The Devil's Circle, page 11
Then during the War Julie potong jalan in front of June herself. She had to fall for and marry a priest. They got sent back to Nagasaki, with all the tragic results that followed. With such a family history, there was no way that June would have even thought about being hitched to someone by arrangement. Ralph had said that she was attractive. I couldn’t see it myself, since I had known her in her mud-covered, tree-climbing, knee-scraping days. He must have been right though, because she didn’t lack for suitors. There had been a steady stream of men, introduced by Mak with the active collaboration of Ah Sum. June knew how to behave and played the part of dumb blond perfectly, although she wasn’t blond and was far from dumb. Her intellectual blondness was merely protective colouration. June was in fact the smartest of my girl cousins. But she hid it well, instinctively knowing that men in general did not care for cleverness in a wife, just domesticity. She had nicknames for all of them, some of which I remember: Si-Gemok, Fatty; Si-Kurus, the Thin Man; Si-Botak, Baldy; Si-Jangut, Beardy; and my personal favourite, Si-Bengkok, the Crooked Man. None of them met her exacting standards. With the insouciance of youth she had cavalierly dismissed them one after another. “Plenty of fish in the sea,” she said. Unfortunately, as the years progressed fewer and fewer of the fish swam into her kelong. Eng Tong was the first one in a long time.
Nobody really knew what June thought about Eng Tong as a suitor; she kept closed-mouthed on that score. Gek Neo had warned June that he was a samseng. Ah Sum was equally voluble in her opposition. June can be as ornery as an old mule when nagged. The fact that others expressed their clear disapproval of him merely hardened her resolve. As far as she was concerned, it was no one else’s pasal. Mak hadn’t said anything out loud, but the impression I got was that she didn’t think Eng Tong would be a suitable match for June.
Now there he was, standing right in front of me asking for June’s hand in marriage. I had neither the energy nor the inclination to argue with Eng Tong his merits as a mate. So I did what any reasonable coward would have done under the circumstances: I called Mak and fled upstairs to finish my legal submissions. Mak has a delicate way of broaching sensitive subjects, a talent that is invaluable in running a complicated household. She spent some time talking to Eng Tong and eventually persuaded him that nothing could be done that night. I gather that he wasn’t overjoyed, but finally agreed that June would have to make the decision. He wanted to go and see her there and then, but was dissuaded by the prospect of disturbing the great d’Almeida in his den at dinner. He left and that was the last I saw of him.
GEORGE had made sympathetic noises and given me his lucky rabbit’s foot. Though I appreciated the gesture, I didn’t set much store by it as a good-luck charm; after all, look what happened to the rabbit. The butterflies in my stomach were having a merry dance when, to my surprise, d’Almeida appeared. He walked over to Major Beatty and introduced himself. Beatty looked completely astounded. He hadn’t expected to be faced with such an opponent. His assistant started burrowing even deeper among the papers. D’Almeida came over and sat himself down behind me.
“Are you taking over?” I asked, hope springing in my breast.
“No,” he replied, “I shall just observe. It is your case.”
Hope died a pathetic death. The butterflies redoubled their frenzy.
The President and members of the tribunal trooped in and took their places. The charges were read and prisoner was asked whether he admitted to them. Nakamura looked completely lost. He was dressed in an ill-fitting uniform that had obviously been scrounged for the occasion. He glanced uncomfortably around the courtroom. The interpreter prompted him again. He shook his head. “The prisoner pleads not guilty to the charges,” announced the interpreter.
Major Beatty was a good speaker and set out the facts clearly, presenting the documents and records in a logical manner. I heard that he took silk when he went back to England. Nakamura was a member of the second bunkentai of the Singapore branch Kempeitai. His unit was commanded by a Lieutenant Saito, now deceased. He was based at Kempeitai headquarters in the YMCA at Stamford Road. In early 1944 there was an upswing in resistance activity on Singapore island. Stocks of rubber were sabotaged. A bomb was detonated at the Capitol Cinema. Seventh Area Army Headquarters demanded that the outrages be stopped. The Kempeitai were called in. Informers said that the saboteurs were being coordinated by radio. The ringleaders were to be found in the prisoner-of-war camp at Changi and the Sime Road internment camp for civilians. The camps were raided. A dozen unfortunates were brought to the YMCA for interrogation.
