A Thousand Stitches

by Constance O'Keefe

  A number of others joined Saito in laughing, but as the laughter faded, a cadet I didn’t know said, “Actually he was quoting the Manyoshu, you know, The Thousand Leaves. Lieutenant Takeuchi is very well educated. He was a Kyodai student and a literature major. He was reciting a poem by Otomo Tabito that was written about thirteen hundred years ago. After Otomo had served at court for many years, the Emperor sent him here to Kyushu as Governor General. Maybe the Lieutenant wanted to illustrate how, like Otomo, all of us from all parts of the country can learn to appreciate the cranes as the Izumi locals do.”

  “You’re way over my head, Iwanami,” said Saito. “They really stuffed your head full of weird stuff at Todai.”

  Iwanami laughed good-naturedly with Saito and his buddies and then said, “Well, here’s some more for you from the Manyoshu. This one was written about a century later by Monobe Akimochi, who served the Emperor as a border guard: Kashikoki ya / mikoto kagafuri / asu yuri ya / kae ga muta nemu / imu nashi no shite. We have received / our Imperial Orders / and from tomorrow / we will sleep among the reeds / while our wives remain behind. As the Lieutenant said, we have our orders. From tomorrow we start learning to fly. And once we know how to fly, I’m sure there will be new orders.”

  That was the end of the laughter. We finished stowing our gear in silence. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who thought I was too young to even have a wife. As I lay in my bunk, I thought of Yamamura-sensei and the birds in the fields at Ishii Village. My thoughts then drifted to Principal Tomihisa and my first day at Bancho, and then I found myself remembering a Raymond Weill class excursion. I was running, running through a wide field on the Marin headlands. A stiff wind carried the tang of the ocean to mix with the sharp smell of the mélange of grasses. I was careening downhill so fast I felt like I would take off and fly into the beautifully blue water before me, the vast and pitilessly calm Pacific.

  I heard those around me falling into sleep, and one of the last things my memory presented me before I joined them was a haiku that Basho wrote when he visited the far north town of Takadachi five centuries after a famous battle there: Natsukusa ya / tsuwamono-domo ga / yume no ato. Summer grasses / where soldiers / once dreamed. Iwanami, the tall, bright scion of a prestigious family and an honors graduate of Japan’s best university, perished on a mission less than a year later.

  I can’t remember now what I dreamed that night, and I find myself now wondering if poetry was what Iwanami held in his mind and his heart when he took off from the Philippines for his mission. In the little bit of reading that I’ve done to spur my memories for this memoir, I learned that eighty percent of all those who perished as Navy special attack aviators were university student officers, like myself and Iwanami. When student deferments ended about the time I arrived at Mie, the military was flooded with even more students. In a matter of days in December 1943, more than 5,000 students were drafted, with 500 of them from Todai alone.

  The next morning, after a hearty breakfast, we assembled at the eastern edge of the airfield at eight. We were suited up and eager to get started, having practiced putting on our flight uniforms the night before. We weren’t wearing full winter uniforms, but we had been shown them—fur-lined pants and jackets wired with their own electrical heating systems—a triumph of both form and function. The supply sergeant had even shown us the electrically heated socks that we would use for cold weather missions.

  With the usual Navy attention to detail, we had practiced and practiced. The brown pants first over our underwear. Large pockets above each knee. I was still wondering what flight equipment would go in those pockets—maybe maps? Beautiful brown leather boots, fleece lined. Next, the matching brown jacket, and over the jacket, the brown life vest, covered with pockets full of kapok. The life vests were worn at all times with the flight suit. The fur collar of the jacket flipped down over the vest. Our parachutes went on our backs, with the ties looped through the life vests. The life vests also had a clip for carrying oxygen masks. Last was the leather helmet. A beautiful piece of craftsmanship. Fur-lined ear flaps. Snaps to secure our goggles and oxygen masks. We were issued goggles, but not oxygen masks—not yet.

  We stood in formation in the bright morning sun, the breeze on our faces. We know we looked good, but were nervous because we were about to begin learning what we needed to make the image a reality. To become pilots.

