Kamikaze, page 7
part #1 of Dungeon Samurai Series
“What areas?” Sensei asked.
“Weapons are our strong suit,” Sato said. “Taijutsu too. But we have less experience with strikes—with punches, kicks, elbows and knees. Dealing with strikers was… difficult.”
“Is that why you kept getting beaten up?” a student called.
Sato shot him a dirty look.
“I thought Sato did the best he could,” Yamada said. “It looked like an even match to me.”
In truth, Yamada only remembered fragments of Sato’s bout. But even Sato didn’t deserve to be picked on all the time.
“On the battlefield, we cannot settle for evenly matching our foes,” Sensei said.
“Exactly!” Sato exclaimed. “Sensei, we must spend more time training to defend against strikes.”
“I’m sure we will have plenty of opportunities to do so in the future,” Sensei replied.
As the conversation drifted to mundane matters, Yamada’s thoughts drifted to the events of the previous day. Maybe the fight wasn’t just a test of aggression. It was to show everyone, first-hand, the power of… prayer? Faith? Kami-sama?
But whose faith? Whose prayer? Just the Christian faith? Or others, too? Hiroshi seemed to be taking it well, but of course he would. This was simply a confirmation of his faith.
But what about Yamada Yuuki?
He didn’t consider himself particularly religious. Sure, he visited temples and shrines and participated in festivals like everybody else, but he wouldn’t consider himself a believer. Never really saw the point in it.
But now?
All he had were questions without answers.
The workshop was a bustling hive of activity. The main queue branched into four separate lines, each terminating at a wooden table. At the far end, Yamada saw men and women working with long sheets of cloth, cutting and folding and sewing.
None of them measured their cuts.
Then it was Yamada’s turn.
Inside the workshop, a grumpy-looking man in a hand-fitted robe attended to him. The tailor peered intently at him in silence.
“Name?” the man asked.
“Yamada Yuuki.”
The man snatched up a brush, dipped it into a pot of ink, and scrawled two words on a small piece of thick cloth.
“Is this it?”
Yamada squinted. It took him a moment to recognize the rough squiggles as his name, written in English.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Standing, the man slowly circled Yamada, scrutinizing every inch of him.
“Eeto… What are you doing?” Yamada asked.
“Measuring.”
“Measuring? How?”
The tailor sighed. “My skill. It lets me take your measurements instantly. No tools required.”
“Is that what the other tailors are doing too?”
The tailor sighed again. “Yes.”
Returning to his desk, he scrawled a series of numbers and letters on the cloth and handed it to Yamada.
“Here. Your measurements. Next!”
The next stop was the camp quartermaster. The QM was tall and beefy, glowing with the pink of health, but his subordinates were all, to a man, scarred and crippled. They were missing fingers and feet, hands and arms, noses and ears.
As they lined up to receive their kit, a thought struck Yamada.
“I thought that priest could heal people,” Yamada said. “Why didn’t he heal these?”
“Maybe there’s a limit to what he can do,” Hiroshi said.
“Maybe there’s a limit to what kami-sama can do,” Sato added.
“Sato…” Hiroshi began.
“Kami-sama doesn’t regrow or reattach missing limbs,” Sato interrupted. “The evidence is in front of you. Either kami-sama can’t or won’t do it.”
“We don’t know enough about this world to be sure of that,” Yamada said. “We’ll have to ask the instructors later.”
Sato shrugged and looked away. Hiroshi frowned and continued glaring at Sato.
The queue spanned three tables. Huge piles of bundles lay behind the tables. At the first stop, Hiroshi received a backpack. It was a leather sack fastened to a lacquered wooden frame, stuffed to the brim with heavy objects. At the second table, a one-armed man handed Yamada a collection of smaller items bundled in a large piece of cloth.
At his last stop, the soldier on duty said, “Measurement card?”
Yamada handed over the cloth the tailor had given him. The soldier glanced at the numbers, then shouted over his shoulder. A few troops dug through the mountains of stuff behind the table. Eventually, one of them emerged with a pile of clothing tied together with thin string.