The prisoners were kept in underground cages, barely as big as a dog-kennel. There was only a small grille on the door, through which food could be passed. High up on the wall was a tiny window, with a sliver of blue sky showing. The prisoners were crammed together so tightly that they could not lie down on the bare floor. There was no bedding. The lights were kept on all the time, night and day. The only way that they could keep track of the passing of time was to watch the changing of the light through their little window. The food they got was just enough to keep them alive so that they could continue to be interrogated. Water was not provided. There was one pedestal toilet. They got their water from that. The daily routine was monotonously similar. At 8 am the guards would come and get them. They would be taken to a bigger room and made to sit bolt upright in a row on the floor. Talking was not allowed. They were not even permitted to move except to go to the lavatory. Any infraction was punished with a severe beating. After the day’s interrogation, they were taken back to their cage at 10 pm. This continued for a week; more for some.
The Kempeitai’s own records showed that Warrant Officer Nakamura was the chief interrogator. Four of the persons in his charge died. This fact was uncontradicted and incontrovertible. It came from the official records kept by the Kempeitai. They didn’t die by his hand; not in the sense that he had beaten them to death on the spot. Death came later, when they were brought back to the cage bruised and bloodied and left without medical care. There was no direct evidence of how Nakamura had conducted his interrogation of the victims, since all of them were dead. So were the other members of his unit who might have given evidence. Major Beatty, to his credit, admitted that no one had actually seen Nakamura torturing any of the deceased. But he did have two witnesses who survived the hospitality of the Kempeitai.
The first was a Mr David Howard, who had been a manager with the Straits Steamship Company before the war. He had been interned first in Changi Camp and then later in Sime Road. Howard was a trained electrical engineer, which was possibly why he had been picked out for interrogation. Beatty took him through his evidence-in-chief competently. Howard, like the others, had been held at the YMCA. He was taken into the interrogation room every day for eight days. As the prisoners sat waiting for their turn, a clerk with a file would come in and indicate who was to go for questioning. The guards then seized the poor wretch and bundled him into the interrogation room. The room was bare, except for a wooden chair and table. There would have been at least one interpreter and sometimes another relief interrogator at each session.
The session started slowly, even politely. They simply wanted to know who his outside contact was, they said. All he had to do was just name a few names. Even one name would be enough. Howard answered that he wasn’t part of any plot and couldn’t name the conspirators even if he wanted to. He was slapped. After a while, the slaps turned to punches. When he again denied having any contacts, he was made to kneel on sharp pieces of wood. The interrogators would kick the wood so that it cut into his flesh. He was flogged with leather belts and burned on the forehead with cigarettes. When he collapsed, a lighted paper was put in his hands to test whether he was playing possum. Every day, they took him to the edge of death and then stopped. He was returned to the cage barely able to walk or speak. The following day, the process was repeated. Somehow, he managed to survive. Four of those in the cage with him did not. His injuries were light compared to theirs.
Then came the moment I had been dreading. Beatty finished his examination-in-chief and passed Howard over to me for questioning. I glanced at d’Almeida, who muttered quietly, “Ask how the witness recognised the prisoner.” I stood up to cross-examine, my throat completely dry.
“Mr Howard,” I said in a voice rather higher-pitched than I would have liked, “look carefully at the accused. Do you recognise him?”
Howard was middle-aged and balding. He gave the impression of having once been fat, but now the skin hung off his bones. He squinted at Nakamura. “Yes,” he said, “he was there. He was one of them.”
I was seized by a sudden inspiration. “Do you habitually wear spectacles?”
“Yes,” he replied warily. “But I can see without them, if that’s what you’re getting at. I lost my glasses during the torture. They never replaced them.”
