Operation 52

The Old Man's Story

Part I

The old man named Kiku Honda poured me a cup of tea. We sat in his house with the sliding doors wide open, so that the warm summer air could flow in freely. Trees surrounding his house were lush and glittering in the sunlight. He smiled politely at me as I took the cup, thanking him for it. He was an aged man, bent over with his years. Lines creased his face and his hair, once an inky black, was thinning and now took on a milky gray color. Even though he was going blind in one eye, he didn't spill a drop of tea. His hearing began to fail him, too, but that afternoon it seemed at its height, even though it was three weeks prior to his death.

"You've come here for a purpose, haven't you?" he asked, leaning back comfortably. He wore a clean kimono, washed by the maid who sometimes visited him to help prepare food and clean the house.

I nodded. "Yes. I hope I'm not taking any more of your time… but do you think you could tell me about Operation 52?"

Operation 52 referred to the army movement that included Mr. Honda and two other men. No information could be found anywhere about it, nowhere but in Mr. Honda's memory that is. I was writing a book at the time that described these hidden parts of society, things oppressed by society and forgotten by time.

Kiku Honda scratched his neck for some time, looking pensively at the sharp, clear sky behind me. "I suppose it is time someone found out about it. You said you were writing a book?"

I confirmed this.

"Ah, yes… Well, it's a very long story."

"I have all the time I want." I offered him an encouraging look. I really did have a lot of time. I was out of a job and this book was supposed to bring in a few extra bucks into my home situation. Besides, the topic just interested me.

Kiku Honda gazed off for a little while, supposedly collecting his thoughts. In the meantime I looked around his house. It was the barebones necessities. He had set up a table here for my visit and for lunch later. The kitchen and bathroom took up the other third of the house. Everything else was in that very room. He took out a futon and slept here. He rarely shut the sliding doors. There was no worry of burglary, since he lived in virtually no where, right in the middle of a dense forest, and he had nothing there to steal. The forest is impenetrable. How he made it out for morning walks failed to make any sense to me. The maid usually gets lost and I did too, coming here, even though I drove over. I had to abandon my car way back.

I lied. Actually there was one thing worth stealing in the house: the paintings. Kiku Honda, after returning from the war had taken up painting. He drowned himself in it. They were mostly water colors. Some were back ink, hosting only a single character done in the most remarkable handwriting. He had an elegant hand, and it still was, resting on the table, spotted with age but still containing all of its youth.

Kiku broke away from his thoughts and sipped his tea, beginning his story.

When I was drafted for the army, he began, I was still young. I was taller then, too. I had nice long black hair and a heart full of life. At first I was only an intelligence officer, working with translations and dealing with organizing all the data. The years were great. In fact, if you asked anyone in my division about the war we would have laughed it off. You see, no one really felt there was a war going on with such an easy-going atmosphere in my division. No one had even set foot in a battlefield at the time. We went out for drinks and to play pachinko often. I had a family back at home and they were relieved to find out that I didn't have to risk getting a bullet in my brain.

For a year it remained like this: I would sleep in the quarters, wake up, eat breakfast, work for a while, then go out with some friends before returning to bed.

Things changed when I was called into Operation 52. The men in charge told me that they had chosen me at random, but I doubt it to this day.

Before I get into the actual battle I should give you some clarity on my past, I suppose. I grew up in a more rural area of Japan, far from this place. I was always the odd child. Sometimes I'd see things that weren't there. I'd walk home from school with my head bowed because I swore the shadows were creeping up on me. They weren't, my mother told me, so don't act so foolish. I tried to convince people for some time, before I gave up and had to battle the images by myself. By the time I was twelve, however, things changed. Suddenly everything was off. It was as though one little atom had shifted and the universe shifted along with it. The world looked different to me, time ceased to be a factor. I could often tell people where they lost their keys or shoes.

I once told my mother that her favorite pearl earrings were not in that drawer but in a box in the closet, since father had hidden them there. She decided to verify this and found that I was absolutely correct. Rather than please her, this horrified her. She was certain I had psychic abilities and refused to let me share them. They subsided, or rather, were stifled by my sheer will. By the time I was nineteen I had nearly forgotten they exited. I thought that when I knew exactly where the cat had gone it was simple intuition rather than something ethereal.

