Sukesada
a samurai’s sword
Shanghai was touted as the Paris of the Orient. The twisted glowing lights of night shone intensely along the endless streets, from the wide main roads to the narrow and countless backstreets. The shops with incomprehensible signs covered with Chinese ideograms beckoned customers to come inside. The colonial-era Cathay Hotel dripped with glamour and exclusivity. The Shanghai Club vibrated with the noise of swing music, the pop of champagne corks, and the honking and revving line of expensive automobiles with uniformed drivers in front. Men in tuxedos and women in shimmering gowns milled at the gilded entrances until they sashayed inside. Movie stars like Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford, Charlie Chaplin, and Sesshu Hayakawa were always rumoured to be about. But that was the past.
Because there was so much talk about Shanghai among the soldiers, Hideki was excited about being there. When he landed some months before and after much training, it turned out to be a case of the pursuit over the apprehension. His body slumped in disappointment.
Some streets were crowded with the hustle of city life, but there was no glamour. Just men and women pushing or pulling carts, others walking their poverty-stricken children, and there were those in Western business attire looking to make money. Some wretched women carried their scrawny babies, with open mouths begging for food and tired eyes shaded with death, in a sling on their backs while calling out, “Buy my baby. Please, buy my baby. Who wants a baby?”
Hideki had no idea what they were saying or selling, so he ignored them. What fascinated him as he marched along were the old posters. They were torn and frayed, some half torn off walls, but he could make out the images. Advertising a product, a night club, or an event, he was taken with the garish colours, inviting and placid backgrounds, and the women, unreal but alluring as they posed with a come-hither look. All images were stylized but harkened back to a time of peace and possibility. To him, they were posters of imagination, of beauty, of fantasy. Posters of dreams fallen to graceful ruin. Shanghai itself was a city of faded glory with the Japanese Occupation.
Akamatsu Hideki was now part of the Japanese China Expeditionary Army under Field Marshall Hata Shunroku, assigned as he was along with most of his comrades to the Chinese section of town. The International Settlement with its mix of Chinese and European architecture was abandoned, ruined as it was ever since the Battle of Shanghai took place in November 1937.
Still, Hideki was mesmerized by the city. He couldn’t read the signs, the kanji, the ideogram characters, were too confusing, but at least they looked familiar, and he could pick out the odd word. The roads of low-lying, wooden storefronts held many secrets. A very few women still strolled in tight cheongsam dresses with the intriguing slits up the legs exposing an expanse of thigh. They were a sight to behold for the young soldier. Each called to him as they passed by. He remembered going to a Shochiku theatre in the Shintenchi District in downtown Hiroshima not that long ago to see Shanghai Express, an early “talkie”, for Japan at least. The film’s atmosphere was mysterious and forbidding, and every character appeared to be evil. Though Marlene Dietrich was exotic and sexually stimulating, he loved Anna May Wong, the Chinese American actress in a cheongsam, which displayed an ample amount of thigh. She was the real star of the movie; her scintillating and smouldering looks stimulated him to no end. She was a poster come to life. He knew he could never marry anyone like that, but he sure wanted to meet someone like her. Maybe this was his chance. And then perhaps not.
Hideki had a keen interest in the Bund, a waterfront area in central Shanghai. The Zhongshan Road ran along side of it marking the outer border of the International Settlement. Just beyond was the Huang Pu River. He saw from a distance the grand architecture of the Sassoon House, the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank Building, and the Broadway Mansions. He longed to go there to see and meet people from around the world. The Bund held that promise. Maybe he had some of that need for adventure his baby sister possessed.
His spirits uplifted, he conjured up the image of the Akamatsu Compound, his sisters, and his parents. His body ached. He would write home, he resolved, when time permitted.
His father’s words weighed heavily upon him. He cannot disgrace the Akamatsu name. In the training camp before Shanghai, he once again embraced the military life and decided to dedicate his service to his family.
The International Settlement itself had been drained of foreigners, everyone fearing for their own lives. And for good reason too: ever since the Japanese Expedition had moved up the Yangtse River to Nanking, the force carried out a six-week campaign of fighting and slaughter, eventually conquering and occupying the city.
Despite Hideki’s ambiguity about the military, he knew the anti-rebel action had to be done, since there was so much resistance to their presence. They were in the Chinese Sector primarily to ferret out the resistors and stop any armed uprising from taking place.
Soon word finally came down that a detail of men, including Hideki, was to go into the International Settlement to search for and “clean up” the dissidents. His patrol was one of many that went on a daily basis.Hideki grimaced at the “sanitation” job, but orders were orders. He thought he would be staging a police action: taking into custody all dissidents in the section of town and depositing them in a holding centre to be dealt with by the justice system.
