The Voice of the Emperor

D

uring the following two days I was restricted to my quarters, exhausted and bedfast. Yet despite my misery and enervation I could find no rest. My body was on fire, my eyes constantly smarting and watering. On August 8, having scarcely slept or eaten, I was de­tailed to fly a Shinshitei, a swift, two-engine reconnaissance plane, over Hiroshima and surrounding area.

From 7,000 feet I peered through my binoculars, down into the city’s ravaged heart. Much of it was still burning, and smoke drifted in heavy layers, obscuring large expanses of the area. Everywhere the earth ap­peared, though, lay havoc, and it was impossible to tell where most of the buildings, even the best known, had stood. Periodically, I detected the bodies of cows and horses, cattle, and dogs along with the mass of human dead. Street cars had been tossed from their tracks, trains flung from their rails like toys.

Flooding the roads in muddy currents were human beings, steadily fleeing toward the mountains and outlying cities: Kaitaichi, Miyajima and Ujina. Occasionally those rivers formed tributaries as military ve­hicles forded through—truckloads of soldiers, snaking slowly back and forth, evacuating military personnel, fighting fires. What an absurd

undertaking it all seemed. The great bomb had utterly demolished the Second General Army Headquarters along with Hiroshima’s military supply buildings. Our troops would quickly feel the loss.

Periodically my radio crackled with static, voices, and once for a minute or two, the words whined distinctly: “. . . as yet, authorities have not determined the exact nature of the weapon which . . . new bomb of some kind. . . doctors analyzing the effects but still uncertain.”

Then an ongoing blare of static that hurt my ears, and I switched to another station. Strains coming from Light of The Firefly (the melody of Auld Lang Syne). Moments and a familiar voice interrupted: “My dear and esteemed Japanese pilots,” it droned, ‘This is Saipan, and I am Japanese as you are. At this very moment I am safe from the horror of war—comfortable and well cared for. Are you also?” This was followed by a lengthy pause, so long that I assumed the message had ended.

Then suddenly it continued : “. . . and why, my friends, must you remain the helpless pawns of a senseless war? You gallant and noble Kamikaze who daily sacrifice your lives, though now to what avail? Why must you be victimized? Why must you die when those deaths will ac­complish no good whatever? When the war is all but over?”

America, the voice continued, would offer but one alternative—sur­render or annihilation. “Do you know that your mothers, your wives, your brothers and sisters, your children, are dying by the thousands? That those who survive will soon be starving? Indeed, many are already starving. And why? Because of the enemy—most certainly. But also because of the arrogance and selfishness of your leaders, a comparative few in Tokyo, who insist that their alleged sacred honor is more precious than the suffering and destruction of countless thousands. Ere long, perhaps, millions, of their people. Of you yourselves!”

The voice persisted with painful and relentless logic, much like a surgical procedure without anesthetic. Surrender for our remaining pilots would be relatively easy it promised. We would merely need to waggle our wings upon approaching an American landing field, and the guns would remain silent. We would be given safe haven and good treatment.

“I will be back on the air in two hours,” the voice concluded. “My only concern and that of many others who have nowjoined in our cause is your welfare and happiness. The welfare and happiness of our country.” Then silence, a bit of static and more music. This time, ironically, to the tune of My Old Kentucky Home involving the early American Southland yet also very popular throughout Japan in my own time.

Listening now, I was bathed in an immense wave of nostalgia— longing for my own home, for the happy days of childhood. And I felt more powerfully than ever the struggle between hope and fear. It was abundantly clear now that Japan must choose between surrender and destruction. Conceivably surrender could come any day, perhaps any hour. On the other hand, I might yet be flying that mission. My orders were still in force.

Circling over the remains of Hiroshima, I reflected upon the enemy’s offer of sanctuary. More than ever, I was thinking of peace. Peace under almost any conditions seemed preferable to my fate at Okinawa. Re­cently, in fact, I had even pondered the prospect of desertion, heading for Saipan, but limited fuel presented the main problem. As one option, however, I had contemplated sneaking up on the guard by night and knocking him unconscious with one of the ball bats, even rationalizing that it would not be the first time he had felt their hardness. I would then transfer gasoline from the drums to my fighter with buckets. If anyone were to accost me during the process, I would simply explain that a drum was leaking, that I had been ordered to transfer some of the fuel to my Hayabusa. Once I was tanked up and heading for Saipan no one could stop me. I was confident of that.

But now. . . staring down into the devastation that had been Hi­roshima. . . I was filled with hatred toward the traitor in Saipan. Even though he had spoken the truth, I wanted to lay hold of his throat. Ha­tred welled also toward the enemy. Had an American plane appeared at that moment, I would have done all within my power to ram it. My own life was of no consequence at the moment.

Two hours of flying had dulled my sight, all my senses, and sleep enveloped me irresistibly. My stomach was queasy, my skin beginning to peel, my hands and face inflamed and puffy. The combination was simply too much; the weariness would drag me under. I radioed in and was granted permission to return.

