Dragon of the Mangrooves (3 page)

“Do it by all means, but don’t act rough. You see?”

“I understand, Lieutenant. Leave the negotiating with the Burmese to me. I’ll be back with good boats,” answered Yoshioka cheerfully.

Pondgi also assured him, saying, “Master Sumi, it’ll be all right. Don’t worry.”

Sumi glanced at his watch after he had seen them off. The hands pointed to eleven. The blue sky was tranquil and didn’t show the slightest sign of turmoil from the air raid that morning. Between palm trees, he could see the sea glitter with reflected rays of the midday sun. All looked peaceful. But his compatriots kept lingering on the verge of death on the island only fifty kilometers away.

Departing without delay was a must. Sumi knew he should go there before the enemy brought the island under complete control. Otherwise, his own life would be at stake, not to mention the success of the rescue. If Yoshioka and Pondgi could collect boats, they could depart that night. He must use time beneficially.

There was no moment to lose. He wished for no more air raids that day.

Then he undertook the choice of personnel. He picked ten men who had scout experiences, although the final number depended on the capacities of the boats.

There was a knoll named Hill 509 on the east coast, according to the information from Yoda. And the garrison had entrenched there to fortify the all-around defense position, before moving in recent days. A hamlet called Yanthitgyi lay near the knoll, and the garrison seemed to be around that small settlement. Judging from the map, it was approximately forty kilometers from the Cape of Amou, the intended landing point, to Yanthitgyi. A forced march would be needed.

A reconnaissance regiment was—so to speak—a mechanized cavalry. Soldiers didn’t have to get accustomed to a heavy loaded march, unlike infantrymen.

Thinking they should be as light on equipment as possible, Sumi ordered Shimizu to arrange provisions for only several days.

“All right, but how are you going to get weapons?” Shimizu asked with a frown. Shimizu had a cynical look. Now even he seemed rather worried, because tankette companies had no excess of small firearms.

“Infantrymen will take care of that,” Sumi said. “I’m going to go and get them now.” Then Sumi started for the old temple again, with three soldiers as bearers.

Sumi didn’t worry much about weapons. He knew Second Lieutenant Kakegawa, his former candidate school classmate, working at the HQ of the 121st as an executive officer in charge of weapons was there. Sumi expected special treatment.

Arriving at the temple, Sumi came in the HQ office and requested to meet Kakegawa. Sumi didn’t recognize his former classmate right away. Kakegawa had become downright emaciated. But as soon as he saw Sumi’s face, Kakegawa greeted him cheerfully.

“Hi! Long time no see. How have you been? I’ve already heard about your duty from the regiment commander.” The tall, thin Kakegawa had a smile that lit up his gaunt face. “We have good things now. Come on. Follow me,” he said, and promptly took Sumi and the three soldiers to an arsenal.

Though the door was padlocked, it was only a shabby bamboo shack. “Here we keep submachine guns gotten from the British,” Kakegawa said. “Our HQ bans us to issue those, to tell the truth. But if you go to Ramree, it’s a reason to make an exception.”

Kakegawa had a strange gun in his hand as he left the shack. Made from pressed and welded steel, it looked more like an oilcan than a gun. The stock was not conventional wood, but a steel pipe. It was crude and rustic to an extreme, but the gun was compact and incredibly light, as well.

“This is the Sten gun,” he said. “Nine-millimeter pistol cartridges are used, so this can’t deliver bullets very far. But you can shoot more than four hundred rounds per minute. Its weight is one-third of our model ninety-six light machine gun. It’s very good for hand-to-hand fights and guerilla wars.”

Sumi had heard rumors about it. “Can we use it?” he asked. “We all got accustomed to light machine guns. But nobody has even touched one of these.”

“Yeah, it’s foolproof. It seldom goes wrong, since it’s simple. I’ve gotten permission for firing practice, so let’s go and shoot it.”

Kakegawa locked the shack and led Sumi to a hill behind the temple. When they entered a grove, he handed the gun to Sumi and explained how to use it. He pointed to a broad-leaved tree about ten meters away and said, “OK! Now suppose that trunk is an enemy. Shoot it.”

