One Man's Justice (25 page)

From all appearances, they seemed terrified by the prospect of death. Their faces were ashen and their replies to questions were halting, as though they were afraid that choosing the wrong word might be fatal. There were some among them whose voices trembled with fear as they spoke.
The expression ‘strung up' was being used in Sugamo to mean death by hanging, and it was clear that these men were choosing their words very carefully in a desperate attempt to avoid being ‘strung up' themselves. Takuya couldn't help but notice that when one of the American military prosecutors directed his gaze at one of these men, he literally stiffened with fear, his every word of reply filled with apprehension.

From time to time thoughts of regret entered Takuya's mind for not having escaped at the freight station, but he always returned to the conclusion that doing so would only have served to postpone the inevitable. The more contact Takuya had with the prison MPs, the American military prison guards, and the judges, prosecutors and lawyers sitting in court, the more he came to the realisation that America's omnipresent military had total control of the country. Even if he had managed to evade his pursuers at the freight station, the Americans' control of society was so comprehensive that his capture would have been only a matter of time.

From other inmates, he learnt that about a month earlier the commander of the Tokyo
kempeitai
, Oishi Kojiro, had been incarcerated in Sugamo prison. He had managed to stay one step ahead of the authorities until they discovered that he was working in a coal mine and moved swiftly to arrest him. Many of Takuya's fellow inmates said that Oishi's staying at large so long was proof that his
kempeitai
background had equipped him well for stealth and deception, but the fact that even someone as careful as that could be captured brought home the inevitability of his own arrest.

Takuya, struggling against the fear of death as he spoke, testified in court that his own subordinates, the two sergeant-majors, had taken part in the executions only because of his orders. Shortly after this, a major posted to Fukuoka from Imperial Headquarters gave evidence to the effect that Takuya's participation in the executions was in compliance with orders he himself had given, and that these orders had of course originated at the very top of the chain of command in the Western Region, a statement which directly contradicted the testimony given by the highest-ranking officers. It seemed as if any suggestion that the US Army Air Force's indiscriminate incendiary raids on Japanese cities might have been a violation of international law had been ruled out from the start, for the defence lawyers made no mention of this in any of their statements.

On the twelfth of November, Takuya heard that verdicts had been reached in the trials of the Class A war criminals, and that seven of the defendants, including former prime minister Tojo Hideki, had been condemned to death by hanging. Another sixteen, including former navy minister Shimada Shigetaro, had been sentenced to life imprisonment. Two men were given fixed terms of imprisonment. Only seven received the death sentence, which was fewer than Takuya had expected, giving him a faint glimmer of hope that he might escape the noose.

Day after day, he and the other defendants rode in the bus from Sugamo prison to the military court in Yokohama. No one spoke along the way, so there was nothing for him to do but cast his mournful gaze out of the little windows at the outside world, or hang his head and close his eyes, thinking
of the past. Occasionally he visualised himself stepping out of the command centre and seeing Fukuoka consumed by flames, or remembered the sight of the two B-29s heading towards Nagasaki, then that shrill voice over the radio from Ohmura air base minutes later, reporting the devastation of the city. But these images were now no more than vague memories from days long gone by. There wasn't a hint of emotion involved in their recollection. The anger he had once felt at the American bombers who had obliterated Japan's cities with incendiaries was all but gone.

By the time the American soldier wielding the steel helmet knocked him unconscious as he clutched his handcart on the edge of the paddy field, he had probably already joined the rest of his countrymen living in a new, postwar world, he thought. Even then he had felt no hatred of them, only an obsequious terror. And now, in his hazy memory of it all, his strongest feeling was relief that he'd been lucky enough to get away as lightly as he had. He remembered the fawning look he had directed toward the American soldiers in the lorry just before being struck with the helmet, and knew that that expression had become a virtual fixture on his face since he had entered prison.

