One Man's Justice Page 2

  This success had greatly enhanced his prestige within the army, where he was already widely renowned as a general of genuinely noble character. As composed and imperturbable as a man could be, he responded to each request for a sample of his calligraphy by writing the Chinese characters for ‘Death, life, be as prepared for one as for the other.’ That a man of his calibre should have brazenly divorced himself from his responsibilities was beyond belief.

  Demobilised on the fifth of September of the previous year, Takuya had gone back to his home town. Soon after his return, he learnt that the occupation authorities had intensified their efforts to apprehend suspected war criminals.

  On the eleventh of that month a warrant was issued for the arrest of those designated Class A war criminals, on charges of having participated in the ‘formulation or execution of a common plan or conspiracy to wage wars of aggression’. Former prime minister General Tojo Hideki had shot himself in a suicide attempt when he realised that American military police had arrived at his home. The following day, it was reported that other high-ranking officials, including former army minister Field Marshal Sugiyama Hajime, former minister of health Major-General Koizumi Chikahiko, former minister of education Hashida Kunihiko, former commander of the North-east Region General Yoshimoto Sadakazu, former commander-in-chief of the Kwantung Army Honjo Shigeru, and former prime minister Konoe Fumimaro, had taken their own lives. The newspaper coverage included the full text of article ten of the Potsdam Declaration regarding Japan’s surrender, stating: ‘We do not intend that the Japanese shall be enslaved as a race or destroyed as a nation, but stern justice shall be meted out to all war criminals, including those who have visited cruelties upon prisoners.’

  On the tenth of October Takuya read an article saying that warrants had been issued for the arrest of three hundred former staff of prisoner-of-war camps on charges of mistreatment of prisoners. The article, a release from the Associated Press office at General MacArthur’s headquarters, stated that these suspects would be arrested by the Japanese authorities and handed over to Eleventh Army divisional headquarters in Yokohama, and that no stone would be left unturned until those guilty of mistreating prisoners of war were brought to justice.

  Included in an article six days later, below the headline ‘Bodies of Seven US Airmen Discovered – Parachuted to Ground during Tokyo Air Raids’, was a statement from a spokesman for the Eighth Army Corps. It said that investigators had found the remains of two American fliers buried beside a Tokyo canal. Evidently the dead airmen had had their arms tied with thick rope and had suffered massive wounds to the neck and head. The clue that led to their discovery was provided by a young Japanese girl who, during the days of the air raids on Tokyo, had seen Japanese soldiers burying bodies wrapped in straw matting. The remains had been found in shallow graves full of muddy water, with the bodies clad only in flight jackets, sweaters and torn boots. The article also said that another five bodies had subsequently been exhumed from the grounds of a certain unnamed temple.

  Not long afterwards, it was reported in the newspaper that trials of those suspected of crimes against prisoners of war had started, and that the first guilty verdict had already been delivered on the eighth of January. The man sentenced was a former army lieutenant who had been in charge of Ohmuta prisoner-of-war camp. An American prisoner of war by the name of Hurd had twice attempted to escape and in consequence had been thrown into the guardhouse. When he tried to escape a third time he was severely beaten. The military tribunal judged that the beating constituted serious mistreatment of a prisoner of war and sentenced the accused to death by hanging. Beatings were everyday occurrences in the Japanese army, so Takuya was shocked that merely beating an incorrigible escaper should warrant the death penalty.

  Three days later, there were reports of assault charges filed against a junior officer at the Ohmuta camp, and charges of burning moxa on a prisoner’s arm and slapping him across the face with an open hand against the commandant of another camp. Both officers were sentenced to death by hanging. Numerous similar cases were reported in succeeding days.

  Amid all the press coverage, the articles covering the trial of the former commander-in-chief of Japanese forces in the Philippines, General Yamashita Tomoyuki, stood out to Takuya for their depiction of the stance that should be taken by a commander of an army corps. Yamashita’s trial by military tribunal had been held in Manila and he was sentenced to death, but he did not hesitate to accept complete responsibility for the actions of his subordinates.

