Burial in the Clouds

January 25 (Continued from Yoshino’s diary)

Our training flights resumed today.

We use alcohol fuel, which takes considerable nerve. I tossed and turned last night, my sleep interrupted frequently by dreams. No doubt anxiety about the fuel is at the bottom of it.

A number of carrier attack bombers and carrier bombers are making trial runs in front of the field headquarters. Three Type-96 carrier bombers particularly got into my brain, as they kept up a good roar right nearby. I had to endure a constant pressure in my head, which grew heavy, as if I were holding the whole world on top of it. It wasn’t much of a thrill.

Mutual flight. I climbed into the rear seat of Ensign W.’s plane. Truly, it’s been a long while since I last flew. The cloud index was eight. The wind was strong, with a velocity of some ten meters per second, and the direction shifted frequently from west to northwest, and then to the north. But how rusty my skills are! First, I forgot about the flap. I couldn’t attend to the tabs. The winds only made matters worse. The plane bounced up and down and waggled, speed fluctuating wildly. I got nauseated. How pathetic! It wasn’t just me, though.

“The damn thing wouldn’t go my way! I had no idea I’d so completely lost my touch!” That’s about all you heard as everyone tottered out of the planes, quite beside themselves. I asked what route they took, but no one seemed to have the slightest idea. We were all soundly rebuked, but I really wish the officers wouldn’t lecture us about our deteriorating performance when they’ve kept us grounded for two and a half months. The recon students enjoy two flights a day, morning and evening, and on regular fuel, too, while we carrier attack bombers attached to the special attack force fly every other day, and on alcohol. Nobody blinks at this bizarre state of affairs. It is not fair to compare our skills to theirs. But we will catch up to them, alcohol fuel or no. And we will learn enough to take us to the place where we mean to die.

Had a bath at 1900. The water was good and hot. I scrubbed my body with soap, which I haven’t done for some time. As I got out, I gazed into the mirror and found myself looking pretty grave. You cocky bastard, loosen up a little! I said to myself, and I made some silly faces, pulling my cheeks, and poking out my lips, until my clownish mug made me a little melancholy. I heard somebody laughing. Through the bathroom window I could see the moon, hanging warped in the sky. I ate an orange, smoked a Hikari, and finished a leftover soda, and then sank into a sound sleep.

February 1

Flew in the morning. I’m beginning to get a sense of the air again. The winds were light. The thin, silver line of the Yakkan River, the Sea of Suo, the Kunisaki Peninsula, Beppu Bay off to the south—it all looked hazy, giving me the feeling of spring. I’ve managed to make a bit of room in my heart to enjoy the bird’s-eye view. The rain came in this afternoon, putting an end to flights for the day. It kept up well into the night.

During the course on combat tactics we learned that the Ginga turned out to be pretty useless, falling well short of expectations. It was a real letdown. The Type-1 land-based attack bomber earned the nickname “Cigar” for its shape, but nowadays, seeing as how it so readily catches fire, everybody just calls it a “Match.” But even so, some Ginga crews purportedly say they prefer the Type-1, as their plane has proved so difficult to maintain and is forever getting them into accidents. This account accords with what we so often witnessed at Izumi.

The U.S. has occupied the air base at Clark Field, north of Manila, and at the end of January a total of some two hundred enemy warships and transports arrived at this strategic zone in the Philippines. I doubt whether we actually have two hundred aircraft left in all the Philippines. The situation is such that even if every single Japanese plane plunges into an enemy vessel and sinks it, we are still outnumbered. They say we now possess fewer than five aircraft carriers, and this figure includes our smaller auxiliary carriers. None of them ever puts out to sea, though, as fuel has to be conserved, and the crews have yet to complete their training. Only a few weeks ago we sat through a lecture on carrier takeoff and landing protocols. At the time I thought the lecture pointless, and indeed, the navy is shot through with hit-or-miss training and willy-nilly strategies. America is said to possess some eighty aircraft carriers, and they are about to commission three new forty-five thousand ton class vessels capable of carrying medium attack bombers. Well, we will mark out a line of defense along the shore of mainland Japan, and there we will annihilate the enemy, at a blow; we no longer need any aircraft carriers. That’s the logic on our side, but it all sounds like sour grapes to me. I hear our Japanese comrades are struggling to complete air bases in Formosa and in southern Kyushu, but with hoes and pickaxes they are making extremely slow progress, whereas the U.S. military can complete the same task in three days using its bulldozers and dump trucks. Also, I hear the signs indicate that a major enemy task force will advance toward mainland Japan within two weeks. As for our situation, it looks like mass production of the Ryusei, the Shiden, and the Renzan won’t get into gear until May or June.

“When May rolls around they’ll probably tell us ‘not until July or August,”’ the tactics instructor said, spilling the beans, evidently half in despair. He spared us the usual talk about “that’s why you must steel yourself with do-or-die resolution, blah-blah-blah.” Felt all the more uncanny for it.