They were allowed to wash themselves in the bath twice a week, but most of the time the MP guarding them screamed for them to get out of the bathtub after what seemed like only a few moments. Takuya and his fellow inmates would strip while they waited in the corridor, ready to rush into the bathroom when the MP gave the word, and shave and wash themselves frantically in the short time available. Some sat there leisurely washing themselves, but more often than not
Takuya was flustered by the guard's shouts, and left before he could soak in the bath. In the morning, too, he leapt out of bed the moment he heard the guard yelling and the crash of a boot against the steel cell door. Not a day went by when Takuya did not feel intimidated by his captors' overpowering physical presence.

He often thought about his father, reduced to a sobbing wreck in the police station. He had aged dramatically, the skin of his face loose around the jowls. Takuya sent two postcards to his family. Outgoing messages were limited to one hundred and fifty characters, but nothing that required more space to write about came to mind, so this posed no problem. His father had spoken of wanting to be dead, but Takuya was reassured knowing that his strong-willed mother and loyal brother and sister were there to provide support.

Most inmates had family problems. Anyone accused of being a war criminal sullied the family name, so the relatives of those in Sugamo were not received kindly by those around them. Takuya had heard of marriage arrangements for sons and daughters being called off, job offers rescinded and children being refused entry into schools and universities because their father was in Sugamo. The wife of Takuya's friend Himuro had returned to her parents' house while her husband was on the run, and filed for divorce as soon as she heard he was in Sugamo. Like so many other inmates who had been married, Himuro put his seal on the papers and sent them back as requested.

There were even cases in which the parents or wife of an inmate had been so distressed that they had committed suicide. In the early weeks, because many inmates succeeded
in taking their own lives, the Americans had instituted considerably more rigorous body searches and left the corridor and cell lights on through the night. As a precaution against the transfer of poison or razors, those who were yet to be sentenced were refused visits from people outside the prison.

On two occasions, from inside his cell Takuya sensed fellow inmates being taken out to be executed. Apparently, notification that the sentence was to be carried out always occurred on Thursdays, when the prisoner was moved to a special cell for his last night before being executed the next day. That summer, five new sets of gallows were constructed in the execution compound.

One Thursday Takuya overheard a prison guard calling out the name of an inmate in a cell a few doors down from his. He heard the door being unlocked and the man stepping out into the corridor, saying his last farewells to the men in adjacent cells. The footsteps soon faded out of earshot and silence was restored after the steel door in the corridor leading to the adjoining wing was shut behind them. Takuya later heard that the man had been executed the next day.

About two weeks after that, Takuya again heard someone quietly bidding the other inmates farewell, then breaking out into an old Imperial Army song as he disappeared down the corridor. That man was one of four hanged the next day.

News travelled quickly around Sugamo on the twenty-fourth of December that seven people, including former prime minister Tojo Hideki, had been executed the previous
night. There were showers that day, and through his cell window Takuya could see raindrops against an otherwise clear sky.

The trial of those from Western Regional Command was entering its final stages.

Takuya felt as if he were playing a part in a bizarre stage play. It was as though each of the accused was frantically trying to climb on top of the others to keep from drowning. As each day passed the atmosphere among the men became more tense, their expressions betraying a growing desperation. Takuya was no different from the others, aware that he was tied into a life-and-death struggle with the rest of the accused. When he heard another defendant's answers to the prosecutor's questions being framed to compromise his own position, and therefore edge him closer to the gallows, Takuya felt himself stiffen and his mouth go dry. When he in turn made a statement, he could almost feel the other defendants' gazes burning into the back of his neck. By this stage, like all the other accused, Takuya was focused on nothing but his own chances of survival. Any difference in status that had previously existed between superiors and subordinates had long since disappeared. It was every man for himself.

