The closer they got to shore, the more Kiku's heart pound against his chest. He tried not to squirm in his seat in the boat, but instead, attempted to sit up straight like the rest of the comrades that surrounded him, staring at the destruction that lied before them.
Bodies of both Chinese and Japanese men were scattered about the swaying sea and the sandy beaches. The Japanese had jumped off their rowboats and were running up the piles of severed limbs with giant, black guns, while the Chinese hurried to file another ball into their canons at the top of the hill. The smell of raw flesh and the taste of gunpowder in the air made Kiku's stomach flip in a nauseating way. Canons firing, figures exploding, men screaming—the scene was enough to give anyone nightmares for the rest of their lives.
As a way of calming himself down, Kiku thought of his home back in Japan; reading a book on the back porch, tending to the camellia flowers in the garden, meditating in his bedroom with the sunlight gently shaping his face. But then the memory of being sent to war quickly emerged in his mind and what little hope he had left was utterly destroyed.
China declared war on Japan when they discovered that Kiku's country was attempting to conquer a small island located below China—the Chinese called it Taiwan—which was currently under Chinese power. Japan refused to back down, even though their soldiers were dropping like flies and the weapon quantity started to slowly decrease. They went as far as yanking 18-year-old boys out of their homes (including Kiku) and plunged them into the horrors of war. This Chinese-Japanese war had only gone on for a few months, but it felt like centuries to Kiku.
The raven-haired boy snapped out of his thoughts when he heard his captain—near the front of the boat with an assault rifle in his hands and a katana at his side—scream "Charge!" before throwing himself out from the rowboat and into the sea below, the water encircling his knees.
With a battle cry, Kiku's comrades followed suit and trudged through the saltwater all the while loading bullets into their guns or unsealing their swords. Kiku, on the other hand, quickly and quietly trailed behind the determined men. Sweat traced down his temple as he shakenly loaded his shotgun and tried to catch up with his captain.
And he held back his screams when his fellow comrades fell back into the ocean, several small bullets piercing through their flesh, tainting the blue waves with their red blood.
Kiku, despite all the rambled and frantic thoughts flying around in his mind, set his eyesight on his captain many meters away, jumping over dead soldiers in order to get to him quicker.
He watched his captain dive behind a sand dune with three other soldiers so he went around to join them. His captain, however, expressed a look of utmost concern when he spotted Kiku running toward them, out in the open.
"Honda!" he shouted just as he struck out a foot at the teen, causing him to trip dramatically; with his hands still grasping at his gun in front of him and his chest sore from landing ungracefully onto the clumpy sand. His captain then grabbed the back of his collar and dragged him to his side. Just as he straightened into a sitting position, a large cannonball violently slammed into the exact spot where Kiku had lied just a moment ago, burying itself deep into the sand.
A shudder ripped through his spine when he realized how easily that thing could've smashed him in, making him explode in a wild burst of blood and organs.
"Watch your surroundings, Honda!" his captain bellowed in his face. "Now's not the time for screwing things up!" He risked a glance over the sand dune to survey the area before sitting back down and turning to his young and terrified soldiers.
He then began barking orders at them, using a bunch of military terms and gestures to assist him in explaining his plan. From what Kiku understood, he and the other soldiers were to follow their captain up the sandy hill and take out the men controlling the canons. It was risky, but there were enough dead bodies around them to use as shields.
Of course, using corpses to help them survive seemed a little disrespectful to the fallen privates about them, their blood staining the bright sand of the once peaceful beach, but when in the middle of war, you must do everything you can to survive.
With their guns fully loaded and their courage still intact, Kiku and the three other cadets quickly trailed behind their captain, crouching behind sand dunes and peeking over occasionally to shoot at the Chinese.
They managed to make it up the steep hill without any casualties from their small group—Kiku believed that was because of the other soldiers that somehow survived the unbreakable cannonballs and the countless bullets being thrown at them, not to mention the sight of their dead friends surrounding them. About a dozen Japanese men had climbed up to the enemy's station and began to wreak havoc upon their friends' murderers.
They fired the rest of their bullets at the enemy and, when all shells had been emptied out, Kiku's people unleashed their katanas and transferred over to slicing, stabbing, and cutting. The Chinese abandoned their canons, pulling out small but very sharp knives from their jacket pockets. Although the long blades of the katana would slash through their uniforms easily and pierce their skin, the short knives were actually getting the job done, better and faster. The Japanese were failing the fight simply due to the fact that they were utterly exhausted from trying to outrun the cannonballs.
More Japanese men dropped to the ground as the Chinese continuously stabbed at them, blood staining blistered hands and sandy plains. Kiku tightened his grip on his rifle, body tensing, eyes bulging. He wanted to help, he really did, but he didn't know how. All these men were much more talented than he, had more training. Yet they were the ones who were falling.