There are three young trainees who predict the future using a planchette. About once a week, we call them in and ask all kinds of questions. You have to be serious, though, if you actually expect an answer. They position a plate atop three interlocked chopsticks and summon the spirits. The chopsticks rattle, the plate flutters, and with that the prophesying begins. So far they’ve managed to find a few lost items, but today they prophesied that the greater East Asian war will end on April 23, Showa 22 (1947), with a victory for Japan. Incidentally, there is talk that a freak cow was born in Hiroshima, with a human face and the body of a beast. I saw the picture, and indeed, the creature has a very human look about it, with its high nose, like a pensive old man. The body, however, is undoubtedly a cow’s. In any case, this freak cow purportedly spoke our language, and it said, just before dying, “After losing three battles, Japan will greet the end of the war in brilliant triumph.” Sakai, by the way, repeated the words of Admiral Saneyuki Akiyama at the Battle of Tsushima in 1905, which he stumbled across in some book: “Should Japan and America go to war, I can keep us in the running even if I lose Kyushu.” For his part, Fujikura is as sour as vinegar. Obviously, the freak cow and the planchette are simply too absurd for him. I myself can’t see how the present war situation could lead to a Japanese victory in April of Showa 22. Still, I can’t quite bring myself, like Fujikura, to sweep these prophecies aside as fakes, or as mere superstition.

Anyway, I guess I shouldn’t be wasting time with matters like these. Whether Japan wins or loses, we will already have perished. Suppose a man is stopping up holes in some embankment, one by one, when the murky water starts coming through. The moment he loses his faith is the moment everything washes away.

February 8

We flew yesterday. Alcohol fuel isn’t as bad as I had feared, and I’m gaining confidence. The airflow is good, and it’s easy to pull into the approach path. I fluffed it once, though, during my second flight. The movements of hands and feet are organically linked, and, given the speed at which everything must happen during takeoffs and landings, you can blow the whole thing with one little mistake.

“Come on, now. You’ll have to fly solo soon,” said Lt.jg S., repeatedly.

It started to snow. When you’re up in the air, the flakes strike your face with tremendous speed, and that, together with the pressure of the wind, hurt my throat a little. Once the snow began to pile up, flights were canceled, and we were placed on the Saturday schedule.

Liberty today. Yesterday’s snow froze over, and there was a distinct chill in the air. My shoes kept slipping on the ice, which made it a nuisance to walk. Three submarines lay at anchor in the Sea of Beppu, together with a submarine tender. One of them was huge, its gunwale curving up at the bow, which made it look more like a destroyer when viewed head-on. On the train we happened across a crowd of submariners. Their skin was brown with grime, and they stank to high heaven. Many more were at the inn in Kamegawa, and every one of them stank. I have nothing but respect for these men who have only just returned from a long and trying operation. Still, I have to say it, they really do stink. Because the inn was thronged with crewmen from the submarines, guys from our base, and also civilians, men and women bathed together. Well, the young women are certainly bold in Kyushu. It was embarrassing for me, and I felt awkward and strange.

From the train, I saw a big snowman in a stretch of snow on the western side of the tracks, dingy from the smoke of the locomotives.

The situation at the front in the Philippines is just retreat after retreat. U.S. troops reportedly charged into Manila on the 3rd, and I fear the city may be completely in their hands by now. The newspapers keep up their constant cry, “We have caused the enemy immense distress!” But the men at the front know they keep retreating without hurting the Americans much, the newsmen know it, and Imperial Headquarters knows it, too. In short, the whole country keeps saying “We have caused the enemy immense distress!” but nobody believes a word of it. I hear they are making bamboo spears round the clock in Tokyo, so as to inspire hostility toward the enemy and boost morale. At the same time, no underground bunkers have yet been constructed, either for the evacuation of civilians, or to protect our arsenal. The menu at Senbiki-ya has dwindled down to one item: oyako-donburi with a disproportionate amount of onion.

On the train back, we had a chat with an engineering outfit lately returned from the India-Burma border. All it takes is a few cigarettes to set them blabbing out everything they know. I was disgusted, even though we started it. The train was twenty minutes late, so we ran all the way from Yanagiga-ura Station. I slipped twice on the snow. Fujikura and Sakai slipped, too. Two Manyo poems about snow came to mind.

February 14

I pulled first shift as probational assistant officer of the day. Intelligence came in that an enormous enemy task force, with forty or fifty aircraft carriers at its core, had left its anchorage in the Marianas. We prepared for battle at six in the evening. Then, at 0400 this morning, we were placed on Defense Condition 2. The situation grew tense.

Afternoon flights were canceled. In order to clear the way for fifty Gingas to advance to this base, we moved the carrier attack bombers we use for training out to the off-field hangars. I wheeled aircraft #3 out, puncturing its tire as I forced it to taxi over the rough surface.

The 701st, 501st, and 708th Air Units stationed at this base are all special attack force units, and the petty officers of the 708th, who bunk in the drill hall, are beginning to show unmistakable kinks in their personality as they face death. Last night and again tonight, they got drunk and came over to the barracks, swagger sticks in hand, and told us that, seeing as how they are going to die tomorrow, we should show them a little more consideration. They repeated the phrase “We are going to die tomorrow” like blockheads, and started a scuffle with the whole lot of us students. It is no easy task to make good use of men like this, while leading them into death.

