No Surrender

by Hiroo Onoda

  Upon hearing that, the girl sank to the floor and got a tight hold on the doorpost. The father started pointing to the rice pot to remind us that he had fed us.

  Kozuka and I shook our heads in rejection of his plea, and I took out a match as if to set fire to the house. The daughter started talking in Tagalog. I could not understand her, but I suppose she was praying, because at the end she said “Amen.” The natives on the island were almost all Catholic, and there was a picture of Christ on the wall.

  I said, “I guess we’ve scared them enough. After all, they did give us dinner. Let’s beat it!”

  But just then I heard the report of a gun, and a bullet tore through the roof. The mother and daughter flattened themselves out on the floor, and the man ran out of the house. For a moment we considered staying and putting up a fight, but it seemed like a spendthrift way to use ammunition. We ran out the door and made straight for the jungle, keeping low to avoid the fire that we could hear behind us. After running about a hundred yards, we dived into a thicket of trees, where we stopped to catch our breath. The police did not pursue, and from there on we climbed the mountain at our customary pace, grumbling to ourselves about having been reported on the sly. Kozuka was so angry that he threw the basket-weave sandals into a clump of bushes and left them. As we proceeded toward Snake Mountain, we could still hear sporadic fire. Once when we looked back, we saw flashlight beams crossing each other back and forth.

  Several months after that, we discovered that the islanders were coming in large numbers to the Vigo River valley, and we went to a hut near the quarry at Tilik to scare them away. On the way back, we were surprised by the police, who had received an early report of our foray, and who now had us in a crossfire from a distance of only about thirty yards. We escaped by diving into some gaba hedges, but one bullet ricocheted into my ankle and wounded me slightly.

  When we reached our base, I opened the brand-new waterproof tent that I had found at the hut and discovered that the lettering on it said “Mitsubishi Trading Company.” This was gratifying, because it confirmed our belief that war and commerce were being carried on independently of each other. At the same time, the police at Tilik had moved against us with such speed that we decided to be more careful in the future.

  On the last day of every year, we went to a river and washed all of our clothes. Like most Japanese, I set great store by the New Year’s celebration, and in that season at least I liked to have on fresh, clean clothing. The year-end washing was one of the major events on my private calendar.

  On the last day of 1971, we did our washing in the middle reaches of the Agcawayan River, where the water was clear and rapid. As it turned out, this was my last New Year’s Eve with Kozuka. The location was not far from Wakayama Point, where I encountered Norio Suzuki in February, 1974.

  We started washing before the sun was well up. We did our caps, our jackets, trousers, loincloths, stomach wrappers and leggings—everything that we were not wearing at the time. As we were finishing up, Kozuka exclaimed in alarm, “My pants are gone! They must have been carried off by the current.”

  This could be very bad. The river flows down into a village called Brol, but even if the pants did not get that far, they were very likely to be spotted by islanders fishing between the village and where we were. Our whereabouts could easily be guessed at, but aside from that, we were vain enough not to want to give the islanders a close look at the patched-up clothing we were wearing. We started running down the river, splashing water all over ourselves. We ran a hundred yards, two hundred yards, five hundred yards, but no sign of the pants. We made our way back upstream, looking slowly and carefully all the way, but the trousers were not to be found.

  Kozuka began to grumble, “If you didn’t insist on doing this big washing to mark the end of the year, this wouldn’t have happened. We’re soldiers. What does the New Year’s celebration mean to us? We shouldn’t have done all this washing!”

  I pointed out to him that it was he who had lost the pants, not I, and that this was no time to be grouching. We had to decide quickly whether to try to find the pants before some islander found them or move on immediately to a new location.

  “You’re starting to preach again,” complained Kozuka, and I saw that he was on the verge of blowing up.

  “All right, all right,” I told him. “We can talk about it some other time. Right now I want to try to find the pants if we possibly can. You follow along on the riverbank with your gun, while I go down the river searching the bottom and everywhere else. They’re bound to be somewhere.”

