A Thousand Stitches (17 page)

After an hour, I returned to the Detachment and reported to Commander Fujimura. He was happy to hear that the radio reports he was receiving about damage to the Palace were wrong. I learned after the war that two hundred B-29s took part in the raid and dropped 25,000 bombs; at least 80,000, and perhaps more than 100,000, died in that raid.

Within
a month, spring really arrived. The Detachment had one—and only one—cherry tree. It stood in front of the Officers' Quarters. Young and spindly, it produced only a few blossoms. As I stood gazing at them at their peak, the old
haiku
we had learned from Professor Takahashi came to mind,
Samazama no / koto omoidasu / sakura kana
, and I thought how I was lucky to see those flowers, the last cherries I would ever see. Every spring since, I have remembered that scrawny cherry tree.
Samazama no koto
.

The now-regular visits of the B-29s were bad enough, but the fighters and dive-bombers were worse—along with the realization that they were launched from aircraft carriers cruising off the coast. When those raids started, Utsumi remarked in the Gun Room one night, “If we added up all the American aircraft carriers that Imperial Headquarters has announced we have sunk, there wouldn't be a single one left to fly those damn fighters from!” My good friend and colleague was known for his wit and outspoken frankness, and I usually enjoyed bantering with him. This time, however, I couldn't think of what to say, but I did begin to wonder…even more than I had on my own.

During one of the raids, four fighters swept down on our airfield. The only target they managed to destroy was one of Japan Airline's DC-3s, which was, of course, a U.S.-manufactured commercial plane. Or so we thought, until we were told that one of our sailors had been strafed while on an errand just outside our walls. A group of us went out to investigate and discovered that he had been blown into the waters of the Bay. We hauled him out and took the corpse back to the base. It was the most mutilated body I had ever seen.

By mid-April, our Special Attack Unit had begun instrument flight training. The navigator and the pilot had to work together to make sure we would be able to reach our targets in the dark. We trained during the day, with the navigator in the rear seat of the cockpit, covered with a dark cloth to blot out his view. It was his job to work with the instruments and call out guidance to the pilot. On one training run, with a cadet as the navigator, we were headed for Katori Naval Base, northeast of Tokyo. It was such a long mission that we had to land and refuel for the trip back to Tokyo. As I had a cup of tea while I waited, I noticed that an officer in a flight uniform was eyeing me. When I looked up, he came over and said, “Are you Imagawa from Matsuyama?”

When I said yes, he introduced himself. “I'm Norimasa Hayashi from Tokumura, on the opposite side of Matsuyama from where your family lives. My sister Nobue is married to your cousin Yukio Otani. I remember seeing you at the wedding about five years ago, but I don't think we were ever introduced.”

He was a dive-bomber. It was a great pleasure to see a friendly face from home. Time was short. We shook hands and wished each other well, before I headed back to my plane and the waiting cadet. We were back at home base in an hour and a half. By the end of the year, I had learned that Norimasa carried out his mission on August 9, just days before the end of the war. My cousin's wife is mourning him to this day.

In mid-May rumors began to circulate that the Tokyo NAC would be relocated. Evacuation had seemed inevitable for a while: B-29 incendiary carpet bombing was a nightly affair, and the planes from American carriers were strafing and bombing almost daily, making training impossible. There were even rumors of submarines lurking in Tokyo Bay. One morning in the last week of May, Commander Fujimura announced that the Tokyo NAC was moving outside the city and would be absorbed by the Kasumigaura Naval Air Corps on June 1. The Commander was retiring and would return to civilian life. As he stood before all of us, he said, with genuine sorrow, “I am saddened that I will not be with you when you depart on your last missions.”

On
June 1, I flew one of the planes to Kasumigaura. The navigators and the pilots who didn't have planes took the train. The ground crew had the big job of moving everything else and getting it all accomplished in three days.

Kasumigaura is the name of Japan's second-largest lake, which is located about thirty miles northeast of Tokyo. The Japanese Navy built its first airbase on a plateau south of the lake in 1922. By 1945, it was known as the “Eagle's Nest,” and thousands of pilots, both officers and NCOs, had been trained there. Many had already gone to their missions. We joined the several Kasumigaura squadrons that were training, beginning the day after we arrived, and we soon settled into a new routine.

