Samurai!

by Martin Caiden

  One day I had visitors. A nurse came into my room. “There are visitors downstairs,” she said. “Would you like to have them come to your room?”

  I had no idea who they could be. It was Thursday, and my cousin Hatsuyo came to see me, bringing flowers for my room, each week end, when she could get away from her job in the munitions factory. I had written my mother not to attempt the long trip from Kyushu, for within the next several weeks I would be transferred to the Sasebo Hospital. Yokosuka was more than 700 miles by rail from Fukuoka in northern Kyushu, where my mother had moved to live with her daughter and son-in-law.

  But I had not expected these visitors. Two people entered the room. I strained to see them. My eye still was unable to make out faces at a distance of more than six or seven feet.

  “Fujiko-san!” I gasped her name. Fujiko, even more beautiful than I had remembered her, stood in the doorway with her father, Professor Niori. I had not seen her since our one meeting more than eighteen months before in Osaka.

  They bowed to me, and I returned the greeting. Still we had not spoken except for my crying out her name. The nurse offered them chairs and withdrew.

  Her father spoke: “Hatsuyo-san wrote us that you were at this hospital. How we have worried about you, Saburo-san! It is a great relief to see you again; we feared for your health. It is wonderful that you seem so much better than we believed.” I stammered in reply; I had failed to write Fujiko for many months. My apologies were halting and embarrassed, for Fujiko had written me often when I was at Lae, and the mail from home brought many gifts from her.

  Her father waved away my stammered apologies. “It is of no matter,” he said. “We know of the marvelous things you have done at the front and we are so proud of you! But now, tell us, how are your wounds? Will you be able to leave here soon?”

  “I was hit in four places,” I answered. “The doctors have done a wonderful job. Except,” I added bitterly, pointing to my right eye, “for this. I am blind in this eye and the doctors say I will remain this way for the rest of my life.”

  My reply startled Fujiko. She jerked her hand to her mouth, her eyes opening wide at what I had said.

  “It’s true. All of it,” I emphasized. “There are no two ways about it. I am disabled. The loss of this eye means the end to my life as a fighter pilot?”

  Professor Niori interrupted. “But... then won’t you be discharged from the Navy?”

  “No. No, I do not think so,” I replied. The sarcasm welled up in me. “You cannot understand this here at home, sir, but the magnitude of this war is beyond your comprehension. I do not think I will be discharged at all. The Navy will find use for me as an instructor, or I will be assigned to some command post duty on the ground.”

  There was a brief silence. It gave me time to reflect that these two people had come more than 500 miles from their home in Tokushima simply to welcome me home, to try and cheer me up. I was behaving disgracefully, and I thanked them deeply for their trouble and their great kindness.

  Fujiko shook her head at me. She was obviously annoyed at the formality of my voice. She tried to speak, but the words did not come. Finally she turned quickly to the elderly man at her side and cried, “Father!” Her eyes were wide and appealing.

  Professor Niori nodded gravely and cleared his throat, “When do yon think you will be reassigned?” he asked. He looked straight at me. “I think we will go ahead with the arrangements for the wedding...that is, of course, if it is all right with you, Saburo-san!”

  “W—what?” I croaked. I could not believe his words. The wedding arrangements! My head reeled. “I—I beg your pardon, sir?” I blurted out,

  “Forgive me, Saburo-san.,” he answered. “I know this is a very clumsy way of bringing this matter before you. Let me say it otherwise.”

  The old professor rose to his feet and spoke solemnly. “Saburo-san, will you accept my daughter, Fujiko, as your bride? We have taken the utmost pains to raise her as a decent woman, and we have taught her to be exemplary in all the necessary and chosen fields. I would be exceedingly happy if you were to accept my offer and I could be your father-in-law.” I could do no more than gasp. His words were like bells ringing in heaven.

  Fujiko stared at my wide eyes and blushed; she lowered her head and looked into her lap.

  I tore my eyes away from her and stared at the wall. The irony was bitter; how many days had I stared in my despair at that same wall?

