Chapter 1

 

They'd been our allies back in the first war and everyone thought they were good, plucky chaps. Hadn't they shown the Russians how to do things back at the turn f the century, when they given them a sound thrashing at Tsushima. Of course, their navy was modelled on our own proud, invincible Royal Navy and many of their ships had been built in Britain. But even though they were regarded as something of a joke: squat, bandy-legged and short-sighted, they were stout fellows for all that. People in the colony who'd visited Japan had comeback with tales of just how polite and civilised they were and even when it was clear that the Americans were doing their best to bully them into submission, no one took any idea of them actually starting a war seriously.

There'd been tales of things that went on in China, of course, accounts of brutal massacres, mass executions, torture and violation, but then those two countries had been at each other's throats for centuries and they were, after all, relatively uncivilised in European eyes, some unfortunate incidents were bound to happen. Anyway, most of the so-called atrocities were reported in the American newspapers and everyone knew that they over-sensationalised everything. Some of our patients were joking about it; they couldn't wait for the 'joke soldiers' to turn up and be massacred by modern weapons, they said.

 

Some joke.

 

The sheer, ruthless efficiency of their army was as horrible a shock to the army as their subsequent bestial savagery was to everyone else. And when it happened in front of me, the horror and shock was appalling in its intensity. I will always remember the stench of faeces, vomit, blood and urine mixed with the weak moans from the women... and dominating all in my memory, Mary's eyes.

I barely noticed a shouted order from somewhere, or that I was being roughly grasped by the arms. Only when they began to drag me out did I come out of the shock to attempt to pull away and go to my girls. They simply ignored my pleas, with more shouts and a couple of coarse laughs and kept on dragging me away, down corridors and through the devastated ruin of what had once been a neat, orderly and well-run hospital.

I tried not to see, but it just wasn't possible; there, just outside the ward, was the body of Li, one of our Chinese orderlies. He was sprawled, face-down over a trolley. His trousers and underclothes had been pulled down and they rammed a bayonet up his anus and left it there; he was still alive. Just beyond that, four of them surrounded Mei Chi, a truly dedicated Chinese nurse. The upper half of her uniform was ripped down to her waist, her bra hanging loose; she was kneeling, head at the groin of one of them, his penis clearly in her mouth; the other stood around, their own members out as they masturbated and waited their turn.

I was given a very unwelcome, longer look at the next horrible scene, because my escort paused to watch, rubbing his groin. Through an open door, I had the sickening sight of Priscilla Dawson, the Matron, who was in her fifties. They had her on her knees, stripped bare while one mounted her from the back and another entered her mouth. I remember the sight of her pendulous breasts swinging under her as they thrust. They were not the first, nor would they be the last; a queue had formed, while two of them, penises flaccid, prodded her with their bayonets. Blood dripped from a number of wounds, some of them seeming to be deep; one breast seemed to have been pierced; I could make out her muffles screams through the gag knotted round her head. Blood puddled beneath her. Even as I watched, another of them raised his bayonet to thrust. Aghast, I turned to my guard to remonstrate, do anything to stop the horror, but he'd had enough of watching and simply grabbed my arm and thrust me onwards. Behind me, I heard a muffled scream.

Every detail of that ghastly scene is etched into my memory with stark clarity. I never saw her again. Then there was Peter Atkins, a young doctor who'd been with us just a month. Not long, but he'd been handsome, lively and a favourite among the younger girls He was pinned to a ward door by three bayonets: groin stomach and chest. Blood bubbled from his contorted mouth as he tried to breathe. Screams and cries, male and female, came from behind the door; perhaps he'd been trying to protect whoever was suffering in there. Then I realised that it was the charity ward we ran for poor Chinese families and that it was visiting day.

Another group surrounded a naked woman, unidentifiable under a layer of sperm that coated her face and dripped down her naked body. A man spurted on to her, his place taken by another as the entire group laughed and jeered.

It seemed endless, a nightmare of bestiality and depravity, until we arrived at the Hospital Director's door, one I knew well, as we had our weekly meetings in there. As I stood looking at that polished wood, the sound of a shot came from behind it. The sergeant, who had his hand raised to knock, turned an ugly, buck-toothed grim to his men and said something. They all chuckled and I wondered what horrible thing awaited me now. I soon found out.

The sergeant knocked and a voice within answered. He straightened his uniform, came to attention and, opening the door, marched in, saluting and speaking in what sounded like brisk military style, He was addressing a man at least four inches taller then he, much more smartly dressed and handsomer by a very great deal He was clearly an officer - a Major I found later, when I became familiar with their uniforms and ranks - and a elegant one. The smell of powder was in the air, clearly the result of the shot. And the target was horribly obvious: Brian Downey, our Hospital Director, was sitting in his chair behind as desk, as usual. But that was a far as it went as far as normality was concerned: his hands were clasped to his belly and blood seeped through. In fact, I saw, blood was pouring from a wound in his hand, as if he'd been shot in that, too. He was groaning n agony, his face bowed, though it was clearly twisted in his anguish.

The officer snapped something and with a banging of boots, the sergeant left. Instinctively, I began to move to Brian, but a voice, only slightly accented, stopped me.

"Don't bother," it said. "He's a dead man, or will be soon. That's what three shots to the belly will do, don't you see? That last one got him through the hand, if you'll notice; very neat, though I say it myself."

Sudden fury overtook me. I swung on him. He had the gun dangling in his hand; it looked like a Luger, made famous from pictures of the first war. "You barbarian!" I stormed. "Beast! You and your men are animals! How can yo..."

