Record of Lorelei: Chapter 16

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Supplies from the mainland had been completely cut off for some time.

Rabaul, isolated after the Allied forces seized the naval base at Truk Islands to the north, had lost control of both the seas and skies southward. Naval ships could no longer traverse the area, and even aircraft that managed to slip through enemy lines were of little use. There were no weapons, no ammunition—and no food.

Mikami’s leg had begun to recover. Though the area around his ankle was still deeply gouged and his joint nearly immobile, a thin layer of skin had formed over the wound, and new tissue was beginning to fill in. The military doctor had said it would likely heal completely, provided he kept it clean and wrapped in bandages to prevent flies from infecting it. Every time Mikami wrapped his leg in the bandages Rui had given him, his chest ached. What could he be doing now? He tried to imagine, but his thoughts never took shape.

The malnutrition was the worst of it. His mind was foggy, his heart raced from even the slightest movement, and his breathing grew labored. He licked rainwater off leaves, chewed on whatever vegetation he could find, and savored each grain of rice as though it were a feast, holding it in his mouth until it dissolved.

Sometimes Matsuda came by to visit. He always brought biscuits or candies, though he’d admitted that even the Army could no longer afford such luxuries as it once did.

It was a hazy afternoon. The Allied forces, unchecked and merciless, bombed Rabaul day and night. The island was perpetually shrouded in smoke, while the groves reeked of napalm and blood. Yet the scenery remained eerily similar to before—the blue skies, white clouds, and vast seas were unchanged. To Mikami, who could no longer muster coherent thoughts, the weather had become like a series of picture cards flipping past: clear skies, sudden downpours, garish sunsets.

Matsuda had become an old friend by now. The Army had suffered so many losses that, Matsuda said, Mikami was now one of his longest-standing companions.

“Mikami,” Matsuda said with a weary smile on his dirt-streaked face, “we’ll fight here for a hundred years. We’re not like those pathetic Navy men.”

Despite his grumbling, Matsuda always shared some of his meager rice rations. Though their fields existed, they were often bombed before harvest. Yet Matsuda swore they would sow the seeds again, no matter how many times it took.

“Let’s survive, Mikami.”

Why did those words bring tears to his eyes? Even as his body felt drained of everything, his tears still came. He made a new vow to live.

Rui might come back.

Until then, Mikami couldn’t allow himself to die. If Rui returned, he would make him understand—even if it took a thousand explanations, even if he had to break himself apart, piece by piece, to communicate it.

But the question still lingered: Why did you betray me? He wanted to ask Rui that same question, over and over, just as he always had.

But Rui did not come back.

＊ ＊ ＊

After that final parting, Matsuda and Mikami never crossed paths again. Around that time, the lack of supplies caused the maintenance division to nearly cease functioning, but the squad remained united.

They held onto the hope that supplies from the mainland would eventually arrive, allowing for a counteroffensive. With proper parts and fuel, they believed they could reclaim Truk Islands. Occasionally, there was even good news. Parts salvaged from submerged aircraft were collected and reassembled. Seats, propellers, and even fuselages were cobbled together into creations so mismatched they defied conventional naming. They managed to assemble several aircraft from the scraps, scraping together enough fuel for a few to fly. None of those planes returned.

One day, an unusual order came for all personnel to assemble.

They hurried to gather, their nerves alight with speculation. Had supplies finally arrived, or had a final order for a collective last stand—like in Guadalcanal—been issued? Instead, they were told to listen to an imperial broadcast from the Emperor himself.

Standing in formation, they were instructed to remain at attention as a radio was brought out. It was the so-called "Gyokuon Broadcast," but the static was terrible, and for those standing further away, including Mikami, it was nearly impossible to make out the words. Even for his sharp ears, trained to catch Rui’s voice amidst chaos, the message was unintelligible.

“What did he say?”

“Who knows? What did you hear?”

The atmosphere made it difficult to admit ignorance, and as they dispersed, soldiers whispered to each other, huddling close to share guesses about the broadcast’s content. Some even mustered the courage to ask the command staff for an explanation, but they received no answers.

Looking back, Mikami suspected it had been intentional. If the assembled soldiers had understood that Japan had lost the war, mass suicides might have followed.

