The Call of the Thunder Dragon (53 page)

He sat back and put his small bag
beside him on the seat, the carriage was empty and quiet except for
the rattle and throb of the steam engine, which blew its whistle as
they picked up speed out of the station. He watched fascinated as
the train rolled over a bridge, he saw women washing their clothes
by spanking rocks or as Mark Twain said Indians breaking rocks with
wet laundry. Young children washed and bathed, a plump young girl
with a sarong around her waist stared back at him as he watched her
dump a bucket of cold water over her head. She chastely pulled the
sarong up to her armpits to cover her breasts as Donald swept
by.

Endless palm trees were sweeping
the sky as they rolled past. Gold-tipped pagodas peaked from behind
the pines growing on the raising slopes. The train would
occasionally stop for no apparent reason, men and women who’d
chosen to disembark at this point in order to piss, found
themselves chasing after the train. Pulling up loose sarongs,
waving to relatives as they ran to catch the train before it could
accelerate away.

Growing weary, aware he was
beginning to fall asleep Donald opened his case, pushed aside his
Gieves & Hawkes pyjamas and took out his gun, a Royal Navy
issue Webley Automatic pistol. He looked at the smooth black
surfaces, polished and cleaned to perfection, a lesson learnt when
the weapon jammed in Spain. He slipped it into his jacket pocket
and he locked his case and then closed his eyes.

The door of the compartment
opened with a sharp squeak, his eyes flicked open, to watch a
diminutive but, stout, Asian man look around the door.

“Excuse me? Do you mind if I take
the other seat?” He said in perfect, unaccented English.

Seeing no reason to object Donald
nodded. “No problem, go ahead!”

Donald closed his eyes again, but
before he could get to sleep, the interloper spoke to introduce
himself.

“Pardon me, my name is Renzo
Kagawa, I am a dentist I am travelling to Jorhat for a short
holiday. Have you been to Jorhat before?”

Donald shook his head.

“Let me tell you about it...” The
voice of the Japanese dentist resonated dully as Donald tried to
keep his eyes open.

“What is your interest in Jorhat,
if I may ask, sir?” The Japanese man asked politely.

Leaving the airstrip office,
Falstaff blew out his breath.

“Half an hour! It was lucky that
Gibbons was by the telephone! Honestly, the paperwork is getting
too much! Airworthiness certificates? This thing’s so old you’d be
better looking for the designer’s death certificate first!”

Zam blew out her breath
impatiently, Falstaff had been ranting along these lines for some
time.

“I’m sorry, that was a lot of
waiting and talking. But we are all set for setting off tomorrow
morning at ten.”

“Is Guwahati Junction like
Bexhill and Eastbourne railway stations?” Zam smiled, “I’d thought
them nicer.”

“I’d pick Bexhill over Guwahati
any day; Jorhat had a nice station?” Falstaff was flummoxed. “Why
on earth do you ask?”

“We, in Bhutan, are circled by
mountains, to the east is China, to the west, is British India and
London? We have no railways, no elephants or flying machines! The
book I learnt English from was about a place near Bexhill and
Eastbourne railways stations.” Zam looked around the airstrip as
they walked. “We’re getting further west nearer England aren’t we?
We are in British India?”

“Yes, we are. But honestly, in
the Caproni, it would take two, no three months at the rate we’re
going to get to Bexhill or Eastbourne … You’re not changing your
mind are you?”

“No, I want to get home more than
ever. But to go to England by train would be nice? The town we
passed before, with the smoke doesn’t look so nice. I’m glad for
you that London is not like that. I always thought Bexhill and
Eastbourne looked so nice in those pictures!”

“Zam, please put my mind at rest,
tell me how did you learn English?”

“I told you from
Milly-Molly-Mandy! It has pictures of Bexhill and…”

“Eastbourne, yes! Photographs?”
Falstaff smiled, despite the muddled course of the conversation.
Conversation with Zam was always a wonderful abstract distraction
from the norm.

“No lovely drawings!” Zam grinned
back.

“And Milly-Mandy was a kid?”

“Yes, a lovely incorrigible child
like me!”

