by Hiroo Onoda
Later, my two brothers told me that when they heard I had taken the dagger and the incense tube, they were shocked. They thought I was thinking of lighting the incense and committing ceremonial harakiri in front of it. Nothing could have been farther from my mind, of course. I just thought that some day when I was at the front, it might be comforting to burn some incense from the tube and think of home.
When I left Wakayama, I told my mother, “My work being what it is, it’s possible that I may be reported dead when I’m not. If you’re told I’ve been killed, don’t think too much about it, because I may well show up again after a few years.”
The next day I went to see my younger brother, Shigeo, who was stationed at Yachimata, in Chiba Prefecture, east of Tokyo. By this time he had received his commission as a second lieutenant and was in training at an aerial reconnaissance school. He wanted to go up to the port of Choshi for dinner. He said there was a restaurant he often went to there where you could eat all the fresh fish you could hold, and that was unusual in those days of shortages. Unfortunately, I did not have time, so we ended by having a farewell meal in a restaurant in Chiba City, which was on my way back to Tokyo.
The next morning my oldest brother saw me off at Tokyo Station.
“Take care of yourself,” he said.
FATEFUL ORDERS
The day after I returned to Futamata, there was a strong earthquake. The group of twenty-two to which I belonged had received orders to proceed to Utsunomiya airfield, sixty miles or so north of Tokyo, and board a transport plane that evening. Normally, we would have gone on the Tokaido Railway Line as far as Tokyo. Because of the earthquake, traffic on this line was interrupted, so we had to start out by truck, hoping that the trains would be running farther to the north.
When the truck passed the Kadoya, the inn where I had often stayed, the proprietor and his whole family were waiting outside to say good-bye. We stopped, and they handed us a bottle of sake and a tray loaded with parched chestnuts and dried squid. Without getting off the truck, we broke open the bottle and exchanged farewell toasts.
We managed to catch a train in Kakegawa, then changed trains in Tokyo, arriving at Utsunomiya in the middle of the night. It turned out that the transport plane was undergoing repairs, and we had to kill a few days at an inn in front of Utsunomiya Station. During that interval, we received news that American forces had landed at San Jose on the island of Mindoro in the Philippines. Hearing this, we looked at each other in apprehension, and I felt my body tense.
The twenty-two of us left Utsunomiya airfield on three airplanes, a No. 97 Converted Heavy Bomber-Transport and two No. 100 Heavy Bombers. This was on December 17, two days after San Jose fell. The plan was to fly in one hop to Taipei, refuel, and continue on to Clark Airbase on Luzon the same day, but we were forced down in Okinawa by bad weather and had to stay there three days. Then it developed that the transport required more repairs; with one thing and another, we did not arrive at Clark until December 22, six whole days after leaving Utsunomiya.
When we landed, an air raid warning was in effect, but I was surprised to see the maintenance crews walking around as though nothing was happening. I asked why, and one of them said, “It’s Manila’s turn today.” The enemy was bombing Clark one day and Manila the next.
We had been told that on arrival we were to make contact with the Special Intelligence Squadron of the Fourteenth Area Army. In fact, when we arrived, Masaru Shimoda and Kusuo Tsuchihashi had been sent from the squadron to wait for us. They left almost immediately to report our arrival to squadron headquarters in Manila, fifty miles away, assuring us that they would be back by morning at the latest.
At noon the next day they were still not back. We were afraid something had happened to them on the way, but a few minutes later they drove up in a truck. They explained that a P-38 Lockheed Lightning had spotted them and given chase, forcing them to dodge in and out of side roads most of the way. The strain and excitement of running for their lives still showed on their faces.
We stayed one more night at Clark and then went to Manila on the twenty-fourth. That morning a low-flying enemy Consolidated B–24 had dropped Christmas cards on the city. Addressed to the Philippine people, they bore a picture of a lamb and a message in English saying: “We are now in the South Pacific, hoping to ring in a Happy New Year with you!”