Rumors began to spread in hushed tones:

“Apparently, there’s a ceasefire.”

“I heard it’s a surrender.”

“Japan... lost?”

Eventually, each unit was given instructions and a formal announcement. Some soldiers were stunned into silence. Others denied it outright, crying and refusing to accept the news. A few even shouted for an honorable last stand. A strict prohibition against suicide was issued, and grenades were confiscated. Despite this, some still managed to take their lives using hidden explosives.

It was hard to believe. Could the war really end so suddenly? And could the Japanese Imperial Army, invincible in their minds, truly lose?

Mikami felt no sense of reality. Though they said the war was over, the sun rose as it always had, the sky stretched wide and blue, and the days seemed unchanged.

Yet, there were no more air raids. The familiar drone of bombers, ingrained into their ears, was gone, leaving only the rhythm of daily rain squalls at the usual times. Days passed in this eerie calm until one afternoon, on his way back from the pier, Mikami overheard someone whisper, “It seems the war really is over.”

So that’s how it is, Mikami thought for the first time.

Preparations for withdrawal began. Allied forces were said to be coming to take control of the base, including its remaining weapons and ammunition. Some soldiers fumed at the idea of surrendering anything, but the maintenance crew decided they would rather present their equipment in pristine condition than show their enemies the stains of their hardships. Every remaining plane, gun, and bullet was polished until it gleamed like a work of art, carefully packed into crates as if to prove, With resources, we could have continued fighting. Mikami agreed, but he also understood the truth: war was a matter of resources, and they had lost because they had none.

Rui occupied his thoughts constantly. What has become of him? Mikami wondered if the end of the war might bring him back from some distant island. With air raids no longer a threat, Mikami frequented the pier even more. Occasionally, survivors from other islands were brought back by ships, but Rui was never among them. Was he stranded somewhere, waiting for rescue? Or had he already returned to the mainland?

After the surrender, the Japanese soldiers were loaded onto repatriation ships. Mikami’s unit was among those withdrawn, but he chose to remain in Rabaul. He watched as two more ships departed, each carrying fewer and fewer people. Even the search parties and rescue efforts had ceased, and for over two weeks, no one had returned.

With nothing left to do, Mikami spent his days in a limbo of routine. One afternoon, as he idly passed the time, a man came to see him.

"Mikami. Hey, is Tetsuo Mikami here?"

Hearing his name, Mikami raised his hand. The man handed him a single sheet of paper.

"Take this and head to the port."

It was a letter of introduction addressed to the officer managing the repatriation ships. The visitor, someone from the communications division, explained that the letter had been written by Kido.

Mikami wanted to say he was waiting for Rui, but the order to withdraw had been issued to all soldiers. There was no choice but to leave. Even if he stubbornly refused, it was only a matter of time before the last remnants of the Japanese presence in Rabaul were gone. In reality, it had already been eight months since Rui disappeared.

They assured him that searches for remaining Japanese soldiers would continue, and if Rui were ever found, he would be sent back to Japan without fail.

Mikami thanked the communications officer and asked him to relay his gratitude to Kido. A few days later, he boarded the ship. He had expected to be sent straight back to Japan, but instead, the journey stretched on—stopping first in Hawaii, then on the U.S. mainland, before finally returning home. It wasn't until October that Japan's shores finally came into view.

When Mount Fuji came into view, Mikami wept. It looked exactly like the paintings on the walls of public bathhouses.

But Rui was not there.

"Rui Asamura, Petty Officer First Class—MIA (Missing in Action)."

That was the final record of him.

 

In the end, Rui never trusted him.

This truth always left a faint sense of sadness lingering in Mikami.

The maintenance records stated that the U-shaped part had been installed before Rui's final flight. Just as he had done before, Rui must have instructed another mechanic to attach it after the final checks were completed and the aircraft was ready for takeoff.

Mikami had believed Rui trusted him. But, as Kido had said, Rui’s emotional wounds ran deeper than Mikami had imagined. In the end, Rui had died on his own terms, chasing the fleeting satisfaction of accolades from others and the paper-thin honor of a heroic death in the line of duty. Mikami hadn’t been able to change that.