  Takuya had assumed all along that the commander of the Western Region would take a position similar to Yamashita’s. As the one who gave the orders in the Western Region, the commander would have been fully aware of what had happened under his command, and Takuya had firmly believed that if the facts of the matter were discovered the commander would take complete responsibility.

  ‘American intelligence knows all your names and addresses. Things being the way they are at the moment, they will doubtless move to arrest you.’ Shirasaka’s speech was free of any trace of the rough language he had used to refer to fellow officers during his time as a lieutenant in the Imperial Army.

  ‘What should I do?’ asked Takuya dejectedly. He couldn’t help but feel indignant at being told that those who had issued the orders in the first place were, only eight months after the dissolution of the Imperial Army, divorcing themselves from all responsibility for what had happened in that thicket near Abura-yama. Such things didn’t happen in the army Takuya had known.

  Shirasaka fixed his eyes on Takuya. ‘Run for it. Hide somewhere,’ he said in a soft yet compelling voice.

  Takuya remained silent.

  Shirasaka’s eyes glistened as he spoke. ‘Without a doubt, they’ll hang you if you’re caught. You’ll die like a dog. Hide. Lieutenant Hirosaki came this morning. I sent him a postcard worded the same way as the one I sent you. I explained the situation and told him to lie low. He said he’d do his best, and now I’m giving you the same advice.’

  When Takuya remained speechless, Shirasaka stood up and left the room.

  Takuya remembered seeing a photograph in the newspaper which showed a former army lieutenant, sentenced to death for beating a prisoner of war, being led out of the courtroom by the American military police. If he were to end up that way, he would have no second chance to escape. There would be only the wait for the gallows. Takuya couldn’t bear the thought that he, who had served his country so loyally, might be held captive by the occupation forces and forced to die such a humiliating death.

  A wave of uneasiness came over him. The warrant for his arrest might already have been issued, and the occupation administration might have called upon those winding up the affairs of the former headquarters. Obviously, just being in this building was dangerous.

  He stood and looked out the window. There were no people or vehicles moving towards the building, and a dusty haze shrouded almost half of the wasted terrain. A glint of bright light emanated from somewhere near the station.

  The door opened and Shirasaka re-entered the room. Sitting down, he produced two pieces of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and placed them on the desk.

  ‘I gave Hirosaki these, too. They’re papers for demobilised soldiers back from overseas. With one of these you can get food and other rations wherever you go, and they double as identification. I considered a few options and came to the conclusion that you should make out you’re from Okinawa. It’s occupied by the Americans, so a demobilised soldier wouldn’t be in much of a hurry to get back there, which is a plausible reason for you to keep moving around the main islands. Write in a name that sounds Okinawan. Just in case, I’m giving you a second one to keep as a spare.’

  Shirasaka pushed the papers toward Takuya. They already bore the official seal of the Western Command’s Hakata office for demobilised military personnel, and the spaces for name and address were left blank. However he had obtained them, the documents looked very official.

>   Takuya put the papers in the inside pocket of his army jacket. ‘I want you to give me my gun back,’ he said.

  Shirasaka stared hard at Takuya, a tinge of surprise spreading across his face. After the surrender, Takuya and the other officers had wrapped their twelve side-arms and a considerable quantity of ammunition in oiled paper and put them all into a waterproof bag, which had then been hidden in a secret compartment in the corridor of the headquarters building. In the bag was a collection of foreign-and Japanese-made pistols purchased with the officers’ allowance for personal side-arms. Among them was Takuya’s 1939 army pistol.

  Takuya had forgotten about the pistol, but Shirasaka’s explanation of developments and the words ‘They’ll hang you’ had jogged his memory. He felt exposed and vulnerable without his gun, as though the wartime logic that an officer had to have a weapon on him at all times had returned to guide him.

  Takuya realised that his war had yet to end. The enemy was close at hand, patrolling with sub-machine-guns slung from their shoulders, driving Jeeps and lorries through the streets of the cities and towns.

  ‘Why do you need it?’ said Shirasaka, a trace of trepidation in his voice.