  Lieutenant Takeuchi split us into groups of ten. We were told to sit on the grass, cross-legged, and listen. One non-com instructor was assigned to each group. He went over the gears and the instruments. Again and again. I forced myself to concentrate. We had learned all of this at Mie. Finally, two by two, the instructor took us out on the tarmac to a plane. He pointed to each of the gears, each instrument, and each gauge. The bi-wing planes, Model 93 Intermediate Trainers, had cloth-covered wooden frames. On the tarmac, they sat back on their tail wheels at steep angles, perched high over their landing gears. Their big engines were in front of two open cockpits, one behind the other. The non-com explained that the trainee would sit in the front, with the instructor in the rear. He pointed out the voice tube and how the throttles, the control sticks, and the steering sticks in the two cockpits were linked together, to allow the instructors to correct the mistakes of the trainees.

  “You can’t see hardly anything, can you?” came the voice through the tube.

  “No, Sir.”

  “Crank the seat forward.” I struggled with gravity, pulling uphill, and only managed to shift it a bit.

  “But be careful not to go too far. Your feet still have to be able to push the steering stick the full length, left and right. That’s probably better, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I know you still can’t see much over the engine cowling. That’s because our nose is up and our tail is down. Let’s get going and see if we can change that.”

  The ground crew finished cranking the propellers and shouted “Inertia all right.” That was the cue for the pilot to yell, “Switch on,” as he turned the ignition key. The pilot. That’s me!

  The engine was running. We were ready to go.

  “Taxi?” I asked.

  “Taxi,” came the answer.

  “Chocks away,” I shouted to the ground crew. We were off down the runway.

  “Streamer,” I heard through the tube. The instructor was reminding me to check the wind. The red-and-white windsock indicated north wind. We were aimed toward the south end of the runway. No, not we. My hands were clutching the rims of the cockpit, where they were supposed to be for the first flight. I was forbidden to touch anything. My job was simply to observe everything happening in the cockpit.

  As we taxied down the runway, panic seized me. I wondered if the instructor was incompetent, or insane. He swung the plane to the left and then to the right. What was he doing? How would we ever get off the ground? Calm down and think, calm down and think. He’s swinging the plane so we can see where we’re going, since we still can’t see over the engine. We swooshed our way to the south end of the runway and slowly turned north to face the wind. “Check the runway,” he ordered.

  The flagman a few hundred yards in front of us put away his red flag and held up a white one. When he signaled by swinging it down, I yelled, “Takeoff!”

  I watched the throttle move slowly, slowly, and then a little faster until it was fully forward. The tail rose, the plane leveled out. Now I could see everything. And we were in the air. I was flying. Flying!

  The control stick moved back a bit, and we nosed up, at about a thirty-degree angle. The throttle also moved back. From takeoff to climbing speed, I told myself. When we had gone about 1,000 meters north, the control stick and the steering stick showed that we were going to turn right. The instructor turned us ninety degrees, due east. By then we had reached the takeoff and landing practice altitude of 300 meters. After we traveled 500 meters east, we again turned ninety degrees to the right, and headed south, parallel to the runway. I was reciting these detail
s to myself, knowing I would have to be able to report and describe them accurately, but I was besotted by the view, by the scenery.

  The Izumi Plain lay below us, bisected by the airfield, which was now to the west. Several flocks of cranes were scattered about below, feeding in the fields. We were a little closer to mountains to the east, and I could see Mt. Shibi, the tallest in the range. The ocean bays of the Yatsushiro Sea lay to the west. How beautiful it all was. Islands scattered in the sea. I thought of the innumerable islands of the Inland Sea and my ferry trips to and from Matsuyama. And remembered standing at the top of the Castle grounds with Michiko, gazing out at the floating islands of Seto.

  Another ninety-degree turn, a slight throttle down. The instructor began a gentle descent. As the runway came clearly into view, we made another right turn to face it squarely. The throttle moved further back. As we neared the ground, the instructor called out, “Thirty meters, twenty-five meters, twenty meters, fifteen meters.…” At five meters, he pulled the throttle and the control stick all the way back for a perfect three-point landing. I knew I would have to learn a lot to match this perfection and meet the Navy’s standards. And I knew that I’d have to learn more about the wind—about its velocity and direction—in order to be able to be a good pilot.

