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A book following two Japanese soldier to and through the 1937 Rape of Nanking...
Here is a representative chapter (FYI, the manuscript is in standard format. DU posts automatically format like this... so it looks a little different here than it does in manuscript:
Chapter 14
Kubo and Jiro sat atop the wall looming over the hill leading down the small shore village of Tai Hu Lake. Thousands of soldiers moved back and forth through the city. Since they’d taken Suzhou so easily most of the infrastructure remained intact so that even the electric street lamps flickered to life just after dusk. Their warm amber rays cast long shadows on the noisy group of men below. The sounds from below were like those Kubo remembered from the height of the Rape Blossom Festival back in Iiyama.
“I don’t think the war will last much longer,” Jiro said before taking a long pull from his canteen.
“You sound disappointed,” Kubo answered.
Jiro shrugged, “I don’t know. It just seems like we spent all that time training for nothing.”
“I’ll be glad to get home if it does end quickly. I’ll be very happy to be home by planting season. I know my Uncle will need help.” Kubo fished a cigarette from his breast pocket and offered one to Jiro.
“It’s just… I don’t know. I expected it to be different. You know, they tell you that dying is expected, that only honor comes with a glorious charge. I don’t want to go back and have people question my patriotism because things were easy here.” Jiro struck a match and offered a light to Kubo.
“It’s getting cold. I wish we had some wine.” Kubo wrapped his arms around himself and rubbed his shoulders. The friction heat felt good. Everything felt good then; just sitting and savoring the victory, anticipating the same at Nanking, and going home. He wasn’t disappointed in the experience, though certain aspects bothered him if pondered for too long, but basic training beat most of that type of thought out. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” Jiro flicked the spent cigarette away and watched the red tip spiral down towards the thatched roofed huts below.
“What did you think about in the square today?”
“About what?”
“Shooting the refugees.” Kubo tossed his cigarette too and began rubbing his shoulders again.
“I don’t know. Azuma gave the order; I followed it, that’s all. Why?”
“I just felt bad about the whole thing. I made it happen. If I hadn’t argued with you over those damn dogs they’d still be alive.” Kubo peered at the group of drunken soldiers singing below as they walked.
“It’s war Hideki. Sometime things like that happen because they have to happen. I don’t think there’s any blame. It was just circumstance.”
Kubo thought about Jiro’s statement for a while, “but how many times will those circumstances happen? This isn’t the first time for me.” He remembered the old woman in the village, how she jerked back, dead, from a rifle bullet to the head, also delivered on Azuma’s orders.
“The way I see it is that we can’t allow them to think we are weak. If Azuma let those people go they could spread rumors that we are fighting among ourselves, that might encourage other refugees to revolt, it might travel as far as the Chinese army, and then what? Would it make them stand and fight instead of running? How many would have to die then? I guess it’s a good trade. We kill a dozen of them so we don’t have to kill ten dozen later.” Jiro slipped his hands into his pockets.
“That’s one way to look at it I guess,” Kubo answered.
Jiro said, “It’s realistic. I don’t have feelings one-way or the other. They are just Chinese, and right now the Chinese are our enemy. If the tables were turned I think the Kuomontang would do the same if they were in Yokohama, or Tokyo, or Osaka. It’s war Kubo.”
“You’re right,” Kubo answered, “I’ll try not to dwell on it.”
Jiro smiled then checked his watch, “it’s almost midnight. Do you want to stay here some more or try to find some wine or women or something?”
“Women,” Kubo answered, “definitely women… I could do with some food too if we can find it.”
Jiro and Kubo scrambled down the stairs to the street and joined the jolly throng of soldiers carousing beneath the street lamps.
They walked the city for half an hour before bumping into others from the 14th near the northern section of the city. Funakoshi stepped out of the group when he saw Jiro, “We need women,” he yelped then thrust a half full bottle of Chinese rice wine at Kubo, “Where are the women?”
“We haven’t seen any,” Jiro answered, laughing. “Where did you find wine? We looked all over but there wasn’t any to be bought.”
The others burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Kubo snapped then took a long pull of the wine before passing the bottle to Jiro.
“We don’t buy!” Funakoshi barked, “We take!”
Jiro drank deeply from the bottle, “tell us then where to take wine!”
Funakoshi grinned, “It’s easy!” He glanced over at one of the small houses lining the street then staggered to the door. He turned the knob and pushed but the door refused to budge. Funakoshi stepped back a bit, kicked in the door, and lunged inside.
The others in the 14th stood in silence for a few seconds until the first high-pitched scream erupted from the house. A moment later an old Chinese woman stumbled out into the street. Half of her dressing gown was torn away revealing a pointed and saggy breast.
She screamed again and struggled to cover her exposed breast with a wrinkled hand.
Kubo saw blood dripping from the right corner of her mouth.
Funakoshi emerged then, still grinning, “no wine here… but a woman!”
A cheer went up through the 14th.
“She’s old!” Jiro barked.
The woman eyed each of the soldiers quickly. She began to plead in Chinese and threw herself at Jiro’s feet.
“So what? Who cares! She’s a woman!” Funakoshi reached down for her but Kubo grabbed his arm and shoved him backwards.
“Leave her alone!” Kubo placed himself between the woman and Funakoshi. “She’s an old woman. You’ll kill her!”
“You know what your problem is Kubo? You like these people too much,” Funakoshi snarled while struggling to maintain his balance against the better wishes of the alcohol coursing through his veins.
“Shut up Funakoshi!” Kubo checked the gang behind him, their eyes were as angry and disbelieving as Funakoshi’s. He glanced at Jiro, who immediately looked away. “This is wrong,” Kubo said, “if the Chinese were in Yokohama, or Tokyo, you wouldn’t want them to do this to an old Japanese woman!” He reached down to help her to her feet, but something smashed across the back of Kubo’s head and he dropped, unconscious, to the street.
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