After his demobilization, Mikami made repeated visits to the prefectural veterans’ affairs office. Soldiers declared killed in action were issued death certificates, but there were rare cases where someone thought to have died was later found alive. In such cases, a "rescinded death notice" would be issued. Mikami clung to the hope that perhaps Rui’s death report would be canceled, that he had survived after all. He waited for years, but his hope was never realized.

Mikami understood that it was reasonable to believe Rui had died in that sortie. That’s the truth I must accept. Even as he prayed for a miracle and waited, the passing of five years with no sign of Rui made it clear there was no hope left.

He had repaired the watch. Back in Japan, old-model pocket watches were treated like scrap, and he had easily acquired the necessary parts for next to nothing. It had taken about six months to fine-tune and adjust the mechanism until it ran smoothly again, but the repair was successful.

The pocket watch Rui had left behind now rested quietly on the corner of Mikami’s desk in his study, ticking softly, keeping time with the life that went on without Rui.

＊ ＊ ＊

After the war, it was technicians rather than soldiers who were most valued. Though the land was a charred wasteland, there was work to be found. Mikami labored quietly in a large automobile factory.

The pay was good, and the factory teemed with young employees, reminiscent of the lively atmosphere of the pre-war naval aviation training corps. Mikami was neither lonely nor subjected to too much interference, which suited him well. The factory brimmed with young men and women, and it seemed as if they naturally paired off, forming unions like a neatly choreographed folk dance. Courtship led to marriage in orderly procession. Mikami’s supervisors approached him multiple times with arranged marriage proposals, but he found himself turning them down every time, without fully knowing why.

He understood, in theory, that he should get married. Rui, with whom he had once promised to live, was no longer in this world. Losing someone pledged as a partner in life to the war was hardly an uncommon story. Mikami knew he couldn’t continue like this forever, and he didn’t feel guilty about the idea of starting a new life. But the thought of welcoming a woman into his life, knowing he couldn’t love her as he had loved Rui, filled him with a sense of remorse.

When his life had stabilized, Mikami used old records and directories to search for Rui’s family home.

The Asamura family line had ended. There was a family grave, but no one had carved Rui’s name into the tombstone. The only evidence that Rui had existed was a black-and-white photograph registered with the military—his lips pressed firmly together, eyes slightly downcast—and his name listed in the registry of war deaths.

Mikami’s postwar years were slow and steady. A vague, formless sorrow lingered, like a faint mist that suffused his life. Occasionally, something would stir it into sharp intensity, clutching at his chest and making him breathless.

He worked diligently, made friends, ate and drank, and watched the seasons change in his garden.

 

In the quiet skies of Japan, every time a bird sang, Mikami would look up. As if, from that vast expanse, Lorelei’s song might come soaring down—straight into his heart.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Heisuke Kido had always thought his father was a wise man.

During the war, he served in the communications division at Rabaul, a southern frontline base, persevering through hardship and fighting until the very end. After the war, from the ashes of burnt-out barracks, he built a life for himself, founding a corporation and becoming an executive overseeing over a thousand employees. Even when illness confined him to a hospital bed, other executives would come to seek his advice.

So when, on his deathbed, his father asked him to find someone, Heisuke had braced himself for the challenge. Who could be so difficult to locate that his father would wait until the very end to make such a request?

Yet, when Heisuke began the search, he realized the man could have been found easily—if one had truly wanted to. His father must have deliberately avoided looking for him. Or perhaps, he had never been able to.

That suspicion turned into certainty the moment Heisuke opened the envelope.

The person named Rui Asamura had left behind a final message during the war. And it was a message meant for a man named Tetsuo Mikami.

Heisuke didn’t know the circumstances. But he could tell that his father had carried this paper like a burden, as though it were a sin, from the moment the message was written until his death. He suspected that, at some point, his father never intended to deliver the letter. Why he had changed his mind in his final moments, Heisuke couldn’t say. But the gravity of the words was clear, enough that even Heisuke could understand why his father wrestled with it.

Tetsuo Mikami appeared to be a quiet, earnest man, significantly younger than Heisuke’s father. He walked with a limp, his left ankle flattened as though its bone had been planed down. He had also been at Rabaul, enduring the war’s many hardships.

