Kraśnik, Poland, 28 September 1939

A young girl sat in the back yard, staring up at the starry sky. A faint breeze wafted through, yet she felt no cold. She thought she should: German troops had cracked the defenders in Warsaw and now defeat was all but certain. She was only twelve, too young to fully understand what was happening. First it was the Germans, then the Soviets joined in a little over two weeks later. Talk about the town, much like in the rest of the country, had turned from cautious optimism to bitter contempt as the war dragged on with no sign that either Britain or France would intervene as they had pledged. The broader politics might have gone over her head, but her parents’ worry was all too palpable. The stories leaking out of Germany, about how brutally Hitler was suppressing the Jews, was at the forefront of anxiety amongst the people of Kraśnik; once the Wehrmacht had secured the country they could likely expect similar treatment. Earlier that evening, after dinner, the girl’s mother suggested they pack up and flee. She watched as her father collapsed into the armchair, seeming to age instantly. He muttered that they had nowhere to go: one half of the country lay with the Wehrmacht, the other with the Red Army, neither side particularly endearing to either Poles or Jews. They were prisoners in their own homeland.

Clouds drifted past the full moon, its reflection illuminating the yard in a beautiful soft blue, yet also granting light enough for the soldiers to continue their fight well into the next day. Even the cosmos could not resist the temptation to be equivocal, it seemed. She stared up into the shining orb and began to recite a psalm.

Judge me, O God, and plead my cause against a nation without kindness; from a deceitful and unjust man, rescue me.
For You are the God of my strength, why have You forsaken me? Why do I go about mourning under the oppression of the enemy?

She was hesitant at first, but found she could remember the verses as clearly as if she was reading them. Confidence mounting, she continued:

Send Your light and Your truth, let them lead me; let them bring me to the mountain of Your Holy Sanctuary and to Your dwelling places.
Then I will come to the altar of God, to the Almighty, the joy of my exultation; and I will praise You upon the harp, God, my God.

Artillery fire echoed in the distance. She screwed her eyes shut, tears welling in her eyes.

Why are you cast down, my soul? And why do you yearn for me? Hope in God for I will yet thank Him, for He is my deliverance, the light of my countenance and my God.

Just as she finished, she heard her mother calling. “Judyta? Judyta, where are you?” She hastily got up and hurried to the door. “Judyta, come inside quickly, it’s—” Her mother’s brow furrowed as she stared into her daughter’s eyes, a trace of fear in her face.

“Matka, what’s wrong?” she asked nervously.

Three times her mother tried to speak, but no sound came. Grasping her daughter by the wrist, she guided her upstairs and into the bathroom, bringing her to a halt in front of the mirror. The girl quickly saw for herself: her blue-green eyes now glowed a bright amber. Her heart began to beat faster. An odd smell suddenly wafted into her nose. She inhaled sharply, then again; she looked toward her mother, and realized she could smell her nervousness. She put her free hand on top of her mother’s still clutching her wrist and gave her a reassuring squeeze. She turned back to the mirror, a smile spreading across her face as the final verse of a psalm she didn’t know she knew appeared before her mind. Dutifully she recited:

“Give me a sign of Your kindness, that my enemies may see it and be ashamed, for You, Adoniye, have helped me and comforted me. . .”

Salisbury, England, 4 October 1939

“Look lively, lads!” barked the sergeant as the recruits hastily fell into line. Young men nervously double- and triple-checked their uniforms as their overseer reached the far end of the formation. “Back up,” he said, punching a boy in the stomach. “For God’s sake, Preston, you’re a soldier, not a sailor,” his nose wrinkled in disgust as he jerked another man’s helmet level. He stopped in front of Henry, turning to face him straight-on. “What’s your name again, son?”

“Henry Cartwright, sir,” he replied, mustering what little confidence he still had left.

The sergeant eyed him up and down. “You wear specs?”

“Yes, si—Sergeant,” he stammered.

Henry remained stock-still as the sergeant snatched off his glasses. “How many sheds over there?” he asked, gesturing to a spot to the boy’s right.