The flag of the Ohka bomber group flies next to the windsock at the field headquarters. Also up is a banner bearing the motto: “Reason above error. Tradition above reason. Power above tradition. Providence over all.” As we were told a while ago, the Ohka is the Japanese answer to the V-1 rocket, a small craft with stubby wings. It rides in the bay of a Type-1 land-based attack bomber until it is time to launch, at which point it leaves the plane, sending the signal · · · ― ·, or “Period,” and then it’s farewell to this world. It doesn’t matter if you run into trouble, there’s no coming back for a second try. The moment an Ohka leaves the mother plane everything reaches its end. The same goes for special attack force pilots. But the Ohka men are gloomy and warped, while the Ginga crews are sunny, and the crews of the Type-1’s just hang loose.

At night, the Gingas flew in and landed, one by one. In keeping with the blackout order, only the red hazard lights burned, as if to suggest the turn of fate.

February 16

No advance by the enemy task force yesterday. The sortie was canceled. No flights at all.

During flight training today, news poured in. Carrier-based planes raided the Kanto area, and Yokohama and Kono-ike Air Stations are both presently under attack. Ten land-based attack bombers were sent up at Kono-ike. The capital appears to be suffering blow after blow. Chichi-jima and Iwo-jima also suffered raids.

About twenty Type-96s advanced to this base from Toyohashi. Having mobilized some fifty land-based attack bombers, and an equal number of Gingas, Usa is set to become the largest single rendezvous point for special attack force aircraft. Still, the Ohka Units will not go out just yet. Obviously, they intend to draw the enemy in closer. In the early evening, eighteen Gingas took off, headed for Kanoya in Kagoshima Prefecture.

Some of us are to receive accelerated training, myself included. I thought a full year would pass before I died, but it looks now as if it will be a matter of months.

February 18

Got up at five and prepared to meet the enemy planes. The 501st Air Unit has been on standby since midnight. The motors were kept running all through the night. I felt the roar of the propellers in my gut. Ifl don’t brace for it, eyes wide open, I get nauseated. At ground level, the air is heavy and the resistance is stiff, and if you rev up the engines too much you overwork the pistons, which eventually cease to fire normally. Making a racket—pow! pow! pow!—they actually inhibit the spin of the propellers. The maximum limit at ground level is a zero millimeter boost. Zero out the lever and your eardrums all but burst.

At around noon, the crews assembled outside the field headquarters. The order to launch was issued at the report that the enemy had been sighted offshore at Cape Muroto and also at Ariake Bay. Our men will rally at Kanoya Air Station, and, a few hours later, proceed on their special attack missions. We exchanged farewell cups of water, and lined up at an angle along the airstrip to see the planes off, waving our caps. Eighteen Gingas bore the men away. Some waved their caps from the cockpit, others gave salutes. Those who took the trouble to taxi toward us before gliding on to the takeoff point, or who stood up in the front reconnoiterers’ seat, all appeared to be our predecessors from the 13th Class, men from Keio, Waseda, and Tokyo Universities. As they left the ground, the men thrust the tips of their hands from the signalman’s seat and waved to us, vigorously. The hands grew smaller and smaller as the planes gathered speed and quickly slipped out of sight. A tightness gripped my throat. Afterwards, we dispersed the remaining aircraft.

February 22

Turned out to be a disappointment. Four days have passed. Nothing happened.

On the 19th, we watched as the Gingas returned. We did hear reports that our side sank two enemy aircraft carriers, and also some battleships and cruisers, but I have to say these successes are insignificant. We never employed our main force after all. If we lay onto a mere handful of aircraft the responsibility of determining the nation’s fate, as if in an effort to put them to their best and highest use, then inevitably our strategy will be a passive one.

The enemy took a full swing before turning back. After receiving reports that their task force was moving, we have heard nothing at all. Ten thousand hostile men landed on Iwo-jima. Should the airfields on this island fall into American hands, Tokyo and Osaka will be within range of whole fleets of enemy fighters and bombers.

Last night’s snow piled up nearly ten centimeters high, but it’s the wet kind. The sun is strong and the air is warm. It’s a fair spring day, and I want to strip down a bit and bask in it. The season has arrived when (as a Manyo poet has it) “the brackens / By the waterfall / Burst into leaf.” G. says that the dandelions may be out. The larks are already singing. Kyushu isn’t half bad, I said to myself, and it’s not bad to be alive, either.

We had a snowball fight. This snow sure packs hard. We wrestled each other, of energy, and made a big snowman. Afterwards we dug up some fresh snow to eat with coffee syrup. Delicious.

Last night, the Ginga men went on a bender, guzzling that rationed sake called “Taiheiyo” (“The Pacific Ocean”). As they wound down, they flocked together and wept. This afternoon, one by one, they departed for Izumi, kicking up snow as they rose from the airstrip. We saw them off.

For the first time in ages, I got a letter from my aunt in Kobe. Brandishing the envelope, which bore her name, Hatsuko Miyoshi, in ink, the instructor demanded fifty sen. (We get fined every time we receive a letter from a woman.) “No,” I protested. “It’s from my aunt. She’s fifty-eight years old. I just contributed five yen the other day, when I hung my plane up on a pothole. Come on, just give me a break, will you?” He didn’t. I had to pay. My aunt says some one hundred B-29s raided Kobe on the 4th of this month, inflicting heavy damage. The Miyoshi residence, however, was safe.

March 1

Fujikura is dead.

