Instilling the Spirit

H

iro Air Force Base was only an hour’s train ride from my home, but it was an entirely different world. Yes, I had been warned what to expect, and I had tried in some measure to prepare myself. I had also tried to hide from the truth. One way or another, however, it made little difference, because no man could possibly condi­tion himself psychologically for what lay in store.

Sixty of us, all new recruits, were assigned to four of the base’s forty – eight barracks. Hiro was some three miles in circumference, enclosing a long, narrow airstrip which ran the length of the base. In addition to the barracks, it also contained a large training field, airplane hangars, school buildings, dispensary, and storage houses along with various other structures and offices.

On one side of the airstrip were assembly plants, and a fighter-plane testing area. At that stage of the war Japan was in dire need of money and materials—especially aluminum. By then the assembly lines were being run by schoolboys, and about one of every six planes constructed eventually fell apart, sometimes in mid-air.

Shortly after our arrival we received an orientation lecture from one of the hancho, all of whom were NCO’s, sergeants in our own case. We were instructed with great exactitude how to make our beds, arrange and display our clothes, and the importance of having our shoes and boots polished to a glossy finish at all times. Perfect orderliness and cleanliness were rigidly demanded. Further, we were informed that Shoto Rappa (Taps) would sound at nine p. m.

Obligations and procedures in such matters were essentially the same as those in any country. Military men, regardless of nationality, generally follow the same basic rules. The great difference in our case lay in how such rules were enforced. An American, for example, who failed to be clean shaven or to have his shoes properly shined might have his weekend pass revoked or be given extra guard duty.

For those at Hiro, however, as for almost all ofNippon’s basic trainees, the slightest infraction, the most infinitesimal error, brought excruciat­ing punishment. A siege of ruthless discipline and relentless castiga­tion began, in fact, the first hours of our arrival, and it rarely ceased throughout the days of our training—a siege so terrible that many did not survive it.

American prisoners of war, “victims ofJapanese atrocities”, generally fared no worse than we did. Some, in fact, received milder treatment. Allied prisoners, such as those incarcerated at Umeda and Osaka, in fact, operated their own makeshift dispensaries and received better medical care as a result than most of our own men. Many of those Americans, forced to unload ships and trains, managed to smuggle large quantities of food not only for themselves, but also for their guards in return for their cooperation and silence.

Of course, there were others who suffered far more, and by virtu­ally any standard imaginable they were terribly victimized, but so were Japanese trainees. No matter how perfectly we performed each task, the hancho found excuses to make us suffer. Punishment was an integral part of our education and served two basic purposes: to create unwav­ering discipline and to develop an invincible fighting spirit. For all of us, therefore, it was a matter of not only acquiring the necessary skills but of learning how to survive great hardship and brutality. Anyone who could withstand the hancho could withstand the enemy and would unquestionably prefer death to surrender.

Such training, combined with a form of nationalism that accentu­ated the preeminence of country and expendability of the individual, produced remarkable commitment, in any event. As my father had said, very few of our men were taken captive initially. Until the latter stages of the war and our defeat in Okinawa, in fact, only one man was taken captive for every hundred killed, usually individuals who had been wounded to a state of incapacity, sometimes having fainted from loss of blood.

During my first days at Hiro, however, I felt little desire to rush out and die gloriously for some great cause. Like all the others, I was over­whelmingly demoralized and intimidated. As though watching a movie, I can still see the frightened, homesick boy I was that first night in the air force. I lay on my bunk, assuming the day was over, but feeling like a rabbit surrounded by wild dogs, trying to imagine what the training would be like, wondering what the next day held in store. Anxiety had left me exhausted yet too nervous for sleep.

Suddenly our door burst open, and my heart lurched. The shuban kashikan, our NCO’s in charge of quarters, were making their first inspec­tion. Tense, breathless, I watched the white shafts from their flashlights play about the room and listened to their mutterings with little compre­hension. Their tone did not bode well, however. I also realized that all the other recruits were lying in an agony of suspense just as I was. We all must have prayed that the shuban kashikan would leave quickly without incident, but our prayers were not answered.

Within only a minute or two the overhead lights flashed on, and we were driven from our bunks with slaps, kicks and commands: “Outside, idiots! Outside, Mamma’s little boys—fast!”

Dazed and blinking, I leapt to my feet but not soon enough to avoid a vigorous cuff. “Hey, baldy,” my assailant snapped, referring to my shorn head, “move out!” A violent shove and someone else delivered a kick to my rear, literally booting me out the door.

Clad in nothing but ourfundoshi (loin cloths), we were lined up along the barracks and a fat hancho with an puffy, pock-marked face began

cursing us—our first encounter with Master Sergeant Noguchi, “The Pig”

“Did you all live like animals at home?” he railed. “Or have you just decided to now that you’re away from your parents?” He paused. “You were warned today about keeping your quarters neat. But appar­ently you thought we were only talking to hear ourselves—soka?” For a moment he eyed us thoughtfully. “Ah so desu ka!” To my amazement he was actually grinning, a sly grin like the spawning of an eel. “Don’t even know how to stand at attention, do they?” For an instant he looked almost like a reproving father. “Green kids,” he chuckled and shook his head. I exhaled with relief. Maybe training wouldn’t be so terrible after all. Maybe they had a different policy now.

