24 MAY 1944. 1003 HOURS. KO‘OLAU RANGE, HAWAII. He kept the cave as clean as possible, which meant having to go farther and farther into the jungle to perform his ablutions. It was a dreadful indignity, being forced to shit in a hole and live like a monkey, but he probably deserved nothing more. He had failed the grand admiral. Failed the emperor. Failed his ancestors and the code of bushido. Jisaku Hidaka—he could not bring himself to use his military rank anymore—huddled in the shadows of the damp, fetid cave, hugging his knees, shivering with fever, and wondering if it were even possible for him to atone for his miserable faults. Seppuku would not do it. His failure was of so great a magnitude that even the ritual suicide would not attenuate his shame. That was the only reason he had not taken his life. At least twice before he had written his death poem, laid out his tanto for the killing stroke, and kneeled on a makeshift tatami—in reality, an old cardboard box. But the temptation to live, the thought that he might strike one more blow against the barbarian hordes, had proved too great.
