For That One Day: The Memoirs of Mitsuo Fuchida, Commander of the Attack on Pearl Harbor

by Tadanori Urabe

  On May 30, 1976, Mitsuo Fuchida died at the age of 73 in his hometown, Kashiwara City in Nara Prefecture. Four years later, in the fall of 1980, I was doing research on the attack on Pearl Harbor for a TV program. I overheard a rumor that Fuchida had left behind his unpublished autobiography. Immediately, I set out to visit Fuchida’s home. I had no trouble finding his old residence in Mise-cho, near the Kashiwara Shrine. Fuchida‘s widow, Haruko, lived alone in obscurity. Haruko, who was not expecting me, greeted me without complaint in the front yard and agreed to talk to me. She was a plump yet petite, gentle person.

  It turned out that Haruko had assisted in the writing of her husband’s autobiography. Later, in her private notes titled, “Memories of My Husband,” she mentioned the literary product of the couple’s joint work saying, “My husband was writing his autobiography, but since he was unable to read the relevant newspaper and magazine articles because of cataracts, I read the articles out loud to him. Since his younger days, his hobbies were reading and gardening, and I was sorry to see him lose those joys.” In different words, I heard the same story from Haruko the day we met in Mise-cho.

  Fuchida was very fond of beer. He suffered from diabetes and failing vision, and he began to lose feeling in both feet during his final years. In spite of this, he was never without a glass of beer when writing. Once, he did not even notice the serious burns to his feet received from having his blanket too close to the kotatsu heater at his table. Undoubtedly his fondness for beer shortened his life.

  I remember that around the Fuchida home there was a large and peaceful field with trees and lots of greenery. (That area, now a vacant lot, is part of the playgrounds of Unebi Minami Elementary School.) When I visited, the concrete foundation of the house which Fuchida had planned to enlarge by himself sat unfinished and exposed to the elements. The main house was built by his own hard work with only minor assistance from a professional carpenter. After the war, he lost his job as a result of the American purges of the military, and he worked as a farmer. I was surprised to hear from Haruko that the work on the house was Fuchida’s own amateur work; at first glance, the house looked too perfect to be anything other than the design and work of a professional. I also heard that he dug the well on his own.

  This alone shows the exceptional ability of this person, Mitsuo Fuchida. Unfortunately, I was not able to see the manuscript of the autobiography on that day’s visit. Fuchida’s son, Yoshiya, who was working as an architect in New York City, had taken it with him to the United States. According to Haruko, the autobiography was an immense volume even in its unfinished state, but the writing was fairly advanced.

  Mitsuo Fuchida and his wife, Haruko, had two children, Yoshiya and Miyako. Both children went to the United States to complete their university studies. Yoshiya attended Columbia University and is a licensed architect. Miyako worked as an interior designer. Both blended into American society.

  Yoshiya Fuchida and his wife, Marie, had two children, John and Ellen; Miyako and her husband, James Overturf, also had two children, Miharu and Jim. It is amazing to think that all of the direct descendants, grandchildren, and now great–grand children of the Japanese leader of the attack on Pearl Harbor, the man whose actions ignited the war with the United States, are Americans. This reflects Fuchida’s firm conviction and view of the world after the war that, “Human beings around the globe are all the same.”

  For more than 20 years after my visit to Haruko Fuchida in Kashiwara, her husband’s autobiography remained in the corner of my memory. And just by chance, I was able to realize my desire to see and read Fuchida’s autobiography.

  What prompted the opportunity was a conversation with a TV producer about preparing a story for the 60th anniversary of the end of World War II. I mentioned the existence of Mitsuo Fuchida’s unfinished autobiography which was reportedly in the United States. Soon after that conversation, I contacted Yoshiya Fuchida, and he told me that the manuscript was indeed stored safely in the United States. By coincidence, Yoshiya himself was considering publishing his father’s autobiography. As a consequence of my past commitment, I ended up assuming the editing job of the autobiography.

