11. SAM

Tokyo, 1944–1945

In early October, we finished the last of our training at Wonson. I still have the commemorative photo taken in front of the hangars to mark our “graduation.” Our orders would be notice of how long we would survive. Okinawa or further south meant very little time, perhaps only weeks, before a mission.

My orders read Tokyo Detachment of Kasumigaura Naval Air Corps. I had never heard of it. When I inquired, I learned that it was a small training facility for yokaren, the teenage recruits. Farm boys one month; mission-ready pilots the next. They were sent off with even less air time than Mie’s Thirteenth Class.

The Tokyo Detachment was located at Haneda, a commercial airport and the home base of Japan Airlines. It wasn’t at all what I expected; I would be an aviation instructor and would therefore survive for a while. Utsumi, Yamamoto, and Watanabe, who had been with me since Mie, were assigned to Tokyo too. And so was Kawazaki, who had joined us at Wonson. Most of the others, including my good friend Kobayashi, were sent to the front lines.

Once we arrived back in Japan at Shimonoseki, we had until 5 p.m. the next day to report to Tokyo. Yamamoto, who was from Tokyo, was delighted. He and the others rushed for the trains, sweeping me along with them. Kawazaki was going to stop at home in Nagoya, and Watanabe in Shizuoka, both on the way to Tokyo. Utsumi, who was from Sendai, far to the north of the capital, decided to visit an uncle in Tokyo. I was at loose ends; there wasn’t enough time for me to make it to Matsuyama for a visit. And then I thought of Michiko, at Kure Naval Arsenal near Hiroshima.

I was the first to get off the train. I remembered working at the ­Arsenal during my last spring break at Kosho. Hiroshima Station was bustling with sailors. I walked especially tall through it, a Naval officer with cherry blossoms shining on my lapel. The local train to Kure was full of other Naval officers, and as we traveled south past the huge shipyards, I could see the beautiful green hills, the sweeping blue bay, and nestling between them, Hiroshima’s busy downtown, spread out on the delta formed by the city’s rivers.

At the Arsenal’s gate, I explained why I was there. The guard responded that it was the middle of the work day, and even volunteers, like Michiko, were not permitted visitors. But then he gave me a big grin, nodded at my insignia and said, “But the Naval Arsenal will be happy to accommodate one of its own,” as he reached for the phone to call the factory floor.

I was seated in the Visitors’ Room when she came in. She was wearing mompe pantaloons like a farmer’s wife and smelled of gunpowder. When she saw me, a huge smile replaced the puzzled look on her face, “Imagawa-san, I couldn’t imagine who it was. They just told me to report here to meet someone. What a wonderful surprise.” As she sat down, she untied her headscarf and shook her hair loose. “Oh, that feels good.” She was pale and thin, but seeing the beautiful balanced oval of her face and her warm eyes lifted my heart.

“I’m glad I had a chance to see you today. I thought I had lost you. The Navy has moved me around so much, and now I’m on my way to Tokyo—as an aviation instructor, can you believe it?”

“You’ve only been in the Navy a year and you’re already an officer? Congratulations.”

“Only an Ensign,” I said, struggling to keep the pride out of my voice.

But there were more important things to talk about. “Michiko, I heard about your brothers. I’m so sorry. I remember marching in the parades to the station when they left. And then your mother and father. My deepest condolences.”

She nodded, but didn’t speak, her eyes filling.

“And I wanted to thank you for the senninbari. It means a lot to me. It’s done a great job of keeping me safe so far, and I’m counting on it to keep doing that job. I have it here in my bag. I’ll keep it and my memories of you with me always.”

She was trying not to cry, so I kept talking, telling her about Izumi, the cranes, the shochu, and learning to fly, and about Wonson and the thrill of mastering the Zero. As Michiko recovered, she told me a bit about her life at Kure. She talked about her friend Keiko, who, she said, understood her and kept her laughing. We visited for about an hour, remembering our happy times in Matsuyama. I was sad to have to say goodbye. As I sat on the train back to Hiroshima, I thought of how lucky we were to have had that hour, some final precious moments together. I was sure she felt the same way.

After a trip through the foggy capital city, I met up with Utsumi, Yamamoto, Watanabe, and Kawazaki at the gate to the Tokyo Detachment, which was wedged into a small area hugging Tokyo Bay. We were directed to one of a number of shabby wooden buildings. In the Commander’s office, we found a small, gray old man behind a modest desk. Despite his insignia, I found it hard to believe that he was our leader. He didn’t have the dignity I expected of a Naval officer. He looked like a kindly grandpa, but when he spoke, his voice was strong and assured. The office was too small for all of us to sit, so Commander Fujimura took us to the junior officers’ Gun Room. He told us that there were two hundred yokaren at the Detachment, which he expected to soon be upgraded to a Naval Air Center. We were to train them on the Intermediate 93 trainers—the plane I had learned on in Izumi. When he finished explaining our duties, Commander Fujimura told us about himself. In his younger days, he had commanded a destroyer that collided with another destroyer during training maneuvers. And that, he thought, was the end of his career. He retired as a Lieutenant Commander. He had been recalled to service earlier in the year due to the Navy’s manpower shortages. He cheerfully explained that as a “real” sailor he knew nothing about flying, and left all responsibility for all flight operations to Shimizu, his Lieutenant Commander. It was time to eat by the time we finished.