It happened during training this morning. After I landed, Fujikura climbed into plane #6 for its third flight. Right after takeoff, though, he lifted the nose too high, sending the plane into a stall, and in a flash he had crashed, left wing first. I ran out to the spot. The control stick was embedded in his face, his eyeballs dangled down around his lips, and the back of his head, all whitish, was split open. He was dead, without much bleeding. The impact threw the engine ten meters away from the fuselage. The main left wing had been sheared away by the rocks, and the tail was shattered. At around 1027 on the morning of March 1, Showa 20, Fujikura ended his twenty-five years of life. Senior Aviation Petty Officer B., also on board, was rushed off to the medical ward on a rescue unit stretcher. His face was swollen to twice its normal size, and he suffered deep gashes, but it looks like he will survive. Murase and I stayed behind to tend to Fujikura’s body, while everybody else resumed their flights in the afternoon. Sakai stopped by later. After dinner, we held a wake for Fujikura in the lounge.

The winds blew in from the east today, bringing spring with them. We all took off our uniforms and changed into light and airy fatigues. Fujikura had been wearing a snow-white, open-neck shirt at morning assembly, and the image of it remains in my mind. I try not to let my feelings overcome me, but tears fill my eyes as scattered reminiscences of Fujikura flood my mind: The man who smuggled oranges in his gaiters and shared them with us on a day when we were allowed visitors but no food or drink back at Otake Naval Barracks. The man who, during our farewell party at the Fukais’ house, sang, with a straight face, a song titled “Draw the Lamp and Catch the Lice,” all the while gazing up at the ceiling. The man who so sternly rebuked me for having struck a petty officer by the swimming pool. The man who taught me the difference between a blue flag iris and a rabbit-ear iris at Kutai Temple during the Manyo trip we made in the spring of Showa 18 (after which we engaged in a day-long debate as to whether asthmaweed and horseweed are actually the same).

I don’t know how to handle the notices to his family, to Professors O. and E., and to the Fukais. In the meantime, I at least have to notify Kashima in Kawatana.

He had to die sooner or later, and in his case it’s not quite right to say he must regret having fallen before ever realizing his wish to go to the front. We had few opportunities during the last month or two to sit down and talk, even when we made an outing. As a matter of fact, Fujikura rather seemed to want to avoid talking, and it appeared that something had been troubling him. My guess is that he just couldn’t reconcile himself to the idea of embarking on a special attack mission, and that he agonized, unable to distract himself from it all, day after day. If that’s the case, I really should consider this accident a blessing in disguise, as an unlooked-for death took him before he ever had to face the real anguish.

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.

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 of B-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.

April 3

Last night, the Wake Squadron of the Go-oh Unit was ordered to make its first sortie. Lieutenant Fujii of the 10th Class (from the University of Tokyo) will lead the carrier attack bombers, and Lt.jg Ennamiji of the 13th Class (from Waseda University) will lead the carrier bombers. Two carrier bomber pilots from our class, Ensigns Ueno and Sugimoto, will also join the mission. Ueno is from Senshu University, and Sugimoto from Keio. Not a single name of a Naval Academy graduate appears on the list. The attack force consists entirely of reserve officers.

Alter the announcement, Lieutenant Fujii invited me to his room for a drink. He was outraged at the dirty tactics of the Academy graduates. Until very recently he had been in service overseas, and he was assigned to this station in order to get some rest. I can’t blame him for being infuriated at the orders. Apparently it’s pretty common practice in other units, too, for Academy graduates to stay behind on the pretext that they have to conserve their crews and aircraft. Baffling things happen in the navy.

At seven this morning, Lieutenant Fujii emerged, a new headband on his forehead and a saber in his hand, and climbed into his plane. It is painted green, and had been wiped clean. Not a word of complaint from him today. His last remark was, “Hug the earth and fall, each one of you.”

The crews had plucked sprigs from cherry trees and peach trees, and now placed them on the recon seats, or else attached them to their aviation caps. Next came the trial runs. The deafening roar seemed to overwhelm our emotions. I couldn’t hear a thing. The planes eased into a glide and formed on the apron. Shortly, Lieutenant Fujii stood up on the recon seat and raised his hand high. And with that, the men took off, heading either for Kushira or Kokubu, in Kagoshima. Some looked cheerful, while others had gone pale from the tension. Then all we could see were their hands, waving briskly from the planes, which slipped out of sight one by one. I pray they successfully reach their targets; there is nothing else to pray for. I couldn’t maintain my composure at all as I waved my cap to see them off.

And yet obviously I still consider it “somebody else’s affair” as I watch these men fly away. Apparently, that’s just how it goes. A little after half past seven this evening, during study session, Lt.jg T. dropped by the deck, his high boots making their percussive sounds. I looked up and noticed that he bore a small slip of paper in his hand. All of a sudden, my cheeks blazed. He was here to read the list of men named to the second special attack force. A hush enveloped the hall. The lieutenant read the list aloud, casually.

“Ensign Ikushima, Ensign Shirozaki, Ensign Furuichi, Ensign Sakai—”

There was a pause.

“These four men shall prepare themselves to depart at seven tomorrow morning.”

The men whose names had not been called puffed out sighs of relief I immediately looked at Sakai. Shirozaki stood next to him. Sakai was stiff in the face and upper body, as if electrified, and Shirozaki, tough sumo wrestler though he is, flushed red and went completely rigid. We needed to break the news to Furuichi, as he was out of the room. The men were granted a special overnight pass, which amounted to tacit permission to go out and whore. But even those who had been blossoming in that area didn’t dare leave the base tonight. At once, we prepared to drink to them. All are from the carrier bomber divisions. Lt.jg Tsuchiya is said to be leading the squadron.