  In early spring, 2007, I visited Yoshiya in a town in northern New Jersey, just across the Hudson River from New York City. It was a sunny and calm day, warm after a cold front in the area. Yoshiya’s home was in a quiet suburban residential area, and as I entered his living room, I saw a big painting of a scene from Japan—a row of old houses in Asuka Village near Nara. Asuka is Yoshiya’s mother’s hometown, and it is also Yoshiya’s birthplace. I still remember, looking out through the window onto the veranda, many birds like cardinals and squirrels kept scampering looking for nuts and seeds.

  The autobiography which had traveled such a long distance from Kashiwara in Nara, across the Pacific Ocean to America, was now neatly arranged in Yoshiya’s basement library. I felt a deep nostalgia at the fact that here was an enormous quantity of materials and records of the Imperial Japanese Navy, all in America, and all carefully preserved by the son of the military leader turned evangelist for peace. By the way the shelf looked, I could easily imagine how much Mitsuo Fuchida had written and could even begin to see the path his thoughts would take in his autobiography.

  Yoshiya said that when his father died, his mother asked him to take his father’s writings with him and perhaps have them published some day. He said, “My wife complained about it a lot as his books alone amounted to 200 boxes. It cost a lot in freight charges. Things like his photos of his Naval Academy days are still mostly unpublished.”

  Mitsuo Fuchida had a reputation in the Navy as a fine prose writer. An important job of staff in the military is the drafting of operations plans. The writing must be short and direct but with a dignified, persuasive style.

  As an example, the Kamikaze Special Attack Force was organized for the first time during the Leyte Operation in October 1944. However, Fuchida, at that time an aviation staff member of the Combined Fleet, was against this special attack force. His reasoning was that there was no prospect of winning the war by simply gathering second-class planes and launching special attacks with no concrete military objectives. In addition, an attack method relying exclusively on spiritual power would not lead to any hope of victory. However, the operation proceeded despite his objections.

  Fuchida (after the disastrous Leyte Gulf Battles) drafted the letter of appreciation sent by Admiral Soemu Toyoda, the Commander-in-Chief of the Combined Fleet, to the Special Attack Force. And it is said to have greatly impressed Vice Admiral Ryunosuke Kusaka, Chief of Staff, especially the words of gratitude—” dying for the eternal cause. Your loyal spirits will shine forever”—written in the formal Chinese classic style, which Fuchida learned from his father, Yazo, and from his studies of Chinese literature.

  Fuchida’s autobiography goes far beyond the 2,000 pages handwritten in pen on traditional Japanese 200-character manuscript paper. The title, in his distinctive handwriting, is Autobiography: Summer is Close and is said to have been quoted from the words of Jesus as a prophesy of the sign of destruction of the war. It was Fuchida’s true intention to imply in his title a warning about World War III. On the side of the title, he penned in his authorship as “Former Captain in the Navy, lead commander of the air attack force on Pearl Harbor, at present layman Christian evangelist, Mitsuo Fuchida.” Although his autobiography was unfinished, most of the highlights in his life have been described. He prepared many subheadings for each chapter. Fuchida wrote in the preface, “I ask Jesus praying to let me live until I finish writing this book. This book is not a private novel but a non-fiction, factual book. Therefore, all parties cited are identified using their real names. It might be annoying for them, but I hope they will allow me to properly mention facts of history.”

  He seemed to have started writing the main text when he celebrated his 65th birthday. He started his work by rewriting contents of his already published books—Pearl Harbor Attack, Midway and Task Force—base
d on researching extensive materials, including going through records on the American side as well. He also reconfirmed accounts from his memory by consulting his detailed diary.

  One of his old navy friends, Tokuji Tada, visited Fuchida at his bedside and recalls hearing Fuchida say that, “I am now writing my autobiography. It has two-parts: the first part is about my Navy days, of course; and the second part is about my life after I became a Christian. I tell you now that the second part is particularly good.”

  On April 9, 1976, Fuchida was hospitalized in Tatsumi Surgical Hospital in Kashiwara. He had a burning desire to complete his writing, and he was helped by Haruko with the preface to his manuscript until just before his death. I could clearly see the trace of his fight against his diabetes: his shaky handwriting was evident in the latter half of his manuscript. Fuchida passed away on May 30th, a month after he was admitted to the hospital.