When one of my fellow officers translated this for me, I gritted my teeth and said, “Fools! Idiots! Who do they think they are!”
The Special Intelligence Squadron was located in what had been a foreign residential district in Manila. It was in a two-story concrete building, and the sign over the entrance said “Institute of Natural Science.”
We were greeted by a darkish man who turned out to be Major Yoshimi Taniguchi, the squadron commander. After we had presented our credentials, the major told me that I, together with five others, would be stationed with the Sugi Brigade, as the Eighth Division from Hirosaki was known. Future orders, he said, would come from division headquarters.
The Sugi Brigade was in charge of defending the west central part of Luzon from Nasugbu to Batangas. Its headquarters were in Lipa.
That night we held a farewell gathering in the “institute.” Those of us from Futamata realized that we were perhaps splitting up for the last time, but we had been expecting this. I saw no signs of gloom, though the party was quiet. We drank cold sake with each other, and Major Taniguchi filled us in on the war situation. I was not particularly moved.
On December 26, in the middle of the night, the six of us who were going to the Sugi Brigade left Manila with Major Taniguchi in a truck that was also carrying a fairly large load of ammunition. Dressed in summer uniforms, with swords, revolvers and binoculars, the six of us looked like ordinary army officers, but Major Taniguchi wore the uniform of the Philippine Area Police and a mountain climber’s hat.
Under bright moonlight, the truck made its way south toward Lipa. Not long after we started, I saw Bay Lake over to the left, and the sight of its calm moonlit surface relaxed the tension inside me. It was hard to believe that this beautiful landscape was soon to become a battlefield. The scene was unearthly, enchanting, but I was soon brought back to reality by the noise of the transport trucks that passed going the other way. As we went farther south, their number increased.
Our own truck arrived at division headquarters just before dawn. The orders that I was to receive here would decide my fate for the next thirty years.
The road, which had been hurriedly constructed by the Engineer Corps, ran deep into a forest of palms. Sugi Brigade headquarters were located just off to one side of the road. The installation consisted of a scattering of nipa houses, round huts like the ones the natives lived in, with plain boarded walls and roofs thatched with palm leaves. We followed Major Taniguchi into one of them.
Inside were a number of officers: Lieutenant Colonel Motoyama of Strategic Command, Major Takahashi of Intelligence Command, Captain Yamaguchi of the Rear Squadron, First Lieutenant Kusano of the Intelligence Squadron, and a few others.
We waited tensely in a corner of the room while Major Taniguchi and Major Takahashi talked in low voices about how we should be assigned. Sensing that this was a moment of destiny for me, I clenched my fists. After a while, Shigeru Moriguchi and Shigeichi Yamamoto were called over and ordered to lead fifty troops in an attack on San Jose. Next Shin Furuta and Ichirō Takaku were assigned to lead a guerrilla group on the island of Mindoro.
Now it was my turn. Major Takahashi said, “Apprentice Officer Onoda will proceed to Lubang Island, where he will lead the Lubang Garrison in guerrilla warfare.”
This was the first time I ever heard of Lubang. I had no idea where it was or how big it was.
Major Takahashi wrote out an order for the Lubang Garrison and affixed to it the seal of the Eighth Division Commander, Lieutenant General Yokoyama. He said, “I’ll wire them orders, but take this along just in case.”
The order read: “The commander
of the Lubang Garrison will deploy other squadrons and prepare for guerrilla warfare. This order does not include groups under senior officers. Apprentice Officer Hiroo Onoda is being sent to lead guerrilla operations.”
After I read this paper, Major Takahashi said, “Our objective is to hamper the enemy attack on Luzon. The first thing for you to do is destroy the Lubang airfield and the pier at the harbor. Should the enemy land and try to use the airfield, destroy their planes and kill the crews.”
Major Taniguchi added, “There ought to be at least two leaders for a guerrilla mission, but we can’t spare another man. You’ll have to take care of it by yourself. It won’t be easy, but do the best you can. When you do something by yourself the first time, you’re almost bound to slip up somewhere, so keep your eyes open.”
