His desk appeared neat and tidy. The only object seemingly out of place was a single arrow sitting on the surface of the desk. From time to time Yamagata stroked the edge of the razor-like tip with his thumb, admiring the sharpness of the arrowhead.
He knew from experience just how deadly an arrow could be and longed for the chance to sink the tip into yet another target of flesh and bone. Only another archer would understand how that felt so satisfying on a primal level.
Yamagata shook off that thought for now. He was sure that he would have another chance to use his bow and arrow on more than a straw target soon enough. He leaned back in his chair until it creaked and sipped more rice wine. He had a good reason to be drinking more than usual lately.
Five days ago, he had received more bad news in a letter from home. Official news was largely censored, of course, but a trickle of information still managed to leak out. Unlike the phony government news that crowed about fake victories, the truth behind letters from home that somehow escaped the censors could not be denied.
His brother had written to say that American planes had dropped more bombs on Tokyo, setting off a firestorm in the ancient city of mostly wooden structures, killing thousands. Yamagata’s elderly parents and a sister who lived with them had been among the victims, not to mention old friends and childhood neighbors. His brother was a schoolteacher, nimble with words, and his descriptions of the blackened corpses among the ruins had been disturbingly vivid.
He had grieved in his way, getting drunk on sake, ultimately comforted by the thought that his loved ones and old acquaintances had died for the glory of the Emperor.
There was nothing that Yamagata could do about the bombers. They were far beyond his reach. However, he knew that he could make the lives of the American POWs even more miserable. After all, some of them had been pilots or aircrew on the very bombers that had attacked Japan’s home islands. He looked forward to making what was left of their lives a living hell. On the day that he had received the letter with that bitter news, he had vowed that one way or another, none of the American prisoners would ever return home.
Smiling at the thought, he turned up the volume on his radio, on which he managed to pick up a distant station in Manila playing ryūkōka, the style of music that was so popular in Japan. The song playing was “Tokyo Koushinkyoku,” with sentimental lyrics sung by a sweet-voiced and lovely vocalist named Chiyako Sato, who typically performed while wearing traditional Japanese garb. What was not to like? Yamagata drank in the music much in the same way he was enjoying the sake and sighed deeply.
There was a knock at the door, and Yamagata responded gruffly, “Hai!” He was not happy about being interrupted during his rare downtime at the end of the day, and he didn’t bother to disguise his annoyance.
Lieutenant Osako came in with Sergeant Matsueda. He did not much like Osako, whom he saw as something of a busybody. He also sensed that the younger officer did not approve of him, perhaps even saw Yamagata as something of a failure who had been sent to oversee a backwater post, although Osako had always been careful never to challenge the colonel’s authority. For Osako, who was young, there was always the hope that he might be transferred elsewhere. For Yamagata, this camp would be his last post.
The colonel did not take his feet off his desk or turn down the radio, forcing Osako to talk over the music. He opened his eyes just enough to see that the lieutenant’s neatly buttoned uniform appeared ready for the parade ground, even at this late hour of the day.
“Sir, you wanted to see us?” Osako asked.
“Lieutenant, it was nothing that could not wait until morning.” Yamagata had indeed summoned the two men, but his intention had been to meet with them tomorrow. The tone of Yamagata’s voice made his irritation clear. “I was going to say that the pace of bringing the stones from the streambed has been too slow. The road will never be paved at this rate. You must have the prisoners increase the pace, starting tomorrow morning.”
“Hai!” The young lieutenant came to attention, knowing full well that he had essentially been reprimanded. At the same time, he had no idea how the prisoners could be made to work faster in their weakened state. Some of the men could barely stand. Perhaps he would have them work after dark, using lights?
“That is all,” Yamagata said, finally opening his slitted eyes wide enough to give the lieutenant a baleful look. “Matsueda, you stay.”
Once the young officer had turned on his heel and left, the colonel offered Matsueda a sake. He felt more comfortable with the sergeant, whose loyalties were clear. Yamagata knew that Matsueda would have followed him anywhere.
They drank for a few minutes in companionable silence, and then Matsueda cleared his throat meaningfully. He was the sort of old-fashioned sergeant who would never speak to an officer of Yamagata’s rank unless spoken to first, which was something of a tradition in the Japanese army.
“Is there something on your mind, Matsueda? You may speak freely.”
“Sir, I think that the new prisoner is causing trouble.”
“I agree.” It would be hard to mistake the look of contempt in the prisoner’s eyes. Even a sound beating had failed to extinguish it. But the colonel knew well enough that other prisoners had arrived at the camp this way. Yamagata and Matsueda had taken pleasure in breaking them all.
However, this soldier seemed especially tough. All that Yamagata knew about this soldier was his name: Deacon Cole. These Americans had such curious names, but they were as empty of meaning to Yamagata as the vacant nest of some paper wasps.
He sensed that the soldier had not been entirely truthful as to how he had turned up at the prison gates.
“If the prisoners are behind in their work, as you warned Lieutenant Osako, then this man may only make the delay worse.”
The commandant continued, “What do you suggest?”
“With your permission, I will have him left in the hot box.”
“I have a better idea.” Yamagata nodded at the bow and quiver of arrows in the corner. He had enjoyed shooting the colorful bird earlier that day, but that had only whetted his appetite for more. “In the morning, we shall assemble the prisoners and offer them the opportunity to escape, if they can outrun my arrow.”
The sergeant smiled. The colonel had done this before, and none of the would-be escapees had made it through the gate before being pierced by a yard-long arrow. Then again, some of the so-called escapees had been Filipino slave laborers forced to make a run for it. From Yamagata’s point of view, it had been entertaining nonetheless.
“He has a lot of spirit, but he does not seem like a fool. What if he does not want to try his luck?”
“We shall compel this new prisoner to make a run for it.”
“How will you do that, sir? He seems very stubborn.”
“I will tell him that if he does not run, then I will make someone else do it. Maybe two or three of the weakest ones. This Deacon Cole seems as if he would not let someone else run in his place.”
The sergeant nodded knowingly. “That is a good idea, sir.”
“In any case, it will be good sport.”
Yamagata reached for the bottle of sake and topped off their glasses. The liquid in the bottle seemed to be diminishing rapidly.
They raised their glasses, and Yamagata said, “To the Emperor! Kanpai!”
Both men smacked their empty glasses down, grinning.
Yamagata glanced at the bow in the corner, and his gaze lingered with a mix of fondness and anticipation. He was looking forward to the morning.