Record of Lorelei: Chapter 19

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Memories

Rui Asamura often thought that Rabaul wasn’t so bad.

Aside from the local inhabitants, the only people around were soldiers.

Sure, the other soldiers would still whisper behind his back about his blue eyes or fling cowardly insults like, “Go jump into the crater, Yankee!” as they passed him. But that didn’t bother him anymore. They’re just jealous because they can’t outperform me. Even though they flew the same planes in the same skies, some of them still had the audacity to talk about “fair play” when their scores didn’t match his.

The job was simple: fight the Allied forces and defend the Empire and its homeland. The real measure of one’s worth, however, was the number of enemy planes shot down. It didn’t matter if the planes were flown by Americans, Italians, Frenchmen, or even dogs or monkeys. The mission was to shoot down anything that wasn’t Japanese and tally the score. That was all.

Yes, there were swarms of mosquitoes, relentless heat that made you sweat even on New Year’s Day, and cicadas so loud they could drive you mad. Mornings back home had been entirely different—a maid gently waking him, the refreshing splash of well water on his face, small grilled fish and pickled vegetables at breakfast. There were no hammering tools or roaring engines there, only the rustle of garden trees, and in autumn, the soothing chirp of crickets climbing up to the veranda.

Compared to that, life here is hell. Meals were cooked in enormous cauldrons and scooped out with shovels, often featuring unfamiliar vegetables. Mornings began with blaring bugles and shouted orders. Water was always lukewarm and metallic-tasting, and night after night, the stifling heat and the stench of sweat made sleep elusive.

And yet, Rui found the conditions here deeply comforting.

Here, there was no mother gazing at his blue eyes as if she might cry. No maid turning away from his face as though it were something forbidden to look at. No tutors pitying him. No bookstore clerks staring at him openly, as if trying to solve some puzzle.

Here, everything was decided by whether or not you could shoot down enemy planes. If you succeeded, your name was read aloud before everyone, and you were awarded honors, a yokan, or a bottle of sake.

Simple. Everything depends on me, and I like it that way.

Today, too, Rabaul was clear and sunny. The sky stretched carelessly blue, clouds scattered lazily like spun cotton, indifferent and far away. The ground beneath his flight boots was a dusty, pale brown, while the oleanders and frangipani bloomed vibrantly green.

This was the glorious stronghold of Rabaul, the southern keystone of Japan’s military. It couldn’t be better.

But even in peaceful Rabaul, there were intruders.

Journalists. They roamed the base with armbands and cameras, claiming to take photos for mainland newspapers. They snapped pictures of planes and crew without permission, left without so much as a thank you, and even touched tools they’d been explicitly told not to. They were audacious, rude, and as annoying as flies.

I’d like to throw rocks at them and drive them away, Rui thought, but they held power. Those journalists wrote the articles. Rui couldn’t afford to alienate them. I need them to write, “Rui Asamura achieves great success, earns First Class Honors.”

He didn’t want his photo taken, but he needed the articles written. Maybe I should go to Kido and ask for a copy of my record to hand to them. I’ll make them promise to base their articles on that.

As he was mulling over this dull, leaden irritation, a voice spoke up behind him.

It was Mikami, standing there as always in his mechanic’s uniform, a wooden box tucked under his arm. The endless blue sky seemed to suit him perfectly.

“Ah, so this is where you were, Rui. I shaved down the control stick as you requested. Could you come to the workshop and test it out?” Mikami asked, holding the wooden box under his arm.

Following Rui’s gaze, Mikami turned his eyes to the left and noticed something. “Ah, it’s the newspaper reporters. How about having your picture taken after all? Everyone else is getting theirs taken. Once they develop the photos, they’ll share copies. They’re even sending them with letters back home. Why don’t you get one too?”

“Where would I send it?” Rui asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

The question was so absurdly naïve that Rui nearly forgot to be irritated. Even if he humored the idea, what would someone like him, utterly alone in the world, do with a photograph? Who would receive it?