Our opinion of the Tokyo Detachment improved at dinner. We were among the group of about twenty eligible to eat in the Officers’ Mess. Gone was the cafeteria-style dining hall of our other postings; we were seated in a real dining room. Rather than metal bowls and plates, we used real chinaware. And, best of all, instead of mass-produced meals, our food was cooked in a special, separate kitchen, and a group of seamen, under the supervision of an NCO, served the dinner. The first night the five of us sat with the Commander. Our opinion of the Detachment improved even further when he delivered a final piece of news: each of us would be assigned one of the seamen to assist with our personal needs. My valet, Seaman Hashimoto, was one of those serving dinner, and we were introduced then and there. Hashimoto was rather effeminate, and I learned that in civilian life he was the choreographer and director of a traditional Japanese odori dance troupe before he was drafted, but what impressed me most was his age. Commander Fujimura was old enough to be my grandfather, and Hashimoto was surely old enough to be my father. What strange situations military service put us in.

After dinner, Lieutenant Commander Shimizu called a meeting for the five of us who were new to the Tokyo Detachment. He was about forty, a sharp Naval Academy graduate. A former dive-bomber, he had been assigned to Tokyo after being injured in a crash landing. We were impressed with his military bearing, his obvious competence, and his high level of knowledge about the war situation. He introduced us to four Senior Grade Lieutenants: two were regular Naval officers, but the other two were college-graduate reserve officers like us. Lieutenant Suga would lead my group—Squad 2.

The briefing ran until nine. The five of us were still sitting in the dining room when Seaman Hashimoto appeared and asked if we would like sake or wine. A pleasant surprise. We all preferred sake, and we got it. We also had the privilege of ignoring lights out if we wanted, but decided that it would be best to take heed. Hard work awaited us in the morning.

Our first full day in Tokyo began with the traditional “five-minutes before,” reveille at six, and the routine of morning assembly, which, because there was no parade ground, took place on the airfield apron. Standing at the head of the rows and facing the men was another new experience for us. It felt important and I thought about how serious my responsibilities were. After the assembly, we went back to the officers’ quarters and found our seamen making our beds and cleaning our rooms. Things were really going to be different here! When we went to the dining room, we had a choice of Japanese style or Western style breakfast.

Training the cadets was scheduled to start at eight, but the five of us were told to assemble at seven-thirty. Each of us was to take a plane up so we could regain a feel for the Model 93. When I got in the front cockpit, I was shocked at the difference from the Zero. I put it in full throttle, but wondered if it would really get off the ground. But by the time I had taxied to the end of the runway, I was ready, and then up and aloft. Away I went, to the south, remembering my first takeoff from Izumi. But by the time I had climbed and turned to the left over Tokyo Bay, I was present only in the moment, flying again. I headed toward the Boso Peninsula and then made another left turn, to the north. The saw-ridges of Mt. Nokogiri on the Peninsula were on my right. Tokyo spread out to my left. I was astonished at how vast it was and then surprised again: when I turned left once more, straight on toward the city, I could see Mt. Fuji. I hadn’t realized how close Fuji was to Tokyo. It was massive—and gorgeous. I thought about the last time I had seen it—through the train window in 1932, on the way to Matsuyama with Mother when I first arrived in Japan. Twelve years ago. How I had changed, how times had changed, I thought as I made the last turn and descended toward the runway. A perfect three-point landing. I was ready to go. Ready for the cadets.

I parked the plane and reported to Lieutenant Suga. He introduced me to the four NCOs who would work with my squad. They all had combat experience, and I was confident that we would do a good job with the cadets. Utsumi, Yamamoto, Watanabe, Kawazaki, and I lined up as the cadets came running in formation from their barracks. Lieutenant Suga introduced us. He said, “These are Zero fighter pilots. They are full of Navy spirit. Learn well from them.” It was clear we were expected to be tough on the cadets. Lieutenant Suga gave the order for us to begin.

