Death Greets the New Year

O

n New Year’s day 1945, fighter pilots from Hiro’s Fourth Squadron held a testimonial ceremony for those of our number who had died. Captain Yoshiro Tusbaki, the squadron commander, de­livered an impassioned speech declaring our moral obligation to avenge those deaths. And later we visited Hiro’s military shrine. Not many had died yet from Hiro. In fact, all my close friends were still with me. There was one name, however, that I will never forget, that of Lieutenant Jiro Shimada who had died and taken an enemy with him in my first air battle. For a long time I gazed at his name plate there on the base of the shrine. One of the fallen valiant.

Again I saw his plane like a flaming meteor, the crashing and bil­lowing explosion. . . the two aircraft, fused as one then decimated. . . the blackened, smoking fragments dropping toward the water. Japanese and American, united even in the midst of their disintegration. Falling, falling, falling down and away. “No more New Years for you, Lieuten­ant Shimada.” The words were not spoken, mere pulsations in my mind. “You have fulfilled your obligation to the Emperor.” Then, very slowly, I turned and walked away.

What sad attempts we made, our words of “Happy New Year” fall­ing like frozen clods to the earth. No doubt all of us were thinking of New Year’s Day at home somewhere in the dreamscape of the past. I recalled with a sudden twinge of nostalgia how Tomika and I had run through out home on that same day years before, jubilantly scattering beans about to drive out the evil spirits.

The spirit that entered Hiro that New Years afternoon in 1945, however, could not be driven out by scattering beans, even by the shed­ding of blood. It was then that Captain Tusbaki called a meeting unlike anything I had experienced before or since.

It was then that Hiro’s first Kamikaze were appointed. “Those of you unwilling to lay down your lives as divine sons of the great Nippon Empire will not be required to do so.” Such had been his words, his promise. Then. . . the ultimate, dramatic pause. His eyes like burning cinders. “Those incapable of accepting this honor will raise their hands now!”

Ah yes, to be a suicide pilot, a Kamikaze. That would be the honor of honors. Had not everyone said so? But six men had raised their hands during that meeting in response to the Captain’s promise of exemption, men I knew well. Afraid enough, or perhaps brave enough, to admit what most of us secretly felt.

They had chosen life and been given death, a dubious honor.

A few months earlier, men at other bases had volunteered with ap­parent alacrity. Now, it would seem, many had to be compelled, even tricked! Stern evidence that Kamikaze was already considered a failure, a futile death, by ever-growing numbers. Daily the Allies were becoming stronger. There was no denying it now. Moving ever closer, with more men, more ships, more aircraft. The B-29 Superfortresses, ominous grumbling monstrosities that they were, had begun to clot the heavens, leaving swaths of fire and destruction. The American naval forces were closing in a terrible juggernaut.

How I hated to admit it, fought against the very idea, but it would not be denied. Japan was losing fast. How long, I wondered, would our people be able to hide behind a crumbling facade of propaganda? How much longer could anyone remain in denial? Six at Hiro had refused to, and now, ironically, would forfeit their lives in consequence. Early in January, only days after our meeting, they left Hiro for suicide training.

Periodically from then on, men were selected from my squadron and trans­ferred to Kyushu for their final preparations, never to be heard of again.

For nearly a year now we had been carefully conditioned to accept the inevitability and glory of death in battle. For thousands, actually; it was a part of our historic philosophy. But now, suddenly, the tentacles were reaching out, relentlessly taking and taking. With each departure our sense of doom expanded. Sometimes it was a leaden feeling in the gut, sometimes a clotting in the throat. Increasingly it was both, often accompanied by waves of sadness, nascent tears and a kind of crying of the heart.

On the other hand, I had come through several air battles now with a second enemy plane to my credit, and that had at least increased my confidence as a fighter pilot. Flying over the inlet between Kure and Tokuyama, six of us had jumped two American fighters, and it had been surprisingly easy. Approximately one thousand feet above them, we veered off, diving at terrific speed and struck from the rear, almost before they were aware of our existence. All six of us opening up simul­taneously with cannons and machine guns.

The nearest American virtually disintegrated under our combined onslaught and went down in a sheet of flame. The second attempted to escape, performing a sharp bank to throw us off, but two of us had anticipated the move, and within seconds I had him in my range finder. It was almost that simple. Three or four fierce bursts, and he folded, plummeting downward in a smoking tail spin. How different from my first encounter with the enemy. I almost felt cheated.