This was more information than I wanted. But having started, I felt I had to persist. “Without your spectacles now, how can you be so sure that the accused was one of those who were there when you were tortured?”
Major Beatty rose. “Is my learned friend suggesting that the accused was not present when the tortures were inflicted on the witness?”
“No, not exactly,” I answered lamely, “but I’m raising the possibility.”
Beatty sat down with a slight smile. I felt my ears redden. He knew I was grasping at straws. “How did you identify the accused?” I asked with a hint of desperation.
Howard looked surprised. I repeated my question. “There was this officer from the BMA,” he said. “He brought a folder of photographs and asked if I recognised any of them. I picked out three or four, I can’t remember exactly.”
I thought I saw an opening and pounced. “Three or four? Including the accused? I put it to you that you weren’t sure about the identification, which is why you chose so many.”
Howard responded with some irritation, “No, I’m sure he was one of them. I was told that the others were dead. That’s why he’s the only one in the dock. He was there in the YMCA. I’m certain of it.” I hate it when witnesses refuse to cooperate by folding. I had reached the end of the line and looked at d’Almeida for guidance. He merely nodded. I sat down despondently.
Beatty had no further witnesses present. The other eyewitness, one Alfred Granger, had been repatriated to England. Granger couldn’t even walk when they took him out of Sime Road Camp. Immediately after the return of the British, some of the internees took the initiative to record statements about the ill-treatment they had been subjected to. Granger was one of them. His evidence was contained in an affidavit. “Does my learned friend object to the introduction of the evidence?” asked Beatty.
I briefly toyed with the idea of objecting, but discarded it almost immediately. There was no point being difficult for the sake of being difficult. The tribunal was already against my client and this sort of niggling technical defence wouldn’t have endeared me to them. “No, Sir,” I said, addressing the tribunal, “but I merely point out that there will be no opportunity to cross-examine the deponent.”
“We will bear that in mind,” responded Lieutenant-Colonel Watkins shortly. I had the distinct impression that he was not impressed with the defence.
Granger’s evidence was more of the same. He had been subjected to much more severe torture than Howard. The interrogators had put bamboo slivers under his nails. They also suspended him from the ceiling and applied electric shocks to his genitals. He had to be carried back to the cage in a rattan chair. They continued to torture him for another four days. It was a miracle that he was still alive. He too had identified Nakamura from photographs. Apparently the same officer from ALFSEA HQ had shown him their folder and he had picked Nakamura out. It was all very discouraging.
Fortunately, the tribunal ended my torment by adjourning for lunch. I turned to speak to d’Almeida, but he was already at the door of the courtroom. “Mr d’Almeida,” I called after him, “have you any instructions for me?”
“Yes,” he called back over his shoulder. “Stall until I return.”
16
“IS your client serious?” asked Lieutenant-Colonel Watkins, staring crossly at me. “After all that this tribunal has heard, you are telling us that he will not give evidence or even make an unsworn statement from the dock?”
I had trouble swallowing. My vocal chords seemed to have dried up completely. I forced the words out of my mouth. “Yes, Sir. He has been advised of his rights. He elects to remain silent.”
Major Beatty had taken the better part of two hours after the lunch recess to wind up his case with formal witnesses. Now it was my turn to present the defence. Only there was no defence to present. I had just informed them that Nakamura would not be saying anything. Watkins conferred with his colleagues on the bench. After a moment, he resumed glowering at me. “What do you propose to do, Mr Chiang?”
“If it please you, Mr President and honourable members of the tribunal, I would like to make a submission on behalf of the accused.”
Watkins put down his pencil and leaned back in his chair. He rested his arms on the armrests, placing his fingertips together. His moustache twitched. He fixed me with his basilisk glare. “Proceed.”