I didn't think of them until I was assigned to Operation 52. I doubt that these men knew about the latent ability, I hid it so well, but there was always that chance. Furthermore, I was always a hard worker. I tried my best in my job and preformed it at an advanced level. In school I pushed myself to success, until there was no doubt as to who was at the top of the class. Even if I did drift away to play pachinko and drink beer, I felt I deserved it. Or perhaps it was a punishment for shirking my work. But then they would have had to punish the entire group.

Nevertheless, I went right in. I said goodbye to my group, got a few contacts, packed my bags, and went on my way. I met with my group, which I suppose could be called a regiment, after boarding a plane. I was not allowed to know where I was going. All I could tell my family back home was that I was going on a special mission and I would respond back as soon as I can. I mentioned that if I didn't respond for over a year for them not to worry. I assured them that I would try to be as safe as I possibly could be given the circumstances.

When I arrived I found myself in a grassy, mountainous area. The fields were bare except for a single cement building surrounded by a barb wire fence. It baffled me. Who would want to invade that place in the middle of nowhere? I figured that it must have held something deeply important. I was escorted by three armed men who kept looking around the field. Inside, I found my partners. They sat around in the cement building on wooden chairs, playing a card game. A fan buzzed in the corner, rustling their hair and the cards. I remember this moment clearly, as though it had embedded itself permanently in my mind.

My partners were two men, one from Germany and the other from Italy. The German was broad, well-built, and sat hunched over the table. He looked through the cards, touching them with thick fingers. His hair was a platinum blonde, brushed back at the temples and forehead, and his eyes were piercingly white. He greeted me with a stiff smile and a nod.

The other, the Italian, was of much smaller build. He was lean, but by no means bony. He had a healthy glow to his round cheeks and laughed often. His honey-colored eyes often looked off dreamily. His hair was long, the color of copper, and he constantly pushed it back. They were unremarkable gray uniforms, same as the one they gave me. I sat with them and we waited for our orders to come. I learned that the German was called Ludwig, for whatever reason he refused to give me his last name. The Italian was called Feliciano Vargas. His voice was sweet, almost like he was singing.

We talked about each other for a while. Feliciano explained that he was also a soldier and had only seen one battle, but it was just a small glimpse as he was riding past on a horse to deliver a message. Ludwig had been to a good many battles. He had killed a multitude of men. Just like he abstained from giving me his last name, he didn't talk about the battles. He said that he came from Southern Germany and lived with his older albino brother. Feliciano added in that he lived in Rome with his brother as well. He said that his brother was grouchy and, when drafted, ran away from his house. Feliciano didn't know where his brother was and it worried him.

I felt grateful then that I knew where my family was, safe and sound for the time being.

A lieutenant came in an hour after I arrived and gave us a very vague explanation of our assignment.

"You will leave tomorrow at five," he said, "Then you will board a helicopter and fly into the desert. From there you will head east until you come across Blue Wing station. There you will deliver an envelope, which I will give you tomorrow before your departure, and give it to a Mr. Jones. You'll know him when you see him. If you fail to deliver it, destroy the letter. Make sure that it does not leave your sight. However, you may not read it, under any circumstances. Supplies will be given to you upon arrival." He then went on to describe some of the dangers and to emphasize the importance of the mission.

When he left the three of us had a cold dinner from the cans that were stacked high in the single cabinet there. There was no furnace or stove or anything to produce heat. No bathroom either, now that I think of it. We had to shut off the fan since the temperature plunged at least ten degrees by nightfall. We slept on some mattresses that had been stacked against one wall. Feliciano and Ludwig fell asleep right away. They must have been here an entire day. I, however, couldn't sleep. I stayed awake a long time, thinking about how my life was opening up with all these new pathways.

In the morning we just barely had time to gather our belongings and eat a bare-bones breakfast. The lieutenant came up, followed by the roar of a helicopter. We went inside and left that mysterious field, climbing higher and higher into the sky, until we could see nothing but wispy, white clouds.