So, I was becoming a capable pilot rather quickly, as also was Na­kamura with one plane to his own credit. Yet no matter how skilled we might be, no matter how many adversaries we might vanquish, the sup­ply seemed unlimited. Indeed, relentlessly, growing, almost fiendishly. Doom was omnipresent like an oncoming tidal wave. Only one hope for survival now, a tenuous wisp which I scarcely dared contemplate. The merest acknowledgement, in fact, spelled disloyalty if not cowardice. It was February 1945, and the enemy was attacking Iwo Jima, just over 650 miles from our capital, so perhaps the war would end before long. Most of us, I suspect, prayed for this. N ot directly, perhaps, for the defeat of our country but rather for a cessation to hostilities. Truly a strange

and paradoxical form of denial. Many of our civilians still had faith that Japan would prevail, but we who lived within the inferno had to be either naive, fanatical, or both to expect triumph now.

Within only a few weeks my conviction regarding Japan’s impend­ing fate had become a kind of groundswell. And gradually, my fears of compromising myself began to evaporate. Now that surrender was only a matter of time, irrevocable, I was praying for it with increasing fervor and frequency. It had become the classic race against the calendar, perhaps even the clock, and ironically only the enemy could save us.

Some of us at least had greater hope than others. Most of our fliers at Hiro were inexperienced, and already I was among those ranked as top pilots. Such men would be preserved as long as possible to provide base protection and fighter escort for suicide missions into the Pacific. We would return and report in detail upon their success.

Consequently, our poorest pilots died first, causing the enemy to conclude, initially at least, that there were no skillful Kamikaze. In the words of American Admiral Marc Mitscher: “One thing is certain: there are no experienced Kamikaze pilots.”

Regularly at this point, orders from the Daihonei in Tokyo were sent to key air installations throughout the four main islands, specifying how many pilots each base would contribute at any given time. These larger installations, in turn, drew men from bases within their jurisdic­tion. The one at Hiroshima, for example, drew from nearby Hiro, our own base, also from Kure, and Yokoshima—all on the main Island of Honshu. Men were then committed to special suicide bases including Kagoshima, the largest, on the southern inlet of Kyushu.

In general Kamikaze attacks were mounted in waves of fifteen or twenty planes at thirty-minute intervals. Some of those pilots were al­legedly sealed or locked into their cockpits, but I never witnessed such things. Nor, in my opinion, was there any reason for it. Once it all began, there was no turning back except for a rare few who returned, having been unable to find the enemy. Frequently, in fact, our Kamikaze actually opened their cockpits and signaled with flags or scarves upon sighting the first American ships—a final show of bravado, a last gesture to boost one’s courage before the plunge into oblivion.

No one living will ever comprehend the feelings of those men who covenanted with death. Not even condemned murders, not fully. The murderer is atoning for the ultimate crime against god and humanity; justice is meted out. Of course, men throughout the world have died for their countries, sometimes knowing in advance that death was inevi­table. But where, before or since, has there ever been such massive and premeditated self destruction as occurred with the Kamikaze? Where have thousands of men diligently set about their own annihilation, training methodically, relentlessly, mulling over all the details for weeks, sometimes months?

Neither the Shintoistic concept of a post-mortal existence as a guard­ian warrior in the spirit realms nor the Buddhistic doctrine of nirvana has always provided solace. The “mad, fanatic Jap” was often a mere school boy, snared in the great skein of fate, not above weeping for the arms of his mother in many cases.

Not that there weren’t fanatical Japanese fighters. Some wanted nothing but to die gloriously, to honor the Emperor, to gain revenge. Even the subdued, bespectacled student, browsing through some Tokyo library, might be molded by circumstances into a flaming soul dedicated to death. And there were some who seemed to approach the end as though it were only a morning stroll.

In general, however, we pilots moved along two broad paths. The Kichigai (madmen) were fierce in their hatred, seeking honor and im­mortality, living for only one purpose—to die. Many of these came from the navy air force which contributed a far greater number of Kamikaze.

As time passed, I personally allied myself more closely with a sec­ond group whose sentiments were basically the opposite though rarely expressed openly. These men, mainly the better educated, were referred to as Sukebei (libertines) by the Kichigai. I should stress, however, that the Sukebei were not unpatriotic, not, at least, in their own view. I would die for my country today if necessary, as I would have died then. But life was decidedly dearer to us. We saw no purpose in death for death’s sake alone, and at times now our country’s fate welled ominously like the seething crater of a volcano as viewed through endlessly shifting vapors.

Certainly, also, there was a middle ground, and each man’s at­titude fluctuated to some extent from hour to hour. There were times when I longed for revenge. Or when I considered that by destroying an

American ship I might save many of my people. . . then my own life seemed insignificant.

How often I had struggled for a certain attitude toward death—a special, indescribable feeling of acceptance. What was it that made men unafraid? Was it courage? What was courage? “We are expendable!” That was the cry. “Be resolved that honor is heavier than the mountains and death lighter than a feather.” Countless times I had repeated those words, repeated them obsessively. With some men that conviction seems to have been innate. With me it was ephemeral; I was always fighting to re-kindle the flame.