  He consented, and I jumped into the river wearing the nylon shirt I had planned to wear on New Year’s Day. We started down the river again, and this time I dived in all the deep places, while Kozuka made his way along the bank in the shade of the trees, keeping watch on both sides of the stream.

  We spent about two hours on the pants search, to no avail. After we had climbed back up to the place where we had done our washing, I took off my shirt and threw it into the water with the intention of rinsing it out. To my utter astonishment, the shirt started floating slowly upstream. For a moment I thought I was losing my mind. Then I suddenly realized that the shirt was in an eddy. I watched it move upstream for about thirty yards, gathering speed as it went, until it reached a sharp curve in the river, where it seemed almost to be sucked around the bend. Jumping into the river once again, I followed the eddy up to where it began, and there, caught in the branches of a tree that had fallen across the stream, were Kozuka’s pants, looking rather like a dying animal crouched in the water. Needless to say, I also recovered my shirt.

  Turning around, I held up the pants so that Kozuka could see them. He waved his gun in the air, a broad grin on his face.

  After we cut some coconuts, the milk of which we planned to drink the next morning in lieu of the customary New Year’s sake, we gathered up our belongings and went back to our encampment. I had been in the water so long that I was afraid I would catch cold, so I asked Kozuka to lend me his jacket, which was dry. He quickly consented, and when I put the jacket on, it warmed me to the bottom of my heart.

  That New Year’s Eve and the one on which I arrived on Lubang in 1944 were the most memorable during the whole thirty years.

  ALONE

  I shall never forget October 19, 1972 (October 13 by my calendar), for that is the day Kozuka was shot down.

  About ten days before that, we dismantled our rainy season bahai and started up from the Looc area by way of Brol toward the ridge of which Twin Mountains was a part. We usually carried out our beacon raids between about October 5 and October 20, but this year we were late because the rainy season was slow in ending. As we walked, we speculated on how the delay would affect our plans.

  We hid for one day at a spot from which we could see the whole central ridge, and in the evening we started cautiously uphill. It may be that some of the islanders sighted us then, because the next day the police showed up much more quickly than usual.

  On that day, we peered out from our hiding place and saw the farmers harvesting their dry-field rice on the slopes below us. We intended that first day only to size up the lay of the land preparatory to making our bonfires on the following day. Somehow, however, it looked as though the islanders were planning to complete their work today, and if they did, the rice would not be there the next evening. For us, that would mean waiting another month or so until the rice in the wet fields was harvested.

  “What should we do? Shall we burn at least one place today?”

  “Yes. We’ve come this far, so let’s go ahead and do it.”

  From the height where we were, we could see the town of Tilik and the sea stretching out beyond. Since there was a village not far away, we would have to start our beacon fires in a hurry. Still, no matter how quickly the islanders reported our presence, it would take the police at least ten minutes to arrive on the scene. Assuming that we could ignite one pile of rice in about three minutes, we should be able to
light three piles and still have time to get away.

  Partly to test some of our more suspicious bullets, when we approached the fields, we tried to fire several shots in the air. As we had thought, the first five or six rounds did not fire, but eventually one did. At the sound, two islanders in the fields took off in the opposite direction, as did a third who was on the neighboring ridge to our right. That left the place unguarded, and when we made sure that the frightened farmers had not turned back toward us, we lit our first fire. As Kozuka set fire to another small pile of rice, I gathered up what the islanders had left behind. There were two bolo knives, some cigarettes, some matches and even some coffee—not a bad haul at all. We started back on the other side of the ridge, where we could not be seen from the nearby village. On a little rise, we saw a large doha tree, and Kozuka said, “There’s a pile of rice under that tree.”

  I looked, and there was indeed a pile of rice sacks. Nearby someone had gathered together three flat rocks to serve as a fireplace, and a pot was hanging down from a branch of the tree over this. There did not seem to be anyone around.