He blinked hard, twice, squinting as he tried to tell if the grey-brown mass could be compartmentalized. He swallowed, then hazarded his guess. “Three?”

The sergeant frowned at him, cheeks contorting as his tongue drew circles inside his mouth. He thrust the glasses back into Henry’s hands. “You’ll do for now,” he muttered, “But don’t get comfy; we still have weapons training.” He continued down the line, calling out recruits for this slouch and that dishevelment. Henry let out a slow breath, fitting the rims back onto his face. His father had been eager to see him ‘volunteer’; his connections in high offices had secured Son’s entry into the training camp, but he knew it was bloody sketchy at best. He wasn’t especially keen himself; his interests remained firmly rooted in academia, but against his better judgment he’d acquiesced to Dad’s plan and enlisted. Besides, from the reports trickling in from the continent, the whole debacle would probably be over before he even reached the front. Even the Germans didn’t seem to be looking for a protracted fight; Britain would parade about the French border, Hitler would get the message, and everyone would kiss and make up before it degenerated into—God forbid—some cruel imitation of the Great War. The worst that might happen to Henry would be dismissal before he reached the docks; and while he had no intention of sabotaging his chances, he knew that, should he fail to impress the sergeant, his father would suffer the greater displeasure than he.

Said sergeant, having completed inspection to his begrudging satisfaction, resumed his station ahead of the line to address the troops. “I am well aware of the notions floating about your heads concerning what exactly Jerry’s up to,” he scowled, “About how this is all just a show, a game that got out of hand, and we’re the referee to a dodgy match. A lot of you no doubt think that three months from now you’ll be back home with your families, snuggling around the Yule log.” His eyes roamed over the squad, daring a man to admit so. He seemed even more disparaging when no-one did. “For all I know Adolf told his boys as much, but let me be perfectly clear: we are soldiers of the Empire; an empire that was not built on sloth or hedonism or any such vice that would lead a man to think he could shirk his God-given duty. Over the coming days I will teach you what it means to represent your nation, so when we sail off to France, Jerry will make no mistake that the fun and games are over.

“MacPherson,” he barked, turning sharply to face a soldier three from the right of the line, “Does that sound like you’re in for a fun afternoon?”

“Whatever His Majesty wills!” the recruit shouted back.

The sergeant actually struggled to fight back his smile at such a clearly tailored response. “Excellent answer,” he managed. “We’ll start by seeing whether you sorry lot are soldiers or swine. Actually, no—pigs can outrun poultry; let’s weed out the chickens. Right turn!” he hollered, and the line promptly pivoted. “Forward, march!”


By noon, the squad was thoroughly exhausted and eager for the lunchtime reprieve. Poor Bill Andersen was so weary that his trembling hands threatened to spill his soup ration all over the ground before he’d even eaten it. “Whaddaya think, Jim?” asked Stephen Miller, a strong-looking lad Henry guessed to be about 25 years old, “D’you really reckon war’s over in two months?”

“I don’t know,” he groaned, “Let’s just get through the bleedin' training before we start on the heroic delirium.”

“Not here for the glory of the Empire, then?” MacPherson smirked, prompting a round of chuckles.

Miller grinned wanly. “About as much as you are, I expect. At least we’ll have steady jobs.”

“Can’t argue wi' that,” Preston called from the far wing of the group. “Blimey, Henry, you a’ight?”

Henry was rubbing his temples with one hand. “Yeah,” he muttered, “Just a bit of a headache.” In truth, ‘a bit’ was an understatement. It had started as a nagging pang during the march, but now its throbbing had become distracting. “Must be the heat.” He wasn’t one to suffer migraines, in fact he rarely had headaches at all, making the sudden onset all the more perplexing.

“Well here, take my cup then.” Preston passed what amounted to his tea ration over, which Henry took with a polite nod. “Can ya still manage the range, d’ye think?”

“Give it a shot, at least,” he replied.