  ‘I just want to have it on me,’ replied Takuya. Being armed was in itself more than reason enough. As long as his own war continued, a weapon would be indispensable.

  Shirasaka’s fists clenched within his folded arms. Takuya saw the tormented look on the man’s face and realised that Shirasaka was afraid he might use the weapon to kill himself. On the twentieth of August, just days after the official document of surrender was signed, a navy lieutenant and a commander from the Kyushu munitions depot, distraught at the reality of defeat, had both committed hara-kiri in the woods near the Shoogaku temple, and since then there had been a rash of suicides by men named to stand trial for war crimes. Maybe it wasn’t so strange of Shirasaka to interpret Takuya’s wanting his gun back as a sign that he planned to kill himself.

  ‘I want it back,’ Takuya said in a calmer tone, hoping to allay Shirasaka’s fears.

  Shirasaka fidgeted. Propping his elbows on the desk, he rubbed his clenched fingers against his forehead, pushing his thumbs awkwardly into his cheeks.

  ‘You used to have a Colt, didn’t you? I like guns. I was attached to the one I had. I just want it back,’ said Takuya softly.

  His gaze still lowered, Shirasaka nodded several times, then grasped the edge of the desk and rose. Takuya turned to watch him leave the room. Any suspicion he might have harboured had vanished, nullified by the goodwill the man had shown in sending the postcard, providing him with papers and encouraging him to run. Shirasaka had probably felt unable to stand by and watch a former comrade-in-arms sent to the gallows, but maybe another part of the explanation was that, deep down, he felt an aversion to the ‘trials’ of those accused of war crimes. No doubt, thought Takuya, day-today contact with occupation forces staff had left Shirasaka nonplussed by their arrogance, and perhaps this had led him to obstruct their proceedings by encouraging his former comrades to flee. If the occupation authorities got wind of his actions, the severest of penalties would undoubtedly be meted out to him, too. Takuya felt a twinge of conscience, knowing that his request would commit Shirasaka to an even greater level of collusion, but it was overwhelmed by his desire to have the weapon back.

  There was a faint sound of footsteps, then the door opened and Shirasaka reappeared, his expression strained as he returned to sit opposite Takuya. Glancing towards the door, he reached inside his jacket and offered Takuya the object he had been concealing. It was the pistol Takuya had carried during the war, but the months it had been out of his grasp made it somehow feel much heavier. The small box of ammunition that Shirasaka placed on the table sat there for several seconds before Takuya stuffed it into his rucksack.

  Shirasaka pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his pocket and offered one to Takuya, who shook his head in refusal at the idea of smoking an American cigarette.

  Takuya felt his composure return. Now that he was armed, he could at least resist his would-be captors and, if necessary, take his own life rather than submit to arrest.

  ‘Well, then. I’d better go. Thanks for your help,’ Takuya said, grasping his service cap and slinging the rucksack over his shoulder as he rose to his feet. Shirasaka stood up, stepped into the corridor and walked ahead of Takuya down the stairs. Outside, Takuya thanked Shirasaka again and started down the cobbled road.

  ‘Kiyohara!’ he heard behind him. Takuya looked back and saw Shirasaka hurrying down the slope, eyes glistening. ‘Don’t go killing yourself,’ he said imploringly, tears welling up.

  Takuya didn’t reply. He hadn’t thought about how he would use the weapon, and he certainly hadn’t made up his mind to end his own life. He would take everything as it came.

  ‘Killing yourself would be meaningless,’ said Shirasaka in an almost admonitory tone.

  Takuya looked away from Shirasaka pensively, then started down the slope.

  Maybe it was the reflection from all the burnt pieces of roofing iron, but the temperature down in the ruins of the city seemed higher than up on the hill. Takuya hurried towards the railway station, occasionally glancing back over his shoulder. Most of the knoll was hidden behind the remaining walls of the old fire station, and Shirasaka was not in sight. Beyond that, all he could really see was a glimpse of the pink cherry blossom at the top of the hill.

  2

  The train left Hakata station.