“Here ya go,” the soldier said. “Three sets of uniforms, medium size, Japanese.”
“Thanks,” Yamada said, picking up the bundle with his free hand.
The desk soldier handed back the measurement card.
“Hold on to this. You’ll still need it.”
Back at the barracks, a drill instructor named Kato took charge.
“Go in, store your kit in your cabinet, and clean up,” Kato said. “Drill Instructor Takahashi will show you the proper way to do so. In the meantime, I’ll take your measurement cards to the blacksmiths. Hand them over as you go in.”
After cleanup came lunch. The food had improved dramatically. Now the gruel had vegetables and strips of meat, and the cooks also served soup with seaweed and tofu.
It was almost like home.
Lectures and demonstrations followed lunch. Camp policies, safety briefings, regulations, the proper way to wear uniforms, how to store kit, and so on and so forth. Yamada was drowning in information, but he struggled to keep abreast of everything.
Near the end, Kato finally spoke about the days ahead.
“To this date, you’ve been training together as one cohesive group, or in ability groups. For advanced skills training, specifically infantry training, things will be different.
“We will be training in our respective martial blocs. The HEMA practitioners, Chinese martial artists and the Internationals will do their own thing, and so will we. There will be some periods of common training, but for the most part we’ll be left to our devices. Likewise, you’ll see less of DI Chong, and more of us. Any questions so far?”
Sensei raised his hand. “All of us recruits will eventually fight in the dungeon together, desho?”
“Hai.”
“What’s the purpose of separate training regimens?”
“We need soldiers, and we need them now,” Takahashi said. “All of you have backgrounds in martial arts. We don’t have time to teach you new ways of fighting. Instead, we will help you adapt what you already know to the dungeon and show you how to fight in squads.”
It made sense, Yamada thought. His ryuha’s techniques were designed around Japanese armor. They fought the way they did to exploit vulnerabilities in the opponent’s armor while covering their own. Western-style armor was different from Japanese armor, so the Westerners would move differently, and Yamada supposed the same held true for Chinese armor. Yesterday’s fights had exposed the differences in their techniques, principles and heiho.
“Our ryuha did not prepare us for formation combat,” another Japanese said. “How do we adapt our techniques?”
His name was… Ono, Yamada remembered. A student from another ryuha.
Kato smiled tightly. “Don’t worry. We’ll show you.”
* * *
There was no ceremony to mark the commencement of advanced skills training. But with the noncombatants gone, morning PT bumped up a notch. More sets, longer runs, more complex calisthenics. Yamada sucked it up and did his best to keep up.
Immediately after breakfast, the recruits gathered in the parade square for Chong’s first lecture of the course. It was also the first time Chong was not shouting.
“The dungeon is dark, hot and cramped. The passages are just wide enough for three men to walk abreast. The chambers aren’t much bigger. You can only go forward or backwards; there is no space for lateral movement. You will be facing many well-armed and well-trained enemies. Some humanoid, some not.
“We know all of you can fight as individuals. But to survive in the dungeon, you must learn how to fight as a team. As soldiers.
“Combined arms is the name of the game. Our principal melee weapon is the jumonji yari, a spear with a cross-shaped blade. Our primary ranged weapon is the crossbow. Our training will focus on these two weapons.
“You will also learn swordsmanship, knife fighting, and unarmed combat. But a word to the wise: these will not be like anything you’ve ever encountered.”
As always, Chong was right.
Yamada had studied some sojutsu in the ryuha, but the yari he was familiar with was long and heavy. The wooden jumonji yari he received was shorter and lighter, barely reaching his lips, and it was a bit more awkward than what he was used to.
For the first half of sojutsu training, Kato and Takahashi demonstrated a series of basic techniques. It was all linear movements, always stepping forward into thrusts and slashes, rarely retreating to dodge attacks. Any sidesteps were small and subtle, just enough to move the head or body out of the way of an incoming weapon.