“I’d like to have one,” Mikami said, straightforwardly. “But I can’t exactly ask the reporters for it if they don’t have the negative.”

“You haven’t given up on that?” Rui muttered, exasperated by Mikami’s relentless cheerfulness.

“Yes, of course not. I won’t show it to anyone, I promise.”

“I already said no. Look at me now, if you want to see me so badly.”

Rui had already explained his reasoning. He despised leaving any trace of his existence in this world. The thought of anything representing him, particularly a photograph, was intolerable. He only wanted his accomplishments as Rui Asamura—nothing more—to remain. If even that could be avoided, all he wanted was the evidence of his birth as the eldest son of the Asamura family. Still, he had made an exception for Mikami, allowing him to look at him freely. If anyone else dared to stare, they’d earn a punch to the face. Mikami, however, was granted this privilege.

Mikami, for his part, seemed satisfied and happily gazed at him, his persistence finally giving way. Rui stood there, feeling a vague discomfort at the unrelenting scrutiny, before a thought crossed his mind.

“What about your photograph?” Rui asked.

“I have one... well, it’s a family photo,” Mikami replied.

“Show me.”

Most soldiers carried family portraits taken before their deployment. Mikami had a family and wasn’t impoverished, so he was sure to have one.

Lowering the wooden box to the ground, Mikami unwrapped a photo from its oil paper covering and handed it to Rui. The casual way he did so startled Rui. Mikami had to know about Rui’s lack of familial ties. What would you do if I tore it up out of envy?

Filled with this unspoken reprimand, Rui cautiously accepted the photo.

“This is my father, mother, and older brother. That’s my older sister here, and this is my younger sister,” Mikami explained.

It was a studio photograph. The mother sat holding a baby, while the older brother stood beside her. The father leaned on the chair’s backrest, while the older sister in a formal kimono stood next to him with a shy, leaning posture.

“And where are you?” Rui asked.

“This is the one I brought for myself,” Mikami replied.

“So, you’re not in it?”

“I was in one, but I left it with a colleague before I departed.”

That’s just like him, Rui thought.

This was Mikami. Someone who treasured other people’s belongings and feelings, yet gave away his own things without hesitation.

What an idiot. Rui thought this as he stifled his frustration. Taking out his irritation on Mikami would be pointless. It’s my fault for meeting him too late. Rui was considerate enough to admit that much. If he had met Mikami earlier—before whoever it was that got his photo—then surely, Mikami would have given that photograph to him instead.

“If that’s the case, then you should have your picture taken, Mikami. Send it to your family,” Rui said. And give me a copy too. That would solve everything neatly. Mikami had no business fussing over Rui’s photo when he hadn’t sorted out his own. But Mikami only gave a sheepish smile.

“They won’t take pictures of mechanics like me. Though I did see someone taking shots of people working.”

Here at the base, officers were hailed as heroes, pilots were treated like stars, and mechanics and ground crews were relegated to the shadows. The latter were mere background figures, occasionally acknowledged as “essential support for the air fleet” when portrayed in propaganda for the homeland. The nation needed to believe that everyone, from officers to laborers, was united in the war effort. But an individual mechanic’s photo? Only if they happened to be in the frame when the film roll was nearly finished. It simply wasn’t visually appealing.

Mikami hefted the wooden box off the ground. “Oh, that reminds me. When I first arrived here, we took a group photo of the maintenance team.”

“Then show me that,” Rui demanded.

“I sent it back home. I wanted my family to see the people I work with.”

“What an idiot.”

I was already here back then. Rui had arrived at Rabaul before Mikami. How could you send it to your family instead of giving it to me?

Mikami chuckled again, this time glancing toward the newspaper reporters. “Do you think they’d take a photo if you were in it with me?”

“You’re an idiot.”

If you think I’m going to let you sneak me into a photograph with you, you’re dreaming.

＊ ＊ ＊

That conversation stirred an uncontrollable urge in Rui to obtain a photograph of Mikami. Could he have been caught in someone’s shot by chance? Where would such photos be kept?