That's because you're doing nothing like a quitter, his mind told him. At least they fought their best before they fell, you coward.
After that thought, Kiku snapped to attention when he heard the sound of a man running at him, screaming a fearless battle cry as he held up a blood-soaked knife.
The small Japanese man instantly backed away from his potential killer as fast as he could, attempting to aim the barrel of his gun straight at his head. But the man was much too fast and was on top of him before he even knew it, causing him to fall back and his gun to fire off into the baby blue sky above.
The Chinese soldier screamed again as he held his sharp knife and tried to drive it deep into Kiku's skull, but luckily, he saw it coming and quickly moved his head out the way, the knife plunging into the sand beside him. Kiku took the opportunity that the Chinese man unknowingly gave him when he struggled to retrieve his weapon from the deep, thick sand to reload his rifle and aim the tip underneath the enemy's chin and pull the trigger.
Cadet Honda had squeezed his eyelids shut when he shot him—he didn't want to see the damage he caused. He did, however, hear the wet explosion of the man's head firing off in a wild burst of blood and gore and felt splotches of his remains land against his upper form. He then pushed the slump body off of him with the edge of his gun, which fell beside him with a hard thud.
He went to wipe away all the red soggy chunks covering his eyes—he could hardly see the baby blue sky anymore—but he instead felt someone yank him up from the ground by his armpit.
"Get up, Honda!" he heard his captain shout at him. "Advance toward the enemy! They're escaping!"
Kiku turned to his right. He saw some of his fellow comrades sprint after the remaining Chinese soldiers that had begun to run deeper into the tropical woods. He didn't know if they were trying to escape their deadly fate or trying to head back to their camp, to their headquarters. But it didn't matter—they were supposed to kill them either way.
Kiku hurried after his captain, holding his rifle in one hand while he scrubbed at the blood around his eyes. His boots stomped on wet grass and mud puddles the further they traveled into the forest. He could still smell gunpowder in the air but new scents came along the breeze as well, like sweet mangos and damp leaves. The ocean could still be heard from where he was, but it started to fade away and was replaced by squawking birds and pounding feet. Heavy mist slowly came into view, slightly soaking his black hair, his bright red skin.
"Stop!" Kiku's captain yelled at the escaping Chinese. "Surrender!"
But instead of taking the easy way, they suddenly whipped around and did the exact opposite: they charged toward them with their bloodied knives, holding them high above their heads before throwing them straight into the tiny group of Japanese soldiers surrounding them.
It was much too fast; a comrade fell in front of him with a hunting knife buried deep in his chest, his captain beside him cried out in agony as a blade plunged itself into his kneecap, and he even felt his right shoulder erupt in sudden pain, causing him to fling backwards and land hard on his back, his own rifle flying somewhere behind him from the impact.
Kiku gasped aloud, feeling his warm blood soak through his uniform and pool around him. The pain made him want to curl up in a ball and cradle his bleeding shoulder, to either heal it immediately or to run away from it. But, unfortunately, he couldn't do either of those things except to wrap his trembling hands around the handle of the knife and slowly remove it from his body part.
He bit back a cry—it came out in a strained grunt—as he felt the dagger slide through his insides before finally exiting the wound, small circles of blood splattering onto the forest floor. His grip on the sharpened weapon tightened as he struggled to inhale and exhale properly again. But, when in war, no pity or hesitation is established on such tainted grounds and the silent rule (as expected) applied to Kiku's situation here once he spotted a Chinese man coming for him, his dark eyes piercing through his soul.
Kiku went to defend himself by lamely holding up the blade that had penetrated him, but just then his captain grabbed the gun Kiku had dropped and shot the foe in the lower abdomen.
As the combatant fell at their feet, the Japanese captain turned his head toward his last remaining soldier. Kiku stared back, at his gun aiming to the treetops, at the knife growing from his kneecap. He watched him wince in pain before throwing a determined glare at him.
"Go, Honda!" he shouted. "Get out of here!"
The demand surprised him, shocked him. What did he mean? Retreat? Advance? Where was he supposed to go? The overwhelming urge to assist his wounded captain took over his mind rather than the expected impulse to obey his leader.
He shakenly got to his feet and stumbled two steps toward the captain but flinched away when he barked at him even louder. "I said get out of here, Honda! That is an order! Don't make me repeat myself."
Kiku hesitated, but only for a moment, as he tried to see things from his captain's point of view. He had a knife stuck in his knee—there was no way he could stand, much less run. He probably couldn't even do a proper army crawl. And even though Kiku had conjure up some strength and muscle during training, he had to admit that he didn't have enough might to carry him around. Not to mention the lack of medical supplies they needed to dress their wounds.