Sumi stood and squeezed the trigger silently. Continuous noises, like pops of beans, reverberated throughout the grove. The pellets stripped a large section of the tree’s bark, sprinkling wood chips. One of the soldiers shouted out in awe.

Sumi was very satisfied with this gun. It could kill more than one man at a time. Of course, the object of this operation was not combat but rescue. He knew he must keep everything confidential and undetected by the enemy. But if his party met resistance suddenly, such a weapon would be priceless. At the same time, he saw the reason why the Japanese favorite, the bayonet charge, lost effectiveness, since the enemy had started using this kind of weapon in the front lines.

Kakegawa murmured resentfully as if he read Sumi’s mind.

“If we had also had this gun, we wouldn’t have been thrashed in the Battles of Imphal or Kohima. The brass hats said that using a machine gun of American gangs led them astray. How stupid they are! Those stupidities have caused this debacle.”

Sumi nodded and asked, “Well, Kake, how many guns will you give us?”

“Three in all, with three thirty-two-round magazines for each. And you may take as many rifles and grenades as you want. It’s a lavish expenditure for us. Don’t complain.”

Everything seemed all right. The submachine guns were blessings.

Back at the arsenal, Kakegawa sorted the weapons and put them together in several wooden boxes. Sumi felt dizzy when he picked one of them up, and he couldn’t help falling to his knees.

“Are you OK?” one of his soldiers asked. “Haven’t you slept since yesterday?

Please leave them to us, sir.”

He realized he hadn’t slept for two days only after the soldier’s comment.

Kakegawa also worried about Sumi’s health and advised him to rest in the temple for a while. Thinking about the oncoming mission, Sumi decided to take the offer. He faced the three soldiers and said, “Tell my batman, Takahashi, to come and wake me up at dusk.” Then Sumi entered one of priest’s cells, guided by Kakegawa.

Japanese troops of the Burma Area Army utilized temples in more ways than one. They might have felt some affection as Buddhist nations, or supposed these Burmese religious institutions would be never chosen as enemy targets.

But Great Britain, the former suzerain, didn’t consider heathen piety even a little. Shells and bombs rained down on Burma, no matter where they were. This temple had also been hit in air raids a few days before. One bomb hit its lecture hall, and the precinct was in ruins. In spite of that, the monks never left. They wrapped themselves in yellow garments and held daily services as if nothing had happened. Their placidity set Sumi’s mind at rest somehow.

He lay back on the wooden floor, which gave off a faint fragrance of incense.

Through the slats of a wooden blind, he could see an elegant pagoda shining against the backdrop of grand roofs. Suddenly, he felt it might be the last time in his life to sleep under a roof.

Severities of the southern front, especially the Burma area, were well-known among soldiers. Everybody told to go there resigned himself to the fate and assumed he already had one foot in the grave. Sumi also worried about the likelihood of his survival, because he had left Yukiko, the woman he loved, behind in Kyoto.

When the Army had drafted him nearly two years before, he had just become a lecturer of the very university where the two had met and fallen in love. But for the war, he should have devoted himself there to studying and lecturing ancient history.

No sooner had he gotten the job he wanted than the Red Paper came. He had anticipated it to some extent, thinking about the deteriorating war situation. But when he had actually gotten it, his whole body had involuntarily trembled with desperation. He could remember that feeling as if it was yesterday.

Conscripted mercilessly, he had come such a long way to Burma. He knew he must cut this absurd war short to get a return ticket to the university as soon as possible, by fair means or foul. He must see Yukiko again.

During his send-off party, embellished by meaningless grandiose words, she held his cuff and whispered in his ear softly. “Don’t kill any. And don’t be killed.

I wait for you here. Come back alive.” He knew nobody in that fascist country who could say such a kind thing but her. If nothing changed, she could continue her job in their university as a researcher in sociology course. He had decided to propose to her.