“The SMLE Mark III bolt-action rifle,” the sergeant boomed, “8.8 pounds, 44 inches long; ten-round magazine and an effective range of 3000 yards. Don’t let her nickname fool you; you treat smelly right and she’ll save your life out there. She beat Jerry in the last war, and damned if she isn’t up for a repeat performance.” The recruits followed along as the sergeant drilled them over and over the firing sequence. Soon enough, it felt like the motions had become subconscious. Or was Henry losing feeling in his fingers? His temple throbbed, and in between pushing the bolt and pulling the trigger, he made short squeezes with both hands to check whether the numbness was just his imagination. After a solid ten minutes, the sergeant seemed content his troop had got the hang of it, and there were stealthy sighs of relief when he ordered shoulder pose.

“Right then,” he bellowed, striding to the opposite side of the line, drawing the men’s gaze to the firing range, “I’ve taught you how to fire your gun; now you’ll learn to hit something with it. Traditionally, we aim for the enemy.” He walked over to a munitions crate flanked by two sentries and withdrew a set of chargers. “We’ll start with a little target practice. Five rounds, two-hundred yards; a pair at a time. Who’s up first?” Without waiting for an answer, he scanned the line. “Andersen and...” He peered at Henry, who was blinking profusely. “Cartwright. Step up.”

Dutifully, the young men approached the sergeant who handed them a charger each, helping them to load it properly so there wouldn’t be any foul-ups. “An expert marksman can unload thirty rounds in sixty seconds,” he shouted to the audience; “Here’s hoping you can manage your five in the next three.” Henry proceeded to the right range; it was a small rectangular area cornered with sandbags. He lowered himself to the ground, pressing the butt of the gun to his shoulder and steadying the barrel with his other arm. “Hold it firm, but not tight,” the sergeant instructed, walking back and forth, “If it’s loose the shot will go wild, but wedge it in too hard and you’ll wreck your shoulder. And remember: you don’t pull the trigger; squeeze it gently.” He assumed an observational stance between the two soldiers. “Make ready,” he called. Henry pushed the bolt forward and down, hearing the click of a ready round. “Take aim...” He peered down the sight, angling the barrel toward the target. “Fire!”

Henry squeezed the trigger. There was a bang and a jolt as the bullet let fly, the rifle barrel springing upward. “Keep your aim steady!” barked the sergeant; “Andersen, try disengaging the safety first.” Henry replaced the bolt and the spent cartridge leaped out. He gave a start as Andersen made his first shot. He lined up again, adjusting his grip, then faltered as a sudden pang struck his forehead. “Well come on, Cartwright! Jerry’s waiting!” He took aim and fired, hissing when no sign of contact with the target emerged. “Not bad, Andersen, you almost hit him. Cartwright, pay attention.”

Sweat was now trickling down his face, and his glasses began to slip down his nose. He struggled to line up the shot as Andersen loosed his third. Another bang; another miss. “You want we should move the target closer?” taunted the sergeant, “Having a little trouble finding it, are we?” Breathing through his teeth, Henry all but slammed the bolt forward. He fiddled with his glasses again, but now the headache was starting to narrow his vision. Caught up in his frustration, he didn’t notice his left hand’s vise-like grip on the barrel until he fired, sending a nasty jolt down his arm. He barely scored a hit on the far right corner of the target.

“C’mon, Cartwright!” hollered the sergeant as Andersen, rounds completed, picked himself up; “If this were the real thing, you’d be using your bloody bayonet right about now!” He primed the final round; his breath came in a steady pant; his arms were now lightly quaking, and his slicked frames refused to stay in place. He blinked hard, trying to clear the veritable drumbeat on his forehead as he meticulously lined up the sights. The sergeant’s shouts faded into background noise as he glared at the taunting target before him. Slowly, painstakingly, he curled his index finger.

It was like a soft -click- in his mind. The headache instantly vanished.

The target in front of him exploded.

There was a moment of dead silence, save the echo of the bang. Then came the shouts from further afield. “Who did that?!” barked the sergeant after finding himself, spinning around in a frenzy, “Who the bloody hell did that?!” Other soldiers ran over to the field, inquiring as to what happened. A few jogged out toward the space where the target had been. Slowly, Henry began to pick himself up; his eyes fell to his rifle, and he blinked in surprise.