All of my friends were still with me, Tatsuno now a fighter pilot. Ah, to be a fighter pilot, to be with my friends against the enemy. That had always been my dream. But it was a tattered and fading dream already. Some of us were bound to make our final, one-way trip soon, no matter how good we were. Who would be first?

Daily I went through our routine suicide practice. Methodically I performed each dive— with absolute precision now, near perfection, but little satisfaction. Mechanically I performed the exercise, begin­ning with a leaden feeling in the stomach that swelled throughout my throat, expanding into dread. More than once the words came: “Go on, go on! Don’t stop! Crash! It will all be over in an instant. No more fear, no more waiting, no more sorrow.” And always I would pull out, calling myself a coward.

In addition, there were the occasional air battles, most of them only quick scraps or sorties, in which we struck swiftly and fled. Invariably, the enemy outnumbered us, and our lives were now dedicated to some­thing more vital than a mere air skirmish. Japan was like a man dying in the desert with little water left. The remaining drops had to be used sparingly, saved for the hours when the sun would burn its fiercest.

As the months faded, Japan began to reel, losing her grip on eastern China. The heart of Tokyo had been demolished, and our entire home­land was being ravaged. Millions of tons of our merchant shipping had been sunk, and by the Emperor’s birthday in April of 1945, the enemy was assaulting Okinawa, Japan’s very doorway.

It was a crucial time. Premier Suzuki had told the Japanese cabinet, “Our hopes to win the war are anchored solely in the fighting on Oki­nawa. The fate of the nation and its people depends on the outcome.” Okinawa fell. Eighty-one days of violent battle.

The months squirmed by, and one day in May it happened—Oka and Yamamoto. I had returned from a flight over Shikoku and heard the news. I hadn’t seen either of them for two or three days because we had been flying different shifts on reconnaissance. And now it had come, what I had been fearing all along but never fully accepted. The orders had been issued suddenly, and my friends and been transferred within the hour to Kagoshima. Oka and Yamamoto, gone! I could not believe it and rushed to their barracks. Surely they could not have been swept away so quickly!

The door creaked as I entered, and I gazed down the long line of cots. The bedding was gone from two of them, the thin, worn mattresses rolled, leaving only the barren springs. There was something ghastly about those beds; the naked springs cried out. I opened their empty lockers and heard their hollow clang, a death knell.

Dazed, I slumped down on one of the empty cots, feeling it sag. It was as if Oka and Yamamoto had been carried off by a sudden gale. How could such a thing have happened? No time, no notice, but of course it was probably best that way. I sat there alone, and for a while there was nothing but silence, not even the sound of motors. For several minutes I stared at the floor, on through it. Saw nothing, felt nothing. It was too much to comprehend. The place was a void.

No telling how long I sat there, insensible. Eventually I actually dozed for a moment then startled awake as a hand rested on my shoul­der. Nakamura. I hadn’t even heard him enter. Without speaking, we looked at each other. Someone was with him. Tatsuno. I extended my own hand uncertainly, and he gripped it.

“You know,” I managed at last, my throat parched. “I had the strangest feeling sitting here. It was as if. . .” My voice cracked. “It was just as if everybody had left. This whole base empty—nobody, nobody anywhere. It was crazy! Have you ever had that kind of feeling?”

“They said to tell you sayonara, Yasbei,” Nakamura said. (My friends were often calling me after the samurai now.) “Still joking, even when they got into the truck.” Nakamura gave a strange laugh. “You know

what Oka said—his last words? He said, ‘You and Yasbei take good care of all our girls in Hiro!’”

I also laughed if only because of the release it provided. Neither of us, or Tatsuno for that matter, ever went to Hiro or the nearby cities. We rarely drank and knew little of the city women with whom our ex – trovertish friends had consorted.

For an instant I recalled my times with our two departed, remem­bering how we became well acquainted that winter night so long ago when I’d found the warm shower. They had been joking then and never stopped. Even in combat they joked, two of a kind, always together. Ironically they would die together, perhaps already had.

“But why did they go so soon? Good pilots, both of them!” I asked.

“Yes, pretty good,” Nakamura replied, “but lone wolves, maybe a little erratic. The days of the lone wolves are gone.”

“I know, Nakamura,” I said, “but look at some of the other pilots in this squadron—not half as good, not half as good!”

“Maybe they’re putting the names in a hat now,” Tatsuno suggested. “That way it’s more entertaining. That way, you don’t know whether it will come in five minutes or five months.”

“Let’s get out of here,” I said. “Take a walk—anything.”