A few days into July, we heard the air raid siren and moved the planes to secure concrete hangars. Because we were so far inland, we were confident we were safe, and sat on the grass at the edge of the tarmac, talking. Suddenly, a group of five or six carrier-based fighters flew in very low from the west, headed straight for the airfield. There was nothing we could do but fall flat on our stomachs. The bullets swept alongside where I was lying—in perfectly straight rows. A flick of the pilot's wrist or a slip of his foot and he would have gotten all of us. As the fighters flew away eastward and we thought it was safe to get up, one of them dropped what we thought was a bomb. We hit the ground again and covered our ears. We waited and waited, but no explosion. Finally, we went to explore. It was an auxiliary fuel tank, not a bomb. Its smell gave us one more piece of information: the enemy was still using the real thing. We had long since switched to gasoline mixed with alcohol produced from sweet potatoes. As we were inspecting the fuel tank, we heard desperate shouts from the woods around the airfield and realized that a group of cadets who had taken cover there had been hit. The raid left us with losses at Kasumigaura and at the neighboring Tsuchiura Naval Air Corps. The next day, there was a joint funeral service. There wasn't enough space for the thirty coffins to be set out properly, so they were stacked up, with blood from a few of them seeping down to stain those below. The Commander of Tsuchiura spoke about avenging the dead cadets by defeating the enemy. I doubt that any of us had much conviction that that was possible.

I will
always remember July 29, and am sure many others hold similar memories. As we ate that evening, we heard the B-29s passing overhead. They were headed north for the city of Mito. We couldn't hear the raid, but we could see the city in the distance as it dissolved into flame. We watched until about midnight, with the usual mixture of awe, dread, and frustrated anger. We finally went to bed, but shortly thereafter the PA blared, “All hands, prepare for Operation Ketsu.” We couldn't believe our ears. Ketsu was the code-word for the mobilization of the entire military against enemy invasion of the mainland. With the others, I ran to the conference room of the underground base headquarters, questions racing through my head. As we crowded into the room, Commander Wada began to speak. An enemy fleet had been spotted off the coast of the Boso Peninsula. From the large number of vessels involved, Naval intelligence judged it to be an invasion force. All Army and Navy bases in the area were to participate in a dawn attack. “Even those of you flying slower planes will be able to reach your targets in about half an hour. Return to your quarters and get your belongings in order. Report back at 0300.”

Walking back, I said to myself, this is what you've been training for, what you've waited for. This is it. But by the time I reached my room, I was a welter of emotions. Was I scared? Maybe. After dawn, no more cherry trees to see, no more parents to care for, no more friends to chat with, no more.…

I pulled open my drawer and took out my letters from Mother and Father and Michiko. I had read them so often that I knew many passages by heart. We would all be valiant, but might not be able to prevent an invasion. Enemy invaders shouldn't be able to get their hands on these. No one should think that a Naval Officer was such a sissy, saving all his letters, as if they were precious jewels. But I couldn't bring myself to destroy them; instead I put them in my cloth shoe sack, tied it, and wrote “Burn” on it. I straightened up the room and dressed in my flight uniform, wrapping Michiko's
senninbari
around my throat before putting on my jacket. I gave a salute—perhaps a farewell—to no one and nothing in particular before I left the room.

Walking back to the base headquarters, I found myself utterly calm. The night was black, the sky full of glittering stars. There was still a red glow in the sky to the north. I thought of Mother, Father, and Michiko.
Samazama no koto omoidasu
. So much to remember. And only this time now and this place here to do that remembering. As I neared the headquarters, I joined others streaming back, everyone fully suited up. I made myself focus on my mission to crush the enemy, to protect the homeland.
I'll hit the biggest transport ship I can find. I'll take as many invaders' lives as I can. And I have to get my squad to the targets before Lieutenant Yamauchi gets his there. We have to outdo the Naval Academy graduates.
By the time I entered the building for our final briefing, fear had vanished. I felt not a speck of regret; I was feeling only excitement.

We were assigned our planes and told the takeoff order would be conveyed by phone because planes were scattered all over the base in secured concrete hangars. I had to walk clear to the other side of the airfield to reach my plane. There was a tremendous amount of activity all around me. As I passed an elderly officer addressing a group of seamen, I heard him say, “Go out to nearby farm houses and confiscate all the foodstuffs you can find—rice, vegetables, chickens, anything.” Things were grim. Now I understood why civilians had been trained to fight the enemy with plows, hoes, and bamboo spears. But what would they do for food? Would the military feed them?

When I arrived at my plane, the navigator was already there, supervising the preparatory work. A large bomb, about 500 pounds, was fitted to the fuselage. The gas tanks were filled halfway—that was all we needed to reach our targets.
But what if it's cloudy and we can't find our targets?
And just as quickly as I had that thought, I realized that I wasn't supposed to be thinking like that at this point.