Rui decided to go to Kido, who likely had the most photos on the island. When Rui asked if there were any pictures of Mikami, Kido leaned forward over the desk, resting his weight on his arms as he fixed his gaze on Rui.

“Mikami’s photo? Ah, I understand. It’s a good thing to have a friend’s picture. It can give you courage when you need it most. Yes, let’s do that. Hey, someone! Call the records team!”

“What?”

At Kido’s beckoning, a guard outside the window answered curtly. Kido waved him over, still speaking with enthusiasm.

“Find the mechanic Tetsuo Mikami and—”

“No!” Rui suddenly shoved the documents on Kido’s desk toward him in a frantic gesture. “I can’t do something that embarrassing!”

The shout ripped from his already raw throat, leaving a sharp, stinging pain in its wake.

“What’s this? Should I give you my photo instead?” Kido asked, bewildered.

“Forget it!” Rui barked, coughing violently as his face burned with embarrassment. Without waiting for a response, he stormed out of the room.

＊ ＊ ＊

Evening came.

Could an aerial reconnaissance camera be used somehow? Rui toyed with the idea, though he knew it was unrealistic. He didn’t have the skill to sketch a portrait, and the notion of pressing ink on Mikami’s face and transferring it to paper was absurd—if he could do that, he might as well just take a proper photograph. But if that were an option, none of this effort would be necessary in the first place.

“What is it? If you have a request, I’ll do my best to fulfill it,” Mikami said.

Rui had positioned Mikami in front of him, scrutinizing him intently now that his workday was over. With his keen vision—so sharp it was classified as "special grade"—he could practically count Mikami’s pores from this distance.

I’ll burn his image into my mind. Rui had been trying earnestly to do just that for some time, but every time he looked away, all he could see was the scenery around him, not Mikami’s face.

When Rui had refused to let Mikami take a photograph earlier, Mikami had said he would burn Rui’s face into his memory. Was that a lie? Or is it because my eyes are blue? Rui’s vision wasn’t the issue—it couldn’t be. As an aviator, his dynamic eyesight was unmatched, far superior to any camera lens.

“Do you have a headache? Maybe you should lie down?” Mikami asked with genuine concern.

“Shut up,” Rui snapped.

I don’t need interruptions over something so trivial. He was working hard to keep his gaze fixed, even as his eyes dried out from the effort of not blinking.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Rui concluded it was impossible to truly "burn an image into one’s memory."

He had studied the human eye extensively, poring over anatomical illustrations and learning the roles of each part. According to the medical officer, the retina worked like a projector screen, capturing images of what one saw. Rui had believed that staring at something long enough might permanently sear its image onto the retina.

He had even visited Akiyama, a fellow in the maintenance crew, to ask if it was possible to develop an image directly onto the retina so that it would always appear before his eyes. Akiyama had replied with a half-interested suggestion: "Well, if you surgically remove the retina and soak it in developer fluid, maybe." Of course, that would compromise Rui's ability to fly, so the idea was absurd.

Pathetic. Rui scolded himself, determined to abandon such a foolish notion. After all, Mikami was always right in front of him. Seeing the real person, in vivid clarity, was far better than any photograph could ever be.

For a few days, this realization allowed Rui to live in relative peace. But one sweltering, restless night, as he drifted in and out of shallow sleep, inspiration struck him.

"!"

In the darkness, Rui's breath caught, and his eyes flew open.

The maintenance crew’s group photo.

Mikami had mentioned it. There was no way Mikami was the only one who owned a copy of that photograph. If it had been reprinted, other members of the crew must have it as well. Mikami might have sent his copy to his family, but surely at least one person on the crew had kept theirs.

Rui clenched his eyes shut and gripped the hand towel resting beside his pillow. His fingers tightened around the fabric as he wrestled with the impulse to act.

I want to get up right now. Wake up someone from Mikami’s crew and find that photo.