Sakai came unglued and was so beside himself that at first I couldn’t look him squarely in the face. But after an hour or so, everyone, Sakai included, gradually started to loosen up. One fellow tried to compose a farewell haiku over a cup of sake, another started to write a goodbye note, still another stowed his gear.

“How do you write the characters for ‘riantly’?” asked the man writing the note. Shirozaki stood up, saying, “I’m gonna take a shit first,” and disappeared. Before long, Furuichi returned, panting for breath.

I diluted some coffee syrup with hot water to make a good strong cup of the stuff I carried it in to Sakai, who was writing a sheaf of letters to his family, to K., to Kashima, and to our professors back in Kyoto. He sipped the coffee appreciatively and said, “I wrote my farewell poem.” It went:

“You’re telling me not to wait much longer, aren’t you?” I said.

“Well, it’s not that exactly, but… Fujikura went first. You third. I don’t know what will become of Kashima, but, you know… well, follow me. Doesn’t have to be immediately.”

“You see, that is what you’re telling me.”

Sakai had regained enough spirit to share a laugh with me.

Went to bed a little past eleven. Slept in flight suits. Those who were chosen for this mission snored themselves into a deep sleep.

Today’s war results: Sank one aircraft carrier, two cruisers, two destroyers, and four more ships of types unknown. Sank or damaged fifteen ships in total.

April 5

Yesterday’s sortie was canceled due to rain.

It’s clear and sunny today. The cherry trees on the base are in full bloom. The men looked glamorous as they had their pictures taken under the blossoms, their cheeks rosy from a ceremonial cup of sake. Only two nights ago they looked so rigid, their faces distorted. But now, this morning, they all wore calm, beautiful expressions. This mission will involve twenty-three carrier attack bombers and eight carrier bombers. Every one of the men is radiant with youth.

We assembled, and, after a brief, conventional ceremony, were dismissed. Sakai gestured to me, as if to say, “Excuse me, please,” and ran toward his plane. In the fierce wash of the propeller, he ducked to dodge the antenna, his left hand shielding the sprig of a peach tree that his comrades had tucked into the back of his jacket, and then climbed into his seat. At seven o’clock, the lead plane left the apron, with Sakai following five minutes later. As he gazed back at the men on the ground, his face suddenly took on a tearful look. He let go of the control stick and hastily put on his goggles. His feelings resonated in my heart, clear and painful.

Departure. The men glided down the airstrip, gathering speed, and flawlessly lifted off. Soon they were mere dots against a blue sky. By seven thirty, all of the first and second groups had finished taking off

The situation on Okinawa seems to be dire. They say that two airfields are already in enemy hands. Purportedly, the U.S. has deployed fourteen hundred vessels for its operations around Okinawa. I simply don’t know whether Japan has any chance at all of recovering, or to what extent the answer rests on the shoulders of Sakai and other pilots like him. But after losing two friends, Fujikura and Sakai, I believe I am ready to die, with composure, at any moment.

April 6

At around half past two, I was calibrating the compass at the airfield when word came in of a radio message from our special attack crews. They set off from Kushira at fifteen-minute intervals, four planes at a time, starting at around eleven o’clock. It looks like all the special attack aircraft that were on standby at Kushira and Kokubu, and also on Formosa, converged in an avalanche directed at enemy vessels around Okinawa. Army aircraft joined in, too. It is called Operation Kikusui, Number 1.

There is talk that battleships, including the Yamato, have set sail for Okinawa, carrying enough fuel only for a one-way trip.

“I’ve made a successful raid.”

“I’m about to make my charge.”

“A special providence watches over me. I will now crash into the enemy battleship.”

Messages like these came in, one after another. I don’t know which was from Sakai, but I’m sure he carried out his mission honorably. If they made successful attacks in those coffee grinders they had to fly, then indeed, there’s no other word for it other than “special providence.”

Today, early in the morning, Murase, Tahira, and Fujiwara, men from the carrier attack bomber division, joined Ito, from the carrier bomber division, to launch an attack as members of the third Go-oh Unit.

“Now, please excuse me for going first,” Ito said as he left the deck, and then added, somewhat jocularly, “The next time the cherry trees blossom, let it be in a peaceful Japan. Really.” Probably he couldn’t find any other way to express his emotions.

With Shirozaki and Murase gone, the elite sumo team of the 14th class at Usa is destroyed. Five men set out so far from the carrier attack bomber division. I still remain, unchosen.

The temperature dropped low today, with chilly winds blowing. Toward evening, the crews slated to sortie tomorrow visited Usa Shrine.

April 7

Lieutenant Commander N., the chief flight officer from our Izumi days, the man we all called the “long-nosed goblin of Kurama,” has been posted here as commanding officer of the 722nd Air Unit. He appears whenever our comrades set out, to see off his fledglings.

