In the span of a month, over half the roster of Zero fighter pilots had changed. Only a handful of the old guard, like Hiroyoshi Nishizawa and Tsutomu Iwai, remained. Nishizawa-san was renowned as the top flying ace in the Imperial Navy, and Iwai-san was a seasoned veteran, too. He was one of the original thirteen pilots back when the Zeros had first come into operation in 1940. He had survived a legendary air battle where they’d shot down all twenty-seven Chinese Air Force planes without suffering a single casualty. In later years, his students at the flight prep academy nicknamed him “the Zero fighter god,” and his aerial combat skills were very nearly divine.
Both Nishizawa-san and Iwai-san said that the American fighters weren’t so fearsome as long as you dodged their first strike, but only pilots like them could say that. They must have been confident they wouldn’t be shot down once they got into a dogfight.
The famous Tetsuzo Iwamoto was also at Rabaul during that period, but he was based at Tobera Airfield, fairly far away from East Airfield where I was stationed. So, regrettably, I never had the chance to meet him though I’d heard he was a master to rival Nishizawa-san.
Another ever-present member of the Rabaul Air Corps was Miyabe-san. Looking back, I realize that it might have taken more than mere cowardice on his part to survive in those skies.
* * *
—
As I said before, starting in the latter half of ’43 the Zeros’ main mission at Rabaul was interception, and many American aircraft were shot down there.
Most of their pilots parachuted out. Where our Navy’s men would try to blow themselves up on an enemy target, the Americans chose to float down to enemy territory. They weren’t ashamed at all about becoming POWs. That came as a bit of a surprise because we’d been taught to shun the shame of captivity.
Once, our anti-aircraft artillery unit gunned down a B-17 bomber that had come to raid Rabaul. It crashed at the edge of the airfield. All the crewmembers had bailed, but their altitude was too low for the parachutes to fully deploy so they crashed into the sea or the island and died.
One crewmember, however, had fallen close to the airfield. The ground crew and airmen ran over to where he’d fallen to find he and his parachute had gotten caught in a tree. His body bore no signs of major injury, but he was no longer breathing.
We retrieved the dead pilot from the tree. Just then, someone started shouting and waving something in his hand. He was holding a photograph.
“The guy was carrying this with him into battle!”
He showed the rest of us. It was a photo of a naked white woman. Well, of her from the waist up. Those bared breasts gave me one hell of a shock. Not the fact that an American serviceman had such a thing on him, but the photo itself. I’d never seen one of a naked woman before.
For a brief moment, forgetting that I was on a battlefield, I gazed at the photo of the naked Caucasian woman. The others who had kicked up a fuss at first soon fell into a stony silence as they gazed at the photo too.
As it got passed around, it reached Miyabe-san. Like the others, he stared at it for a while in silence, but then he flipped it over, looked at the reverse side, and studied it intently. I foolishly thought to myself, Oops, there was another one on the back!
Miyabe-san slipped the photo into the breast pocket of the dead man’s flight suit.
Another airman—I forget his name—reached out to take the photo, but Miyabe-san yelled, “Leave it!” When the airman ignored him and stuck his hand into the pocket, Miyabe-san punched him. The other airman was stunned, but Miyabe-san seemed even more taken aback by his own action.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a teary voice.
“What the hell is your damn problem?!” the airman yelled, his face turning red.
“That photo is of his wife.” Miyabe-san’s voice was strained. “It said, ‘For my love.’ So maybe it’s his lover. In any case, they should be buried together.”
The airman went silent. Miyabe-san apologized to him again, and then walked back to the airfield alone.
I looked at the dead pilot. He was young, not much older than twenty. The face of the woman in the photograph came back to me, vividly. Her expression had been slightly bashful and somewhat tense. She’d likely mustered all the courage she ever had to get the photo taken for her husband, who was going off to battle.
But he had just died on a tiny island in the South Pacific. His young wife, waiting for him to come home, didn’t know yet. The photo would be buried along with him in the island’s jungles…
I can recall that event very well, even now. I saw many corpses on the front lines, more than I could possibly count. Dead men, both friend and foe, many of whose images have faded. Yet for some reason, that particular day remains a very vivid recollection.
Afterwards, they must have notified his wife back on U.S. soil that her husband was dead. Disrespectful though it may sound, I sometimes wonder if her lovely breasts were ever fondled again. You might think I’m just being lewd, but that’s not what it is for me.
How painful it must be to die like that, leaving a loved one behind.
* * *
—
The year after the war ended, I returned to the interior, and someone kindly bothered to find me a spouse. It’s not that I was particularly keen on getting married, but my life was in order by then, and I figured I should settle down. She, too, was at an age where she wanted to settle down, which is probably why she agreed to the match. Of course, since we weren’t dogs or cats, we must have at least not been turned off by each other at the arranged marriage meeting to decide to go ahead. But I honestly don’t remember exactly how I felt.
It wasn’t until about a year into our marriage that the first stirrings of love came into the picture.