Then he hit me, He hand - not the one holding the gun, thank God - lashed out and hit me on the cheek. Hard. I staggered.

"You will never, ever, show such disrespect to a Japanese officer again!"

I looked at him, tears of rage, fear, horror, shock and loathing in my eyes. "How do you expect me to speak when you act with such foul bestiality?" I shouted.

He hit me again, this time back-hand. And this time, I fell, to sprawl on the floor at the foot of Brian's desk. I could see his feet and the large, growing pool of blood. At that moment, the poor man screamed.

"That's what I wanted to hear!" cried the officer. "Now he knows what happens to people who tell a Japanese officer that he cannot do something."

I turned to look at him. He was smiling as he regarded at poor Brian, triumph and satisfaction in his eyes, a sneer on his lips.

Brian screamed again, a groaning howl of agony.

'What sort of people are these?' I wondered in horror as I saw him raise the pistol and sight it carefully. Not at me, but Brian. I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could make a sound, he fired. The bubbling moan that had followed the scream cut off and I heard the dull thump as Brian's body slumped off his chair to the floor.

"Get up," he said. "Now, woman!" he snapped.

As I scrambled to my feet to face him, shaking with fear and the remains of rage, I saw the pistol being thrust into a gleaming holster and for the first time, had a moment to look at the man properly. He was just about my equal in height - five feet eight - and elegantly handsome in a Japanese sort of way. While his skin was yellowish, his eyes did not slant as prominently as the others and his face was much slimmer, leaner, more aristocratic; handsome, if you like. But my outrage at what had been done to my girls and all that I had seen on the way here, culmination in poor Brian's cold-blooded murder overcame my terror.

"You fucking barbarian!" I screamed at him, my spittle spraying into his face. "You're animals! You signed the Geneva Convention! How could you behave like thi...!"

It was a far as I got before he punched me in the stomach and I folded, fighting for breath, to the floor. Above me, through the tears, I saw him take an immaculate handkerchief, wipe his face, which was contorted with fury and shout at the door, which opened immediately, revealing the sergeant...

I must have passed out, because the next thing I remember was being dragged to my feet, feeling uncomfortably cool around my upper body. Above the awful pain from my stomach and still gasping for breath, I realised that I was naked from the waist up. My whites had been torn off and my - very utilitarian - bra lay on the floor in front of my. My breasts, of which I was normally rather proud, were fully exposed.

Even as all this sank in, the officer barked some command and I felt my arms being starched out to the side so that they were held rigidly horizontal, while my wrists and arms were twisted so that I was forced to my knees and then to lean forward to relieve the sudden pain in my shoulders.

"Wha... what are you doing?" I squealed. "I am a British officer! You can't..."

Then I saw his polished riding boots appear in my line of vision and his hand in my hair, which he grasped and wrenched, forcing my hear back and up, so that I looked directly in to a pair of black, malevolent eyes.

"We recognise no female soldiers! You are a woman; one who does not know her place! You will learn to respect your betters!" He snapped another order and suddenly something horrible hit me on the back, forcing my breath out, while a hideous pain blazed across my shoulders.

I screamed. He smiled, still holding my hair in his fist, his eyes boring into mine.

Another blow, a little lower while I was still trying to draw breath from the last. Again the terrible pain and all I could do was gasp a strangled howl of agony. Then it hit again... and again... and pounding into me yet again while I was pinioned, unable to breathe enough to scream as much as I desperately wanted to. Let alone beg and plead and promise that I'd behave if it only stopped... please!

And it did, after ten of those terrible, hammering blows and they all released me at once so I just crumpled into a sobbing groaning heap, so consumed by pain that I could weep and utter incoherent half-sobs, half-groans. They let me lie for long enough to enjoy the sight of my agony and then they grabbed my arms and hauled me up again. Once more his hand fastened in my hair and pulled my head up.

His own loomed close, indistinct through a haze of tears... and then he spat, his spittle landing just above the bridge of my nose. It began trickling into my eyes.

"That is what I think of your British woman officers! Now, kiss the instrument of your punishment and remember it!"

Something was thrust under my nose and I blinked, trying to focus some attention on it and away from the all-encompassing, tearing agony from my back. When it swam into focus, I couldn't comprehend it at first, but then the incredible truth hit me: I had been beaten with a length of bamboo that must have been two inches in diameter! Ten strokes of that breath-stopping, mind-numbing torment... from that!. No wonder it had driven the breath from me... and that was why my back felt as if it was being torn with steel claws! How I had stayed conscious, I have no idea.

"Kiss it!" he ordered again.

And I did, pressing my lips to it without conscious thought, all my being centred round the awful pain that consumed me.

"For your information, slut, yes, Japan did sign your precious Geneva Convention! But we did not ratify it, so it doesn't apply! We can do with you and all your cowardly, so-called 'soldiers' what we please. And, as a woman, you have only one function... I leave that to your imagination. Oh," he grabbed the ID tags that dangled round my neck. "I'll let you keep these, but don't imagine that they will do you any good. As far as I'm concerned, it's a slave-collar! To rub that message in, I might condescend to make use of you tonight, leading you to the bed with these!"

It was an irrational thought, surfacing from all the confusion and pain-consumed brain, but all I could do was blurt: "Y... you can't... I am indisposed."

He laughed. "If you mean what I think you mean, that's your problem! But even so, you still have two holes available, though one of them will have to be cleaned, thoroughly, before I condescend to use it. That leaves one, so I recommend that you put your mind to using it to the best of your ability unless you'd like a repeat of that punishment. While you're waiting, rest assured that my men will be taking care of the rest of your sluts!"