The bolt was still primed, the fifth round sitting ready in the chamber.

Harbin, Japanese-occupied Manchuria, 6 February 1940

Shirō Ishii was not a happy man.

Surgeon Colonel in the Kwangtung Army, he was responsible for a massive complex outside the city of Harbin, officially titled the Epidemic Prevention and Water Purification Department. Development of the site had begun four years previous, and it had been slated for completion within only a few months. But now, as he surveyed the gaping hole in one of the barracks, he wondered whether he would have to scrap it like his previous facility at Beiyinhe.

The compound’s name was highly misleading. While it did function to a limited degree as a disease control centre, Ishii’s real mandate was research into biological and chemical warfare. To this end, he had no qualms about harvesting “logs” from the surrounding countryside to aid in lab and field tests. The compound was commissioned to replace Beiyinhe after a jailbreak in 1934 blew the previous facility’s cover. Ishii had little desire to abort this much larger facility, particularly one that should not have fallen victim to the same fate. He put little stock in the pitiful attempts at rationalizing the escape babbled by the subordinate officer trailing him: this new complex was vast, far too large for the thirty-three jailbirds to have made it to the perimeter without anyone catching them... and security claimed it had most devoutly tried. Not only had the unarmed group blasted its way out of their barracks, but it had somehow broken through the outer wall. The debacle was all but certainly the work of inside sabotage; Ishii just didn’t know whether it had been the construction workers or officials on site.

Ishii abruptly halted, and the officer quickly fell silent. He removed his glasses and idly polished them on his coat, turning to the man but pointedly refraining from looking at him. “All I want to know,” he said calmly and matter-of-factly, “Is how thirty-three unarmed civilians broke out of this compound without a scratch on them. I have heard your explanation; I have heard the excuses of the guardsmen. I will simply ask you this:” he lifted his head, bringing himself eye-to-eye with his underling, “What, do you believe, is the more plausible? That the so-called leader of the escapees—a woman, no less—overpowered at least seven trained soldiers with mystical abilities?” his emphasis on the final two words dripped with scorn, “Or the much more probable scenario that they were aided by inside agents, in which case the security of this facility has been critically compromised?”

The officer opened his mouth to reply, but his trembling jaw betrayed his own knowledge that further discussion would be fruitless. Ishii gave him a pained, somewhat piteous look as he replaced his glasses. “I do not expect much from my officers,” he said softly, “But I do hope they are able to recognize with whom the fault lies for mistakes, and by what actions they may preserve their honour.” Without another word, the surgeon colonel turned and walked away.


Roughly two thousand kilometres to the west, a group of young soldiers of the 26th Division of the Imperial Japanese Army had finished their lunch and were killing time in the camp outdoors. They were part of a late reinforcement dispatch to the Wuyuan front; they had arrived just as the offensive against the Linhe district was concluding and had yet to see action. As such, the men—most of whom were boys—were still enraptured by the patriotic pizzazz of the war effort, which was the source of derision (some jocular, some bitterly honest) amongst the unit’s veteran combatants. At the moment, they were huddling around a makeshift fire in the camp grounds, chatting about whatever topic floated their interest.

Currently controlling the conversation was the young but well-built Jiro, in whom the government rhetoric had proven particularly infectious. “I’m just sorry we missed the fight,” he was saying, “The sooner we beat the Kuomintang into submission, the sooner China will stand firm alongside our divine mandate.”

“You’re really invested in the state’s ideal, aren’t you?” quizzed Yoshiro, one of the youngest men in the squadron who, despite being something of an introvert, was generally well-liked by his peers.

“That’s right, I keep forgetting,” Jiro grinned mischievously, “You’re our resident dissident who doesn’t believe in our Emperor’s divinity!”

“I’m just saying that for someone whose word is law, I don’t recall hearing much personal input regarding the cause for this war.”