＊ ＊ ＊

The next morning, Rui timed his visit to the maintenance area for when Mikami was away at a meeting. He wandered aimlessly among the aircraft, pretending to inspect them, until he located his target: a senior mechanic who had been at the base since before Rui's arrival.

Gesturing for the man to come closer, Rui held up his notebook with a message scrawled across the page.

"Photos of the maintenance crew?"

As expected, the man regarded Rui with suspicion.

"What do you plan to do with such a thing?"

Rui flipped to another page and displayed a sharp response:

"To remember all of your faces."

The man paled, clutching his fists as his face trembled. His eyes darted between Rui and the message, looking as though he might cry out. While it wasn’t odd for a pilot to express a desire to remember the maintenance crew who supported him, this particular request made the man visibly uneasy.

Ah. Rui understood the problem. I forgot to account for the lack of trust they have in me. He knew full well that many of the mechanics disliked him. Of course, they thought he might be planning retribution—not that such thoughts had ever crossed his mind.

He quickly scribbled a clarification in his notebook and held it out again:

"There are too many mechanics here. I want to avoid confusion and call out the right name."

The man exhaled deeply, his shoulders slumping as if he had just let go of a heavy weight.

"Ah, well, if that's the case... Hey, someone!" he shouted over his shoulder. "Does anyone here still have our group photo?"

From behind the bushes and the scattered machinery, a few other mechanics poked their heads out. They conferred briefly before running toward the workshop. Moments later, they returned with the group photo in hand.

Rui seized the photograph eagerly, scrutinizing every face with the precision of someone trained to identify aircraft silhouettes from great distances. It took only a second to spot Mikami among the thirty or so men in the picture: off to the far right.

As one of the mechanics began pointing out various figures, explaining who had transferred or fallen ill, Rui only pretended to listen.

"This one here was reassigned. That one is in the hospital with malaria..."

Nodding distractedly, Rui examined Mikami’s image closely. Though it was slightly blurred from being at the edge of the frame, the angle was good. However, he noticed with irritation that a distinctive mole on Mikami’s lip was missing. Perhaps the mole didn’t show up because of the lighting or an error in the development process? Never mind. I’ll draw it in myself later.

After enduring the explanations out of courtesy, Rui nodded in understanding and carefully tucked the photo into his jacket. As a parting gesture, he wrote one final note in his notebook and held it up for the man to read:

"Keep this quiet."

He had no interest in remembering the thirty others in the photo, and he didn’t want anyone asking questions if they learned he had the picture. Most importantly, Mikami couldn’t find out.

The mechanic, now looking somewhat emotional, nodded fervently. Rui nodded back with equal determination. A soldier must value and respect the unseen efforts of those around him, Rui thought. With that, he turned and lef

＊ ＊ ＊

Getting the photo had been a success, but now Rui faced a dilemma.

The photo was large—more than twice the size of his notebook—and it obviously wouldn’t fit in his chest pocket.

If only I could just keep the part with Mikami, Rui thought, then tore off the section of the photo featuring Mikami and tucked it into his notebook. That much satisfied his immediate goal, and he felt a sense of relief.

But what to do with the rest of the photograph?

It was a well-made photo, and throwing it away seemed wasteful. However, keeping the entire thing served no purpose. Should I tear it into pieces and hand out individual parts to each person in it? Or just destroy it outright? The thought of ripping apart a photograph of people stirred a faint sense of guilt and unease in Rui—it felt wrong, almost blasphemous.

He sighed. If it comes to it, I’ll tear it up, but I’d rather resolve this peacefully.

As Rui strolled toward the maintenance area, he noticed a small group of men gathered under a tree. Among them were members of Mikami’s maintenance crew. Curious, he stopped at a distance and listened.

“Take care of yourself,” one of them said. “Do your best over there.”

“Well, it’s not like we have a choice. There’s a shortage of mechanics everywhere,” another added.

