It wasn’t going to help him. He could feel that in his bones. Nothing would help the soldiers, not after what had happened a few days before.
Colonel Fujikawa prowled back and forth. Once upon a time, Shimizu had seen a picture of a daimyo hunting a tiger with a spear in Korea three and a half centuries earlier. The great noble wore fancy armor and a tall headgear with a floppy tip. Shimizu remembered that, but what he really remembered was the ferocity that blazed from the tiger. He’d never seen anything like it since-not till now.
Even when Fujikawa stopped pacing, he still looked ready to roar and to spring. Instead of roaring, though, he spoke softly, and somehow made that more wounding than the loudest shouts could have been.
“You are in disgrace,” he hissed. “Disgrace! Do you hear me? Do you hear me? ”
“Hai! We hear you, Colonel!” The men spoke as if they were part of a perfectly trained chorus. In an abstract way, Shimizu was proud of them-but only in an abstract way, because no matter how perfect they were, that wouldn’t do them any good, either.
“Disgrace!” Colonel Fujikawa said once more. “You are disgraced, I am disgraced, the whole Japanese Army in Hawaii is disgraced, and the Japanese Navy in and around Hawaii is disgraced, too. And do you know why?”
Everyone knew why, of course. Shimizu knew why all too well. This time, though, no one said a word. It was as if, if no one admitted what had happened, somehow it wouldn’t have happened after all.
But Colonel Fujikawa was intent on plumbing the depths of their iniquity. “The Americans-the Americans! — made us lose face. They bombed Oahu. They torpedoed one of our carriers. And most of their bombers escaped. It is an embarrassment. It is a humiliation. It is a disgrace, truly a disgrace.”
As one man, the soldiers of the regiment hung their heads in shame. Shimizu lowered his at the same time as everybody else. Even as he did, though, he wondered why this was his fault. What could an infantry noncom do about bombers overhead except jump for cover and hope he didn’t get killed? Nothing he could see.
The regimental commander went on, “The captain of the picket boat that spotted the American carriers was fished out of the water after the enemy sank it. He has committed suicide to atone for his failure to see that they had long-range bombers aboard. The commander of the antiaircraft defenses on this island has also committed suicide, to atone for his failure to shoot down even a single enemy airplane.”
Now real fear ran through the regiment. Honorable seppuku was always a way out after failure. Saying good-bye to everything was not only honorable, it was also easier than living on as an object of scorn to everyone around you. But how far would that particular form of atonement reach?
Colonel Fujikawa said, “Common soldiers, form two ranks facing each other. Move, you worthless wretches!”
They moved. Now they knew what was coming. It would be bad, but it could have been worse. After a while, Fujikawa would decide it was over.
“Sergeants and corporals, face one another,” Fujikawa added.
Shimizu didn’t let the dismay he felt show on his face. He’d been through this mill before, too. Who hadn’t? Officers hadn’t, that was who. Unlike enlisted men, officers were presumed to be gentlemen. Here, now, they stayed at their stiff brace.
When Shimizu turned to face Corporal Kiyoshi Aiso, who led another squad in his platoon, Aiso’s face was as expressionless as his. The other noncom was a long-service soldier; he had to be close to forty. But his weathered skin and the broad shoulders that bulged under his tunic said he’d grown strong with the years, not soft.
Now, at last, Fujikawa shouted: “Each man, slap the face of the man in front of you! Take turns!”
Corporal Aiso was senior, which meant he got to go first. Shimizu braced himself. Aiso let him have it, right across the cheek. In spite of being braced, Shimizu staggered. His head rang. He shook it, trying to clear his wits. Aiso hadn’t held back, not even a little bit.
Then the other corporal stood at attention and waited. Shimizu slapped him hard. Aiso’s head flew to one side. He shook his head, too. Shimizu came to attention in turn. “The same cheek or the other one?” Aiso asked politely.
“Whichever you please. It doesn’t matter one way or the other,” Shimizu answered.
Aiso hit him lefthanded, which meant his head snapped to the right this time. The older soldier was just as strong with his off hand as with his good one. Shimizu asked whether he had a preference. Aiso just shrugged. Shimizu, a thoroughly right-handed man, struck his left cheek again.
Usually, the noncoms would have kept the common soldiers at it, making sure they didn’t slow down and making sure they didn’t pull their blows. The noncoms were also caught in the web of humiliation today. The regimental officers stalked through the ranks. “Harder!” they shouted. “Keep at it! Who told you you could slack off? What kind of soldier do you think you are?”
Unless Shimizu concentrated, he saw two of Corporal Aiso. He hoped he was just as blurry to the older man. His whole face felt on fire. He tasted blood in his mouth, and he wasn’t sure whether that was blood or snot dribbling from his nose. Probably both. Aiso wasn’t trying to box his ears, any more than he was trying to box those of the other corporal. That didn’t mean they didn’t get walloped now and again. Even Shimizu’s palm started to sting from giving too many blows.
He couldn’t have told how long it went on. Privates started falling over. Cursing officers kicked them. Nobody was trying to get away with faking, not this time. Only when a polished boot in the belly or the spine failed to prod them to their feet were they suffered to stay on the ground.
At last, contemptuously, Colonel Fujikawa yelled, “Enough!”
Corporal Aiso had his arm drawn back for another blow. Shimizu hardly cared whether it landed or not. After so many, what difference did one more make? But Aiso stayed his hand. Shimizu swayed. Stubbornly, he kept on his feet. He didn’t care to crumple where his squad could see him do it. Since most of them were still upright, he would have lost face by falling.
He felt as if he’d lost his face anyway. At the same time, he wished he could lose it. Then he wouldn’t have to feel it any more.
“Go clean yourselves up,” Colonel Fujikawa commanded. “You are disgusting. The way you look is a disgrace to the Japanese Army, too.”
And whose fault is that? Shimizu wondered blearily. But he would never have said such a thing, not even if the Yankees were disemboweling him with a dull, rusty bayonet. Discipline ran deep. After bowing to Corporal Aiso-who returned the courtesy-Shimizu gave his attention, or as much of it as he had to give, back to his squad.
All of them were on their feet now. He didn’t know who had fallen and then got up again. He didn’t intend to ask, either. That would make whoever might have gone down lose face. The whole regiment had lost face. The whole Hawaii garrison had lost face. What point to singling out one or two common soldiers after that?
Heads up, backs straight, they marched off to the barracks. Once there, they lined up at the sinks to wash their bloody faces, rinse out their bloody mouths, and soak their tunics in cold water to get the bloodstains out of them.
“I thought my head was going to fall off.” Shiro Wakuzawa spoke with more pride than anything else.
“We all did,” Shimizu said. The men he led nodded, one by one. His rank usually exempted him from such spasms of brutality. Not this time, though. He was as bruised and battered as any of them. No one could say he hadn’t been through it. No one could say he hadn’t come through it, either. For now, he was one of them.