Upon landing I made my report and sagged off to the barracks feeling as though I had just lost a quart of blood. Inside, several of the radical Kichigai flyers were arguing with the Sukebei about the status of the war. Russia’s belated decision to take up arms against us was creat­ing consternation for some. In my own opinion, it made little difference. Russia had played a cunning and avaricious game, like the vulture who arrives to satisfy his gluttony once the eagle has made its kill. Now Russia could share in the spoils of war without the effort and without being hated as the Americans would. Few Japanese a decade or more hence would recall that Soviet boots had helped to trample out our death rattles.

Too enervated to join in the argument, I crumpled onto my cot, oblivious to virtually everything for nearly fifteen hours.

During the next few days my skin grew far worse. The epidermis on all my exposed areas was sloughing off while parts of the remaining layer actually decayed, smelling so bad that people began to avoid me. My face had broken into a rash and was covered with boils, prelude to a lengthy illness that later left me bald for months, and radiation ailments that will linger throughout the rest of my days.

At the medical dispensary, doctors eyed me nervously as though I were afflicted with bubonic plague and offered little help. One of them suggested that my skin condition was simply the result of extreme heat, that my fever was aggravated by a cold. “Just soak your face in a pail of water every hour or so,” he advised. “You’ll recover soon.”

All suicide missions had been temporarily cancelled by the Daihonei and, despite the good doctor’s unconcern, my condition was now seri­ous enough to prevent me from even flying reconnaissance. Nothing remained but the waiting and wondering. Throughout the base tension was growing. The combination of hope and fear produced a new kind of stress. Our nerves were like fine crystal in a bouncing truck bed, our actions and reflexes spastic. Day and night my body tingled. Whenever I lay down, my muscles twitched, and at times I trembled uncontrol­lably.

On August 14, a friend rushed into the barracks having just returned from a reconnaissance flight. “Kuwahara!” he exclaimed. “They’re saying we’ll surrender tomorrow! The Emperor will announce Japan’s surrender!

The air is full of it!” I stared at him vacantly and offered no reply. The news was utterly mind boggling, momentarily beyond all comprehension.

Swiftly the rumor spread like an invasion of locusts. The tension mounted along with the joy and sorrow, the dejection and euphoria, the incredulity and the inevitability.

At noon the following day all of us, officers and men alike, were assembled in the main mess hall, attention focused upon a large and antiquated radio in front near the serving area. An officer was adjusting the dials, initially generating only squeaks, occasional gibberish, and static. Then came silence except for a faint persistent humming, and at length a voice that none of us, none of our population in general, had ever heard before. High, nasal. . . somewhat eerie. . . almost indecipher­able. We listened as though fighting off deafness, cast occasional startled glances at each other, stared at the radio transfixed.

The Emperor, yes! Who else could it be? But the Emperor was speak­ing in formal Court Japanese, and an officer nearest the front sprang to his feet spontaneously, providing a partial translation as the message quavered onward.

And now the words were taking hold, the incredible yet certain, realization that Japan had accepted the Allied Ultimatum of uncondi­tional surrender.

It was over. Finished. Ended.

For a moment we sat there in silence. The proclamation, like the atomic flash, left everyone stunned. Even though we had sought to condi­tion ourselves mentally, we were still unprepared emotionally. Glancing slowly about, I saw the stricken faces, expressions of growing relief on some, of anger on others. Then, suddenly, one of the Kichigai leaped to his feet with a strangled cry. “Those rotten Americans! May God destroy them! Revenge! Revenge! Are we mere feeble women? Let us strike now, this very moment—before it’s too late! We are expendable!”

“We are expendable!” rose the cry. A score of men arose and would have rushed to their planes had not the commander intervened.

“You men will return to your seats immediately,” he roared, “or face general court martial!” Short, but broad and powerful, with a stern and noble countenance, he was new at Hiro but obviously a man to be reckoned with. “You will obey your Emperor in all things!” He wore a

bristling moustache, and his eyes glittered imposingly.

After we had returned to our barracks, however, two aircraft left the runway unexpectedly and circled, passing low overhead with a long, defiant roar. Rushing to the windows and out the doors, we stared as they banked and climbed steeply, heading south. Minutes later, both were circling back at about two thousand feet, and to our amazement, diving vertically at full speed only a hundred yards or so distant. They struck the runway simultaneously in huge, billowing explosions, and the smoke began to rise. Sergeants Hashimoto and Kinoshita had quietly sneaked to their planes and taken off, and become some of the first Japanese to suffer death rather than surrender.

Their demise precipitated additional, even more bitter, arguments. Men of my own persuasion contended, naturally enough, that it was not only foolish but treasonable—indeed, sacrilegious, to fight on in defiance of our Emperor’s Declaration. Extremists among the Kichigai, on the other hand, insisted that life would be hell under the Americans, that they would torture and kill most of us anyway. Furthermore, they argued passionately that we had a moral obligation to avenge the hor­rible massacre of Hiroshima, and now Nagasaki as well.