After a few more words, the group broke apart and went their separate ways. Rui’s gaze landed on one of the men, who wiped at his eyes with his wrist as he walked away. Rui decided to follow him.

“Ah—Asamura First Class Petty Officer!” The man jumped in surprise when Rui approached, clearly embarrassed to have been caught. He hastily tried to explain himself.

“I, uh, I just got word—starting tomorrow, I’ll be heading to Kavieng. I was only just told, officially.”

He bowed, flustered. “I’m sorry! I’ll make sure to say goodbye to the pilots tomorrow.”

Rui opened his notebook and wrote a message:

"It was a short time, but thank you for your help."

The man’s expression softened. “Asamura First Class Petty Officer…”

"Take care of yourself."

After showing the man his note, Rui tucked the notebook back into his jacket and instead pulled out the torn photo.

“Is that… from our team?” the man asked, surprised.

Rui nodded. The man was a relatively new addition to the unit and was already being reassigned, so he wasn’t in the photo, but Rui figured it would still hold meaning for him. He gestured for the man to take it.

The man’s face lit up as he carefully accepted the photo. “Thank you! I’ll take it back to Japan and show it off!”

Just as Rui expected, the man treated the photo like a treasure, holding it gingerly and bowing deeply in gratitude. As he walked away, he paused several times to turn back and bow again, each time more enthusiastic than the last. Rui watched him until he disappeared down the path.

Evidence destroyed.

And so, the remaining piece of the photograph would leave Rabaul the next day, quietly and without incident.

＊ ＊ ＊

Rui gazed thoughtfully at the black-and-white fragment of the photograph and felt he now truly understood Mikami's desire for it.

Tall and positioned at the edge of the back row, Mikami appeared slightly stretched at an angle in the photo, making his figure seem skewed. But even distorted, Mikami is still Mikami.

Rui affixed the tiny cutout to his notebook using a dot of rice as adhesive.

Ah, this is satisfying.

The act of giving and receiving the photo had been fulfilling on both ends, Rui thought, affirming once again the power of photographs.

He was satisfied. The satisfaction settled deeply in his chest—so much so that it brought with it a faint trace of loneliness.

If only my eyes had been black too.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

The day was another sweltering one.

Amid the shouting voices crisscrossing the ground, Rui sat firmly in the cockpit of his Zero fighter. Though the upper atmosphere promised cold, the tropical heat of the ground, coupled with the sun-scorched aircraft, made the air inside unbearably warm and humid. It felt as though condensation might form within the cockpit itself.

Mikami had collapsed due to his tropical ulcer.

Whether he had underestimated the severity of his condition or simply endured too much was unclear, but the wound was unmistakably serious—swollen, festering, and in desperate need of proper care.

It will probably be a while before I see him again. Rui reflected as he watched the welding of the U-shaped part at the front of the aircraft. When I return, I'll visit him, but first, I'll have to track down exactly where he's being treated among all those scattered recovery sites.

As he waited for the maintenance to finish, Rui opened his notebook. There was the same photo of Mikami, carefully affixed in its place. His face, as always, looked calm and steadfast. The mole Rui had drawn was slightly too far to the right, he thought, but given the photo's small size, it fell within acceptable error.

He traced the image with his fingertip. He had touched it so many times that the edges where he had torn it had softened.

Burning it into memory? What nonsense.

No matter how much he looked at it, it was never enough.

And yet, without even opening the notebook, the image was etched vividly in his chest.

Ah, so that’s it. It burns into your heart.

The realization struck him with clarity. This is better than any photo. Rui decided he would share this thought with Mikami when he returned.

The aircraft rocked slightly, drawing Rui’s attention upward. A maintenance worker was climbing onto the wing.

“...It’s finished,” the man reported, his expression tense.

Rui gave a brief nod, tucked the notebook back into his chest pocket, and pulled on his gloves.

The sky was relentlessly clear, almost oppressive in its brightness.

This time, it wasn’t Mikami who saw him off. Rui took to the sky, leaving the ground behind.

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