  Finally I regained my voice. But I could hardly talk. My own words choked me. I had to force them out. I hated myself for what I was saying. But there was no way out.

  “Professor Niori. I...Sir, I am so greatly honored to hear your words. They are happiness itself. But…” I choked and forced back the tears, “I—I cannot. I cannot accept your offer.” There. It was done. The words were out. I had said it.

  “What?” His voice was incredulous. “Are—are you already engaged to someone else?”

  “No! Oh, no! Do not even think such a thing, I beg of you! I must decline, but for an entirely different reason. Professor Niori, I can’t say yes! It is impossible! Look at me, sir, look at me! I do not deserve Fujiko-san. Look at my eyes!” I cried. “I am half blind!”

  Relief swept over his face. “Oh, come! Saburo-san, you belittle yourself without need. Don’t heap abuse upon yourself because you have been wounded! Your wounds are honorable, they bring no disgrace to you. Do you not understand your own position? All Japan acclaims you, they sing your praises. Do you not realize that as the greatest ace of our country you are a national hero?”

  “Professor Niori, you do not understand! I am only telling you the truth, sir, the truth you yourself cannot see,” I insisted. “There is no condescension in my words. A hero is a fleeting thing. He is a creature of the moment. And I am not a hero! I am a flier who cannot fly. I am a pilot who is half blind! What good am I; of what use am I any longer! Hero, indeed; you know our country has no individual heroes.”

  He was silent for a while. “Perhaps I expressed myself improperly, Saburo-San,” he continued. “But you must realize that this is not a matter which has been decided upon suddenly. My wife and I took to you immediately upon our first meeting. I understand your feelings, but you must understand one thing above all. My wife and I, as well as Fujiko, believe you are the only man who can make her happy. It is our hope, our trust, that our daughter will do the same for you.”

  I felt as though my heart would break. Could this fine and wonderful man not understand what I was driving at?” How can you judge a man at only one meeting?” I cried. “How can you make this decision with so little to go on? Fujiko-san’s entire life, her happiness, all hinges on the one time you have met me. I cannot understand your actions—although no honor ever offered me has been greater than that you brought to me tonight.”

  I spread my arms in exasperation. “There must be many other young men for Fujiko-san who are so much better suited than myself! Thousands of them, with all the advantages of complete educations, with more promising futures. What can I offer your daughter, Professor Niori? What can I give her? I beg you again, look at me in another light! Look at me! What future do I have as I am now?”

  Fujiko remained quiet no longer. She raised her head and stared at me. I wanted to run from the room. “You are wrong, Saburo-san,” she said quietly. “Oh, you are so wrong! You make too much fuss over your eye. Whether you are half blind or not matters not at all to me. We are to be wedded as one. The same things in life which lie ahead for any man are yours, too.

  “If it be necessary, Saburo-san, if it be necessary, I can be of help. I do not want to marry you merely for the sake of your eyes!”

  “You are wrong, Fujiko-san,” I replied. “I know you are brave, that what you say about yourself is true. But now you are talking from sentiment. You cannot decide your entire life upon passing emotions.”

  “No, no, no,” she repeated, shaking her head. “How can you so misunderstand me? This is no fleeting sentiment. Do you n
ot realize that I have dwelt upon this meeting tonight for many months? I know what I am saying!”

  There was no use in continuing the conversation in this fashion. I was afraid that at any moment I would break down. “Professor Niori and Fujiko-san,” I said with as much authority as I could inject into my voice, “I am not trying to belittle you. This is not a matter for bargaining. I repeat, sir, you have bestowed upon me tonight the greatest honor I have ever known. But I cannot accept your magnificent offer. I refuse to allow my emotions to govern my thoughts or actions. I have always been a proud man. I cannot marry Fujiko-san. I cannot accept the honor of marrying this girl, whom I do not deserve. That is the reason why I must say no. I will not do this to her.”