But for the second half, Kato and Takahashi invited Sensei to teach the class, while keeping the dungeon’s environment in mind. Sensei focused on a Kukishin-ryu specialty: a sudden drop to the knees, powering a lightning-fast high thrust. However, the length of the warriors’ jumonji yari demanded that the attacker get close—much closer than with a full-length yari.
After sojutsu training came kenpo. Sword law, what other schools called kenjutsu, the art of sword fighting. The Japanese received wooden bokken, curved to resemble a katana, while the Westerners and Chinese trained on straight swords. The bokken was much shorter than what Yamada was used to, only about twenty-five inches long.
As before, Kato and Takahashi taught the group some simple techniques before inviting Sensei to pitch in.
“Without the ability to sidestep attacks, you must perfect your sense of ma-ai,” Sensei said. “You must learn to read your enemy. Most of all, you must know the right time to strike—and cut down the enemy with a single stroke.”
After lunch, the soldiers marched outside the camp under armed guard, heading to an open field that served as the crossbow range. Backstopped by a huge sand berm, large bales of dried straw served as targets.
When the men were assembled, Chong addressed the troops.
“Space is life. We want to kill the enemy from as great a distance as possible. We don’t want to mix it up with spears and swords and bare hands if we can avoid it. We may not always have a choice, but if we do, our preference is to use the crossbow.”
He hefted his crossbow to his chest. “This is our issue crossbow. Draw weight of three hundred and fifty pounds. Spanned with a stirrup and a goat’s foot lever. Lethal out to a hundred and fifty meters—but typical engagement range inside the dungeon is between ten meters to arm’s length, or less. Now I’m going to show you what it can do. Range is hot!”
Sliding his good foot into the stirrup, Chong affixed the lever in place and pulled it back, retracting the crossbow string. He hung the lever on his belt, then grabbed a bolt from a quiver and loaded the weapon. In one smooth motion, he raised the crossbow to his cheek and shot.
A metallic THWOCK filled the air. The crossbow rocked back. The bolt slammed into a straw bale.
Chong loosed four more bolts, all of them landing within a half-inch circle. Turning, he said, “How many of you have the Sharpshooter skill?”
A dozen hands went up.
Chong grinned. “Excellent. You are now crossbowmen. But the rest of you, you can’t afford to be complacent. In case the crossbowman goes down, you must be familiar with the use of a crossbow.”
There were twelve weapons, twelve targets, and five bolts per man. The recruits lined up behind the crossbows, waiting their turn to shoot. The hours crawled by, punctuated by the singing of crossbows and the thudding of bolts.
Finally, it was Yamada’s turn. He mounted his quiver on his obi by his right hip, hung the lever by his thigh, and took up the weapon. Takahashi walked him through the motions, from loading to aiming to firing.
“Press the trigger firmly but smoothly,” Takahashi said. “Let the shot come as a surprise.”
Yamada placed his finger on the trigger. Squeezed—
THWOCK
The crossbow leapt into his shoulder. Yamada grunted. Lowering the weapon, he saw a fresh bolt sticking out of the target.
“Good shot,” Takahashi said. “Again.”
Yamada didn’t do too badly, but the sharpshooters stole the show. Most of them placed bolts within a quarter-inch circle. One of them actually split a bolt with another bolt.
When the session ended, Chong delivered his debrief.
“There is no time to reload in the middle of a fight. If any enemies survive the opening volley, they will be on you so fast you won’t have time to reload. But it does not mean you can slack off on reloading.
“The enemy can and will ambush you at any time. Even and especially after a fight. Don’t just focus on shooting straight; you must also reload quickly and efficiently.
“Remember: we are training for war.”
The second day proceeded like the first, but instead of kenpo they studied taijutsu. Takahashi and Kato led most of the session, handing down deceptively straightforward techniques and dirty tricks. How to step on enemy’s foot and shove him so that when he falls, he will break an ankle. How to grab an enemy’s head and smash him into a wall. How to slip between an enemy and a wall to gain his back.