When Mikami opened the envelope and began to weep uncontrollably, Heisuke hesitated to ask why. If his father had wronged Mikami, Heisuke intended to atone. If his father owed Mikami a debt, Heisuke was prepared to repay it. He had resolved all this before arriving. But watching Mikami sob, his voice breaking like a distant howl, made Heisuke feel that even those thoughts were presumptuous. Neither his father, who had been so bright and confident, nor this man could escape the deep wounds left by the war.

Heisuke sat in silence, waiting for Mikami to compose himself. When Mikami finally accepted a handkerchief and began dabbing his eyes, he still couldn’t speak for some time. By the time Mikami finally broke the silence, Heisuke’s scheduled departure was drawing near.

Mikami’s voice was quiet. It didn’t sound like the same man who had just been overcome with grief.

“My time has been frozen since that day… and only now, for the first time, am I able to cry for him.”

Mikami explained that the tears Heisuke had seen were for Rui Asamura.

“Back then, I didn’t understand anything. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even know if he was dead, or if mourning was the right thing to do.”

As he spoke, he forced a smile—but it crumbled beneath fresh tears.

"At last, I can cry for him. For the sadness of his death, for your father’s sincerity… And for the first time, I feel grateful that he lived."

“Mikami-san…”

“For all these years, I never knew whether Asamura had made it to the afterlife. From that day on, I lived thinking that when I died, my soul would return to Rabaul to look for him. If not for this letter, I’d have believed that for the rest of my life. And knowing that, your father—”

Mikami was a kind man. The letter had finally brought him the closure he had long been denied.

“—He must have kept it until I was able to truly live,” Mikami said softly.

The train bound for Tokyo departed from a faraway station. To get there, one needed to take a bus, board a local train, transfer again, and finally catch the Tokyo line. The infrequent schedule meant Heisuke would have to leave immediately to make it back to the city today. Yet, he didn’t mind lingering a little longer. When Heisuke voiced his desire to stay by Mikami’s side, Mikami smiled gently and said, “That kindheartedness reminds me so much of your father.”

After their farewells, Heisuke stepped out of the house. Mikami followed, dragging his foot in its straw sandal as he came to see him off. The short walk to the gate felt precious, and without realizing it, Heisuke’s steps grew smaller, as if trying to extend the moment.

Heisuke, walking ahead, finally stopped altogether. The summer sunlight filtered through the trees above, casting flickering patterns at his feet.

“I’m still thinking about it,” Heisuke said, half directing the question to Mikami, half to himself.

“Was it truly the right thing to give you that envelope? If you hadn’t known about its contents, you might have continued believing that Asamura-san was alive somewhere. Perhaps my father’s selfishness made me come here just to hurt you. But then again… I don’t know if ignorance is really happiness.”

Father must be feeling relief now, finally unburdened in the afterlife. But for Mikami, that letter must have been like a delayed death notification, arriving after more than a decade. Heisuke couldn’t help but wonder if he had, in his clumsy attempt to honor his father’s wishes, inadvertently thrust a blade into Mikami’s long-healing wounds—perhaps for no reason other than his own sense of duty.

Mikami, now calm and composed, walked up behind Heisuke with measured steps.

“Knowing that he’s gone makes me feel lonely,” Mikami said, “but not sad.”

Heisuke looked at Mikami, confused, but Mikami merely tilted his head slightly and smiled.

“Do you think I would have been happier never meeting him?” Mikami asked, his voice serene, as if the raw grief he had shown earlier had been a different lifetime.

“If I hadn’t met Rui, my life would have been much lonelier. It was 1944… we were there. I’m alone now, but—just because someone has passed away doesn’t mean they cease to exist.”

Mikami’s words carried a quiet conviction. In his heart, nothing had been lost. Though Rui was no longer here, his presence in Mikami’s life had left behind an enormous reservoir of affection and longing. Mikami’s voice conveyed that absence didn’t erase existence, and Heisuke found himself understanding.

“It’s okay. I’ll live on, properly.”

Mikami smiled, glancing skyward through the treetops.

“That person—who made both you and your father worry so much—was truly a handful. I need to keep living well, so when I meet him again in the next life, I’ll be ready to take care of him once more.”

Following Mikami’s gaze, Heisuke looked up at the sky.

The August sky stretched above them, a tender shade of azure, vast and calm.

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