The phone rang. The order for takeoff already?

No, all pilots and navigators were to return to headquarters immediately. No explanation. We hurried back to learn that the operation was called off. Even the top brass did not know why. A few days later we learned that the red alert had been called when radar showed so many blips that the intelligence analysts decided that an invasion was imminent. Only after the operation had begun did the experts realize that the radar was picking up tin foil dropped off Boso Peninsula by the B-29s on their way home to their Tinian and Saipan bases after the Mito bombing. A false alarm.

Every year since then, even now, many years later, July 29 brings back memories, vivid and intense.
Samazama no koto
.…

We
had left Tokyo for Kasumigaura, but it soon became clear that even this far outside the city there was no safety. There were no more direct attacks on the base, but air raids continued every night, and the other bases nearby were attacked. Early in August, we received orders that the entire training unit would be moved to Chitose Air Base in Hokkaido, on the northernmost island. This time I would be the senior officer in the group on the move, so I had to travel with the cadets by train. We began our trip on my twenty-third birthday, August 14.

———

Gen looked up when he finished. His grandmother was sitting still, her needlework neglected in her lap. She said, “Thank you, my dear,” but then fell silent.

After sitting with her for a few moments, Gen said, “Gran?” softly. When there was no response, he got up and went to his room.

Michiko was thinking about the last days of the war and travel by train.

Haruyama, 1945

“Michiko,” Keiko said,
tugging at her sleeve, “Haruyama is next. We have to start working our way out.”

“Mmm,” was all Michiko managed in response. Crammed in all the way from Kyoto, she had been napping on her feet.

The train lurched around a curve, brushing against the bare branches of the trees crowding up against the tracks. Keiko fell into her friend. After a pause, the train started to climb again. “Oh, this is going to be hard,” Keiko said as she turned away from Michiko and began to move forward.

Michiko followed; they worked their way up the aisle of the train, pushing past others who were standing, and climbing over those who were collapsed and asleep on the floor.

“Close it! It's cold,” came a chorus of shouted complaints when they opened the door. Three of the people crammed between the cars rushed past them into the warmth of the car. The mountain air brought Michiko fully awake. Swaying over the couplings, she inhaled deeply.
It was only yesterday that I decided to do this. It's a real leap off Kiyomizudera, but it has to be better than Matsuyama.

At
noon the day before Michiko had stood in the cafeteria looking at the notice just posted on the bulletin board. The Director had told them to expect official word within a week, but there it was already: the Arsenal was closing. Behind her, the slow, thick hometown accents of the Matsuyama girls floated above the general hum of conversation. They were talking about how to manage the trip home: fretting that it would be impossible to get on trains from Kure, and concluding that, if they had to, they could just walk to Hiroshima's port. “I want to get home, but I'm worried. Will we be safe out on the open water?” said Se-chan.

As she listened, the only thought that came to Michiko was
Why go back?
There was nothing for her in Matsuyama. Keiko was right. Her friend had been saying for more than a month that she expected they would be sent home. The ten hour days on the production line, the nights of falling exhausted into the bunks in the dormitory, damp from the bath, but still dirty because there wasn't enough hot water for everyone, were over. In the fall, the shifts had been reduced to eight hours. After the bleak and cheerless New Year holiday, the shifts had officially been six hours, but most days the girls were sent back to the dorm an hour or two after they reported to the factory floor. The work had dwindled away to nothing, although the smell of cordite remained. Keiko said she hated having that sharp smell overwhelm her when she was hungry. And now it was clear that the Arsenal had no more materials, nothing at all to give the girls to work with.

Michiko didn't notice that Keiko had come and was standing next to her until she heard her friend say, “I knew it. The Navy has no reason to feed us ‘volunteers' if we're not working.

“
‘A security measure. Kure Arsenal closing, but full production continuing at all other facilities around the country
,'” she went on, mimicking the Director's tone in his special speech after dinner the night before as he mouthed the bureaucratic euphemisms. “Hah! Ridiculous.”

“Come on. Let's eat while we can,” she said, giving Michiko a shove toward the cafeteria line. “Interesting that the bosses are nowhere to be seen today, isn't it?” she said as she snatched bowls of soup and plates of pickles and put them on her tray and the one she had handed Michiko.

“No one here today but us and the poor staff. I wonder if they've all scattered,” she went on, lapsing into the Director's pompous voice again.