The fourth Go-oh Unit went out today. Six carrier attack bomber crews and thirteen carrier bombers were chosen from among us, including Ensigns Horinouchi and Kurozaki. This man Horinouchi attended high school in Taipei and holds a law degree from Tokyo University. His family still lives in Formosa, and it has been three years since he last saw his parents. Come to think of it, I remember how he always looked ill at ease and lonely each time we were allowed visitors during our seaman and student reserve days. Anyway, for him, the path to the other world, the path he is now about to follow, will be the familiar route he always used to take on visits back to Formosa. And thus he makes his first “homeward” journey in three long years. Horinouchi related these thoughts to us, softly, and with deep feeling, before setting out.

We learned today that the Koiso Cabinet has resigned en masse. That incompetent, do-nothing government collapsed in a dither without achieving anything. What’s more, they had the nerve to say things like, “We resign with high hopes for the new cabinet,” or “The war hasn’t gone according to our wishes.” What are they thinking? Is anything at all, given the present circumstances, going “according to our wishes”? For the men at the front, a single mistake means death. How is it acceptable for the prime minister simply to resign, alive, all the while publicly admitting that his deficient policies steered the nation into this crisis? Not that I mind being rid of him, of course. But he is far too selfish and irresponsible, both in his thinking and in his behavior. I can’t begin to express my sorrow for the young men who fell victim to the incompetence of these politicians, young men whose deaths they rendered pointless.

Lieutenant Fujii cursed the Naval Academy graduates, egotistical men who always scurry to cover their own asses, but I hear that once he went into the battle, he fought honorably. He was making a run at a battleship when a Grumman intercepted him. He turned and, for an hour and a half, fought tenaciously to escape, until at last he was able again to home in on another battleship. He made three tries at it before plunging instead into an enemy carrier. Our fellow pilot Nagasawa radioed back with details as, one by one, the young trainees struck their targets, spitting fire. Finally he simply said, “Now I will go,” and flung himself straight into a battleship. Not one of these pilots was a so-called “career” military man. I can’t help comparing them, as they die, to General Koiso and his lot, and the comparison fills me with indignation.

In the early evening, six men who hadn’t flown since mid-March, including Togawa, Watanabe, and Shibuya, were suddenly called out. They are to be incorporated into a special attack force at another base. They set out overland a scant twenty minutes after being asked, “Are you ready?” and only five minutes after the decision itself had been finalized. They left the base quite literally “without a moment’s delay.”

April 12

At around three o’clock in the morning a handful of B-29s penetrated our airspace. I assume they were coming in low, as I heard an oppressive whine. We were simply too sleepy, though. And none of us bothered to get out of bed, taking solace in the idea that, anyway, we were all in the same boat.

Carrier bombers embarked on a special attack mission at eight twenty this morning. They are to take off from Kushira at around one in the afternoon, and, together with some carrier attack bombers, dive into enemy ships. And with this, the carrier bomber ensigns serving their duty-under-instruction are all gone. As for the carrier attack bombers, there is not a single flight-worthy aircraft left at Usa Air Station. It looks like I have survived again. I don’t say I am glad or happy, but still, I can’t help experiencing a certain emotion.

Finally it is a nice spring day again today. The sky is hazy but cloudless. The cherry blossoms have begun to fall at last, as fresh green leaves appear to take their places. I don’t know if it’s a characteristic of the cherry trees in Kyushu, but they have certainly been in bloom for a long period of time. The feeling of the wind on my skin reminds me of the evenings along the canal in Kyoto in May or June. Trifoliate oranges and lily magnolias. Broad beans, rapes, daikon radishes, lotus flowers, violets. Gazing at the fields, and at the flowers that cover them, makes me feel keenly how alive I am.

After seeing off the carrier bomber squadron, we moved, the cadets to the shelter on the other side of the Yakkan River, and we to the girls’ school. As we left the barracks, I noticed Fujikura’s military cap where it lay on a shelf, covered with dust. Obviously we had forgotten to give it to his family. We are all excited to be bunking in the large room of a school building, as if we were at a training camp. We laid tatami mats out on the floor, put up some shelves, organized our trunks and flight jackets, and hung up a calendar. We even arranged some flowers, exercising a great deal of organizational spirit. A forty-tatami room for fifty men. What with all our gear cluttering up the space, three men will have to share two tatami mats when we sleep.

Rumor has it that Usa Air Station will be disbanded as of May 1. We’ll be dispersed to bases all around the country. Some of us may undergo training in ground combat, though, again, probably as a part of a special attack force. It doesn’t really matter, but still I want to die in the sky, if possible. It seems our recent military gains are far too small, given the number of radio messages that come into the base. What’s more, considering what we do hear, the enemy force doesn’t seem to be at all weakened. Their landing force has advanced up to four kilometers on Shuri. Why is this happening? When special attack aircraft target a battleship or an aircraft carrier and shift into position for a charge, they send out a coded message such as “I will now attack.” Some speculate that many of the planes are downed by antiaircraft fire between the time they send this message and the time they actually reach the target, and that’s why the results are disappointing. I don’t know what to think. It just makes me anxious.

From one of the classrooms echoed the chorus of “Der Leiermann.”

April 21

We were raided twice by B-29s.

I was assistant officer of the day today. At one point I left the OD’s room and stepped into the gun room to have breakfast. The moment my chopsticks touched the rice bowl the desk heaved upwards and thrashed me in the face. Before I knew it, I was crawling on the floor amid the clay debris of the walls. As I made my way out of the room, I noticed a man off to my side, already dead. I still don’t know who it was.