  I refused to listen to the professor’s words. He pleaded with me, but I would only repeat the same words, over and over again. Soon Fujiko broke down; she flung herself into her father’s arms and wept aloud. I could have killed myself for what I was doing, for the sorrow to which I was subjecting her. But I knew that I was acting properly, that what I was doing was for her good. A marriage with me might bring temporary happiness, but in later years it would be Fujiko who would suffer.

  Nearly an hour later they left the room.

  I do not know how long I stared at the doorway after them. Then I turned and collapsed, weak and almost helpless, on the bed. That was the worst hour I had ever known. But what else could I have done? A thousand times I asked that question of myself. A thousand times the same answer came back to me. There wasn’t any other way out of it, but this realization did me little good. I had cast aside the most beautiful thing which had ever entered my life.

  Two days later, Hatsuyo came for her weekly visit. She did not greet me with her usual smile, and did not trouble to conceal her displeasure.

  “How could you have done it, Saburo?” she asked as soon as she was at my bedside. “How could you have hurt Fujiko so much!” Hatsuyo told me that Fujiko had sobbed uncontrollably when she visited Hatsuyo in Tokyo on her return from the hospital. Professor Niori begged my uncle and Hatsuyo to do everything in their power to make me change my mind.

  Hatsuyo looked eagerly at me. “They say, Saburo, that perhaps you acted so because they displeased you with their words. My father and I know their family so well. They are such wonderful people. Why did you do it?” she cried.

  “Hatsuyo, please try to understand,” I begged of her. “You lived with me as a child for several years and you, of all people, should know me well. As much as I am hurt by what I had to say, I do not regret my decision. I honestly believe that I acted for Fujiko’s good, for her own happiness.”

  She rejected my words. “They told us that you refused because you had been wounded.”

  “You should know better than to say that. It is only part of the reason. I have loved Fujiko with the deepest devotion ever since I first met her. My feelings for her are no less today, my love is no weaker. All through the long months at Lae and at Rabaul, Fujiko was to me woman eternal. Do you, too, fail to understand? I refused because I do love her!”

  “You are not making sense, Saburo.”

  “Listen to me, then. During all the time I was overseas, during all the weary months in the Pacific, Fujiko never left my mind. I wanted her to be so proud of me, and I did well.

  “Perhaps this is not the nicest thing to discuss with you, Hatsuyo, but I must be frank. Rabaul was a major military base, and there were more than 10,000 Japanese stationed there at all times. In addition, we often had with us for a while a full division of Army troops.

  “What do you think men do when they are away from home, away from their own women? We had brothels at Rabaul, just as we have here in Yokosuka! When we went to Rabaul for a rest, more than a few of the pilots never even left those brothels. Not all of us, but a great many.

  “But I never did so. My pride would not allow it. I wished to remain as pure in body as was possible for Fujiko, when the day came that I could ask her hand in marriage.

  “Before my injury I could have come to her as Sakai, the great ace, the fearless flier, a man worthy of her hand. But now? No!” I shouted at Hatsuyo. “I will not be pitied! Do you think I could stand to have Fujiko pity me? Never! Now do you understand me?”

  Hatsuyo held my hand tightly and nodded. “I know, I know,” she whispered.

  She looked into my eyes. “I do know you, Saburo, much better than you realize. I know how badly you want to fly again. But I cannot help feeling sorry for Fujiko.”

  “She will be happier for it. She ...”

  But Hatsuyo interrupted me by throwing her arms around my neck and hugging me closely. “Poor Saburo! Have hope...you must have faith. You will fly again. I know you will!”

  CHAPTER 24

  In OCTOBER the Navy transferred me to the Sasebo Navy Hospital. The change of surroundings was more than welcome; I would be closer to home, and could see my family again.

  By now the torrid summer was gone, and the train ride proved comfortable. I opened the windows wide and soaked in sunshine and the soothing autumn wind. Japan was as beautiful as ever and now, with autumn color on the mountains and hills, the passing countryside took on the appearance of a strange and wonderful fairyland. Trees and shrubs lay in crimson splashes on both sides of the tracks. They had turned yellow and scarlet and green and brown in a riot of blending hues.