The cafeteria worker serving the main courses laughed out loud and said, “You can be sure they've skedaddled. Them's the types to take care of theirselves and leave us here with nothing but a mess.” She winked at Michiko as she reached to place an extra plate of fish on her tray. “You share that with your friend now, Missy,” she said, her face crinkled into wrinkles around full dark eyes.

Keiko and Michiko sat down near the Matsuyama group. Se-chan turned her head; the Matsuyama girls drew closer together and dropped their voices to whispers. This was the way it had been since Keiko first did her impersonation of the Director; Michiko had laughed but the rest of the Matsuyama group had been shocked, and had distanced themselves as best they could. Keiko was a troublemaker; it just wouldn't do to associate with her.

Keiko gave Michiko a big smile as she called down the table, “Hey, Se-chan, how are you today? How soon are you all going to leave? Won't it be good to get out of this place and go home?”

When she got no answer, Keiko turned back to Michiko. “What a bunch of empty-headed bumpkins. They did just as the Director told them; they pretended that the blackouts and all those trips to the air raid shelter never involved any real danger, while we sat here in a tinderbox surrounded by munitions. And now that the precious Director is nowhere to be found and they're on their own, they're suddenly worried about the ferry being bombed.” She looked at the group again and waved at one of the girls, who had flashed a quick look over her shoulder. Sighing, she said, “Actually, none of this stuff about the old hometown is sounding good, is it?”

Michiko smiled, but couldn't think of what to say. She drifted back to her parent's shop on
Okaido,
leaving Keiko behind and letting the Matsuyama accents fade into the background.

“Michiko,” Keiko said, “stop daydreaming and pay attention. It's what I've been telling you since the New Year—you should come home with me. It'll be fine. Matsuyama's too far, the trip will be too dangerous, and when you get there, what will you do, where will you live,
how
will you live with the memories and the sorrow?”

Keiko's words snapped Michiko back to the Arsenal's cafeteria, to the chipped gray paint of the walls, the worn wooden tables, the smell of steamed barley and cheap
miso,
and the clattering noises from the kitchen. She blinked, cleared her eyes, and focused on the dust motes drifting in one of the streams of light from the high windows. “All right,” she said. “Shall we go tomorrow morning?”

They
left before dawn. Kure station was empty and looked abandoned in the gray beginning of the winter day. “It'll take all day if we have to walk all the way,” said Keiko.

“But there's nothing else to do,” said Michiko, and they set off for Hiroshima, staying parallel to the train line.

As it grew lighter, they realized that they were walking through fields of rubble and past skeletons of vast factories. When it was light enough to see well, they stopped for breakfast, eating part of what they had taken from the pantry.

When she finished eating Keiko stood, squared her shoulders, held her hand out for her friend, and said, “All those air raid drills, all those trips to the shelters. I guess we were lucky that they didn't let us off the Arsenal's grounds. We were living in happy ignorance, weren't we?” Waving her hand at the desolate landscape all around them, she said, “Now we can see how lucky we are to be alive at all. How many people were lost here? How many more before it's over? It really is time to get away from the coast, out of the city. We'll be safe in the mountains.”

After two hours of walking they were able to squeeze onto a train at a tiny station from which it took only a half hour to Hiroshima station. The train from Hiroshima was crowded, and the smaller one they switched to at Kyoto was even more crowded and much slower as it climbed the mountains northeast of the ancient capital. At least the press of bodies—everyone wrapped in layers of patched and mismatched winter clothes—had made it warm.

It
was almost dark when the train pulled into the tiny station in Haruyama. Keiko and Michiko stumbled to the platform and stood a moment to catch their breaths, their legs unsteady. The train slowly started up again. The station employee on duty turned to Keiko and greeted her by name.

“Kawamura-san,” said the short, stocky man with a big smile on his round face. “We didn't know you were coming home.”

“Ogawa-san,” Keiko said, the relief of finally being off the train evident in her voice, “it's so good to be home. Thank you. This is my friend Michiko. Michiko Shizuyama. She's come to stay with us.”

Keiko led her friend through the village, and the two young women climbed a sloping path to an old house tucked below a hill. Even though it was really too cold to be outdoors, and there was only the last wash of light in the sky, a woman was sitting on the huge, flat stone that served as the doorstep for the house. She jumped up and ran to Keiko.

“Mama, they sent us home, and I brought my friend Michiko. I wrote you about her.”

Keiko's mother pulled her daughter into a tight hug, laughed, and then began crying. Somehow, Michiko wasn't sure how, she too ended up in the warm embrace of the older woman. When they separated, Keiko's mother said, “I knew something was drawing me outside. I knew I was waiting for something.”