  But at the moment I climbed out of the plane, the wind was just the part of nature that had lifted me and carried me aloft, part of the beautiful package of green mountains and blue water, of shimmering islands and towering peaks. I’m sure I didn’t completely suppress my exultant grin—or my shaking legs—as I stood at the side of the plane—the wonderful, wonderful plane—saluted the instructor, and said “Thank you, Sir!”

  Two weeks into our training, when we were anticipating our solo flights, Lieutenant Takeuchi assembled the entire division. There had been another mishap. It was minor, but it was the third that week. We knew he couldn’t tolerate such sloppiness. “Rows one, three, and five, about face,” came the shouted order. I was happy when I realized that I didn’t know the cadet I was now facing.

  “Legs apart!” and then the pause, just enough time for us to think about what was coming.

  “Go.”

  I took a step forward, my head high, my right arm raised, and put all my strength into the punch. It landed hard on the cadet, just as his landed on my left cheek. The Lieutenant had keen eyes. “Tanaka, Yamashita, Ogonogi, and Minoda, and those you are paired with, stay where you are. All others, two steps back. Hup!”

  I was glad I had learned the rules the last time and didn’t have to go through it again, under the Lieutenant’s close scrutiny. My left cheek, like those of all my buddies, was hardened by months of this discipline.

  As the days of training went on, our grips on the controls became firmer and firmer, but we never resisted the movements of the instructor. Then came that wonderful day when right after takeoff I heard, “Okay, Student Imagawa, you’re on your own,” through the tube. It took me a second or two to realize that the instructor’s hands and feet were off the controls. I began to sweat but kept on doing exactly as we had trained. My turns were smooth. The descent seemed to go well. “Five meters,” I yelled, and pulled the throttle and control stick back, but just a bit too fast. The plane glided about a meter off the ground for about three seconds and then thumped to a landing. I was lucky that it wasn’t bad enough to damage the landing gear.

  After three days of this, I had my first solo. Once I was in the air, I was overwhelmed with the joy of flying and the power in my hands. I was in full control, not only of one airplane: I controlled the entire world! The scenery below was especially beautiful. I wanted to ease the plane into a roll or a loop, but didn’t know how, so I brought the plane in for landing, with as much nonchalance as I could muster. The landing was perfect. I wasn’t surprised—it was part of the absolute and powerful purity of the experience.

  A few days later, after all of us completed solo flights, we began advanced intermediate night training—loops, slow rolls, quick rolls, pursuits, and dodging pursuits. Nose diving from 1,500 meters and pulling up at 500 meters was fun. The hardest was formation flying. The Model 93 had a maximum speed of only seventy-five knots, so if you fell behind it was hard to catch up. But we were flying every day. The more we flew, the more we loved it.

  This time because it was just our squad, the remedy was “Navy spirit injection.” We had had four less-than-perfect landings, and Utsumi had ripped his uniform. “Take position,” shouted the Lieutenant. All too familiar with this from our days in Mie, we bent over, pushed our butts out behind us and held our arms straight out in front of us. The Navy Spirit Injection Stick was four feet long. Lieutenant Takeuchi moved down the line, whacking each of us as hard as he could on the bottom. When the injection was accomplished, each of us, in turn, despite the effort involved, stood up straight, saluted, and said, “Thank you!” We made sure we were loud, and sincere.

  To our regret, we weren’t in the air all the time. Once we had our basic skills under control, only one squad at a time trained. The others worked on Morse code, aircraft engine maintenance, athletics, and rifle and bayonet training. Life at Izumi had settled into a routine.

  Very early in the morning of the first Sunday of April, Lieutenant Takeuchi marched into our barracks and announced that we were going sailing. As we jumped to attention, he laughed at our surprise, “Well, you are naval officers, aren’t you? We’re going to sea.”

  The ship was a small workhorse minesweeper, but it was painted battleship gray and flew the magnificent rising sun battle emblem, with its bold, defiant beams radiating to the borders of the flag. The smell of the paint reminded me of the Japanese fleet visit to San Francisco.

