To that end, Tanigawa had a trick up his sleeve that he would play when the Americans broke through their defenses at Santo Tomas. After all, he felt that prisoners would serve as better shields than sandbags when the time came. But for now his troops would put up a savage fight.
“
Tanigawa nodded with satisfaction. It would have been easy to mistake Inaba’s words for those of a sycophant, but the grim set of his face and his eyes like stone chips indicated that he meant every word.
In many ways, the two men were represented by their weapons of choice. Major Tanigawa rarely went anywhere without his elegant sword, which was also a badge of office for a Japanese officer, while Sergeant Inaba relied on the cudgel at his belt to keep their Filipino slave laborers and American prisoners in line. Both weapons were efficient in their own way, much like the men who wielded them. And both men seemed to understand one another.
“You have done well, Inaba,” the major said.
Inaba nodded and bowed, replying with a gruff,
When Inaba stood as if awaiting his next orders, the major asked, “Is there anything else?”
“The prisoners, sir. They wish to speak with you. They have organized a delegation.”
The major grunted. “Very well. Make them wait for an hour, then send them to my office.”
Tanigawa spent the hour doing paperwork. It had been a long and circuitous path that had brought Major Tanigawa to his current position. The Japanese officer corps was highly political and favored those from distinguished or aristocratic families — they were fighting for an emperor, after all, not an elected president. Tanigawa hailed from an ancient family with its roots in the samurai class. Although the samurai rank had been abolished during the Meiji Restoration that ushered in the modern, unified Japan, family heritage still loomed large and had created a social class system.
That pedigree had won him a place in the hallowed halls of the Imperial Japanese Army Academy, where he had graduated in 1904, emerging as a young soldier forged in the crucible of discipline and honor. For these young men, the legend of the samurai was still very much alive.
By August of 1937, his destiny beckoned, and he was assigned to the storied Imperial Japanese Army’s 7th Division. His unit arrived too late to do more than mop up at the Battle of Lake Khasan against the Chinese in July 1938. The late arrival added a whiff of incompetence. However, fate had other battles in store for Tanigawa.
In 1939, Tanigawa found himself in the crucible of Khalkhin Gol, where disaster struck as they reinforced the beleaguered IJA 23rd Division that was fighting Soviet troops in Mongolia. The battle’s grim toll still resulted in a Japanese setback. By August of that year, Tanigawa had been called back to the heartland, tasked with joining the Central District Army, the guardians of Japan’s very shores. It was not a prestigious position compared to conquering or occupying Japanese territories. The message seemed to be that Tanigawa had been found lacking as a battlefield officer.
However, destiny’s wheel had not turned its last for Tanigawa. He found himself reassigned to the Philippines, eventually overseeing the prisoners in Manila when civilian administrators were found lacking.
But Tanigawa was no pencil pusher or paper tiger. In his youth, he had enjoyed hunting and marksmanship and had worked to hone his skill with a rifle. He had often helped train troops personally in the use of their Arisaka rifles. Personally, he favored a beautiful example of a Rigby double rifle that he had hunted with in his youth during trips to Korea. The powerful rifle was more suited to hunting big game, but he had brought it with him to the Philippines.
His position in Manila was not without its perks. He had taken a Filipino mistress, a girl half his age, who seemed willing enough in exchange for money and favors for her family. She was a frequent visitor to his quarters at the university, where he had moved once the Americans landed on Leyte.
