Burial in the Clouds (23 page)

Rest in peace, Fujikura. I, too, was utterly exhausted today, both mentally and physically. I decided to excuse myself early from the wake to get some sleep, so as to be sharp during training flights tomorrow.

March 3

Tunneling work. We're digging an air-raid shelter in the hillside on the other side of the river. There will be eight chambers in total, about a hundred meters deep, with passages connecting them. A medical ward, a barracks, and corridors, all of it underneath the earth. Someday we will live in this hole. The soil is soft here, so we can dig out as much as four meters a day, but ten workers spoil the air all too quickly. They really need to see to it that this space has sufficient ventilation if they ever mean to use it as a medical ward.

We spent half the day yesterday cremating Fujikura's body in a stretch of pine trees along the Yakkan River. At five in the afternoon we gathered his ashes. Obviously the fire burned too hot, as the bones had crumbled into tiny pieces. We gathered them up carefully. Fujikura is treated as having died in the line of duty, so he will receive a posthumous promotion to the rank of lieutenant junior grade.

Because he majored in Japanese literature, Sakai was asked to compose a poem in tribute to the deceased. He brooded for a while and came up with what sounds like a haiku: “So-and-so / Gathering ashes / On the day of the Doll's Festival.” He says he just can't find the right words for the first line. In the end, we agreed we had better pick out something from the
Manyoshu,
and as we were browsing through it we received a telegram from Kashima. Coincidentally, he had sent in a
Manyo
poem, too.

I had no way to go and see him.

May clouds gather over Ishikawa

So that I can, at least, gaze at them

And cherish his memory.

We also chose a poem on Hitomaro from the elegies in the second volume, and copied it down in ink on a sheet of the lined paper that the navy uses. We laid this out for Fujikura, along with Kashima's telegram. Some of the men offered navel oranges, eight of which were rationed to each of us today. Fujikura's parents are supposed to arrive tomorrow.

March 15

While I've been neglecting this diary, the river has risen, and the cherry blossoms on the base are now one-fifth in bloom. The larks chirp constantly, wheeling up and down over the barley fields. Fujikura's accident slides into the past. Fortunately, we are blessed with a capacity for oblivion.

From the cockpit I enjoy a little world of spring. Our flight today was longer than usual, so we carried along a urine bag. It wasn't easy at first; I wasn't used to it and had to work myself up into a weird posture. But in the end it felt good. Below me lay green fields of barley, and I saw the white wakes of the small fishing boats. The air is somewhat hazy. I felt a bit like looping the loop.

However, the Type-97 carrier attack bomber offers nothing to protect the pilot besides a seatbelt. We do stow a parachute under us like a cushion, with the ripcord tied to the seat. But as the instructors have indicated (“Listen, guys,” they say, “don't expect it to open”), this arrangement rarely works as it should if you have to bail out. The windshield sits right in front of your face. If you bang to a halt, breaking the landing gear or something like that, your forehead slams into the glass, killing you for sure. Come to think of it, it's amazing they train us in these planes, and with defective fuel to boot.

When we wrapped up for the day, we were told to expect a Sunday schedule tomorrow. This means a day of liberty. After that, operations keep us confined to base until May 1st. We returned to the barracks, quacking like ducks. There we learned that Osaka was raided last night by some ninety B-29s. The newspaper ran a picture: A rainstorm of firebombs cascaded down, flames trailing along behind them. Supposing the payload of a B-29 to be ten tons, and judging by the range from which this raid was launched, for each household in Osaka there must have been four, five, or even ten firebombs. Abeno, Tenno-ji, and Sumiyoshi Wards were completely incinerated. The damage yesterday, as well as the devastation of the March 10 raid on Tokyo, is said to match that of the Great Kanto Earthquake of 1923.

I'm getting concerned about my family. And I'm also concerned about the civilian population in general, wondering whether or not they will manage to pull through when they are hard-pressed to meet even the barest needs and begin to doubt their own prospects. I have a feeling that if we start falling apart now, there will be no stopping it, and if that's the case, I don't know what it is we're dying for.