“I seriously doubt it!” Falstaff
almost slapped her backside but offered his arm instead. “I bet
Molly minded her manners! Here now, there’s a bus!”

The dusty grey once red bus
pulled up, it’s door already open. Falstaff glanced inside. “You
don’t mind sharing with the chickens do you? Here, have we still
got some coins left over from Jorhat?”

Somewhere over the Black Mountains, Bhutan

Colonel Haga-Jin had a hangover.
He wasn’t normally a serious drinker. The long cold flight from
Guwahati had tested his nerves. The defaming scar on his face stung
and he seethed with humiliation deep inside. Not only that, before
setting off from Guwahati the news from Jorhat was bad. Not only
failure but Ono Itchi had been arrested. Haga-Jin had lost his
temper, after which he’d fallen out with Captain Akira over their
next course of action.

The Dolphin flying boat was now
high over the black mountains heading North towards Bhutan. Two
injured paras had been left behind at Guwahati, with ample funds to
take them by boat to Chittagong and then on to Japanese-occupied
territory in China. This was the route Akira had attempted to force
on Colonel Haga-Jin. Accepting the Captain’s advice would mean
accepting defeat, accepting that Falstaff had won. Haga-Jin had
been furious, disgusted with the pilot for suggesting that the
shame be accepted and forgotten.

The Colonel had won the argument.
Threatening court-martial the moment Captain Akira set foot in
China if he did not acquiesce to his order to prepare to fly on to
Bhutan. The mission to be carried out expressly as the Colonel
ordered or he would put the order for court-martial in writing and,
if necessary, have Captain Soujiro carry out the sentence
immediately. The tense stand-off had ended with the Dolphin being
packed to the roof with cans of gasoline, oil and other
supplies.

The Colonel and Captain Soujiro,
along with the remaining two uniformed paratroopers shared what
remained of the cabin space with the heavy load of additional fuel.
While Captain Akira and his co-pilot were shut in the cockpit
flying them North. Cramped with little space to stand or move,
having reduced the multiple rows of seats, to a meager two rows of
seats between the four of them Haga-Jin fought the urge to stand up
and pace up and down.

The Colonel blamed his hangover
and the after effects of the strain of the last week on Captain
Akira. All the while his face had throbbed as the scar tissue
slowly healed. Sitting next to him was Captain Soujiro, frequently
knocking elbows with him, they shared a merger about of cold food
between them.

Captain Soujiro slept, dozing
despite the pain in his foot and shoulder. He’d supported the
Colonel, backing him up about the necessity of completing the
mission. Revenge on Falstaff foremost in his mind.

The Colonel fumed. He’d been
barred from smoking by the pilot Captain. The risk of igniting the
huge load of fuel was too great. Behind them the cans of gasoline
occasionally gave a popping sound as the cans expanded due to the
reduced air pressure, the frequent percussive reminders that they
were sitting back to back with the highly flammable cargo forced
the Colonel to accept that smoking would severely impact their
chances of reaching Bhutan alive. Instead, to steady his nerves and
keep warm, he had turned to drink. Strong rice wine repeatedly
sipped since take off had reduced him to a numbed, alcoholic
shell.

His wrath at Falstaff’s continued
escape from his strategies came to the surface. He raged at Soujiro
and his men, blaming them for the failure. Finally, he’d slumped
into a deep sleep.

The Captain Soujiro had bowed his
head, meekly accepting the blame directed at himself and his men.
Vowing his continued support to the Colonel, to death if necessary.
Soujiro remained calmer but kept in his mind an image of the first
para to die, shot by Falstaff as he’d escaped and an image of the
men found in the boiler and cesspit. His revenge was for these men.
He couldn’t think of returning to Foochow now until Falstaff’s
blood was spilt.

Awaking to the still droning
engines of the Dolphin high over the Black Mountains, the Colonel
now sat nursing a headache. He carried on silently cursing the cold
as he shivered eating Laru, Assamese sesame candy, with cold tea
and cold rice. How he hated hangovers, a weakness of the flesh.
This cold was foreign and the rice foreign, the outlandish dishes
of the Chinese made him sick. He conspired that everything would be
so much better if it were all Japanese! He suddenly yearned for
Chitose Ame
⁵⁹
; he remembered
wrapped in a bag with a picture of a crane and turtle for long
life.

