Genji Nakamura, Imperial Marine (Axis/Japan) [TEASER]

Genji stood hollow-eyed and stared down in the crater beneath him. The gore that testified below was enough to make his stomach churn with discomfort. Behind him, the column of light infantry progressed with bayonets and light machine guns on their shoulders, chattering like it was another day at the office.

At this point, Genji had already bayoneted three men, shot 8, and assisted in taking several pillboxes. It wasn’t the rifle fire or steady bursts of machine guns that bothered him. It was the planes that dropped bombs, regardless of whatever nation the pilot was serving.

The bodies are in pieces— making them indistinguishable. Filipino or American? His eyes darted to a figure sliding down to the messy mound of was-man with a bayonet in his hands. He started to pick through the uniforms with indifference. Genji made a face and turned around, finally joining his regiment that trailed down.

“What’s next?” He shouted to his friend, Toshioka, who was an old-time war veteran of the conflict in China.

Toshioka turned to face Genji; he smiled, flashing a golden tooth. “Bataan,” he said. “The Americans and Filipinos stand no chance.”

“Better than the Germans,” Genji remarked as they stalled in the Russian winter.

“Of course. We are better than the so-called best,” Toshioka says, referring to the French army, which was canceled in a mere six weeks.

The jungle around them came to life with insect chatter and bird song. The unknown was surrounding them, but there was safety with the imperial Japanese army. Genji adjusted his helmet and looked at the sky as the foliage hid the blue and the sun. “You’ll be back in China in no time. We’ll finally finish them off.”

“If the emperor wills it!”

There were more bodies. These were undeniably American. Aside from their equipment, Genji could tell by their skin color. A few racist remarks escape the men of the column, but Genji slowed to see they had been shot, not maimed by bombs or knives. One of the soldiers had a notepad, which Genji promptly bent down and picked up.

It didn’t take long to discover that the notepad was used as a journal. Genji studied English— he learned how to play baseball, and he once played against an American team. The idea now seems like a fever dream, but it was relatively easy to stow away. Such memories played no part in war. It only served as a distraction from the task on hand. Genji shook his head, clearing his mind completely of his past- before dedicating his life for the honor of the Japanese Empire.

Genji found a picture of a girl. She looked of oriental dissent: black hair, a brilliant smile, and a Summer dress. The woman looked happy as she stared at the camera that took this wonderful picture. He looked at the back of the photograph and read a short poem;

“Your last name is Gold. You are someone to truly behold. You were just the girl in my life that I just wanted to hold. I hope we will grow old together, forever and ever; I love you, my Mary Gold.” - Love Wade. K

Genji took the notebook and the picture, giving the bloody body on the ground a second take before stepping away to join the column of imperial infantry.

The day went on, mostly marching, but there were a few sporadic skirmishes with pockets of resistance; they rarely lasted more than 30 minutes but often inflicted one or two wounded.

When they reached Manilla, his unit was told they would be stopping here for a few days to recuperate. The Americans weren’t going to escape their doom in Bataan, and to enjoy the spoils of war, they could rest here for a while. Genji and Toshioka unloaded their equipment, which included; knee mortars, extra ammo, canteens, and survival supplies. They replaced their socks with fresh ones, their steel helmets for caps, and then washed their hands. It was still early in the evening, the golden hour, and they started to organize their kit.

Genji opened his pack and got the military equipment out, but he soon went through personal items. Family prayers, chocolate, and then a leather bounded book with pictures of his sisters, mother, and then his father— all adorned with traditional garments. In the back of this picture were notes from everyone he lived with. Unlike his time with the Americans, or even America proper, this picture served as a good reminder to let him know what he was fighting for. It wasn't just land, but it was also for people... for family. His family.

His memory jogged, and he reached into his khaki shorts. The soldier’s notebook and picture occupied the pockets. Genji fingered through the pages and discovered the dead man was from California. It mentions some training, his deployment to the Philippines, and some comments about general McArthur, but nothing of fundamental military importance. Eventually, he finds “Mary Gold.” He studies the picture a little more carefully and thinks she looks Japanese, but all the picture offers is the poem. He wonders if Mary is here somewhere, in Manilla or if she is across the ocean.

Outside, there’s shouting. But he doesn’t need to investigate what’s happening to know what the commutation is about. In the street were POWs—a mix of Allied forces. Imperial Japanese troops jeer at them, hitting them with their rifles and flat sides of their bayonets. Genji eats his chocolate, watching with indifference. He often saw men partake in these actions, but he hadn’t. He liked the fighting aspect of the war, the proximity of danger, the thrill of getting shot at, and the possibility of glory— he saw the act of mistreating the captives as a waste of energy but never felt the need to stop it.

This time, however, Genji’s mind is busy, and he is wondering if something could be done.

Note:

• I am, unfortunately, a lot less familiar with the Pacific Theater of the second world war, so it's going to take me longer to brush up and add more to this chapter. As far as brutality and human atrocities goes though, this is has the protentional to be the most "on edge" story that is currently presented. I AM NOT saying you have to add any of those warcrimes (or crimes against humanity), but to not remind the reader how vicious the Japanese were at this time period would be faulting a massive part of history.