Michiko tried to express her gratitude, but she only got as far as saying “Kawamura-san, I'm so worried about imposing on you.”

Keiko's mother said, “No, Michiko, that's much too formal. You're here with us now. You're part of our family. You're one of my daughters as long as you're with us. Maybe ‘Auntie Kazue' will do, but I'm definitely not ‘Kawamura-san' to you.”

“Yes, Kazue Obasan,” said Michiko, trying it out.

“Well, that's settled,” laughed Keiko and then shouted with joy as her younger twin sisters and little brother spilled out of the house and danced around the three women.

“Big sister is home! Big sister is home.”

The girls giggled and climbed into their sister's arms as the boy jumped up at her side, “What did you bring us?”

“Come, all of you. We must introduce Michiko to Granny,” said Kazue Obasan. Everyone trooped into the house. Granny was standing on the wooden floor just above the
genkan
.

“So Keiko's back,” she said.

“Yes, Granny, and I've brought my friend Michiko Shizuyama with me. She's going to stay with us.” Granny nodded and narrowed her eyes as she inspected Michiko, but she didn't say a word before turning and walking toward the large room with soft
tatami
straw mats in the center of the house.

Michiko was still smiling and bowing at Granny's back when she heard Keiko start to lie. “No, Mama, we ate a big breakfast and then had meals on the trains. These are for everyone else,” she said as she took dried fish and barley from her satchel. Michiko emptied the food she had in her
furoshiki
and pulled out the three apples she had stashed in her pockets. She smiled as she handed them over to Kazue Obasan. Looking at her friend's face, Michiko knew that Keiko too was remembering their raid on the Arsenal's scant pantry. “What are they going to do if they catch us?” Keiko had whispered. “Force us to work day and night making munitions?”

Kazue Obasan, who was looking closely at her daughter, laughed, and Michiko laughed too. Then, with a hint of sorrow overlaying her amusement, Kazue Obasan said, “You two are too much, and all this wonderful food is too much. Thank you.”
She understands everything, and she's at peace.

They
all sat in the
tatami
room around the family's
kotatsu.
They were bundled against the cold, and everyone huddled together under the quilts spread on top of the table, with their feet dangling over the embers of the fire in the sunken hearth. Keiko's little sisters snuggled in between the two young women, Kazue Obasan sat beside Keiko, and Granny kept the boy at her side. Kazue Obasan served
hojicha
roasted tea, a rare treat, and promised the children the food from Kure for dinner the next day. “You've already had your dinner. After we finish our tea, you have to go to bed. I want to catch up with Keiko and get to know her friend.”

When Kazue Obasan asked Michiko and her daughter what time they had started from Kure in the morning, Granny interrupted. “What I want to know is what you did wrong.”

“Granny,” said Kazue Obasan.

“No,” she said, “the two of them. I want to know what they did wrong. Why were they dismissed?”

“Granny, nothing,” said Keiko, “the Arsenal closed. Production is shifting to other areas.”

“If you hadn't done something wrong you would have been transferred to one of those other facilities. Supporting the war effort is what you young people should be doing. That's your job now, and it's your duty.”

“Granny, they just sent us home. We didn't do anything wrong. Michiko and I were always in the group awarded bonus points for productivity. That's why we brought all this food. They told us they have nothing for us to do and told us to go.”

“My Masao did his duty,” Granny said, looking across the room at the portrait on the mini Buddhist altar atop a cabinet. “Your father was a hero. You should follow his example. I know your brother will,” she said, pulling her grandson closer to her but keeping her eyes ­focused on the altar. “You're going to be an army officer too, aren't you, sweetie?”

The little boy leaned into his grandmother and smiled. He was old enough to know that no answer was necessary. Kazue Obasan poured more tea. The old woman continued, “Your father's a hero. You should be honoring him!”

When Kazue Obasan started to get up, Granny waved her hand in annoyance, upsetting her tea cup. “Not you!” she snapped. “Let his daughter show her respect. She should have done that as soon as she set foot in this house. Let her explain to him why she's not doing what she should.”

Keiko got up and crossed the room to the altar while her mother went to the kitchen to get a towel. Keiko was bowing her head to the portrait of her father as her mother bowed over the dark table to mop up the tea that had settled into the crevices of the old wood. Keiko lit a stick of incense, struck the small bell that sat next to the photograph and whispered, “Papa, I'm home. We miss you so much.”