  His arms pinned to his sides in the crush, Takuya was jostled into the space beside the lavatory. There was so little room to stand that two men were crouched precariously on top of the wash-basins. The hair of the woman standing in front of him touched his face, a sour smell emanating from her scalp.

  Takuya closed his eyes. Suddenly he found himself wondering how his American counterparts would be spending their days. Most of their officers would have been repatriated by now, and had no doubt been given a hero’s welcome. Throngs of well-wishers would have welcomed them at the station and carried them home on their shoulders. Many would even receive medals for killing Japanese soldiers in battle. Takuya had killed one American. A tall, blond man who had taken part in incendiary attacks on Japanese cities, sending horrific numbers of non-combatants, old people, women and children to their deaths. If Japan had won, Takuya’s act might even have earned him a medal, but now he had only his wits to keep him from the gallows.

  There was no option but to get away. The impulse to flee was motivated not by fear of a noose around his neck but rather by indignation toward the victors. The Allies saw their own soldiers as heroes for killing Japanese and now sought to force a humiliating death upon Takuya and his defeated comrades-in-arms. The irony of it cut Takuya to the quick.

  The train moved slowly down the track. By craning his neck, Takuya could just see over the mass of passengers to the outside world beyond the glassless windows. Before he knew it, it was early evening and the sun was setting.

  There was a brief twilight, then dusk, before the darkness set in and the electric lights came on in the aisles. People got off each time the train stopped, but just as many seemed to get on, so there was no relief from the crush. The man pressed hard against Takuya’s back seemed to be falling asleep on his feet. From time to time he gave way at the knees, forcing Takuya to do the same. Takuya could hear a light snoring just behind his head. His rucksack was slung over his shoulder, and through the cloth bag he felt the hard grip of the pistol against the small of his back. The gun was also probably pressing against the stomach of the man standing behind him, as now and then he seemed to pull back as if trying to avoid it.

  The train pulled into Kokura station almost an hour behind schedule. Takuya pushed his way through the mass of bodies and alighted on the platform. There was a two-hour wait before his next train arrived on the Nippoo Line, but Takuya felt almost anchored to the spot. He made no move toward the next platform. He had instinctively boarded the train at Hakata, but no
w he was having second thoughts about actually going beyond here and returning home. Shirasaka had said that the Allied authorities already knew where Takuya was living, so it was entirely possible that the police would be waiting there to arrest him.

  As he stood gazing at the black body of the train slowly receding from the end of the platform, he sensed that he wasn’t completely ready to commit himself to fleeing. The occupation would continue virtually indefinitely, so he would have to be prepared to be on the run for the rest of his days. That would mean drawing a line in his current life, and before he could do that there were certain things he must do.

  He was carrying very little cash, and to make good his escape he would need at least some money. He would also need to destroy anything at home that might be used to trace him. Besides, as he was unlikely to see his parents and younger brother and sister again, he wanted to say goodbye to them before setting off. He had to make one last visit home. Despite the risk, the pistol in his rucksack fortified the decision to return. If the authorities were waiting for him he could resist, and if escape proved impossible he could end it all on his own terms.

  Takuya walked to the Nippoo Line platform. Under the pale station lights, another sea of people was crammed in from one end of the platform to the other, waiting for the incoming train. Spotting the scantest of spaces, Takuya sat down, placing his rucksack carefully between his knees. Beside him a young mother knelt changing her baby’s nappy. As it lay face-up on the patchy concrete, the baby turned its eyes towards Takuya. Tiredness overcame him and he closed his eyes, letting his head drop forward. Perhaps because of the heat from the mass of bodies, the air on the platform was stifling, and in a moment Takuya had nodded off to sleep.

  After a while he sensed people around him rising, and he opened his eyes and got to his feet. The whistle sounded and the train shot steam over the tracks as it pulled in beside the platform. Utter confusion followed, with people trying to get on before any passengers could leave the train. An angry exchange of voices ensued between those trying to climb in through the windows and those who blocked their entry from inside. Pushed from every direction, Takuya just managed to edge his way on board by stepping on the footplate at the end of one carriage.