Fighter Pilot

O

n the evening of the fourth day I was released and placed on latrine duty for an entire week. During that week I found that by simply groaning quietly to myself I could ease the pain consid­erably. There wasn’t much work involved, but it was humiliating and intentionally so.

The Mantis had beaten me more times than I could remember, at least a dozen, and I hobbled and limped about, more bruised and sore than ever before. Nevertheless, I mopped the floor, cleaned the toilets and urinals frequently. I also kept the mirrors spotless, not wishing to provide my friend excuse for further penalties.

Indeed, my week of latrine duty was crucial. If I had succumbed to the pain, I would have been hospitalized and probably lost any chance for fighter school. Flight training was proceeding rapidly, and at gradu­ation we would all be assigned according to our aptitudes and level of performance: fighter, bomber, signal, or mechanic school.

Most of us, of course, aspired to the first. In my own case, in fact, failure to qualify for fighter school would prove devastating. After all the pain, the struggle, the heartache—consignment to mechanic or signal

school would be intolerable. Becoming a bomber pilot would certainly have been better, but still unacceptable.

Had it not been for my friends, I surely would have gone to the hospital. Each night Nakamura and Yamamoto massaged my wounds and bruises with oil. Several times they even helped me clean the la­trine—true acts of devotion. I was something of a hero in the Fourth Squadron now, and twice during the week Tatsuno visited me because news regarding my whole experience with The Mantis had apparently spread throughout the entire air base. Fortunately, Tatsuno was faring well, considering his circumstances, and would soon be training in the Akatombo.

Eleven days after the fateful air chase I was again in the skies. During the interim my comrades had progressed considerably, but I was still numbered among the better fliers, and curiously enough, our esteemed mentor The Mantis no longer indulged in follow-the-leader games. Undoubtedly the training had progressed too far by then for such childish pursuits.

Each day I took to the sky more elated. I was a natural when it came to flying, and everyone knew it. The bird instinct I had felt over Mt. Ikoma was growing ever more powerful. By now, however, there were no further attempts—certainly not from me—to humiliate Namoto or the rest of our hancho. The reprisals would be too great, the price too high. Furthermore, the end of our training was near, and the punish­ment had abated. Even our worst task masters apparently wearied from time to time.

As graduation approached, I became increasingly excited and also more anxious. True, I was flying with the best in the squadron, mak­ing few mistakes. Nevertheless, doubt and fear constantly battled with my sense of confidence. Despite frequent rumors, none of us knew how many would be selected for fighter school. Some maintained that only two or three top flyers would qualify. Others estimated that there might be as many as twenty. No matter the time or the country, rumors run rampant in the military.

Added to these doubts was the possibility that my conduct toward The Mantis might be held against me. On the other hand, I reminded myself that the commanding officer himself hadn’t seemed angry with me. He had merely displayed great curiosity. And wasn’t it true that very few men, certainly none of my fellow trainees, could have followed a skilled instructor through his most desperate maneuvers as I had? Op­timism and pessimism were constantly grappling inside me. With only a week remaining, the pressure became so great that I was in mental agony. If I failed. . . well, suicide would be the only possible way to atone. No backing out this time.

Some of the others may not have felt as strongly about it as I, but the tension was mounting throughout our entire squadron. Close friends often flared at each other, sometimes fighting with little provocation. Twice Oka and Yamamoto nearly came to blows, and it was all I could do to refrain from battling Tanaka each time we drew near. Always the sarcastic grin, always the belittling comments, and I promptly responded in kind. It was something, I suppose that neither of us could understand, for we both had the same circle of associates.

Somehow, despite all, we survived the tension of those final days, and suddenly graduation was upon us. The assignments had been posted! It was an autumn afternoon as I shouldered my way through a throng of nervous companions. They were clustered about the orderly room bul­letin board, peering, jabbering, exclaiming. Upon reading their orders, many of them turned and walked away, countenances empty, shoulders slumped, entire bodies conveying dejection.

I strained forward, stood tip toe, craning my neck to read the words spelling life or death, but shoulders and heads kept getting in the way. My face was flushed, and I was becoming impatient beyond all reason. “Bomber school!” someone exclaimed upon reading his name. “Well, that’s not so bad. I was afraid I’d be a mechanic.” Steadily, men read their assignments then turned, wandering off silent and crestfallen, or noisy and jubilant.

“0i—Kuwahara!” Oka bellowed, “I made it!” Someone got in his way as he hastened toward me, but Oka shoved him aside. “Kuwahara, I made it!”

“Good,” I said, “that’s wonderful,” but my voice was hollow. I was ready to explode.