The number ofB-29s our side reportedly shot down: a mere eleven.

March 22

An order to evacuate immediately came in on the 18th. We flew to Miho Air Station in Shimane Prefecture and just got back today. Reveille was at five thirty on the 18th, and with it came the call to man our stations. We formed in front of the field headquarters and stood by. Twenty of our land-based attack bombers took off shortly on a mission. A report had come in that an enemy task force of three regular aircraft carriers and two auxiliary carriers had appeared to the south of Cape Ashizuri, about two hundred nautical miles from this base.

At 0730, we returned to the barracks for breakfast, half of us at a time. At around 0930 news came in that our attack bombers had set one of the enemy carriers on fire. On the heels of this report came another, indicating that one hundred twenty Grummans were circling over the city of Oita. We were certain that it was our turn at last to make a sortie, but instead we received the order to evacuate to Miho, together with all our aircraft. They said we might encounter Grummans en route, in which case we should fall into air combat, or, as circumstances dictated, crash our planes into them. We wrote out brief farewell notes in a hurry, and at around 1210, thirty-six carrier attack bombers and thirty carrier bombers formed up and set out for Miho. landed safely, except for one bomber, which straggled behind and made an emergency landing along the way. Miho Naval Air Station is situated at a lovely spot near Lake Shinji and Nakano-umi, with a fine view of snow-capped Mt. Daisen.

It was right after we took off that Usa was hit. On our return four days after the raid the survivors told us how, at around one o'clock, they suddenly heard a strange roar. Four Grummans popped into view, already in a nosedive. They strafed the hangars and the Type-1 land attack bombers, diving to within ten meters of the ground. They came in so low they almost grazed the tails of the Type-1s before pulling out and flying away. They were very nimble indeed, we were told. From the vicinity of the field headquarters, our side fired 7.7 millimeter machine guns like all fury, but the 7.7 is nothing in the face of the enemy's 13.7 millimeter guns. What really put up stiff resistance was an army aircraft called the Hien, which engaged the enemy in a three-cornered dogfight. It fought splendidly throughout the raid. Still, the flock of Grummans got away more or less unscathed. They circled leisurely as they gathered, and then they flew away. Following this came more attacks, at around two, and then again at half past three. The enemy planes had totally free rein as they flew in from the southwest out of a glaring sun. Their rocket artillery had the Type-1s blazing away, one after another, the hangars were in flames, the Ohka was never able to get off the ground, the switchboard failed, and we had a crop of martyrs. Those who had set out, leaving behind their farewell notes, survived, every one of them, while those who stayed were killed. By the time we came back, all the bodies had been cremated on the riverbank in fires stoked with airplane fuel. Their ashes were already laid out. The men returning from Miho tore up the notes they had left, with a wry grin.

I went out to the airfield for a walk. Few Tenzans escaped the bullets. I made my way to the end of the runways. Ripe horsetails covered the fields, which gave off the fresh scent of spring grass. What appeared to be a local farmer's wife and her daughter were heading home, carrying a coarsely woven basket full of horsetails.

“It's all right. Can I help you?” I asked, concerned that they might think I'd come to shoo them away. “Thank you,” they said, “but we've already called it a day. It looks like rain.” Indeed, it soon began to mist. I stood alone on the empty airfield, gazing from a distance at the land-based attack bombers, with their wings crumpled by rocket fire, and at the burnt-out engines that lay scattered around, abandoned. A feeling of desolation overcame me, as if I were on an ancient battlefield.