  Kozuka murmured, “Don’t you suppose the police will be arriving soon?”

  I answered, “Yes, it’s about that time.”

  “Those idiots are always getting in the way! Let’s just sneak in one more fire.”

  “All right, let’s give it a try.”

  We went up to about five yards from the tree and put down our packs, laying our rifles on top of them. Since the rice was in sacks, we needed some straw matting or something like that to put over them, or else the fire might not start. We looked around, and on the slope toward the village, we spotted a piece of straw matting that would just fill the bill. Kozuka went to get it, and I went to see what was in the pot. Just as I took the pot from the branch, I heard gunshots on both sides of me, and they were very close. We were too late!

  I dived headfirst to the place where we had left our rifles and seizing mine, rose on my knee to take aim. The enemy was firing like mad. I knew from the sound that they were using carbines and small automatics. There were hills around where the shrubs grew thickly, and if we moved fast, we would be all right.

  Kozuka also hit the dirt near me and reached for his gun. He grasped it, but then drew his hand back. I thought maybe the front sight was caught in the baggage, and when Kozuka reached out again, I shifted my own rifle to my left hand and pulled his gun forward to make it easier for him to reach. But again Kozuka drew back his hand, and his rifle stayed in mine.

  “It’s my shoulder!” he cried. Startled, I looked at him without altering my stance. There was blood coming from his right shoulder.

  “If it’s only the shoulder, don’t worry! Get back down into the valley.”

  The enemy was still firing. Holding Kozuka’s gun, I turned in the direction the bullets were coming from. From the shadow of some bushes about 120 yards away, two figures suddenly emerged, letting out a battle cry. I decided they must be islanders who had brought the police here, and from the sound of the next shot, I concluded that the police must be to the left and a little in front of the islanders. I fired three or four rapid shots in that direction, and the enemy’s fire broke off. That gave me my chance. Grabbing the two guns I turned to flee.

  Kozuka was still standing in the same place! I thought he would have backed down five or ten yards while I was returning fire, but he was still there, arms folded and apparently pressing against his heart.

  I started to scream to him to get down, but before I could open my mouth, he sobbed, “It’s my chest.”

  Chest? Did they get him twice?

  Kozuka groaned, “It’s no use!”

  As I looked, his eyes went white. A second later, blood and foam spewed out of his mouth, and he fell over forward.

  To gain time, I tried to fire the five bullets in my rifle, but the fourth one just clicked without firing. Without thinking, I stopped shooting.

  I called to Kozuka, but there was no answer. He did not budge. I let go of my rifle and shook him by the ankle, but there was no response. Was it all over? Was he really dead? I tried one more time to call him, but I could not speak.

  Hard as it was to face, if his eyes turned white and blood spewed from his mouth, he was dead. There was nothing more I could do. I took the two rifles and ran about fifteen yards down the slope to a thicket. From there I looked back at Kozuka, but he was still lying there, just as he had been.

  I gave up and hurried down into the valley. The gunfire continued behind me. I ran through the forest, shouting, “I’ll get them for this! I’ll kill them all! Kill them, kill them, kill them!”

  Now there was no one left but me. Shimada had been killed. Kozuka had been killed. My turn was next. But I vowed to myself that they would not kill me without a fight.

  There was a coconut grove in the mountains about three-quarters of a mile from where Kozuka had been shot. I went there and on a nearby slope sorted out our equipment. Until then Kozuka and I had each been carrying about forty-five pounds, but now that I was alone, there were items that I did not need anymore. I put the things I needed together and buried the rest in the ground.

  About the time I finished this, I heard voices nearby. Grabbing the two rifles, I moved stealthily in the direction of the sound. There was a work hut in the coconut grove, and five or six islanders were milling around. The sight of them filled me with anger; I thought of killing them all on the spot. I decided against firing, however, mostly because it was not easy to move around while holding two rifles.

