fire it. Despite having survived in the cave by gleaning some daily nourishment from his environment, he knew very little about the jungle. To any half-decent tracker who was following him it would be bull-in-a-china-shop easy. Whenever we were separated he always appeared soon afterwards, and on one occasion he must have thought he’d lost me because he started yelling out, ‘Nick-san! Nick-san! Where are you?’ This was a very different Japanese prisoner from the blokes who blew you up.

  Coming in to Henderson in the late afternoon we were met by quite a committee. I’d taken the radio man off the mountain where he’d been making a nuisance of himself for several months and the brass, including an army air force colonel, seemed well pleased. Lieutenant Colonel Carlson was present and came over to congratulate me. I was to learn that he’d been back since the morning with half the battalion, and while he’d changed, showered, fed and possibly snatched some sleep, he still looked pretty whacked. The other half of the battalion had returned the previous day. Together the two sections had effectively removed the Japanese from the northern slopes of Mount Austen.

  ‘I’ve lost one pound to Mather. How much is that in American dollars?’ Carlson asked, grinning.

  ‘About two, sir.’

  ‘I want you to know it was worth it, Nick. Well done, glad you came along with us.’

  When the provost staff sergeant arrived to collect Gojo Mura, he was more than a little surprised. ‘He’s not constrained, sir?’ he said, bemused.

  ‘Constrained?’

  ‘Manacled, sir.’

  I explained to the provost staff sergeant that it hadn’t been necessary; that I had captured possibly the least dangerous Japanese in the entire Pacific War.