  Three hours after we left Yokosuka, Fujiyama swam into view. I will never tire of looking at this most beautiful of all mountains. The graceful lines curved gently to the summit, still uncapped with snow, but half hidden in swirling mist made brilliant by the sun. Fuji-san. It reminded me of Fujiko, who was, indeed, named after the mountain, but who was now equally as remote for me.

  The country lay quietly, at peace. There was no war here, not within the hundreds of farms and paddies which lay neat, clean, and prosperous on both sides of the tracks. What war? I saw only what I had always seen, now even more beautiful than when I had viewed it as a younger man. My perspective was different. Now I could compare the serenity and dignity of all this with the volcanic misery which was Rabaul, the sandy runway gouged out of the jungle at Lae. No wonder an aura of comfort and well-being radiated from my home soil!

  And yet, I mused, not one of these people, the children, the farmers, young and old, the village elders, the postmen and the police, the merchants, not one of them had crossed Guadalcanal from twenty thousand feet and looked down to see the vast ocean alive, teeming with a strange and terrible life, row upon row of American warships and transports. And there were so many more lying over the horizon I had not seen!

  In this respect, too, my perspective had changed. Our pilots from the Lae Wing were unique, I had discovered at Rabaul. The incredible one-sided margin of victories was by no means shared by other wings. And the Army, what of the Army, with its pilots who sadly lacked the fine temper of training which we had been afforded, whose planes blundered into enemy entrapments?

  No longer was I myself inviolate. It had been the enemy’s turn then, and no less than a miracle had brought me here on this train as it swayed along the tracks leading to Sasebo. A man sees the war differently after the doctors have scraped away rotten flesh from his skull, have dug jagged steel splinters from his body, and comforted him with the staggering living-death sentence, “It is not so bad, Sakai, you will be only half blind.” Only half blind!

  My mother waited to greet the train at the Fukuoka station. We stopped only briefly, and no through passengers were permitted off the train. I leaned as far out of my window as I could, waving frantically to catch her attention. The joy in her face when she saw me was the most wonderful thing I had known in so many long months! She was older—oh, so much older!—now that all her sons had left for war.

  I shouted to her. “I am all right now!” I cried, “I am all right, Mother! Don’t worry about me. Everything is all right now!”

  The train was moving again. She stood on the platform, her eyes brimming with tears, slowly waving the
rising sun flag, crying, “Banzai! Banzai!” after me as the train pulled away.

  The doctors at Sasebo ordered another month’s convalescence in the hospital. No longer did I argue with them, implore them to return me to Rabaul. I felt drained out; I cared little what their orders might be.

  The month passed slowly, but my first week end was gladdened by a visit from my mother. She was still the same wonderful woman! Convinced that what I needed best were the favorite foods of my childhood, she had cooked an entire meal to bring along with her. I feared the moment when I would have to tell her of losing the sight of my right eye. To my astonishment she did not appear upset at the news. “It does not make you any less a man, my son,” she said calmly. And that closed the subject for her. She offered to come every week end. It would have been wonderful to see her so often, but I begged her not to. She was old and no longer could stand the arduous rail journey. Train travel was becoming more and more difficult. With war matériel taking up so much space, passenger accommodations were restricted and at best were acutely uncomfortable.

  In November there occurred an event which, under any other circumstances, would have been one of the greatest moments in my life. Now it meant little. Orders were received by the hospital promoting me to the rank of Warrant Officer. The long climb upward from a recruit seaman, with its brutal discipline and endless punishment, was ended. Step by step I had forged my way through the ranks, and now the reward had come. It was a hollow victory, but it had its compensations. My new status meant I could complete my convalescence at home. I snatched at the surgeon’s offer and left at once for the Fukuoka suburbs, where I joined my family.

  The next month was wonderful. It was the first time in ten years I had spent thirty consecutive days with my mother, and her happiness was a joy to behold. Everything was quiet and peaceful. Almost every day my mother asked, “When do you think the war will be over, Saburo?” I knew she had in mind my two brothers who were now overseas. And every time she asked I could only tell her the truth; I did not know.