Not very hopefully, I began. “We have to appreciate that the accused comes from a very different background and culture. The Japanese have developed in isolation from Europe for a millenium. It is only in the last century that they have had a sustained contact with the nations of the West. Their values are not the same as those of a European soldier. They a place a different importance on life. For them, duty is more important than life, loyalty is required above all. I ask this tribunal to bear this difference in mind when judging the culpability of Warrant Officer Nakamura. He should not be judged as though he were British, or even as you would judge a German soldier.”
I could see from the faces of the tribunal that I wasn’t making any impact.
“Gentlemen, you have before you three documents which set out the framework within which the Japanese Army functions. The first is the Imperial Rescript issued by the Emperor Meiji in 1902. It is considered to be a sacred document setting out the guiding principles for the Japanese soldier. Remember, to the Japanese, the Emperor is a god. The second document is a set of instructions issued by the Japanese War Ministry to amplify the Imperial Rescript. The third is the Military Training Instructions of the Japanese Army.
“I read to you what these documents say: The essence of military discipline is obedience. Therefore, it is necessary that the officers and men of the whole army should form a habit or a second nature of sacrificing their lives for their Emperor and country, obeying their superiors implicitly and executing their superiors’ orders faithfully. For the cultivation of military discipline it is necessary, first, to seek absolute obedience and, next, to make officers and men fully understand the significance and inviolable dignity of the Supreme Command, so that they will sacrifice their lives willingly for their Emperor and country at the order of their superiors. Subordinates must obey immediately the orders of the superior, irrespective of their nature. Such orders are irresistible.
“The duty of the military is to sacrifice their lives for their Emperor and country. It is a tradition inherited from the time of the old samurai. A samurai’s loyalty to his lord is more important than his own life. Remember the old saying: life is as light and negligible as a feather; loyalty is as heavy and lofty as a mountain.”
Eyebrows were raised. I pressed on regardless.
“These are not the King’s Regulations. They embody a wholly different philosophy of war. To obey is the soldier’s prime duty. It is a duty owed to the Emperor, who is not just his sovereign but his god. There is no question of refusing to obey an order from a superior officer. Warrant Officer Nakamura was not the one who gave the orders; those orders emanated from the Headquarters of the 7th Area Army and were transmitted down the chain of command. Headquarters demanded an end to the sabotage. Their information was that the POWs and civilian internees were involved. Nakamura’s unit was ordered to investigate. His OC Lieutenant Saito set the tone. He had no choice but to comply. It was his duty as a soldier.”
The honourable members of the tribunal sat immobile as granite statues, not betraying any reaction at all. I felt vaguely disturbed. It wasn’t because I knew I would lose and I hate losing; it was the knowledge that if by some miracle I won, it would have been with arguments that I didn’t myself believe.
THE tribunal only took half an hour to deliberate. For all I know, they may have made up their minds in the first five minutes and spent the rest of the time having tea and biscuits. The three members of the tribunal trooped back in grim-faced. Beatty’s final submissions had been masterful. He drew the threads together and built up an unanswerable case. I had no illusions about what the verdict would be. Nakamura was commanded to stand. He got up uncomprehendingly, with all the animation and intelligence of a scarecrow with straw for brains.
“Nakamura Nagamasa,” pronounced Lieutenant-Colonel Watkins solemnly, “having considered all the evidence presented, it is the conclusion of this tribunal that you were an instrument in a campaign of torture designed not to elicit military information but to cow and terrorise the population of this unhappy island. You are a professional bully with no sensibility or finer feelings whatsoever. You must die because you were a willing tool and willing tools of an inhuman, murderous purpose must be destroyed. It is the verdict of this tribunal that you are guilty as charged and that you be sentenced …”
Watkins never got to finish his sentence. There was a bustle and commotion at the rear of the courtroom and d’Almeida burst in. Breathlessly, he spoke as he rushed to the front, “You cannot sentence this man to death!”
Completely taken aback, all Watkins could manage to blurt out was, “Why the devil not?”
“Because,” said d’Almeida, recovering his customary composure, “this man is not Warrant Officer Nakamura Nagamasa.”