  Not long afterward, I saw fifteen or sixteen islanders walking along on the ridge where Kozuka had been killed. They were babbling excitedly, and once again I was filled with rage, but I reflected that there were probably policemen around, and anyway the islanders were a good seven hundred yards away from me.

  “Take it easy,” I told myself. “This is not the right time.” But I swore that one day I would kill them all.

  The next day I coated Kozuka’s rifle heavily with coconut oil and greased the barrel with some pomade that I had hidden away. To keep the rats from eating the butt, I covered it with some sheet metal and hid the rifle away in a crevice between some rocks. I also put away the made-over machine gun bullets I had been using and replaced them with real 99 bullets. As I was doing all this, I could not keep Kozuka’s blood-spewing face out of my mind.

  I remembered that there had been five enemy volleys between the first shot and the time when I ran down into the valley. A carbine fires fifteen rounds at a time, and if the enemy had three carbines, as I suspected, there would have been forty-five rounds in each volley, or a total of 225 rounds, I decided that Kozuka must have been hit on the first volley. It could not have been more than two seconds between the time he was hit and the time he dived for his gun. Another five or six seconds elapsed between the time when he said, “It’s my shoulder,” and the time when he fell over. He must have died only eight seconds or so after he was hit. What must have gone through his mind during those last eight seconds?

  As I put away Kozuka’s rifle—this rifle that he had had by his side continually for twenty-eight years—it was difficult to suppress the emotions that rose within me.

  On the same day I moved to Kumano Point and settled down for a few days about two hundred yards northwest of the spot where I later built my mountain hut. As I was looking around, a helicopter appeared in the sky and started flying back and forth over the island. I decided that a new search party had come, and that it must be a fairly big one.

  Hiding among the trees, I took stock of my position.

  When I was just staying in one place, there was no doubt but that being alone was a disadvantage. On the other hand, if I was on the move, being alone had its good points. I was free to go where I chose, and I could travel lighter. Furthermore, it was easier to find food for one, and the danger of being discovered was correspondingly reduced. It was good to have an extra rifle, but I had already decided that the second one was more of a hindra
nce than a help when I needed to act rapidly. At the same time, the increased supply of ammunition made it easier to fight on a long-term basis. Feelings and emotions aside, I came to the conclusion that from the objective viewpoint, I was on balance about as well off as I had been. There was not so much difference between two soldiers and one soldier, so far as material things were concerned.

  At any rate, this is what I wanted to think. I resolved once again that if I encountered the enemy, I would shoot to kill. If I did this, the islanders would be frightened and stay out of my territory. That in itself would make life easier.

  But I never really carried out this plan, because I was interrupted by a new search party, which arrived only three days after Kozuka’s death.

  “Onoda-san, wherever you are, come out! We guarantee your safety.”

  So came the pleas from the search party’s loudspeakers, over and over again. It kept coming closer, and I became convinced that I had to dodge the searchers somehow. I moved eastward across the Vigo River, but to judge from the movements of the helicopter, the search was being centered on the mountains between Tilik and the radar base, in which case I would not be able to escape unless I went to the area between Agcawayan and Looc.

  The islanders had finished harvesting their dry-field rice and were beginning to harvest the rice in the wet paddies. Crawling along the barriers between the paddies, I managed to gather enough unhulled rice to last for a time, taking only a little from each sheaf so as to avoid discovery. Then I started toward the east, planning to make the trip in easy stages, stopping for four or five days at a time. The more I thought about this, however, the more I became convinced that I would have trouble eluding the search party’s dragnet. Eventually I decided on a more aggressive line of action.

  On the evening of November 19, just a month after Kozuka was killed, I walked out into the open on the automobile road at Ambulong, directly below the radar base. Presently I met an islander going home from work. I uttered a threatening noise and pointed my rifle at him. Thunderstruck, the man fled, but he kept looking back at me and waving his arms as though he were pleading for mercy. This in itself was unusual, because when the islanders saw me, they always fled without looking back. I decided that the man must have been told to make sure it was me he had seen.