The only one of the six left was Misao Yamazaki, and when he had been told that he would stay at division headquarters as a reserve replacement, the issuing of orders came to an end. We new arrivals were next supposed to report for duty officially to the division commander, but as it happened, Lieutenant General Akira Mutō, Chief of Staff of the Fourteenth Area Army, had dropped in on division headquarters on his way back from an inspection tour and was now in the division commander’s room.
General Mutō being the senior officer present, we reported first to him. Looking us over carefully, he said, “I knew you were coming, but I thought I’d be too busy to see you. I’m glad we happened to meet here. The war is not going well at the moment. It is urgent that you exert every effort to carry out your orders. Understand? I mean it!”
It was a strange feeling to receive a pep talk from a famous general. We were honored and impressed. When we started to report to the division commander, he raised his hand and stopped us. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “You’ve already reported to His Excellency the Chief of Staff.”
Then, with his eyes directly on me, he said, “You are absolutely forbidden to die by your own hand. It may take three years, it may take five, but whatever happens, we’ll come back for you. Until then, so long as you have one soldier, you are to continue to lead him. You may have to live on coconuts. If that’s the case, live on coconuts! Under no circumstances are you give up your life voluntarily.”
A small man with a pleasant face, the commander gave me this order in a quiet voice. He sounded like a father talking to a child. When he finished, I responded as briskly as I could, “Yes, Sir!”
I remembered again what I had been taught at Futamata, and I vowed to myself that I would carry out my orders. Here I was, only an apprentice officer, receiving my orders directly from a division commander! That could not happen very often, and I was doubly impressed with the responsibility I bore. I said to myself, “I’ll do it! Even if I don’t have coconuts, even if I have to eat grass and weeds, I’ll do it! These are my orders, and I will carry them out.” It may sound strange today, but I meant it.
Most civilians do not know that in the army orders must come from a direct superior. The officers who have the authority to issue orders are the division commander, the regimental commander and the company commander. Platoon leaders or detachment leaders are no more than assistants to the company commander, and the orders they issue merely implement those issued by him.
When a man is standing sentry on his own commander’s orders and an officer from another outfit orders him to do something else, the sentry does not have to obey. He should inform the officer that he is on sentry duty and cannot leave his post until the order comes from his own commander. This is true even if the visiting officer is a general.
At Futamata I was ordered to duty with the Fourteenth Area Army and subsequently assigned to the Sugi Brigade. No company or regimental commander interceded in the issuance of these orders. My direct superior was the commander of the Sugi Brigade, who had ordered me to Lubang. Major Taniguchi and Major Takahashi had the authority to instruct me or direct me, but they had no authority to alter Lieutenant General Yokoyama’s orders to me.
It was possible for an officer to have the authority to deploy troops without being able to change orders previously issued to them by their immediate superior. Deployment did not take precedence over orders. When I went to Lubang, I went with orders to lead the men in guerrilla warfare but not to command them. I could tell them how the thing should be done and make them do it that way, but it was up to their immediate superiors to decide whether they were to engage in guerrilla warfare. In the days that ensued, this lack of authority turned out to be a terrible encumbrance to me.
After reporting for duty and receiving my orders, I went back to the staff room. As I entered, Major Takahashi laughed and said, “Onoda, you’ll be surprised at the treat in store for you on Lubang. Why, that oufit there is the best in the whole Japanese army!”
Major Taniguchi, shooting him a reproving look, said, “He’s joking.”
At this point Squadron Leader Yamaguchi suddenly smiled. “Anyway,” he said, “Lubang is a very good island. There aren’t many like it anymore. There’s always plenty to eat there, Onoda. At least you don’t have to worry about that.”
Major Taniguchi’s face grew more serious as he said, “Those of us who were trained in secret warfare were prepared to have to go behind enemy lines and command foreign troops. You must consider it an honor, Onoda, to be able to lead His Majesty’s own men.”