A Corporal Yoshida whom I had met only a day or two earlier was among the most bitter and adamant in that regard. After a fiery argument and shoving contest with several others, he rushed from our barracks weeping and cursing. “You filthy, cowardly bastards!” he ranted. Pistol shots ripped through the walls, and we promptly dropped to the floor. Then silence, and before long we peered furtively out the windows to see him sprawled face down on the concrete in a widening pool of blood. His pistol lay only inches beyond one outflung hand. He had used the final bullet upon himself.

A wave of additional suicides followed. Several officers placed loaded pistols in their mouths as Yoshida had done and squeezed the triggers. Men committed harakiri, bit off their own tongues and bled to death, a procedure I myself had nearly followed back during those dark times with the Praying Mantis. Others slit their throats or hanged themselves.

That same day Admiral Matome Ugaki, Commander of the Navy’s Fifth Air Fleet, and several of his echelon, become some of the war’s final Kamikaze. Calmly, matter of factly, they taxied their Suisei bombers down

the strip at Oita and were last sighted heading into the clouds for Okinawa. Vice-Admiral Takijiro Onishi, “Father of the Tokkotai,” having confessed to an overwhelming sense of guilt, committed harakiri. Other high-ranking officials followed his lead.

On the morning of August 18, Hiro’s commanding officer announced that the propellers were being removed from our aircraft. All arms and ammunition, except enough for the guards, had been locked away. His face was weary, the lines flanking his mouth deeper, the eyes less glittering.

“You are all aware by now that we have been commanded to refrain from further aggression,” he said. “Yet some, to our great sorrow and humili­ation, have chosen to disregard that command, thereby heaping dishonor upon themselves, their families, our country, and our esteemed Emperor. Those of you who have accepted his words are to be commended for your faithfulness and loyalty. . . for your courage. As he once commanded you to fight, so now, he has commanded you to cease. As he once commanded you to die, so now, he has commanded you to live. You have obeyed in all these things and shall be crowned with honor.”

There followed a lengthy pause wherein his countenance became both fierce and very sorrowful. “Regardless of personal feelings, the time has come for us to accept reality. The war is over.” His entire face was atremble, and he bit his lips struggling for control. “Our leaders in Tokyo have accepted the inevitable and rendered their decision. And the Emperor has spoken.” The tears were flowing unashamedly down his cheeks. In a moment two hundred broken men were crying.

The ensuing days were among the strangest yet, however. The inequality which had existed so long between officers and enlisted men evaporated. Officers who had dealt unjustly with their subordinates fled and were never heard from again. Others were killed by those same subordinates in their attempts to flee. Anarchy was ripening, and many simply deserted, hoping to gain anonymity among our civilians before the Americans took over. Records, documents, names of air force personnel—all were being destroyed to prevent identification by the enemy.

Heavy guard was posted around warehouses and other installations to avert looting by military personnel and even civilians who ferreted through the barbed-wire fences by night. Violence flared, the Kichigai and Sukebei bickering and carrying on gang warfare. I refrained from all such

involvement, secluding myself for hours in a deserted war-torn barracks, biding my time, wondering. I had seen sufficient conflict to last throughout the eternities.

On August 21, as always, several times each day, since the surrender, I read the reports on our bulletin board near base headquarters. And there, prominently displayed in the very center was a new roster containing a lengthy list of names. My heart lurched. For a moment, I couldn’t make sense of the message. Then it took form as though scales were falling from my eyes:

“The following men are to receive full and honorable discharge, ef­fective 23 August 1945.” I was breathing fast, heart rate increasing to near fibrillation as my eyes raced down the list of names. And there it was! There it was “Cpl. Kuwahara, Yasuo!”

Again the welling of tears as I struggled to catch my breath. It was as though a great and swirling wind had created a vacuum, sucking the air from my lungs.

I wandered back to the deserted barracks, still riddled with wonderment, light as driftwood. For an hour or more I simply sat there at the remote end of the building, there on the back steps, breathing deeply, still cautiously nurturing that curious sense of wonderment, fearful that it might expand too quickly, that it might explode and vanish like shimmering rainbow colors against the horizon.

Fearful, as well, that it was all a mistake. Wasn’t it true that at Kochi and Oita they had yet to remove the propellers from their aircraft? And were not efforts still underway by some of our military fanatics to continue the war? Rumor had it that certain factions were propagating the idea that Japan had not actually surrendered, merely reached a tentative standoff with the Allies. Stupid, blind, abysmal fools! Undoubtedly such individuals had not witnessed the horror of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Unlike myself, they had not been immersed in the stench that neither time nor place would ever fully eradicate. Part of me was still awaiting my death orders.

More than ten years later I learned that on August 8, 1945, I was to have been part of a final desperation assault, involving thousands of men and planes—all that remained. The great besom of destruction that had swept away so many of my countrymen at Hiroshima had saved me.