A foolish delusion born of desperation. The Pig motioned to one of the hancho and winked. The hancho darted to one side of the barracks and promptly returned, handing him a large baseball bat. “Domo arigato gozai mashita,” The Pig said, thanking him most politely. For a moment he examined it thoughtfully. “So now. . .” He held it up for our inspec­tion. “Do you know what this says?” Silence. “It says ‘Yamato damashii seishinbo.” We knew the meaning well enough—a ball bat for instilling the Japanese fighting spirit, the spirit of Yamato. Yet none of us were eager to respond.

“Do you know what this is for?” The Pig demanded.

“Yes sir,” a few of us mumbled.

“Oh, come now!” He clucked his tongue, feigning great distress. I was swiftly coming to realize that here was a man who had become the perfect master at handling recruits, that he knew all the procedures and relished his job. “Why, boys! Didn’t you have enough to eat? I could hardly hear you. Now, seriously—don’t you actually comprehend the significance of this magnificent bat?” Most of us answered that time, but still very timidly.

“Oh my!” He rolled his eyes, glancing mischievously at the other hancho. “That was no louder than someone farting in the bath. How long has it been since you stopped sucking your mother’s tits?” A high- pitched giggle burst from him, and he shook his head at the grinning hancho who had handed him the bat. “Green kids! Tell me the truth, Sakigawa—have you ever seen such pitiful little bastards?” The hancho leered, and a few of us smiled very faintly. “Wipe off those idiot smiles!” The Pig roared. “Go on! Wipe them off!”

Halfheartedly, we passed our hands over our mouths, staring at him bug-eyed. At this he cackled almost uncontrollably. For some time he shook with helpless laughter, then wiped his eyes with a pudgy hand and moaned, “Oh God, I’ve been in this business too long!”

Still stifling little sobs of hilarity, he continued. “Obviously, it is high time to begin your training.” Then, suddenly, he became very harsh and serious. “About face!” We turned at his command, awkwardly, facing the barracks. A metal bar, waist high, ran the entire length of the building.

“There now. . . see that metal bar? Very eye-catching and attractive, na?” He waited. “Oh? You don’t think so? Practical, anyway, as you are about to discover. Each of you will now kindly bend forward and grasp the bar with both hands.” Again the pause. “Yes, that’s it—everybody! Very good—excellent!”

Again the almost maniacal laughter, culminating in a series of im­pulsive little chortles. “Look at those asses!” The other hancho were also laughing, but it was a harsh and cynical laughter devoid of humanity. “Have you ever seen such pitiful looking asses?” His laughter mounted to a kind of satanic glee. “All right boys. . . .” He struggled to gain control. “We shall now put some spirit into you!”

Those words filled me with terror, and I battled the desire to break and run. Simultaneously, I heard a loud whack, and the first man in line groaned in pain and astonishment, clasping his rear. Two hancho had closed in with bats. “Keep hold of the bar!” a voice shrilled and the victim grasped it again with trembling hands, writhing as the bat fell a second time. “Stand still!” The bat fell a third time with a wallop. The hancho were proceeding with great vigor, as the whacking and ac­companying gasps rapidly increased. I was near the middle of the line, and sounds of wood striking flesh rapidly drew closer, the grunts and groans more immediate. Those who uttered the slightest protest were receiving additional blows.

Grinding my teeth, I gripped the bar with all my strength, staring desperately at the wall before me. The man on my left was getting the treatment, and for one frightening moment I waited, my heart beating wildly. Then—my whole body jolted—a tremendous wallop and flash of white fire shooting through my buttocks and up my back. Never in my life had I felt such pain. Yet somehow I managed to remain silent, almost motionless. Perhaps it was because I’d been given more time than most of the others to prepare myself.

The man with the bat paused, his eyes upon my quivering back muscles, waited endlessly while my heart pounded. Then he moved on.

At last the treatment was over and we were herded back into the barracks. As we tossed and moaned upon our cots, the door opened once more. Every one fell silent, a virtual explosion of silence. “Not again, not again!” The words roared in my head, unitedly in each of us, without question. Our friend The Pig was lounging in the open doorway, the outside light cutting across his face, leaving the eye sockets cratered in shadow. For some time he remained that way, dragging on a cigarette, expelling the smoke through his nostrils. I lay on my stomach, hugging the mattress, watching the smoke spiral upward past the porch light.

At last he flicked the butt into a trash can and called out, almost kindly, almost conspiratorially, “Hey, my dear little friends! Now do you know what the bats are for?”

“Yes, sir!” Every man in the barracks bellowed the words. Chuckling, he quietly closed the door.