CHAPTER 18

Research Center Unit 731, Harbin, Manchuria, 1943

He had been told the trip would be rough, and so far it was delivering on that promise. The young man felt homesick, but he hid it from his colleagues. Compassion was not a virtue valued by the Imperial Army, even in its medical unit. In fact, it wasn’t considered a prerogative at all. Loyalty and devotion were all that mattered to the emperor of Japan.

Hirokazu Shinje considered himself a highly capable professional. It was an opinion that had been bolstered by his rigorous medical studies at Tokyo Imperial University. But since arriving on the continent, his confidence had been shaken by the center’s strict disciplinary practices.

He was extremely proud to have been awarded this assignment in Manchuria, a region that had been occupied by Japan since the early nineteen thirties. Shrouded in secrecy, the research center near the city of Harbin focused on issues of water purification and the prevention of contagious diseases. Unit 731 dealt with vital questions concerning the protection of the Empire of the Rising Sun, and being invited there was quite an honor.

In reality, however, living conditions and the nature of the work were far from satisfying. Researchers had to show absolute obedience or risk being hazed, a common practice in the army. And while the staff had access to recreational facilities, it was easy to feel trapped by the fifteen-foot-high fences and the watchtowers that bordered the grounds.

Ruling this impressive kingdom was Lieutenant General Shiro Ishii. One hundred and fifty buildings on grounds that covered three and a half square miles were under his command. The man was charismatic, but he was also given to indulgences that shocked those inside and outside the military. He liked his booze and women and wasn’t inclined to show the least bit of restraint. Some people attributed his behavior to psychological problems. Hirokazu didn’t care about the cause or causes. He just thought the man was bat-shit nuts.

Fortunately, they rarely crossed paths. This wasn’t surprising, considering the number of people working at the massive research center. In addition to the thousands of Japanese employees, there were Chinese and other Asian prisoners, as well as some Caucasian internees. Every day, the occupying government’s swift and radical justice system imprisoned another batch of criminals.

Hirokazu had no problems with this. As far as he was concerned, criminals, especially Chinese criminals, were an unworthy, insignificant subspecies. And even though society had no use for them, they were quite helpful in his line of work: vaccine research. His sector relied heavily on a steady flow of human guinea pigs. The research they permitted him to do was much more reliable than animal testing.

Three months into his assignment at the research facility, Hirokazu had established a predictable routine. After a light morning workout, he would survey the infected test subjects and monitor the progression of their ailments. Then came the inoculation phase, in which he would administer vaccines and new pathogenic strains. In the afternoon, he would attend a lecture given by an expert in a field such as biochemistry, hematology, virology, or surgery. Every once in a while he would go to the lab to hone his dissection skills.

He followed this routine seven days a week. But he never complained. And neither did any of his colleagues, whose professional lives were almost identical to his. After all, Japan had taken on the Americans in the Pacific. The Japanese soldiers were willing to sacrifice their lives for the cause, but researchers like Hirokazu were making a significant contribution, as well.

Hirokazu fought the monotony of the job by measuring his progress in the understanding and mastery of infectious agents. This knowledge would be helpful not only in the war effort, but also in his career.

At the moment, he was impatiently waiting for his snooze-fest anatomy seminar to end. The ten other students in the lecture hall appeared to be just as bored as he was. But they were all jolted awake when a gray-haired man in a uniform with legal department insignia barged into the auditorium. He whispered a few words in the professor’s ear and addressed the small crowd.

“We’re going to conclude our class with a new exercise. Leave your things here and follow me.”

Hirokazu and the others complied. With their instructor leading the pack, the group left the room and then the building. Together, they walked to the closest prison and down to the locker room in the basement. Once there, they were told to change into protective clothing and leather aprons.

They were led down a long corridor to a door guarded by two men. One of the guards opened the door and ushered them into a large area resembling a crude operating room. It contained only wooden tables and wheeled carts holding various surgical instruments. Hirokazu had to blink several times to adjust his eyes to the blindingly bright ceiling lights.

Without having to be told, the students formed a semicircle in front of their professor. The man in uniform entered behind them.

“Today, you’re going to practice surgery under simulated battlefield conditions. I’m expecting your very best work, as the fate of our soldiers depends on it.”

He then gave an order to the guards, who brought in two Chinese men in chains. The first was approaching fifty, while the second looked like he was in his early twenties. The two men resembled each other, and Hirokazu thought they were father and son. They had identical birthmarks in the corners of their mouths.

The prisoners appeared to be disoriented and terrified—less by the soldiers who handled them roughly than by the scholarly assembly of men in white shirts. Unlike the human guinea pigs used for viral tests, these men didn’t look malnourished. The students were told that the men hadn’t come from the prison, but from a nearby village. Hirokazu reflected on this and what it could mean. His questions were quickly answered.

The man in uniform took out his handgun—a Type 14 Nambu pistol—and shot two bullets into the stomachs of the Chinese men. At the sound of the gunfire, Hirokazu’s heart stopped for what felt like many seconds. Terrified, he looked at the two injured victims curled up on the ground and squirming like earthworms.

“The first group’s task will be to extract the bullets from the younger subject. Act as if he’s one of our own soldiers. The second team will amputate the four limbs of the older subject and then examine the viscera. The materials you will need are at your disposal, but no anesthesia. You’ll be judged on the survival rates of your subjects. Get to work!”

The excitement in the room felt almost electric. Many of the students were jazzed by the unique nature of the experiment. The opportunity to operate on live subjects was extraordinary.

Hirokazu elbowed his way to the table that had been tasked with bullet extraction. The young man was screaming in agony while the students strapped him to the wooden table with his arms crossed. A gag was placed over his mouth to muffle his shrieks. The students at the other table gave the father the same treatment. His agonized screams were even louder. Four students, two for each specimen, examined the men for breathing, cardiac rhythm, and the other vital signs.

Behind a large glass window, Shiro Ishii, surrounded by a throng of military men, doctors, and researchers, some of whom were taking notes, was observing the surgeries. Hirokazu saw they were all fully engaged in the procedures.

Hirokazu glanced at the other table, where one of the doctors was using a saw to slice into the older man’s right leg. He could feel his lunch coming up with the sounds that followed—breaking bones and smothered shrieks. Throwing up in front of the officials and his colleagues would mean the end of his career, so he used every bit of his discipline to quell the churning in his gut. His own operating table bore a closer resemblance to his idea of surgery as an art. The precision and thoroughness of his work calmed him down.

After an hour, the judge announced the father’s death. The old man had survived the amputation of his right leg and an arm, but his heart had given out with the first cuts on the remaining leg. A heated discussion broke out between the medical team and the officials. Hirokazu caught a few snippets as he handed his surgical instruments off to an impatient colleague.

The observers considered the survival time remarkable, but they were highly critical of the quality of the amputations. The students started to argue with the observers, but their professor quickly cut them off. He scolded them and then improvised a full-length lecture around the cadaver.

At the other workstation, the operation on the still-living patient continued. Hirokazu just wanted it to end. He was exhausted. The longed-for release came an hour later, when the man died. The students feared they would be dressed down like the first team, but they were simply told to proceed with the dissection.

Hirokazu Shinje felt battered as he mustered up the will to dissect the body. He knew this day would leave deep scars.

But he had no idea just how much those two Chinese men would haunt every night of his existence.