She would say yes, of course. She was the daughter of a wealthy man. Sumi had been no more than a fledging scholar. Considering that gap, he had hesitated. But now he had gotten a job as a lecturer at the university. Besides, he had become an officer of the Imperial Army. The reputation would remain even if he were demobilized. Her parents would give the nod. Delight filled his mind every time he thought of Yukiko.

But everything was based on his safe return. He must avoid injuries or diseases, let alone being killed in action, unnoticed in an unknown jungle.

Sumi remembered he had just boarded a transport ship departing from Ujina Port, Hiroshima, when he had heard, “Heavens of Java and hells of Burma.” The environment had surely turned out that way. All were hells: Imphal, Kohima, Myitkyina, and Yunnan. And now Arakan was about to be added to the list.

But he defied the pessimism. What on earth did it matter? He had a sweet-heart waiting for him. He must survive. His thought ended with resolution.

While in the priest’s cell, Sumi heard sutra-chanting voices. Apparently the monks had started an afternoon service. Sumi stretched out on the floor, shaking off the ominous premonition. He couldn’t relax anymore, confronted with the difficult duty that was next. But soon, both mental and physical fatigue sent him into a deep sleep.

A morning breeze passed over the treetops and the creek. It blew gracefully under the blue sky. The spire of a pagoda protruding from the woods on the opposite bank was shining, reflecting the sun. But a queer smell drifted around. It was a very nasty one, quite unfit for the refreshing scenery. It was the second time for Superior Private Minoru Kasuga to catch this stench, like a mixture of mud and putrid flesh.

An incident had happened about ten days before. One soldier had gotten lost during his sentry duty at Minbyin Coast, northwestern Ramree Island, where Kasuga and his fellow machine gunners had stationed together with Sixth Company men of Second Battalion, 121st Infantry Regiment. Since the latter half of the previous year, locals had often vanished abruptly. A rumor was going around that some of those missing locals had contacted enemy intelligence in the continent and had already sneaked back into the island as British spies.

But the missing soldier had been found safe two days later. It was reported that he had lost his way while strolling around. This soldier had been wandering in a nearby jungle until an officer had finally found him and delivered a stern reprimand. Even though the case was closed, the whole Sixth Company was worried by this incident because they had suspected that British-Indianforces might have abducted that soldier. Kasuga himself had also been drafted into a search party.

Machine Gun Fifth Platoon, to which Kasuga belonged, went all the way to Madegyun Creek, the northeastern coastline of the island, and searched there a whole day. Minbyin Coast was hemmed by sunny sand beaches facing the Indian Ocean. But the northeast coast was almost covered with dense mangroves.

When Kasuga approached a creek nearby a village called Myinde, a stench bad enough to curl nostrils was in the air. He remembered wanting to vomit.

In Arakan, a village headman was called “rudgi.” Obsessed by the strange stench, Kasuga questioned the rudgi as soon as the platoon entered the Myinde dwelling area. The rudgi puffed on a huge cigar while Kasuga talked. Then he straightened his back and answered seriously. “That’s a crocodile without fail,” the rudgi said. “The exhaled air of a man-eater stinks terribly.”

Then he added, “Sadly, one of our men hasn’t come back since he went shrimping. A crocodile might have gotten him. Probably the bad croc had been somewhere in the creek when you Japan-Masters came closer. That’s why you caught a bad smell.”

Kasuga was dumbfounded. He couldn’t believe a rudgi would insist such a thing sanely and wondered what kind of people those Burmese were. Kasuga didn’t completely disbelieve the authenticity of crocodiles’ stench, but he couldn’t figure out what made them think it proved man-eating so easily. He thought it was ridiculous.

Enemy planes had been rampant since the beginning of that year. As soon as they saw moving figures, those pilots strafed everything there mercilessly. The possibility of an enemy counteroffensive was getting stronger day by day. It was no wonder that many locals were missing. At least, Kasuga thought, the shrimping villager had evacuated himself somewhere to avoid the evils of war. The locals surely had many place to hide to save their lives, unlike Japanese soldiers.