We had received word early on that some B-29s had left their base in the Marianas, but the Kure Naval District stood down to Defense Condition 2 at around eight twenty, and, following suit, our base issued the “all clear.” So we were taken by surprise. Ten B-29s attacked at eight thirty, and twelve more came in at eight forty-five, dropping one bomb right in front of the OD’s room, and another onto the telegraph room next to it. If I hadn’t left the OD’s room to have breakfast, I would, to say the very least, have been seriously injured. During the second raid, the sentry at the gate, a veteran in his mid-forties, lost his head. He kept running around and screaming, neglecting to take shelter. We had to punch him to get him to lie down on the ground. My eardrums had had it, and for a while I lived in a mute world. It was a trifling raid, but it inflicted enormous casualties, and the death toll neared two hundred. That figure includes seven carrier attack bomber students and two carrier bomber students. It was unfortunate that many of the men were gathered at the breakfast table at the time of bombing, since the alarm had been called off. The biggest mistake was that Usa Air Station had been under the jurisdiction of Kure Naval Station, when it should naturally have been under Sasebo.

A body without a head, an arm without a body, and what looked like a lump of guts. In addition, agonizing howls from the medical ward, as surgeons amputate legs without anesthetic.

Time bombs scattered about the airfield have put it totally out of commission. We have difficulty communicating orders, and make little progress recovering bodies. I go out with a pail to pick up stray hands, or legs with the shoes still on. A brain bisected by shards from a bomb looks like a cross section taken along a fault line. As was the case with Fujikura, men who die from injuries like this shed very little blood.

Ensign Makita’s sister happened by for a visit this afternoon, the very day when he was severely injured and now lay in critical condition. She was granted special permission to see him, though he didn’t acknowledge her. She insisted on staying to look after her brother, but the request was denied. She left the base, her eyes red, saying she would remain in Beppu to monitor his condition. It’s strange how family members sometimes pay a visit just after a man is killed in action, or on the day he is to make his sortie.

The girls’ school we were using as barracks was also struck by firebombs and burned to the ground. I lost my shoes, but my clothing was saved. I’m truly sorry for the girls. I haven’t eaten anything since morning, except for one rice ball, at around two in the afternoon. I have been too agitated all day to feel any hunger. Dinner was hardtack, which I soon tired of. Hardtack makes me parched as all hell.

Slept in a bunker along the Yakkan River. Incessant groans during the night. Then I heard men talking nearby, “It’s heavy,” “Yeah, it sure is,” as they carried away a victim who had just died.

April 23

Each division dug a pit today to burn the one hundred fifty bodies we’ve so far managed to recover. Lieutenant Ioka’s wife attended the cremation, their newborn baby in her arms. Come to think of it, I can’t count anymore just how many bodies we’ve buried along this riverside.

In the afternoon, we began repairing the airfield. Time bombs still explode now and then, making the work quite dangerous. The flames of the funeral pyres died down in the early evening, but the bodies hadn’t yet been consumed. Ensign Kado’s midsection still remained pretty much intact. It might have bled if you poked it with a stick. Now I can watch and listen as the flesh of my comrades is seared on scorched galvanized sheet metal, without so much as a shudder. I guess I’ve grown extremely insensitive to death. As for my own life, however, I still seem to possess a strong instinct to protect that. I flee, like a streak of lightning, before I even know it. I have no clue as to what may happen when I dive into my target. But anyway I have no attachment to personal belongings, to clothing or any other property. I do regret just a little, though, that I loaned Mokichi’s Winter Clouds to T. It burned up, along with the chest of drawers he kept it in.

After the sun set, we went to the farmer’s house on top of the hill to use their bath. I looked at the beautiful roses in their yard as I waited my turn. A big moon showed itself on the way back.

April 28

Operation Kikusui, Number 4, has begun. Today, our country mounted a full-scale attack on Okinawa. As far as Usa Air Station is concerned, however, the whole thing is someone else’s affair, and no wonder: we don’t have any airplanes. Questionable rumors of our transfer are still making the rounds. The story goes that the carrier attack bomber division will be transferred either to Hyakuri-hara, in Ibaraki Prefecture, or else to Chitose, in Hokkaido.

An enemy task force of fourteen aircraft carriers has been sighted at Okinawa. All I can do is pray for the country. We live in the cave now, a dark, smelly, dank existence. Our clothes get damp within a day’s time, and it is quite chilly at night. It seems I caught a cold, as my temperature approached thirty-nine degrees. I received a blow on the chin for looking so languid. I don’t know what to think about hitting someone simply because he has a fever. But no matter. We will endure it, come what may. We fashioned a canvas canopy to prevent the dirt from falling down on us, and to pretty the place up a bit we displayed some dolls and neatly spread out the blankets that escaped the fire. But the lights are hardly on at all throughout the day.

The riverside is very pleasant in the morning. I tread across the wet sand to wash my face, and notice the tracks of a wagtail, or some other little bird, patterning the beach. Small translucent fish cling to the riverbed under the currents that gently roll in from the sea. When I rinse my mouth, the water clouds up from the toothpaste, obscuring them. Before long, Baku, the dog the carrier bomber group keeps, turns up from somewhere and hangs around, wagging its tail. Such is my morning routine. Baku is a shaggy mutt. Recently, she gave birth to puppies, which are so adorable I don’t know what to say. We attack bomber crews plan to adopt one of them, but we have to wait a little while longer, until they are weaned.