The banner of the Ohka's Nonaka Unit is gone. “Glory to the Sutra of the Lotus of the Supreme Law,” it had said, borrowing a phrase from the Nichiren Buddhists. I was told that the unit had advanced to Kanoya, from which place they are today supposed to mount an attack on two enemy task forces, three hundred sixty nautical miles south of the base. The Ohka men always had an air of gloom about them. On the other hand, the crews of the land-based attack bombers that carry them possess the hearts of lions. Their valor is unparalleled. Sometimes I think I could never match them in a million years of effort. About a dozen Type-1s will set out in the morning, each hugging an Ohka. The wear-and-tear on the mother planes is extreme. On any given raid, half of them are shot down, and the remainder hobbles back after releasing their Ohkas, perforated by bullets. The men eat lunch and set out again, hugging another Ohka. A few hours later a few of them return, with still more bullet holes. The men never crow about their exploits or demand any special consideration. They simply rest for a spell and take to the skies again, toward evening. Until all of them are lost.

It's hard to say which is the more trying, to be the Ohka attacker who sorties never to come back, or to be the attack bomber pilot who carries him. But surely it is no ordinary thing, or so it seems to me, to keep setting out and coming back, like a pilot on some commuter run, until you die.

Our comrades on Iwo-jima have finally perished, in the last ditch effort. It happened at midnight on March 17, I hear. Reports say they killed or wounded seventy-three percent of the enemy's landing force, thirty three thousand men in total, and that they earned us a precious month to prepare for the defense of mainland Japan. The question is whether or not this is the whole story. What did we do to assist the desperate fight that the officers and men made on that island? Could it be that all we really managed to give them was a pep talk, sent in by radio? Isn't the bottom line that we left them in the lurch, without being able to do anything about their situation? At times I think that their fate will be ours also.

March 24

Reveille at 0530. The enemy has attacked Okinawa. An order was given to seven carrier attack bombers to stand ready. The time for us to make our special attack mission finally nears.

The Ohka attacks of the Jinrai Unit failed, with more than 500 Grummans intercepting them. Not one of our fighter planes, sent along for cover, returned. The leader of the raid, Lieutenant Commander Goro Nonaka, died in action. I hear the enemy has given the Ohka the code name BAKA, or fool. I really wish we could somehow show them what the determined soul of a fool is like. I simply don't know what to say.

At four o'clock, the commander addressed us in the lecture hall. But enough already about the “national crisis” and the “sacred cause,” we will do what we are supposed to do, without all the talk. Who granted the recon students those excessive flights? Who gave them fuel, granted them a homecoming leave after graduation, and got us in this mess? If only our commanders had allowed us even one hundred hours in the air, we would be much less anxious, ready to embark without a moment's notice. We are resigned to do our duty, green though we may be, but not out of loyalty to the military clique in the Imperial Navy. I take to heart what somebody declared after our sumo match.

March 26

American troops have begun landing on the Kerama Islands. Five battleships and twenty destroyers are blasting away at Okinawa, and their main task force seems to be positioned in the eastern waters. The surviving crewmen from our Type-1 group have all set out. Word is that a standby order was also given to the Ginga and Tenzan Units.

The newspaper carried an article about the Shincho Special Attack Force that assaulted the U.S. fleet at its anchorage in Ulithi. The article doesn't come right out and say so, but it looks like these attacks involved “human torpedoes” fired from submarines. More than half of the crewmen on those torpedoes had once been student reserves. Do the officers from the Naval Academy still regard us as monkeys?

At lunchtime, I received a letter from my father. Learned that our house was safe. A great relief.

This afternoon, we went out to Yokkaichi on air defense operations. If you walk around to the back of the operations area and climb over a rise, you see a dreamscape, a beautiful fold of hills. Overlapping mountains melt into the spring mist in the distance, and the knolls roll off into orchards. Houses with red plum blossoms, hemp fields, pine woods. Tall pampas grass glows in the sun. Bush warblers twitter as they toss freely about, not in the least bit wary of human beings. Along the branch of a buttonwood tree, a bunting basks in the mild sun. The oleasters already bear fruit, though it is not yet ripe. The Yabakei Gorge is probably a ways back in this direction. The water quivers as loach swim in the rice fields. At the base, too, schools of crucian carp and roach teem in the ditches by the field headquarters. For some reason, the contrast between the natural tranquility of these scenes and the fierce desperation of battle seems so unreal.