“These techniques are from all over the world,” Kato said. “Chinese gongfu, Western HEMA, tricks from various ryuha. The important thing is, they have been tested in battle, and we know they work.”
Teachers from other schools chimed in, showing techniques from their lineages and adapting them to the dungeon. There was so much to study, so little time to perfect everything.
The days followed a similar schedule. Training in the morning. Breakfast. Sojutsu. Kenpo or taijutsu, or even more sojutsu. Lunch. Crossbow. Dinner. Rinse and repeat.
In the morning of the sixth day, immediately after breakfast, Chong gathered everyone for a special briefing.
“The blacksmiths have forged your weapons. Tonight, you will receive your blades.”
* * *
After sunset, the instructors prepared a bonfire, piling up staves and pouring oil over the pile. Before the staves, there were four tables, two per block, groaning under the weight of live steel. In front of the tables the men assembled by platoons in open order and waited.
Presently, William Marshall strode out of his hut. He marched to the bonfire, taking salutes from the instructors. At the pile of wood, he struck steel to flint and set the bonfire alight.
Marshall spun around on his heel. The flames climbed high behind him, illuminating the tables of weapons.
“Gentlemen, we are soldiers. War is our calling. This is a dangerous world, filled with monsters that seek to exterminate us. It is your mission, your duty, to stand between them and the rest of humanity on this godforsaken land.
“Here are the tools of your profession. From this day forth, you shall be armed wherever you go, that you may defend your fellow men from monsters, and defeat the lord of the dungeon. But know this: these weapons are merely tools.
“You are the weapon. Between your ears you carry the most potent weapon in history: the human brain. The sharpest swords are useless when paired with a dull mind and weak hands. Strive ever to sharpen your mental faculties and strengthen your body.
“Your forefathers are proud and fearsome warriors. The Chinese boast of martial traditions that span hundreds, even thousands of years. The samurai of Japan were renowned for their loyalty, their bravery, and their skill at arms. Men of the West, you are the descendants of Crusaders, Vikings, Romans, of the fierce and bold warriors who conquered a continent and left their mark on history.
“With these blades, honor those who came before you. Show the demons what it means to be a soldier of humanity.”
His speech complete, Marshall stepped back and allowed the instructors to take over. One by one, they yelled the names of their charges, summoning them to the table of steel.
“Yamada Yuuki!” Kato shouted.
“Hai!” Yamada yelled.
He took one step forward. Turned smartly to the right. Marched. Reaching the end of the line, he turned again, making his way to the table.
Takahashi snatched up a sword by its scabbard and held it out with both hands. Yamada accepted it and thrust it into his obi by his left hip. Yamada took exactly three steps, stopping in front of Kato. Kato swept up a tanto from the table and presented it to Yamada. Taking the sheathed knife, Yamada wedged it over his abdomen.
“I, Yamada Yuuki, have received my arms!” he declared.
Taking one step back, he marched back into place.
When everybody had received their weapons, Marshall spoke again.
“Congratulations, gentlemen. You are now the soldiers of humanity. Go forth and destroy the evil that haunts this world. May God preserve you in our sacred mission.”
10
Shinbutsu Shug
The following day, after breakfast, they were allowed to leave the camp. With their newfound liberty came payment. Or what passed for it.
The quartermasters set up tables at the parade square. Long, long queues of men snaked from end of the square to the other. When it was Yamada’s turn, he wrote his name on a record scroll and received two items: a flat iron disc stamped with the image of a sword, and a small pouch of salt barely larger than his hand.
That was all.
Yamada stared dumbly at them. Three weeks of toil and blood, and that was all he was entitled to?
As DI Chong gathered the men around, Yamada slipped them into his sleeve pocket.
Chong harangued the men for long, long minutes, explaining rules for behavior outside camp and punishments for breaching them, before finally getting to the point.