"Why can't you deliver the message, sir?" Feliciano asked suddenly. He asked in English, a language we all had to use to understand one another. I knew a little bit of Russian and a good deal of Chinese, besides Japanese of course, and English I had to learn in college anyway. Ludwig knew German, Russian, and nearly perfect English. Of all of us, Feliciano's English was the worst, but he knew French, Spanish, and Portuguese flawlessly, so there was no room to complain.

"We don't want to be caught overhead and shot down. The only way you can get through is on foot. We will provide some horses, so don't worry," the lieutenant called over the roar of the helicopter.

We arrived not long after. The helicopter landed smoothly and we hopped out, finding ourselves in the midst of a bivouac. Several horses were tied up to a fence, surrounded by backpacks. The lieutenant led us there. If there were soldiers in the campus they did not show their faces, or even make any sort of sign to indicate their presence.

The horses were healthy and their black coats gleamed. The backpack contained several rations of food, canteens of water, and some other supplies. We were all given guns. Feliciano had a saber already with him and slung the rifle over his back. I got a firearm and a bayonet. Ludwig got a hefty looking tool just short of a machine gun. All this time he had not said a word.

The lieutenant took a leather pouch from his side, where the letter was located, and gave it to Ludwig. He reminded us not to lose it, to protect it with our lives, and never, under any costs, let it get to the enemy.

During the first five minutes of riding on that horse, I felt very nervous. It was as though all the pressure put on to me had rolled itself into a tight ball, placed inside my belly and buzzing with an electric pulse. I had a job of such importance that I couldn't let anyone down. I resolved to end my life if I needed to. But at the same moment those latent psychic abilities raised their pale heads, telling me that I can't die there, no not yet.

These abilities I do not claim to be of some extreme extent. I couldn't tell your fortune even if you wanted me to. Sometimes I just knew things, just as you know not to touch something hot or step into a crocodile infested body of water.

I didn't tell my teammates, not yet, though.

The desert stretched on and on, rolling into the horizon but not ending there. The dust was pale and grainy, hard like rocks in some places, but in other so soft that the horses nearly fumbled several times. Dry grasses cropped up in several areas, swaying only when we past them. There was no wind. The air was dry, chapping our lips and stinging our eyes. The sky overhead was another deal altogether.

I never saw a sky like it ever again. It was so deep, so layered. I could see where the sunlight shot its rays through. I could see where the clouds topped on another. And when the sun set and my group settled for the night in the shelter of some dune, not daring to light a fire for fear of our smoke attracting an enemy, the red light bled through the sky. It was as though someone had poured their own blood down a fabric. It seeped through the sly, staining the clouds and dripping down slowly, until it was overcome with night. Evening was the color of bruises. Night was just as beautiful. I didn't sleep right away when we unrolled our sleeping bags. Instead I looked up at the sky. The stars strewn across the sky twinkled. They were clear and bright, like gems pressed into the soft darkness of the sky.

Feliciano stayed up with me and watched them. Ludwig, being a no-nonsense fellow fell asleep with a disgruntled look on his face. One night, our fifth night of travel, he told me a story about those stars. He said that when he was really little he lived with his grandfather. By some miscommunication he was parted from his brother for some time. His grandfather would take Feliciano up to the highest hill, where only a spidery tree stood, its emerald leaves sparkling in the moonlight, and he would sit down there. He sometimes brought snacks or drinks, but usually he just brought a blanket to sit on. He would lay down, with Feliciano at his side. He'd raise a hand and point to different constellations, weaving a web of story after story. He filled Feliciano's head with beautiful fantasies. None of them ever left Feliciano's head. Even if the main character's name or the plot was not easily recalled, he could remember the essence of the story. He could describe in detail how the story of this constellation felt. He could tell you how the character felt throughout the story.

The night, several weeks in—I lost count how many—he told me about the hero who raised a city from its ruin, he offered to take sentry duty. I felt sleepy from listening to Feliciano's story that I agreed at once. I went into the tent, next to Ludwig, and fell asleep.