  We sailed from Izumi across the Ariake Bay to Amakusa. Lieutenant Takeuchi announced that we would have a short shore leave and that he had arranged for a quick tour around the small town. The Lieutenant walked at the front of the group, with the guide, a tall, thin elderly woman with a toothy smile and sun-dark skin. Although she looked like a farmer’s wife, her manner of speaking reminded me of Hoshino-sensei, my history and jurisprudence teacher. Could it have been only three years ago that I sat in his classroom? Before the war began, I was shocked when he made sarcastic comments about “you-know-who” taking over. “You-know-who,” General Tojo, had been Prime Minister for two and a half years now, and the war against the United States was more than two years old. And I was a naval cadet and a pilot, part of a great and glorious historic adventure.

  As we climbed the hill to the Castle, the old lady told us about Amakusa. “In the early eighteenth century, many of the local farmers converted to Christianity. With the new religion, the Jesuit missionaries also taught the farmers a taste for self-determination. When the cruel persecutions of the Tokugawa Shogun culminated in an outright ban of Christianity, the local farmers rebelled, seizing this castle and the one at Shimabara. There were long, bitter sieges during the winter of 1737–38, and the rebels were eventually defeated in fierce, bloody assaults by the Tokugawa troops. The few rebels who weren’t killed in the battles were only able to save their families and keep their heads if they smashed statues of the Virgin Mary and stamped on crosses. Christianity was officially obliterated, and the area came under the direct control of the Shogun. In 1739, the Tokugawas ejected all Portuguese and Spanish from the country. Only the Dutch and the Chinese were able to continue to trade, and the Dutch were restricted to the island of Dejima in Nagasaki Bay.”

  The exhibits in the small museum on the ground floor of the Castle were touching because they were somewhat ridiculous. “Imagawa, take a look at this,” called Utsumi, who was joking around with Kobayashi. He was pointing at the neatly labeled “Christian scissors” in a display case.

  I smiled but didn’t reply. With the guide’s words still in my head, I drifted from thinking about foreign religions to foreign influences, and then the interplay of words took me across languages and cultures: Amakusa, Amakusa…Heavenly Grass, Grass of Heaven, Grass
Heaven, what’s the translation, what’s the best way to say it in English? And what about Amanogawa? It’s poetic, I thought, that the Japanese for Milky Way was River of Heaven, Heavenly River. And Amanohashidate, Bridge of Heaven, Heavenly Bridge, one of Japan’s three most famous views, the sandbar with the beautiful pine woods where, supposedly, the Japanese gods had conceived the islands of our country—the story I had heard my second week at Bancho. Now I was mixing not just English and Japanese, but Shinto and Christianity. Why had English popped into my head? It wasn’t part of my life any more. In fact, it was the enemy. The fact that I had spent so much time around Christianity had no relevance to my life now. But here I was in the area that sparked Japan’s isolation for almost 150 years, learning that much of what happened had been triggered by ideas that came with Christianity, with foreign religions and foreign ideas.

  Ridiculous but not really harmful, I had always thought as I sang “Rock of Ages” with the Grahams, enjoying the music, thinking everything else was silly. While Utsumi and Kobayshi laughed, I thought of Mrs. Graham sitting at her dining room table in Matsuyama, cutting out a pattern for a new dress for Jane, while Morgan and I played with tin soldiers on the floor at her feet. “Christian scissors” at work in Japan two hundred years after the bloody battles of Shimabara and Amakusa.

  My musings about religion and foreign influences had faded by the time we got back to the dock. Before we sailed, the staff from a local restaurant delivered a delicious picnic lunch. We feasted on the fish for which the area was famous, fresh vegetables from local farms, and mounds of perfectly sticky rice balls, some sprinkled with black sesames and others wrapped in sheets of seaweed. We cruised back to Izumi in the fading light. I stood with my friends, feeling completely alive and content, the breeze on my face, my senses full of the briny, mollusky smell of the sea, watching the yellow, pink, and then red of the sky as the sun sank. Lieutenant Takeuchi, who had been so tough on us for so long, stood with me, Utsumi, and Kobayashi for much of the return trip. He too seemed content just to be there. His only comment was, “A good day.”