He shuddered, was he homesick?
Had Falstaff reduced him to the delusions of a homesick child?
Falstaff had to die he said to himself again, like an evil spirit,
Falstaff should be caught like a monkey faced ‘Nue
⁶⁰
’, shot down and
seized so his head could be removed.

The Colonel had reported the
deaths of his agents and the manner in which Falstaff had dealt
with the bodies and his subsequent resistance to arrest for the
killing of the agents. He considered that Japanese military law
demanded the death of Falstaff. A justifiable revenge, against the
foreigner who had taken arms against Japan. His superiors did not
want to be dragged into the business, but they expected honour to
be done. Thus, his mission was eventually sanctioned.

Katakiuchi, legalised blood
revenge, was a part of Japanese culture.
Edo no kataki wo
Nagaski de utsu
, ‘take revenge for Edo in Nagasaki’, the
proverb brought slaver to the Colonel’s lips. He licked them, the
thought of blood to spilled by Falstaff and thought of the red
blood which would run when Falstaff would finally be decapitated by
his sword or perhaps shot by a firing squad?

Blood revenge, the legalised
practice of katakiuchi, an officially registered vendetta on legal
record. Papers would be issued by legal authority of Samurai and
Senior Officials. This would authorise the holder to kill for a
perceived wrong done to themselves. Such writs issued numbered
thousands over the hundreds of years in which the practice had
developed into a legalized form of murder. And that figure only
represented those who registered their vengeance. The Meiji
restoration had finally decreed blood revenge illegal, but revenge
and its legal merits, had an honoured place in Japanese culture and
remained in the minds of the military and they now had
authority.

Katakiuchi and its merits were
contained in the necessity in the minds of the Japanese that
giri,
one’s duty must be done and the loss of face for not
doing the duty. So heavy was the burden of obligation, this lent
itself to revenge: for debt, loss of face, theft, injury, murder
even adultery
must
be repaid. Blood for blood was a right,
as was blood for dishonour, in the case of adultery both parties
could be killed. When still a legal process, permission had to be
sought in writing and then granted to the avenger or assistant
avengers. Successful killing of the victim would then be reported
and the avenger’s name or his debt cleared. The avenger honoured
and praised.

There was no right to
counter-revenge, once katakiuchi was completed the matter was
legally closed. An unsuccessful avenger could not return home,
forced to wander in dishonour unless his target could be found and
dispatched in a timely and honourable manner.

Colonel Haga-Jin may not have
registered his mission as a formal act of katakiuchi, but it was
implied, in the facts and origins of the mission and the orders
given in the name of the Imperial Japanese Emperor and Falstaff’s
flagrant resistance to Japanese law. A Japanese military commander
never failed, he was expected to return stronger for his success.
How else could the Japanese claim superiority over other races if
they failed to demonstrate their strength and skill through such
honourable actions?

The bus driver had warmly
greeted Falstaff and Zam, who took their seats along with the
farmers with chickens on their laps; or bundles of carrots;
cabbages; bunches of red Malabar spinach and sacks of bright green
bottle gourd.

The Bus went directly to the
centre of Guwahati, they were set down outside the bustling railway
station.

They wove through a crowd of
beggars; railway children living beside the track, begging from its
passengers, clearing away the rubbish to sell or reuse. A stream
engine hooted as it approached the station. The children ran
towards the platform, ready to beg or jump aboard and clear the
carriages of anything and everything they could find.

“Do you think the Engine will
still be a problem?” Zam looked worried.

“I’m afraid so, - we mustn’t take
off unless we have looked at it. I’m expecting it to be much colder
over the top of the black mountains. It is clear today, can you
believe that sight? Those mountains go on forever!” Falstaff stood
looking through a gap in the station buildings at the towering
range of mountains.

“We must make sure we’ll make it
this last leg!” Falstaff rubbed his hands together with a grin.
“Let’s get some supplies and find somewhere for lunch!”

Zam looked puzzled. “Leg, was the
flying machine lost a leg?”