  What follows is Mitsuo Fuchida’s autobiography, an extraordinary story of an extraordinary man—and a farewell note to post-war Japan.

  Naval War College Student Days—Around 1937

  PART ONE

  FOR THAT ONE DAY

  1

  Born Under a Good Star

  It is said that the reason for a State to nurture its soldiers for years is to use them for just one day. My entire youth was dedicated for “that one day.”

  I was born on December 3, 1902 in a farm village called Iwaki, in Kita-Katsuragi Province of Nara Prefecture. It was a beautiful place located at the foot of Mt. Nijyo.

  When I was born, my father was the Principal of Iwaki Village Elementary School, and my family lived in a farm house near the school. It was a six-mat room, approximately 90 square feet—on the second floor of a godown. I was born there with the assistance of a midwife. The stairs were narrow and steep, and it was not easy to bring up hot water, so the midwife took the newly born baby downstairs which had been used as a cowshed—to give me my first bath.

  Later in life, when I became a Christian and learned that Jesus himself was born in a stable and gave his first cry in a basin, I was emotionally touched by the resemblance, even with the difference between a cowshed and a stable. Now, I believe that the objective of my life as a Christian is to follow Jesus Christ.

  My father’s name was Yazo. He was born in Masuge, a village of no more than 20 households, located in Takaichi Province of Nara Prefecture. From his childhood, he learned Chinese classics in a cram school nearby, and he was good at calligraphy.

  When he was around 20 years old, his great ambition was to study in Tokyo, but he was penniless. Carrying only an ink brush, he traveled alone all the way along the Fifty-three Stages of the Tokaido, the historic trail from Kyoto up to Tokyo—earning his travel expenses by writing Chinese poems on sliding doors on the way. I am an unworthy son of such a samurai.

  My father was proud of the fact that he was born on the 2nd day of January of the 4th year of the Keio Era (1868). Based on the outcome of the civil war, the Keio Era was renamed Meiji. If he had been born a day earlier, his birth date would have been the 1st day of Meiji, when the course of Japan’s history changed. This would have been a cause of great celebration for my father. Looking at history, Hideyoshi Toyotomi, Japan’s great warrior-unifier, was born on the 1st day of January of the 5th year of Tenmon (1536), the son of a peasant warrior, Yaemon, in what is now Nakamura-ku, Nagoya. Legend has it that when his mother became pregnant with Hideyoshi, she had a dream that the sun had entered her womb. When she gave birth, the infant was named Hiyoshi-maru [Lucky Child of the Sun], but this was later changed to Hideyoshi.

  My father often told me—after having a bit to drink in the evening—that if he had been born one day earlier, he could have become a regent like Hiyoshimaru, but because of just one day, he ended up as nothing more than the principal of an elementary school. It sounded like both a lament and a boast at the same time, and I used to wonder if it was so meaningful to be born under a good star.

  2

  I Want to be a Full Admiral

  The Russo-Japan War broke out when I was three. [Under Japanese custom at the time, a person was considered to be born on the day he was conceived. Hence, at birth, a child was one year old.] The war started in 1904 and ended the following year. Even as an infant, what I remember is that everyone kept saying: “A small country in the Far East has managed to defeat a giant country like Russia.” In a militaristic atmosphere, soldiers appear pompous and great. The three-year-old boy, with his impressionable spirit, yearned to be a soldier, and he suddenly wanted to be a full admiral when he grew up—like the great Admiral Heihachiro Togo, who defeated the Russian Navy at the Battle of the Sea of Japan.

  It was something that this three-year-old boy more than admired; he was obsessed with the idea. He played only at being a soldier, and whenever he saw soldiers, he used to follow them endlessly. One day, I lost my way back in the darkness, and a policeman from a different village had to take me back to my home.

  When I entered school, I was absorbed with picture books about the war. Day after day, one after another, I would look at tens of books, without getting tired or bored. I dreamt of commanding an army like General Michitsura Nozu and General Tamemoto Kuroki.

