Ishiro Honda. Steve Ryfle

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      6

      WAR

      I always thought that when this thing is over, I am going to go back to the studio and make movies … It helped me not to go insane.

       — Ishiro Honda

      In mid-December 1939, a week before the baby was due, Honda received a shock: he was recalled to active duty.

      In the years since Honda had entered the military, Japan had widened the China conflict on multiple fronts against Chiang Kai-Shek’s National Revolutionary Army and Mao-tse Tung’s Communists. In July 1937, the Marco Polo Bridge Incident, another staged provocation, became the pretext for a massive troop escalation and the plunge into total war. Then came the occupation of Shanghai, China’s largest city; and in December 1937 the Japanese began the six-week-long Nanking Massacre, in which three hundred thousand Chinese soldiers and civilians were slaughtered and raped, one of the most notorious war crime sprees of the twentieth century.

      Despite these brutal campaigns, by the end of 1937 there was no end in sight to the conflict. More than six hundred thousand Japanese soldiers were now spread across an area roughly equivalent to the United States west of the Mississippi. The men were weakened by exhaustion and heavy casualties, and many were due to return home. To replace these losses, the army doubled the draft beginning in 1938 and called up tens of thousands of reserves, mostly men in their twenties and thirties with wives, children, and jobs. Some men were so upset that they openly rebelled, only to be severely punished.¹

      Honda, just shy of twenty-nine, shared the resentment but was not one to complain. Protesting would only make his situation worse. “If I were to … show my anti-war feelings, then I am sure I would not have survived, not even a day,” he would recall.²

      “My father was the type of person who [thought], ‘It is what it is,’” said Honda’s son, Ryuji Honda. “‘This is my fate. So, what else can I do but to follow orders and do it?’ He did, however, have the conviction that he would return alive and make movies.”

      After Honda’s latest draft notice arrived, Kimi’s mother congratulated her daughter. It was an honor to have a husband or son at the front, and there was no greater purpose than to fight and die for one’s country. Nationalism reigned, and propaganda fueled support for the war. Neighborhood associations and the Special Higher Police kept tabs on the citizenry. The media and schools became indoctrination tools against Western ideals of individuality and materialism. War was a righteous struggle against colonialism; Japan would soon lead a new world order with its superior values, which derived from the cult of the divine emperor as head of the nation-family, the absolute authority.

      Kimi gave birth to a daughter on December 23, 1939. Honda had rejoined his regiment for training, but he now had risen in rank and was allowed to visit his wife in the hospital. The baby was premature, tiny and covered with hair; Honda thought she looked like a baby bird. Kimi remembered, “My mother scolded him, saying that he’ll be cursed for saying such a thing, and that she will grow up to be a beautiful child.” Honda named the girl Takako. He left the hospital and was bound for China.

      ———

      “There were so many [soldiers] who hated war,” Honda later wrote. “I was one of them, but I kept my thoughts deep inside my chest, to myself, and every time I received [a draft notice], I [convinced] myself that I was not going to die. Why should that stupid red piece of paper decide the freedom or lives of individuals? Why couldn’t I just rip this paper to shreds?”³

      Honda’s belief that he would survive helped him suppress fear, and it wasn’t entirely irrational. When bullets were exchanged, he noticed that few connected. He had become an excellent marksman, and he knew how difficult it was to hit the target in a firefight, with thousands of rounds discharging rapidly and tensions high. The chances of being hit were slim, he told himself. He would listen to the reports of gunfire, and if the bullets whizzed through the air, that meant the enemy didn’t have a clear shot; but if he heard the pop of bullets hitting nearby trees, then it was time to move. By keeping vigilant, he could live through this. Most soldiers died, he observed, not from gunshots but from disease.

      He would defend himself if threatened, but Honda felt no animus toward the Chinese. “He said, ‘Everyone, shoot your guns into the air,’” recalled Koji Kajita, later Honda’s longtime assistant and a fellow veteran. “‘Why must we kill one another?’ he wondered. His long years in the military helped make him the person he was.”

      With extended periods of inactivity and the doldrums of daily routine, boredom reigned. Soldiers looked forward to the doling out of liquor and cigarette rations, a reprieve from the monotony. Honda developed a taste for sake and became a heavy smoker, a habit he would maintain well into his fifties, though he would eventually quit. By middle age, his fingertips would be brown with permanent tobacco stains.

      ———

      From 1940 to 1941 Honda was assigned to help manage a comfort station, a euphemism for the hundreds of brothels the Imperial Army established in China and the occupied territories. As the Roman Empire had done in its far-flung conquests, Japan provided its soldiers with prostitutes, purportedly to curb sexual assaults on civilians, which were widespread in Shanghai, Nanking, and other places. The first documented comfort stations opened in Manchukuo in 1931–32; and by 1938 an estimated forty thousand ianfu (“comfort women”) were working and living in often deplorable conditions there, cut off from their families and made to perform sex acts dozens of times per day. The great majority were Korean women, though there were also Chinese, Japanese, and other nationalities, many lured with promises of ordinary jobs and then taken into slavery. One of the darkest aspects of Japan’s war legacy, the subject has been dramatized in a few books and movies, notably Seijun Suzuki’s Story of a Prostitute (Shunpu den, 1965) and Kei Kumai’s Sandakan 8 (Sandakan hachibanshokan bokyo, 1974). The comfort women have long been a controversial subject in Japan, where conservative politicians have maintained there is no evidence the women were forcibly enslaved. Relations between Tokyo and Seoul were strained for decades over the issue, and in December 2015 the Japanese government extended a formal apology to South Korea and made an $8.3 million reparations payment.

      Honda, then, deserves some credit for writing Reflections of an Officer in Charge of Comfort Women, an uncharacteristically candid essay published in Movie Art magazine in April 1966, in which he described both his duties at the comfort station and the plight of the women working there.

      “[L]istening to their complaints and stories was [part of] my job. Once a week [the prostitutes] had a checkup, and I would sign off on their health documents. At that time, they would tell me things—their complaints, their personal stories. Some girls had been told that they would be doing a kind of consulting job; the reason they accepted was because they [believed] they would be [merely] consoling the soldiers. I couldn’t do anything to help them but I told them my story, that being here was also not my choice. Getting the [draft notice] with my name on it, that’s the only reason I was there. They [began to understand] they were not the only ones, that the men also were СКАЧАТЬ