Unit 731

My mother cried when I told her, although whether out of pride or sadness, I may never know. She rarely spoke, citing that women should be ‘seen and not heard’, a mantra that I was sure was instilled in her by years of being married to my father, so did not offer her opinion on the subject. She instead continued to darn the item of clothing she was holding as I told her the specifics, tears still rolling down her cheeks as she nodded, almost enthusiastically, at my shaky words. I couldn’t imagine how she felt at that moment. She had been delighted when I had been accepted into university, and I had sometimes overheard her chatting with the woman next door about how her son was going to be a doctor whilst she hung up the clothes on the old line. The fact that I was now dropping all of that to fight for the country must have devastated her.

My father had patted me on the back, a mixture of shock and pride across his face. I knew that he had never been entirely proud of me; despite my grades and schooling, he had always felt that his sons should follow in his footsteps. As the oldest, he had expected me to be the first to sign up, to join the navy and follow in his footsteps. It was a different part of the military, but the Imperial Army was still a step in the right direction, in his mind. It was still something that showed that I wasn’t a complete failure, and that I was capable of bringing some more honour to the family name. After all, in that time and culture, honour was revered almost as much as money and material goods.

My brother, home on leave as of that morning, had wordlessly stared at me, almost in a disproving way. Daijiro had always been the perfect son; enrolling himself in the navy at the age of sixteen with great pride. Nearing the age of eighteen now, he had been given two whole years of being my father’s favourite, his most treasured son. Now that I was also doing something that my father saw as worthwhile, the sibling rivalry that had stemmed from a childhood argument when he was five and I was seven would no doubt start up again. The glare that he held proved that.

There was talk at the dinner table that night, as we ate; Daijiro stabbing his food mercilessly, almost to the point where it became like sludge. My father spoke excitedly to the two of us, showing no concern for the usual rule of ‘no talking whilst eating’. He told us the stories we had heard so many times before, stories of his comrades and enemies of his time in the navy. As he spoke, his face seemed to cloud over with longing. He had never made it a secret that he wished to fight again, but an injury from long ago prevented this, so he had then projected his wishes onto his two sons. In one way or another, it was one of the reasons I had chosen to sign up. Like every other person in the world, I just wanted to keep my father happy.

I pushed the rice around my plate for what seemed like the thousandth time that minute. I had completely lost my appetite, and although I knew that I would be scolded for wasting food, I just couldn’t bring myself to eat another mouthful. Every tiny grain more that I ate joined the rest in my belly, churning and turning as it was devoured by stomach acid. I pushed the plate away slightly, and stood. My father raised an eyebrow. Had it been any other night, I think he may have punished me for being so rude, but he seemed in high spirits after the news that both his sons would be serving the country. Without a word, I left the room, trudging towards my room.

I had attempted to pack upon my return from the university, but the task of trying to fit my whole life into the one bag had proved too trying. I picked up several pairs of trousers, throwing them on top of the messy bundle of clothes that were inside the suitcase. A few shirts were hurled in after them, followed by a small pile of books from my bedside cabinet. We hadn’t been given a list of things we would need, so packing the essentials had seemed like the best idea. The only difficulty that I had encountered that night had been what was essential and what was not. I had placed two small pictures atop the pile of scabby clothes that I had packed. The first was the family photo my father had insisted on taking a year previous, with forced smiles and everyone wearing their Sunday best. The second photograph was so old and tattered that it was virtually impossible to make out the two people standing in front of the setting sun.

Pulling the zipper along the edge of the bag, I sat it carefully beside my dresser. I had been instructed to be at the airfield just south of my house by nine sharp the next morning. Looking out my bedroom window, I could see the airstrip from where we would be flying from. It was abandoned now; the workers had all gone home to their families. Families unknowing of the forty-or-so young men that would be ferried off of the island and into the thickets of war at sunrise, shoved into an environment that wouldn’t be comfortable to even the blood-thirstiest of men.

Tomorrow, I would fly off to start what I would view as the worst chapter of my life.