I guess I’m lucky to have survived this long, but the thought of it gives me a pang. We form the backbone of this base. We are the most senior aircrews under the commander now, with the exception of a few recon men from the 13th Class. More than two-thirds of the former 13th Class students have been killed at the front. Now the fate of the nation entirely depends on how we die.

We need more fuel and aircraft.

May 3

We were granted an excursion for the first time in forty-nine days. I’ve recovered from my cold. I stopped by a number of places, the Kajiya Inn in Kamegawa, the bookstore, Senbiki-ya, and the barbershop in Beppu. Wherever I went, everybody was stunned, as if I’d returned from Hell or something. I got a hearty welcome. The beer was good, as were the summer oranges, and the Spanish mackerel sashimi was delicious.

“How is Ensign Fujikura?”

“How about Mr. Sakai?”

Each time I was asked these questions, I had to tell the story again of how their lives had ended. In reply, some could say nothing more than “Right…”, their eyes brimming with tears.

“I really don’t want any more of you to die,” one woman said. “Isn’t there any way at all to end this war?” Actually, this was the proprietress of the barbershop. I was at a loss as to what to say to her.

“That’s just not how it works,” I said cheerfully, making a perfunctory reply. “This is only the beginning.”

The era when the special attack force was sanctified is over with. Nobody in the navy considers it “special” now. Only the newspapers keep deifying it, vulgarly, habitually. And now that the mystique has been dispelled, we all feel freer to express our anguish as ordinary men. I guess this means that, emotionally anyway, we feel a bit more natural, and our minds are more at ease. However, when his time comes, every crewman departs wearing a lovely, graceful expression. Probably I will, too, and yet when I hear words like those of the barber, I’m suddenly overcome with longing for the “free” world again, and I start thinking, say, about my mother.

After being confined to base for so long, I enjoyed the excursion immensely, but by the time the sun went down and I headed back, I was seized with an indescribable loneliness, as always at the end of an outing. A swarm of river crabs was crawling out of a cliffside onto the street. As I approached, they watched me warily, bodies half withdrawn back into their holes. Then I went after the ones on the street, and they scurried away angrily, red claws raised. I loitered there for a while, goofing around with the crabs. I was lonesome.

At last, Germany has surrendered. The sword is broken, the quiver is empty. The Red Army has virtually seized Berlin. Hamburg Radio, the only station still in German hands, has announced that Hitler died on the afternoon of May 1. Admiral Doenitz has been appointed supreme commander of the armed forces, but I guess his duty will essentially be to negotiate the terms of surrender. I also hear that Mussolini was captured and killed, his body exposed in a square in Milan.

May 7

Some forty B-29s assaulted the base this morning, badly damaging the apron. There weren’t many casualties, as we had been on full alert, but the time bombs prevent us from going out. They blow up now and then, like land mines, kicking a cloud of dust more than a hundred meters into the air. Judging from this, the enemy’s bombs must be more powerful than our 800 kg No.80s. The fierce blasts even reach our cave, five hundred meters from the airfield.

A group of army planes called the “Toryu” intercepted the enemy, achieving some results. One charged into a B-29, taking it down on Mt. Hachimen. A few enemy fliers bailed out in parachutes, and Ensign Nikaido and I set out to capture them. We combed the hill with the help of a civil defense unit and managed to seize two men toward evening. They emerged with their hands up, looking carefree. They were both twenty-two, and roughly correspond to trainees in our country, or so it appears. One is a Sergeant Romance, and I forgot the name of the other. Sgt. Romance was a gunner on the port side. When he saw a Japanese fighter closing in from the left, he instinctively judged that it would smash into the plane, and he bailed out in a panic. He actually had the nerve to say that he was hungry, and as we passed through Nakatsu, he waved his hands, smiling at the crowd that had gathered out of curiosity. I don’t know if I should properly call him ingenuous or hateful. Either way, it’s astonishing to see how utterly his temperament differs from ours. When showered with blows, he frowns a bit, but then he looks as if nothing at all had happened. Seeing as how we had suffered such heavy casualties from the bombings, some among us were in an uproar, and insisted that we rough the Americans up. However, we received strict orders as to the handling of the prisoners. As for Romance and his comrade, they seem to have no fear at all for their safety. Apparently, they assume U.S. forces will rescue them soon enough.

Today, word came that we’ll be transferred to Hyakuri-hara. Each is to board the train at his convenience and leave here on the 11th. Usa Naval Air Station will be disbanded.

At sunset, the naval ensign was lowered. We saluted in the cave, from a distance. All the buildings on the base are in ruins. Watching the flag slowly go down for the last time in the tranquil evening sun, I felt deep emotion. Usa was severe, but all the more rewarding for it. With Beppu nearby, we were blessed with a hot spring and plentiful food. Also, we sent off so many of our friends from this place. They will never come back.

Hyakuri-hara is situated in the most out-of-the-way place in Ibaraki Prefecture. There isn’t a house for twelve kilometers in any direction, I hear. It’s also a long way to the nearest railway station. Enjoyable outings will be pretty much out of the question.