“It is the Japanese warrior code, is it not, to avoid capture at all costs?” Kaz asked.
“Bushido, yes,” Sakato said. “But Japanese propaganda also tells their soldiers that, if captured, they will face torture at the hands of the American devils. We’ve found that fear of torture leads many to suicide, even without an officer present.”
“Then how did you get all these POWs?” I asked.
“There are always some who wish to live, in any group. And we’ve had some success in getting our guys to take prisoners more readily. With all the evidence of atrocities, GIs haven’t been going out of their way to accept surrender. Especially since some of the Nips fake surrender, and then pull out a grenade or a knife.”
“Nips?” Kaz asked.
“Nipponese,” Sakato explained. “The Japanese word for Japan is Nippon.”
“You don’t mind those terms?” I asked. He didn’t seem ready to talk about Harrison yet, so I let the conversation move on. “Japs, Nips?”
“Not when it’s shorthand for the enemy, no. I doubt a German-American minds it much when German troops are called Jerries or Krauts, do you?”
“No,” I said, thinking his reply was a bit too quick; it sounded like a stock answer he didn’t much believe in. Easier that way, I guess. “So, how do you get these guys to give up?”
“Like I said, our men have been bringing more of them in. We’ve demonstrated how useful information from POWs can be in saving American lives. That helps a lot. And we’ve begun dropping leaflets behind the lines.” He reached back into the mass of papers on the table and picked out a couple. They were written in English and Japanese, with the phrase I Cease Resistance emblazoned across them.
“It does not mention surrender,” Kaz noted.
“Correct,” Sakato said. “We got that idea from some of the first POWs we took. Ceasing to fight is more palatable than surrender. And the note guarantees safe conduct. So far it’s paid dividends.”
“Do you get good information from the prisoners?” I asked.
“Quite good. Once a Japanese solider has given up, he feels that ties to his homeland have been severed. He knows his family would be ashamed and that the military would never acknowledge his capture as anything but traitorous. We are all he has. And once he sees a nisei, he has his eyes opened. Obviously the Americans are not the beasts he was taught to believe in. Give him food and medical care, often much better than he was receiving from his own people, and he’s very willing to talk and tell us what he knows.”
“We have some questions for your POWs,” I said. “But first, if you don’t mind my asking, what was going on with Harrison?”
“It’s hard to talk about,” Sakato said, looking for a moment like he did mind. Then he pulled a tattered, thin notebook from the pile of papers, leafed through it, and gave a great sigh as he ground out his cigarette. He shook another out of the pack, flipped open the Zippo, and thumbed the wheel. A bright flame bloomed and he lit his cigarette, holding the orange flame near the edge of the notebook, close enough to catch fire.
He snapped the Zippo shut.
“I’d been translating this,” he said, tossing the notebook onto the desk. “It’s the diary of a medical orderly we captured a week ago on the outskirts of the Munda airbase. His unit was stationed near Segi Point, which was one of the landing sites for the Marine Raiders. Harrison belonged to that outfit. He’d been wounded on Guadalcanal and sent for liaison duty with us after he recovered.” Sakato took a drag on his cigarette and spent some time watching the glowing embers turn to grey ash.
“So he knew the guys in the Raiders who landed on New Georgia,” I said, prompting him.
“Yeah, yeah. He did. The fighting was pretty light at Segi Point, not many casualties. But the Raiders lost two scouts. Missing in action, as they say.”
“There is something about them in that diary,” Kaz said.
“Yes.” Sakato rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, as if to erase the words he’d read and translated. “They were captured and brought to the medical section. The orderly, Kenji Doi, describes a very interesting lecture by his major, a doctor. His own words, very interesting. The major said that in case he was killed, the orderlies should know the basics of surgery in order to carry on. He had the two scouts lashed to trees and performed human vivisections on them. No anesthesia. They were gagged so the major could make himself heard over their screams. He showed the positions of all the main organs, and removed a lung from one man. It was all very interesting, according to Kenji. Ironically, he seems a nice fellow, even gentle. Takes good care of his men with the medical supplies we give him.” Sakato was staring out the window, into the nothingness of the green jungle beyond.
“That was Kenji Doi who was carried out of the tent,” Kaz said. Sakato nodded.
“And Harrison knew the scouts,” I said.
“They were his buddies. He was a scout himself. I didn’t want him to see the report, saw no reason for it. It was with some other documents he’d already seen, and the file was ready to go up to division headquarters. But he wanted to check something he’d read and grabbed the file a few minutes ago. I’d asked for Kenji to be brought into the interrogation tent so I could ask him about the major, get a name at least. That’s when Harrison saw him and made his move.”
“Harrison’s lucky he wasn’t armed. That would be a court-martial offense,” I said.
“No weapons allowed when we interrogate POWs,” he said. “Eliminates temptation for all parties. Although in this case, a lot of people would have looked the other way.”
“What’s going to happen now?” Kaz asked. “To the orderly.”
“That’s up to Division, thank God,” Sakato said. “I’ll interrogate Kenji and get the name of the so-called doctor who did this. He’ll go on a list. A long list of those wanted for war crimes.”
“Harrison?”
“He’ll be okay. If there were any place to go around here, I’d give him a few days’ leave. But there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to get away from anything.” He flipped through the notebook, reading the daily jottings of an ordinary Japanese soldier. A man who sat through a display of horrendous torture and pronounced it interesting. Not to others-to put on a brave face, to show he was a Bushido kind of guy-but to himself, in his private diary. “Kisama!” Sakato shouted, and threw it across the room.
I didn’t bother asking for a translation. We sat, silent, for a long minute. Sakato picked up his Zippo, flipping it between his fingers. It seemed to calm him.
“What did you want?” he asked, irritation showing in his furrowed brow, as if he’d forgotten everything we’d said before he told the story of the scouts. “Wait a second, let’s get the hell out of here. I need some fresh air.”
He led us outside, walking along a well-worn path paralleling the barbed wire. He stopped at a small rise that gave a view out over the hills and down to the sea. He lit another Lucky, fresh air helping only so much.
“We need to know if any of the POWs here were part of the landing party on Pavau,” I said. “Especially if they came in on the northern side. We’ll need your help to speak with them.”
“It will take some time,” Sakato said, turning to look out over the enclosure. “Come back tomorrow morning.” Prisoners gathered at the edge of the barbed wire, drawn by curiosity, or more likely, by the smell of tobacco. Sakato looked at the half-smoked cigarette, then at the closest POW, locking eyes with him as he dropped the butt and ground it out with his heel.
We drove in silence for a while. After what we’d heard, words could only say so much. Finally, Kaz spoke. “Do you think we might learn anything useful from those prisoners?”
“It’s a long shot, but they probably didn’t keep that many troops on Pavau. It’s small, and there’s no airstrip or large harbor. They could have been sent down to Guadalcanal, in which case they’re probably all dead. Or to New Georgia, where the fighting is now. But we could get lucky.”