He knew that for some reason it had been blown.
He dug with his hands at the wall of solid earth that stood before him but after a few minutes gave up. The fallen beams and the earth had formed a thick wall which completely covered the inside of the tunnel. There was no way out. He slumped down onto the floor and placed his head in his hands.
To his right a fight started out. Two Japanese guards had been arguing over what to do next and voices were raised. The air in the tunnel got thicker as they screamed and screeched at each other, pulling at each other’s clothing. One of the guards pulled a gun and fired. The noise reverberated around the tunnel and caused clods of earth to fall from the roof. Bayani jumped up and made a lunge at the guards in the darkness. He found the gun, wrenched it from the hand of the guard, then made his way to end of the corridor, where he sat again.
All about him men were moaning, in pain and in fear, their voices — some in Japanese, some in Chinese, some Filipino, some in dialects he could not understand — had a strange eerie quality about them. The panic had receded now and all that was left was the dim roar of humans trapped like animals.
For hours, they waited for the digging but no one came.
Bayani, coughing with lack of air, crawled through the tunnel to where he had stood as the explosion happened. The voices were less now, there was less movement. As he made his way across the bodies that now seemed stacked almost to the roof, there was very little resistance. He felt each one as he passed and realised they were dead, either from their wounds or from suffocation. He reached the area of the tunnel that was clearer and sat, gently rocking. The guards who had been desperately trying to find a way out had stopped now; mostly he could hear them gently crying in the dark or talking to loved ones or saying nothing at all, just breathing deeply as the air became thinner and their heads became lighter. He felt the urge to cry but no tears fell from his dehydrated eyes, his thoughts were of his wife and family, hopefully they had made it to the hills, just as they had planned in case the Japanese occupied their village. He wondered if their little Nipa hut was still standing, he had spent his life there and had never gone to Manila in search of a job like most of his friends. He loved the life in the village, the sounds, the smells, the children playing Bahay-Kubo.
When he could hear no more, Bayani reached for the gun and lifted it to his head. He closed his eyes. Outside nothing was disturbed by the single gunshot that came from deep within the tunnel. All the soldiers had gone now, moved out in the past six hours. All the captives had been killed or else had escaped back into the jungle. The sun was down and only the empty tents fluttered slightly in the evening breeze giving signs that the life that had been here was here no longer.
The trial had ended and the verdict was in. Anyone who watched it was in no doubt as to the outcome: these were some of the worst crimes of the Second World War. The litany of inhumanity seemed to stretch on forever and no one really knew how many had died on the various missions of General Tomoyuki Yamashita. The General was taken into the holding cell to wait for his time. The fall of Singapore on the 15th of February 1942 seemed like a distant memory. Yamashita remembered how proud he was as he led his 30.000 men to a famous victory over the 130.000 British, Indian and Australian troops. The largest surrender of British-led personnel in history. He was proud of his nickname, the "Tiger of Malaya".
Whatever happens, he would remain dignified. He had served his Emperor to the best of his ability and had no regrets. Outside in the street people were smiling as they heard the news. They had followed the trial ever since his capture and were glad that it was finally over. Most people knew someone or had heard of someone who had been killed by Yamashita’s troops and now they were satisfied that the justice that had been promised to them was coming. Only a few mumbled and moaned about the paucity of real justice, the imbalance — one’s man’s life for thousands. Most, however, smiled and slapped each other’s backs, thinking the war had finally delivered its last victory and it was theirs.
In the morning they took the General, who had freshly shaved, and led him to the gallows. The day was bright and hot as many days are in Laguna. They led him up the 13 steps to the platform and placed a rope around his neck. There was a small crowd gathered outside the prison where the execution was being carried out; men and women jostled for position, straining to hear anything from inside the walls, but it was impossible. A seller of fruit wandered among them, lifting the atmosphere to one of market day or carnival and the look on the faces of each of those attending was of quiet joy, tinged perhaps with anxiety that all should go well. Inside, they pulled the lever and the General fell. The gates were opened and a guard let the crowd see the body, gently swinging in the sunlight. The crowd cheered, some women hugged each other, men pushed and shoved so that they could get a better view, desperately wanting to make sure it was him, that it was Yamashita and that he was finally dead.
Towards the back of the crowd, a man with a large head scarf stood quietly contemplating the scene. He felt that the trial had been a bit hurried, as if it had taken place to appease all those who had suffered at the hands of the Japanese Imperial Army, as if General Yamashita was somehow responsible for each and every death. In his hand he held a book close to his chest and in the book a map was concealed. On the back of the map he had written his name, Amichi, so that history would know his own culpability, his own guilt.
Chapter One
Professor Okada sat at one of the long desks that faced towards the window. The sun was just dipping below the line of the harbour and it threw startling patterns of light on the wall. He raised a prism-like geodesic crystal to the window and watched as the light refracted and sent spectral shafts of different colours around the room. No matter how many times he did this it still delighted him as much as it had when he was a little boy. He was fifty, balding, and had been a Reader in Geology at Hong Kong University for almost twenty years, but it was the simple things still that kept him going. Classes were almost over for the summer and he was looking forward to the fishing trip he had planned. Fishing was never really his thing; he liked to sit and watch the water. Often he would forget to bait the line specifically to avoid the accidental catching of a fish that he found so ugly and unwholesome. He looked forward to spending some time at his cabin by the river, where he could collect samples from the local rock formations and sit and watch the water for most of the day, seeing in its brightness something that was lacking for most of the year spent in the big city.
He carefully placed the sample back into its case and brushed off the dust that had gathered on its top. Then he replaced the whole thing back in the drawer and hopped from the tall lab stool he had been sitting on. Really, one of these days he should start that diet he was always meaning to go on. Really, one of these days he should start looking after himself a little. The door to the lab swung open suddenly and a bright young Japanese girl danced in.
‘Lisa,’ the professor exclaimed.
‘Hello, uncle,’ she replied. ‘I’ve come to take you home. You will be here all evening if I don’t drag you away.’
The professor smiled and touched his nose with his index finger. ‘You know me too well. But I must just finish up a few things.’
‘Uncle…’
‘Just a few things.’
As he pottered about with slides and charts that meant nothing to Lisa she idly looked around the room.
‘What are these rocks?’
‘They are samples. Some I collected myself, others were donated, others have been here for years. As long as I can remember, anyway — longer than twenty.’