There was no other choice—Kiku had to leave his captain behind.
The young soldier bit the inside of his cheek, stuffed his newly acquired knife in his pants pocket, and then mumbled out a melancholy "Yes, sir."
These were the first words he had spoken that day and were the last ones he gave to his captain.
Kiku clasped down on his pierced shoulder and turned to run, grabbing the katana that was lying beside the fallen Japanese fighter, the one who got struck in the heart with the dagger. He kept running as fast as he could, further into the misty woods, not daring to look back when he heard the sound of a man screaming heroically and several gunshots exploding. He told himself to keep on going, to follow orders, to not let the captain down. He pushed off trees, hopped over boulders, whipped corners, ducked under branches.
And then he made the mistake of peeking over his shoulder.
It wasn't what he saw behind him that caused his next unfortunate destiny—his captain's murderers hadn't come into his line of vision yet—but it was his failure to watch where he was going that triggered him to trip over an oddly-shaped rock and to tumble down a nearly vertical hill.
Pain erupted from his body as he smashed against trees, somersaulted across wet grass and millions of tiny pebbles, sliced at himself with his dead comrade's katana. His stumble seemed to go on for hours and hours even though it only lasted a few seconds. He had landed hard on his stomach at the bottom of the hill, his physique aching and throbbing. He slowly shifted around so that he was lying on his back and cradling his blood-soaked arm and looking up at the massive hill he just rolled down.
He stifled back agonizing moans once he saw the two Chinese soldiers run across the small mountain's peek, their silhouettes sprinting through the thick haze, hurrying in the direction where they thought Kiku headed off to. When he didn't hear their stomping feet anymore, he let out a strangled gasp and squeezed his right arm, feeling more blood flow from his wounds.
There was a long tear in the sleeve of his coconut brown uniform, but Kiku refused to examine his own injury now. He told himself that he needed to find a safe sanctuary first before he cared for his damaged arm. And so he weakly reached for his katana and then studied his surroundings, trying to figure out where exactly he was.
And then, within the heavy mist, he saw her.
A girl around his age was standing several meters away from him, a look of utter shock and horror marking her features. Big brown eyes were widened so much that they appeared to be on the edge of popping out of her sockets. Her small round nose and thin pink lips had scrunched up in surprise. She held a woven basket in her hands (which was filled with all sorts of fruits and berries) but, upon closer inspection, Kiku noticed that she was gripping its handles so tightly that her knuckles were turning white, the bone bulging out from beneath the skin. Through the fog he could also make out the girl's thick, brown hair cloak around her torso and her thin white dress hang limply from her shoulders and gather around her knees.
So many questions clouded Kiku's mind at the sight of this unknown woman. Who was she and where did she come from? No females came here with the Japanese today—was she a Chinese nurse or spy? But her attire is what confused him the most; all she wore was that simple cotton dress. She looked so vulnerable, so unprepared for all the bloodshed that was caused just a few meters away.
Speaking of which.
More pain bit at his nerves as Kiku gripped his shoulder and tried to swallow down an aching groan. The girl, however, was somewhat frightened by this action and had gasped loudly and stumbled back a few feet, some yellow mangos falling from her basket. His head snapped back toward her. If the Chinese were nearby, then they would surely hear this girl's screams no doubt. He had to calm her down.
"Wait!" he called to her in Japanese, attempting to keep his own voice low. She stopped, her thin eyebrows crushed together in confusion. He tried again. "Uh, can you understand me?" he asked in Chinese this time.
Very slowly, she nodded her head.
Somewhat satisfied with this answer, Kiku threw his katana to the side and spread his bloody palms toward the girl in submission. He knew that this was probably a bad idea, but he was bleeding rapidly and was in so much pain that he had no choice but to put his life in her hands, to plead for mercy.
"Please help me," he continued in the Chinese language. He was so puzzled with himself—why was he begging for a stranger's assistance? What if she really was with the enemy? How was he so willing to risk everything just to be spared this one time? All these questions ran through his mind at once, but he ignored them all the same.
The girl flinched at the sight of dark red staining Kiku's hands, his chest, his face. Her expression was one of pure disgust and fear. If she was this uncomfortable with being around blood, then there was no way that she could possibly be involved in this gruesome war.
Right?
When she made no effort to move, Kiku lowered his hands and clutched his battered body, groaning under his breath in serious discomfort. "I'm sorry…for scaring you," he managed in panted breaths. "I'm just…very hurt."
The voices in his head and the chirping birds above began to blur together, becoming distant and echoic. His brain suddenly felt light-headed and all the strength in his limbs gave out. He tried so hard to keep his eyelids open, but he was just so very tired.
The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the shaky silhouette of the mysterious girl slowly sinking her woven basket to the wet ground and taking a couple cautious steps towards his way.