“Yes, Sir!” I replied loudly.
He was right. We had indeed been trained to organize and lead foreign troops behind enemy lines. To be put in charge of Japanese soldiers was a privilege. At least they would understand my language.
Major Taniguchi gave me two maps showing Lubang and tried to impress on me the island’s strategic importance. “No matter how difficult it may be to carry on your guerrilla campaign,” he said, “you must think a very long time before moving on to another island.”
One of the maps he gave me was on a scale of 500,000: 1. The names on it were written in Japanese, which was a help, but Lubang itself was no bigger than a playing card, and there was almost no information about the terrain. The other map was 25,000: 1 and showed all the reefs around the island, but here again it was difficult to tell much about the lay of the land.
“Drop into squadron headquarters on your way to the port, and I’ll give you an aerial map they made when the Lubang airfield was built,” said Major Taniguchi. With that he collected the two men who were going to Mindoro and left the staff room.
After everybody had gone, I went to the division ordnance depot and procured some necessary equipment—dynamite, land mines, hand grenades and so on—which I had loaded on a truck. I also put a camouflage uniform I had received from the squadron on the truck. That night I spread out the two maps on the floor of the nipa house I was in and examined them by candlelight. Lubang Island was very small. Would it be big enough for guerrilla warfare?
Well, big enough or not, I had my orders and my equipment, and there was nothing to do now but get on with it. I closed my eyes, and once again I heard the division commander’s promise: “Whatever happens, we’ll come back for you.”
I said aloud to myself, “I will fight till that day comes.”
On December 30, I received five thousand yen in military currency from Major Takahashi to cover special expenses and then departed from division headquarters. On the truck with me were a sergeant named Suzuki and six of his men, who were going to Lubang to bring back aviation fuel left there. The airplanes had already withdrawn to Luzon, but the fuel and bombs, as well as some of the personnel, were still on Lubang.
When I went to squadron headquarters in Manila, Major Taniguchi had gone to see Yamamoto and the others off, and no one was sure when he would be back. Someone went through the major’s desk for me, but could not find the aerial map I had hoped to obtain. I was disappointed, but I decided that after I reached Lubang, I could simply reconnoiter the whole place with my own eyes.
By the side of Banzai Bridge, which they told me was named by General Masaharu Homma,
Commander of the Fourteenth Area Army, I found a native motor-sail vessel waiting for me. It was named, in Japanese style, Seifuku Maru and must have weighed about fifty tons. The captain, who was about forty, looked over the side and shouted, “Go on and load all your stuff on the boat.”
I told him that my cargo consisted of explosives, which he had the right to refuse if he wanted to. Major Takahashi had told me that if he did refuse, a military diesel vessel would be sent to take them.
“I don’t mind the explosives,” called the captain, “but you’ll have to get a permit from Port Headquarters.”
I set off to procure the permit, and as I was doing so, the lieutenant in charge asked, “Are you going to leave the explosives on Lubang and come back on the boat?”
“I am not coming back,” I answered. “I’m going to Lubang to use the explosives.”
The lieutenant stared at me for a moment and said, “Sorry to hear that. Have a beer with me as a farewell drink.”
He offered me a bottle of San Miguel, but I thanked him and told him I did not drink. This was not quite true, but I was in a hurry.
“Too bad,” he said. “Anyway, I wish you the best of luck.”
His genial manner had a calming effect on me. I felt a little ashamed of myself for not accepting his hospitality.
Back at Banzai Bridge, the cargo had already been transferred from the truck to the ship. It had rained, then stopped for a while, and now it was starting again. I sat down cross-legged under a shelter on the deck of the ship with the other soldiers, and we ate the dinner that the crew had prepared for us.
The captain told me that there had been a fair number of private motor-sail craft in Manila doing transport work for the army, but when the enemy landed in Mindoro, they all moved up to Lingayen Gulf. “Mine is the only one left,” he said.