The next morning I woke to the sound of thudding boots. I pried my eyes open, feeling distinctly sore, and something hit my forehead. I blacked out for a moment, confusion stirring my soul. When I came to again I tried to stand but found several guns directed at my forehead. The men holding them were foul smelling soldiers in clean uniforms and expensive boots. They grinned at me and poked my head several times with the bayonet. I felt blood dribble down my temple, falling into my eyes, and slipping into my mouth. I didn't comprehend what was happening. This was no way real. This must have been a nightmare. Slowly I shifted my eyes around to see everyone else.

Ludwig was prostrate, immobile on the ground and being held down by grimy looking blades. Feliciano had fearful, wide eyes that met with mine. He gave me a very faint wink, so faint that I didn't think I ever saw it in the first place.

The soldiers grabbed me by my hair and tugged me up, tearing off a bit too. The searched our tent. Two kept watching us, holding guns at Feliciano and I. Ludwig was beginning to wake up. They pulled him up gruffly. He had a nasty welt across his cheek.

The soldiers rifled through our belongings, throwing things they deemed useless out of the tent and stealing things they liked. Next, they stripped us. They took our clothing and poked through it, grumbling in some language I could not understand. They found the leather pouch in Ludwig's pocket and grinned again, tearing it open.

It was empty.

Ludwig's expression briefly changed, becoming concerned, but it shifted too quickly for anyone to notice. I still felt daze. Blood began to clot at the wound and dry on my face. I blinked some away. I made to wipe it off but the gun jabbed my chest. I stopped and stiffened yet again.

They ordered us in barking voices to exit the tent. We went with our heads down, out a little ways from the tent. One of them, in the most expensive suit and hefty gun, turned to Ludwig. He spoke in a language I could barely understand. I understood something about the letter and punishment. Ludwig replied stoically, but I could see the fear poisoning his eyes.

The leader cocked his head and Feliciano and I were tossed to the ground harshly. They tied our hands and feet, so that we sat facing the leader. Ludwig was brought forwards and the leader continued to leer in a slimy voice, indicating obvious pleasure in his job.

They set Ludwig on the ground, on a flat board, and then brought another one over. They placed it atop him, sandwiching him between two slices of wood. He did not make a sound. Continuing to speak, they slowly gathered around it, all taking a seat with a paper bag in their hands. Five of them sat atop the plank. They began to eat and chat, as though having a regular old dinner party.

Ludwig then, as the pressure increased, began to scream. I shut my eyes, feeling sick. The soldier butted my head with his gun until I opened my eyes again. Blood squirted out of Ludwig as he was slowly compressed. He continued to scream. The scream haunts me. I hear it in my dreams. When I shut my eyes I can see his bones and muscles being crushed as more weight was being added to the plank. His hand fell out to the side, writhing and turning red then purple then blue.

Feliciano, beside me, vomited until he had nothing left in him. Then, he vomited again.

They continued this until Ludwig's animal screams ended. They gurgled to a stop, ending in a whimper, like an animal giving out its final cry. Standing up, they pried the plank off. Blood and skin and flesh clung to the top flank, stuck there by force. Ludwig's body was nothing a mashed corpse. His eyeballs had left his skull. A soldier stepped on them. Liquid spurted out from it like a crushed grape. They huddled around the body, defiling it with urine.

Feliciano was crying hoarsely, pleading, praying. I wanted to hug him but I couldn't. All I could do was watch the misery…

Here Kiku paused. His expression was unmoving, morose and frigid, as his mind trailed back to that time.

"How did you escape?" I asked, aghast.

He shook his head. "There is much more left to the story. I'm truly sorry, but I don't think I can go on today. Come by tomorrow for the rest, if you still wish to hear it."

I agreed to do so, bidding him farewell and favoring him with a bow.

As I left his house, hearing him stand up and make himself dinner, I thought back to the events. The images painted in my mind burned with memory and suffering.

I had a strange feeling that that was only the beginning.

I do not own Hetalia

This was inspired by The Wind Up Bird Chronicle.