“I looked for your name,” he explained, “but they wouldn’t give me time—just kept shoving like a bunch of stupid goats. Hey, there’s Sakamoto up there. Quick, ask him to check your name. Hey, Saka­moto—check Yasuo’s name!”

Sakamoto turned back to the board reluctantly but was crowded away. “I think it’s signal,” he said dubiously, “same as me.”

“What?” I gasped. Never, not even in the guardhouse, had I expe­rienced such coldness. Nearly choking, I lunged forward, crashing into the back before me.

“Take it easy, Kuwahara. You made fighter pilot all right. Just don’t knock everybody down.” It was Tanaka, and for the first time his grin was gone. He turned away and wandered off.

For an instant I actually pitied him, yet I was too concerned with myself, still uncertain. Hadn’t Sakamoto said. . . ? Then I was standing directly in front of the bulletin board. Feverishly I went down the list of names. Where was it? My name wasn’t even. . . . No, wait. There it was! “Kuwahara-Fighter School!” I stared, turned to go, started back again to make absolutely certain. I was still in a state of joyous shock, disbelief. Yes, fighter school—Sakamoto, the idiot! He had been wrong. “Oka!” My voice was hoarse, and I held up my thumb.

“Oi, Kuwahara!” he beamed. “Good man! Yamamoto’s in too!”

Moments later we spotted Nakamura, thrusting forward on the fringe of the crowd, neck extended, eyes full of worry. “Hey, fighter pilot!” Yamamoto yelled. “What are you doing over there with the foot soldiers?”

Nakamura turned, smiling uncertainly. “Honto? You read my name?”

“Hai—sure! Get over here. You’re a fighter pilot along with the rest of us, you and Yasbei!”

Yasbei was the name of a famed and ancient samurai, and I beamed at the spontaneous compliment. We tendered our congratulations by slapping Nakamura so violently on the back that he staggered. None of us had ever been so elated—not in our entire lives. For me, this was even better than winning the national glider championship.

Approximately one fourth of the men from our squadron had been picked for fighter school—far more than we had anticipated. We four,

however, were the only ones chosen from our section of the barracks, and our exuberance was dampened when we realized what a trying time most of the others were having.

That night, the night before graduation, many of them sat forlornly in the barracks, brooding and staring emptily, but strangely enough, I felt especially sorry for Tanaka. At last the insolent grin had been destroyed. A number of us had expected him to become a fighter pilot, and we were all mystified as to why he had failed. I honestly wanted to comfort him—at least some small word of consolation—but I feared that he might take offense. He had, at least, made bomber pilot which, I now assured myself, was no cause for shame.

Moriyama and Furuhashi sat together on Furuhashi’s cot, and Moriyama was leaning on his knees, pondering the drab, unpainted floorboards. Clapping my hands on their shoulders, I said, “Don’t feel sad, my friends. From what I’ve been hearing, mechanic school is not bad at all. As a matter of fact, it’s supposed to be quite interesting. They made no reply, barely glanced at me. “Anyway,” I continued, “you might have a chance for fighter school later on.” I was amazed at the stupid­ity of my own words; they merely seemed to have exuded without the slightest rationality.

Moriyama shrugged and actually sneered. With each remark I was getting in deeper, growing more offensive. “Well. . . .” I mumbled, gave them both a feeble pat on the back, and wandered off feeling more foolish than ever.

For the rest of that evening I stayed away from them, and when Oka became boisterous I cautioned him to use restraint. The four of us as­signed to fighter school left the barracks quietly and sat together staring at a distant red light on the control tower. Gradually, however, we forgot the plight of our comrades and began to discuss the future.

I remember well our commanding officer’s graduation speech the following day. I had good reason to like the man and was prepared to feel another glow of patriotism and dedication similar to what I had experienced at the end of basic training. This time, however, his tone and demeanor were not the same, and I recall his speech for a very dif­ferent reason, especially his conclusion. “Our future continually grows

more serious,” he informed us, adding solemnly, “In consequence, it is for you, Nippon’s valiant sons, to dedicate your lives—to die courageously for the great cause.”

I felt the wave of concern, surprise. For the past half year we had all been so engrossed in our training, often in the mere process of survival, that we had lost touch with the world around us. It struck me person­ally like a bucket of cold water in the face, that we were not only at war, but that for the first time anyone in authority at Hiro had admitted the gravity of our situation.

It was October of 1944, and much had happened since I’d left home in February. Kwajalein, the first Japanese territory, had been invaded that same month, and the Marianas had fallen in June. By July, Tojo had openly admitted our loss in the “great disaster” of Saipan and had been relieved as chief of the general staff. His entire cabinet had resigned simultaneously. Still, at graduation time, most of our citizens were oblivious to the rapid turn of the war.

For some of us, however, it was taking on grave substance as was my prospective role as fighter pilot.