One night, I was just casually looking at my wife as she mended a tear in my trousers under a bare light bulb. I worked at a post office at the time, delivering mail each day on a bicycle. My wife was sewing like there was no tomorrow, and it was something I’d never paid attention to. I glanced down at the shirt I was wearing. There was a mended seam along the elbow. When I looked at it closely, each stitch looked perfect.
The instant I saw that, I felt an indescribable fondness for her well up. This woman who’d had no relations to take care of her, this woman of plain looks, this woman who mended tears and cooked meals, for me…
I was the first man she had known. Without thinking, I reached out and pulled her close. “Careful!” she let out a little cry. She was worried that her needle might prick my finger. I didn’t care, and hugged her to me.
Then, for the first time, I called her by name. She looked surprised since this was so sudden, but bashfully replied, “Yes.” Then and there, I fell in love with her.
And what do you think sprang to my mind just then? Don’t be shocked—it was the dead American pilot and Miyabe-san putting the photo back into the pocket of his flight suit.
I made love to her. For some reason, like I’d gone mad. Later she told me that I was crying the whole time. I don’t remember. She said that I did, so I guess I must have.
Our son was conceived that night. That fellow, who went to pick you up from the station. He might not seem like much, but he’s now a town councilman.
How do I know he was conceived then? Because my wife said so. I guess she would be the one to know. My son became just as much of a treasure for me.
* * *
—
There was one other time that I cried upon remembering Miyabe-san. It happened when my son was in primary school, during the annual Sports Day competition. This was back in 1955. My wife and I were sitting on a mat at the edge of the school’s field and cheering on our son. Everyone was having a great time. Both the adults and the kids were laughing happily. Even when my son finished second from last in the footrace and started bawling, it delighted me to no end.
I looked around at
the happy scene and was suddenly seized with a strange feeling. I felt like I’d accidentally slipped into another world. It hit me then—the country had been at war just ten years prior.
All the fathers laughing and smiling around me were once soldiers with rifles. They’d fought in China, in Indochina, on islands in the South Pacific. Just a decade ago, these office workers and businessmen working hard for the sake of their families had fought for their country, their lives forfeit.
That’s when I suddenly remembered Miyabe-san. Had he still been alive, he would have been partaking in a school event with his child just like me. Not a naval airman, not a Zero pilot, but a kind daddy cheering on his daughter as she raced around the schoolyard.
No, not just Miyabe-san. All the men gunned down in charges on Guadalcanal, the ones who fell in the jungles of Imphal, the officers and sailors who went down with the battleship Yamato…This joy had been stolen from all the countless men who were lost to that war.
The tears wouldn’t stop. My wife got an odd look on her face but said nothing.
I stood up and walked to the edge of the schoolyard. I could still hear the happy shouts and cheers of the children behind me, and I was moved all over again.
I crouched down beside a large elm tree and cried and cried.
* * *
—
My sister had been sniffling by my side for some time by that point. As for me, my whole body was tense.
After a spell of silence, Nagai continued, “Towards the end of ’43, it was clear that Rabaul could no longer serve as a military base, and all the pilots were withdrawn. Those of us who remained didn’t even have any aircraft to send up against the enemy. Every day we dug tunnels in preparation for the anticipated land battle. But the Americans paid Rabaul no notice and instead headed straightaway to Saipan. Had they decided to attack Rabaul, I don’t think I’d be here today. Cut off from the supply lines, the island was forgotten by both sides. I stayed there until the end of the war, but every day was such a struggle…”
It was all I could do to nod. Nagai spoke again.
“Luckily, though, I was allowed to live on. After the war, I worked my fingers to the bone. The joy of coming home alive taught me the joy of civilian work. I’m sure I’m not the only one. I think many men had a heartfelt appreciation of their lives and their work. No, not just men. Women too.”
Nagai seemed to be savoring each word he uttered.
“After the war, Japan achieved a wonderful rebirth. But, Saeki-san, I believe that was thanks to all those men who brimmed with joy just to be living, working, and providing for their families. And that happiness came courtesy of the precious blood spilled by men like Miyabe-san.”
Nagai wiped tears from his eyes.
My sister and I were both at a loss for words. The room fell silent.
“There’s just one thing that really bothers me,” Nagai said abruptly.
I asked what that might be.
Nagai folded his arms. “Miyabe-san valued his life above all else. He made choices that allowed him to survive even if it got him branded a coward.” He cocked his head slightly. “Why on earth would someone like that volunteer to become a kamikaze? It’s odd if you think about it.”
Chapter 7
Total Lunacy
After the meeting with Nagai, I read all the books on the Pacific War that I could get my hands on. I wanted to learn how each of those battles had played out.
The more I read, the angrier I became. In most of the battles, the rank-and-file and non-commissioned officers were treated like they were disposable, like so many bullets. The high-ranking officers at Imperial HQ and the General Staff seemed to have never given a single thought to the lives of the troops. The brass never imagined that those infantrymen had families, people they loved. That’s why they forbade them from surrendering, forbade them from getting captured, and compelled them to choose suicide and going out in a blaze of glory. Men who had exhausted themselves in battle were essentially ordered to just die.