Sgt. Hayashi surveyed the men with a scrutinizing eye: Akamatsu, Inokuchi, Honda, Saito, Tamaki, Tsuchiyama, Hirabayashi, Inefuku, Iguchi. The Sergeant did not know most of them; Honda, Hirabayashi, Inokuchi, and Akamatsu came with him to China. The rest, more than half, had been here since the Battle of Shanghai in 1937.
They were a ragtag group of soldiers. Not having bathed, shaved, or washed clothes in quite a while, they appeared well-worn, but fierce. Most were what Hideki considered to be fanatics, duty to the Emperor above all else. He could see it in their eyes, bloodshot yet intense. The Chinese were ant mushi. But it wasn’t long before Sgt. Hayashi called him a “mushi” again. His life meant nothing. Shigeru was proof of that.
“We overwhelmed them,” Saito stated, a man confident in his purpose. “We hit them with naval and air power. Then we attacked with tanks and mobile cannons.”
China reinforces Shanghai defense.
32 Tokyo warships mass at Shanghai.
***
Hideki remembered the headlines in the Shuho magazine and other newspapers at the time.
“But the Chinese resisted,” interrupted Tsuchiyama, a soldier with a hint of sadness about him. “Even with small calibre weapons, they fought like dogs.”
“And they died like dogs in the streets!” Saito added. “Kill All!”
Hideki did further question their presence.
Tsuchiyama quickly responded, “We have to protect our people in Little Tokyo. Do you want to see them slaughtered?”
Hideki’s face must’ve given away his ignorance.
“In the Bund. You know.”
Hideki nodded, not really knowing for sure.
Saito insisted, “We’re here for revenge. Those small calibre weapons killed hundreds of our troops back in ’37!” Saito grew emotional. “Burn All! Loot All!”
Such was the talk in the barracks.
A Chinese man soon joined the patrol. Wang Jingwei was a politician smartly dressed in a suit and tie. The tall man with a full face was considered a “quisling” by the military but a useful one. He was on his way to Nanking to rule Japanese-occupied China. This was his last act in Shanghai.
The men went into the mostly deserted International Settlement in the morning. Each man, except. Sgt. Hayashi who held a pistol and sword by his side, carried his rifle with bayonet affixed. Rubble from cannon-fire lay in piles inside and outside every hollowed-out building they passed.
Hideki was not expecting such devastation. Were there bodies underneath? he wondered. He thought he heard muffled cries for help but, since the sergeant ignored any sounds, he moved on and tried to ignore them. The Sergeant did stop every so often and gave the order to set fire to the wooden debris.
Eventually, Wang stopped in front of a mostly intact building of about four stories. There were cannon holes in the walls, but the structure stood. He turned to Sgt. Hayashi and whispered something to him.
“Yoshi,” he said conclusively. “Inokuchi, Honda, go in there and report what you find.”
The two snapped to and moved to inspect the premises with rifles at the ready, but before they could enter, a group of about ten men emerged. They were clothed in anything but uniforms: torn and ragged everyday shirts and pants. They held clubs and what appeared to be bags of stones. Their weary faces of despair were menacing as if ready to fight.
The detail raised their rifles in self-defence. Sgt. Hayashi raised his arm.
“Who is Chiang? Step forward, make yourself known,” Wang ordered.
A particularly defiant man stepped in front of the others. His eyes were intense, angry. Not saying a word, he threatened with his crudely fashioned wooden club.
The Sergeant rushed forward and in one swift movement drew his sword and swung it at the man. The Sukesada katana, a sword specially made for him by Master Sukesada, caught the front of the man’s neck and the head flew off behind in one stroke. Blood spurted like an open faucet for a short time. The body collapsed into a heap immediately.
Hideki stood shocked, horrified, and couldn’t move even when he saw the other Chinese men turn to flee. Sgt. Hayashi wounded one with his pistol. The man fell to his knees in obvious pain. Most of the others froze in their tracks. At least two disappeared into the building.
“Akamatsu, the rest of you, secure those prisoners.”
Suddenly another voice thundered. “Hayashi! What are you doing?”
It was Captain Fujimoto with another patrol of about ten men. His face was hard with anger.
“Sir,” he said coming to attention. “I was ordered to find Chiang and his men. I’m just dealing with them now.”
“Well, stop wasting bullets. You let two escape!”
“Sorry, sir. We’ll find them.”
“Never mind,” he scoffed. “Sergeant. Tsujiuchi!”
“Hai!” A muscular sergeant rushed to present himself to the captain.
“Take these prisoners for the burial detail.”
“Hai.” He motioned for the men behind him to take charge of the prisoners. They herded them away.
Hideki turned to Inefuku, the soldier standing beside him, and whispered, “What’s the burial detail?”
“Sergeant Hayashi, this sector still needs securing. Carry on,” Capt. Fujimoto ordered.
“Hai. Okay men, let’s move on.”
Before they lined up in formation to march out, Inefuku turned to Hideki and said, “The prisoners will be buried.”
“But they’re still alive. Are they going to be executed?”
“No.”