Jiro slowly shook his head, as if correcting a child that stubbornly clung to his simple, but wrong, answer. “You know, in Europe there was a middle-aged monk that thought the same way you do. He didn’t believe that his state was right, either. He insisted that unless there was a specific passage written in their holy book, it was as good as a fairy tale and their leader could be ignored. He ended up splitting his church and starting a huge war, and millions died.”

“He was a monk in the middle ages,” corrected Manabu, the scholar of the group whose weary voice instantly conveyed his opinion of his colleague’s grasp of Western history, “And what happened is a bit more complex than you’re making out.”

Jiro threw his hands up in playful defence. “I shall of course defer to you, O Sage,” he grinned. “Point is,” he turned back to Yoshiro, “Dancing with heretical ideas in the middle of a war isn’t exactly constructive to building our nation’s glorious future as guardian of Asia.”

“Personally, I don’t think slaughtering the Chinese is helping that cause, either.”

Jiro’s face flickered, but he forced a smile. “Tell me, Yoshiro,” he asked, playful in tone but with a threatening undercurrent that sliced through the air, “Why, exactly, did you join the army if you had no interest in serving honourably?”

All eyes turned to the boy, who stared back at his opponent, defiant. “I am prepared to die in service to my country,” he stated firmly, “And if I should die, then I shall strive to die in honour. I merely ask that my cause be honourable.”

The two soldiers squatted there, staring unblinkingly, officially on the same side yet whose belligerence was one provocation short of blows. The rest of the squad could feel the tension; hoping to intercede before it crossed a deadly threshold, one comrade segued the talk of honour into a joke he’d once heard, and the conversation soon veered off into a new tangent. Yoshiro felt a small degree of pride in standing his ground, and a couple of cordial looks flashed by members of the group told him he hadn’t ostracized himself. But as time went on, he found his nerves catching up to him as his temperature began to climb and his body started to itch. Rising to his feet, he set off toward the barracks, prompting the turning of heads and a query by Kenji.

“I don’t know; I’m feeling a little funny. I’m just going to lie down.”

Kenji peered at him curiously. “Your eyes look a little yellow. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Can’t be malaria; that’s out of season,” he grinned wanly. “Probably just a hot spell; I’ll sleep it off.”

“Well, don’t sleep too long, or Jiro will start looking for a new playmate,” he chuckled.

About twenty minutes later, the squad’s commanding officer arrived and called an impromptu inspection. The soldiers quickly fell in line and he counted them off, frowning when he reached the end and found himself a number short. “Where’s Matsushita?” he called impatiently.

“Sleeping in the barracks,” answered Makoto, one of the few ‘senior’ soldiers of the squad.

“Sleeping in the barracks,” the CO repeated, nose wrinkling as he pivoted sharply, marching off.

“He said he’d taken ill,” Makoto called after him, to no effect.

The CO stormed into the barracks. “Matsushita!” he called, “You’re late for inspection!” He scanned the hut, spying a blanketed lump and quickly making his way over. The blanket was pulled completely overtop a quivering body. “Matsushita, get up!” he barked, “I can tell you’re awake; if you’re not hypothermic then so help me—”

He grabbed the top of the blanket and pulled it away. His face immediately froze. Curled up on the bed was a figure that resembled Yoshiro, but with a few glaring abnormalities. The one ear the CO could see from the side facing him was discoloured black and stretched long, seemingly folded back against his head. A reddish-brown appendage was curled around his backside and held tightly between his legs. The soldier shivered as if he had spent the last half-hour outside in his underwear, yet his skin was drenched in sweat; he looked up at the officer, eyes a deep amber, pupils long and narrow like a cat’s, his expression a mix of pleading and abject terror. The CO blinked hard twice, three times, yet the image persisted. Without a word, he gently placed the blanket back overtop Yoshiro and quietly left the barracks.

The squad noticed the CO had a stiff walk when he returned, and a distant, unreadable expression on his face. He stood staring off directly left of the line, prompting a hesitant “Sir?” He blinked mechanically, then turned to the troops. “Is everything alright?”

The CO licked his lips as he struggled to compile his thoughts. “Matsushita will not be joining us for today’s exercise,” he said slowly, “He has had a bit of a spell.”