  One day, my uncle, who was my mother’s younger brother, came from Osaka to see us. As usual, I was painting a war picture with my crayons. Uncle told my mother that, “He paints so well. Why don’t you encourage him to become a painter?”

  My mother’s response was, “Anything but a painter. I don’t want him to be like Jyu-yan. I want him to become a doctor.” Jyu-yan, or Jyutaro Kuroda, was a relative who was an art student, and he visited us once in a while and would sketch the sites around our village. For my well-bred mother, the life of a painter typically was moneyless and did not interest her at all. I did not care as I had no intention of becoming a painter anyway. But what bothered me was her wish that I become a doctor.

  When I was in junior high school, I started to be strongly influenced by General Nogi. At that time, a small pamphlet called The Nogi Method was published monthly in Kyoto, and the pamphlets advocated doing everything according to the Nogi Method. Once I found an article in the monthly publication stating that General Nogi hated Buddhist priests and doctors, which prompted me to appeal to my mother.

  “Look, Mother, General Nogi himself hates Buddhist priests and doctors.”

  With a gentle smile, my mother quietly tried to persuade me. “Mitsuo, you say such things because your mind is occupied with the idea of becoming a soldier, but people need to do whatever profession is suitable for their own nature. A bashful boy like you is not fit for the life of a soldier. I know your nature better than anyone else. Your nature is so gentle, and the best suited job for you is a doctor. Besides, as I am in poor health, it will be a relief if you become a doctor.”

  I was ready to argue back, but when she said, “I am in poor health,” I was totally discouraged. In fact, my mother had many chronic diseases. Roughly 10 years later when I was busy moving around on assignment as a naval ensign, she passed away from uterine cancer. About a half year before she died, my mother had her first diagnosis at the Osaka Red Cross Hospital and was told that it was too late for her cancer to be treated. It still makes me sad when I think how she must have felt while she was waiting to die and thinking that if I had followed her wishes and become a doctor, I could have taken care of her much earlier.

  3

  Bashful Boy

  As my mother said often, I was born a bashful boy. When I was a kid, I had a fair complexion with cheeks like apples. I had a weak and fine-boned appearance, and, reflecting my mother’s tastes, I was sometimes dressed in a girl’s kimono with a long hair style, making it impossible to tell if I was a boy or a girl. Every time she found me playing under the sun, she scolded me because I would get sun tanned. It is not an easy job for such a child to aspire to be an admiral.

  When I was five years old, my father was transferred as Principal of Kanmaki Village Eleme
ntary School in Nara Prefecture. The village was laid out over six separate areas, and the school, attached to the principal’s residence, was located in the middle of mountains. The surrounding scenery was beautiful, but there was quite a distance between sectors of the village—three miles to the sake shop and five miles to the tofu shop.

  The people in the village called me by the nickname, “The School Prince,” but I was too shy to exchange greetings. My father used to enjoy sake at night, but it took me a lot of guts to go to the sake shop and carry the sake bottle back to my house.

  This shyness stayed with me when I entered junior high school. The moment teachers called on me to respond, blood rushed up to my head, and I turned bright red like a boiled octopus. Because of this, I finally got a new nickname, “Octopus.”

  When we approached the end of the third year of junior high, the school checked each student’s career aspirations to prepare for our next stage of education. The objective was to identify those students who wanted to go on to higher education and those who were going to leave school to take jobs. There would be a different curriculum for the two groups in the fourth year. I belonged to the former group, and I put “Naval Academy” with the hope of becoming an admiral in the future. I did not want my classmates to know about this, so I folded the paper quietly and presented it to the teacher. However, my teacher mercilessly disclosed each student’s aspirations, and this caused an uproar.

  As soon as the teacher read, “Fuchida Mitsuo, Naval Academy,” the entire bunch of brats in the classroom burst into a fit of laughter.

  “See what we’ve just heard? Octopus wants to be a naval officer. Of all things, can you imagine Octopus in the Navy?” They made a huge racket. Again, I became a boiled octopus. It seemed that none of them could believe that I was going to be a military man.