The morning after Ichiki Expeditionary Force was annihilated at Guadalcanal, there were many wounded men lying on the beach. When American troops approached, the Japanese soldiers, even though they were barely able to move, mustered the last of their strength and fired at the enemy. Those who were out of bullets blew themselves up with hand grenades. The Americans had no choice but to roll over the wounded with their tanks. Such things happened again and again.
Airmen, too, were similarly forced to fight until they died. Pilots were instructed to blow themselves up against their targets if their planes were damaged and they couldn’t make it back to base. For the most part, the graduates from the naval aviation training facilities and other programs became a list of war dead.
My grandfather had been a part of a grand generation. They had fought bravely in the war, then rebuilt a homeland which had been reduced to ashes.
But there were several things I couldn’t comprehend regarding the kamikazes. Some books stated they were all volunteers, while others said they had been forced to volunteer. Which had it been for my grandfather?
In any case, it was clear that my grandfather and others had neither the time nor the freedom to enjoy the prime of their lives.
* * *
—
Former Naval Lieutenant Junior Grade Masao Tanigawa was in a nursing home in Okayama Prefecture.
Keiko said she wanted to go with me to meet him. At some point, I had taken the lead for the project, and I was in charge of contacting the veterans’ groups.
We traveled to Okayama on the bullet train.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” I said as I took my seat, “that I’m planning to turn down Takayama-san’s proposal to do a piece about us researching our grandfather.”
Keiko nodded.
“He might take offense, but frankly, I don’t like the idea of our grandfather being written up in some article.”
“He’ll understand,” Keiko said, a subtle shadow passing over her features.
“Did something happen between you two?”
“Not really,” she said, turning to look out the window. I could tell right away that she was lying. Keiko had never been able to mask her feelings, which is why I thought she was unsuited for a career in journalism.
“Did he say something?”
She shrugged in resignation. “He asked me to go out with him with marriage as the premise.”
I stared at her in shock. But I couldn’t tell from her expression if she was happy or not.
“Did you agree?”
Keiko shook her head. “I asked him to wait a little.”
“Are you just teasing him?”
“Of course not. I’m not some kid. But if he’s serious about marrying me, I can’t just give him a simple yes or no right away.”
“So how do you really feel?”
“He’s a good person, and he’s supportive about my work. So…I guess I’d be okay with it.” I opened my mouth to speak, but she cut me off. “I’m not discussing this anymore!”
“All right,” I said. I closed my eyes to try and get some shut-eye, but I found myself oddly agitated by the possibility that my sister might finally get married. I couldn’t tell if Takayama was right for Keiko. And anyway, it wasn’t my call.
I occasionally cracked an eyelid to look at her, but she spent the whole time staring out the window. It was the profile of a thirty-year-old woman. Even though she’s my sister, I thought she looked pretty.
Suddenly, I found myself remembering a scene from eight years ago.
Fujiki was doing his damnedest to comfort a sobbing Keiko. That was the day before Fujiki was to return to his hometown, the week after he’d taken us on that drive to Hakone. I had stopped by Grandpa’s office and decided to head up to the roof deck for the first time in a while. There were a good number of potted plants
on the roof, and I liked to hang out alone up there.
As I approached the door to the roof, I heard what sounded like a woman crying. Instead of barging through the door I crept over to the window and peered out onto the roof. I saw my sister, crouched down, sobbing. Fujiki stood next to her, a troubled expression on his face. He seemed to be saying something but I couldn’t hear him. Each time he spoke, Keiko tearfully shook her head. At first I wondered if he had done something bad to her, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Keiko was crying like a child throwing a tantrum. It was the first time I’d ever seen my headstrong sister crying like that. And I had never seen Fujiki wearing such a sorrowful expression, either. I carefully tiptoed back down the stairs.
I don’t know what happened between them. But Keiko, who’d been in college at the time, had a crush on Fujiki that was more like a younger girl’s.
* * *
—
The nursing home was in the suburbs of Okayama City, in an area lush with greenery right against the mountains. The building was an all-white modern construction, and at first I mistook it for a condominium complex. According to Keiko, who had done some research online, the nursing home charged tens of millions of yen on admittance but then took care of each resident until death.
We went to the office, told them we wanted to see Tanigawa-san, and were shown into a reception space that resembled a small conference room, with a large desk in the center.
After a while, a caretaker appeared pushing an old man in a wheelchair.
“I’m Tanigawa. You’ll have to forgive me for staying seated,” the old man said.
My sister and I introduced ourselves too.
“It’s been years since I’ve had visitors,” he said with a laugh.
The caretaker served us tea. Tanigawa held his teacup tenderly and quietly sipped at the tea.
“I’ve hardly ever discussed the war with anyone. I’d hate for people to think I was bragging, and I brook no pity or sympathy. Above all, I can’t stand answering questions just to satisfy someone’s idle curiosity. I’m sure many others who fought in that war feel the same way.”
The Eternal Zero Page 20