When he was alone in his cell he sometimes imagined the moments before his death – the noose being slipped round his neck, the trapdoor falling open and his body dropping half through the hole with a jolt. If only he could avoid the pain that must come the moment before death, he thought, hoping that it would all end the very instant the trapdoor swung open. When Takuya thought of the minutes before
stepping up to the gallows, he was filled with trepidation. He wondered if he would be able to hold himself together long enough to walk up the steps unassisted. Those who kept their composure to the very end would be eulogised, he told himself. He, too, must keep his dignity and stay calm until the moment he died.

He recalled the scene in the bamboo grove before the American airmen were executed. They must have been terrified by the prospect of death, but they all did exactly as they were told, walking off through the undergrowth and kneeling down to await their fate. Was it pride, or perhaps even vanity, he wondered, that stopped them from causing a commotion? The instant the sword touched the man's neck, his body had jerked upward, as though his legs had unleashed the last action of his mortal coil. Would something similar happen when a man was hanged, Takuya wondered, and were the stories true about faeces and urine being released at the moment of death?

That night Takuya got no sleep, tossing and turning for hours on his straw mattress. It was rumoured that suicides among inmates yet to be sentenced were on the rise, and as Takuya's sentencing approached he felt that, if the opportunity arose, he would like to end it all himself.

The deliberations in court drew to a close, and it was announced that the sentences of those from Western Regional Command would be passed on December the twenty-ninth.

That day Takuya was taken from his cell, handcuffed and led out into the rear courtyard. Some inmates were already
standing in neat lines, others were being led out by MPs to join the assembly. Many had bloodshot eyes and puffy faces, so it was obvious that Takuya was not the only one going without sleep.

They were ushered on to a waiting bus, and escorted by Jeeps at the front and rear carrying armed MPs. When everyone was seated the bus moved off, picking up speed once they left the Sugamo compound and drove through the streets of Tokyo and then down the main road toward Yokohama. Takuya gazed out of the window along the way, but nothing caught his eye.

Eventually the bus came to a halt in front of the court building, from where they were all led into an anteroom. Takuya avoided looking at the others, instead staring down at the polished wooden floor.

After a short wait an MP told them to move out of the room. When Takuya got up from his chair his knees and ankles felt strangely weak, as though all the strength in his legs had drained away. They were made to form a line and file down the corridor, the commander-in-chief 's diminutive figure walking in front of Takuya. The former lieutenant-general's close-cropped hair was now completely white, as thin and soft as baby's down, and the skin on his neck hung loose, deep wrinkles moving ever so slightly with each step.

As always, their handcuffs were removed in the corridor before they filed into the courtroom. A large United States flag took pride of place high on the wall behind the judge's seat. Below it was a framed photograph of President Truman, flanked by photographs of General MacArthur,
Supreme Commander of Allied Powers in Japan, and General Walker, commander of the United States Eighth Army. Takuya and his fellow accused remained standing as the lawyers, public prosecutors and judge entered the court. Out of the corner of his eye he could see an MP in a white helmet standing beside the door behind the seats for the defendants. The US Army colonel in charge of the proceedings started to speak, at first addressing the court, but soon looking down at the documents in front of him as he read out the verdicts in a monotone. Takuya sat motionless and stared at the deadpan expression on the man's face.

The colonel looked up again and, turning his head slightly toward the defendants' seats, began to speak. The interpreter repeated the verdict in Japanese.

Takuya recognised the commander-in-chief 's name despite the colonel's peculiar American pronunciation. His heart pounded as he stared at the colonel's lips reading the charges, the verdict and the sentences. Takuya understood very little English, but knew that it was a guilty verdict and recognised the words ‘death by hanging' at the very end. The translation that followed confirmed that he was not mistaken.

Suddenly Takuya was overwhelmed by a feeling of suffocation, as though a trapdoor had swung open underneath him and a noose were closing on his neck. The deputy chief of staff 's name was read out in a perfunctory tone amid a familiar-sounding stream of English, and again the words ‘death by hanging' rang in the court. In quick succession, the names of the other high-ranking officers were read out,
including that of the former colonel in charge of the tactical operations centre. All of them were sentenced to death by hanging.