My first cadet was nervous. I had never been in the rear cockpit seat, but gave him much the same talk I had heard myself just ten months before in Izumi. But things had changed; the training schedule was accelerated. He was to put his hands and feet on the controls even on this first flight. Once we were in the air, I let him take control. He overreacted, and the plane banked to the right. He made the same mistake twice more, and when we approached the runway to land, he gripped the controls so tightly that I had difficulty pulling the nose up in time. Needless to say, when we climbed out of the plane, he got a good whack on the cheek.

The next cadet did much better. He had some trouble maintaining altitude, tending to dip a bit. I pulled the plane back up a few times, but his sense of balance improved by the end of the flight. The full day’s work involved eight or nine cadets. Because we were deep into autumn, the days were getting shorter, and we had to stop at four-thirty.

On November 1, we were training as usual. It was a bright, warm day, an unusual bonus of later summer-like weather. Just before noon, when I had begun wondering what we would have for lunch, a huge plane appeared, flying north far above us. Its silvery body was beautiful against the clear blue sky. As the trainers landed, the Lieutenants kept them on the ground. Those with binoculars reported that the mysterious plane was flying at about 10,000 meters. About five minutes after the plane had passed out of sight, sirens sounded and the PA announced the same thing over and over: “Enemy aircraft raiding Tokyo!”

We were stunned. An enemy aircraft flying right over our heads? We stood around, not knowing what to do. About twenty minutes later, the plane reappeared, this time a bit further to the east, but flying in the opposite direction—going south—back where it came from. There was no sign of bombing. It was just as beautiful the second time we saw it. We watched it in awe. Once the plane was gone, we couldn’t get it out of our thoughts.

It was only later that the rumors were confirmed. It was a B-29 Superfortress, a much more powerful bomber than what the Allies had deployed in Europe. The more I thought about it, the more confused I was—my awe yielded to fear, and even dread—but I resolutely banished those emotions. Spirit is what we need.

That night the B-29 was the only topic of conversation in the Gun Room. The consensus was that the plane was on a reconnaissance mission, and that bombing of Tokyo would begin soon. Bombing! Tokyo! We had to prepare!

Training continued. Three weeks passed with no air raids. Some of the cadets were close to soloing. And then one day, we heard the siren again. We grounded the planes and ushered the cadets to the shelters. Other than moving them into the hangars, we had no procedure for protecting or concealing the planes, so we waited and worried. Nothing happened. The Communications Officer arrived with the news that an area west of Tokyo was being bombed. Then we heard planes, a large number, flying east. They were much too far away for us to see them clearly, but by the sound of their engines we decided they were B-29s again. We learned later that an aircraft plant was bombed that day.

In late November, regular nighttime raids of Tokyo started—most of them in residential areas. By late December, it hit home for us at the Detachment. Incendiary bombs fell all around us. One landed on the roof of the shelter, which had a thick dirt cover. As the dirt fell around us, we realized how lucky we were that there wasn’t a concrete roof to collapse on us. When we emerged, there were flames all around us. There was nothing we could do but wait for the fire crew to arrive with extinguishers.

Early the next morning, the Commander ordered me to take a patrol out to the residential area nearby. Much of it was burnt to the ground, and we saw a number of incinerated bodies lying in the streets. We also saw a few people who were just standing in the rubble dazed. We stopped to talk to one man and learned that his home was gone. He kept saying that he was happy that his family had evacuated to another part of the city, that they were safe. It was clear that he was in shock and had no idea what to do. I went back to the Commander and suggested that he send food and arrange for shelter for our neighbors. He sent off a few cables; once he had secured permission, he ordered Lieutenant Shimizu to help our neighbors. We loaded up food to distribute and assigned cadets to use Detachment trucks to transport the civilians anywhere they wanted to go within the city limits. Evidently there was no space for them at the Detachment. That was the day we felt the war had come to mainland Japan.

Late in the afternoon of December 1, I was summoned to Commander Fujimura’s office. As I entered his office I wondered why he wanted to see me and tried to think if there was something I had done wrong. As I stood in front of him and bowed, I was astonished to hear him say, “Congratulations.” I didn’t understand and worried more about what I had done wrong.

“May I ask what this is about, Sir?”

“I offered my congratulations because as of this date you are promoted to Lieutenant Junior Grade,” he said.

I was so surprised that I said the first thing that came into my head. “What about my classmates, Sir?” We had all been promoted to Ensign together the previous July, and I assumed that all our promotions would be on a lockstep basis.

“No, it’s just you. Here,” he said handing me two small silver cherry blossom pins, “these are to add to the emblems on your collar.”

Back in my quarters, Seaman Hashimoto did a careful, professional tailoring job: he cut the emblems off my collar, pushed the new silver cherry blossoms through them and sewed them back on. It would have taken me hours, but Hashimoto finished in about half an hour. I slipped my jacket on again and admired the gleam of the silver blossoms in the mirror, two of them on each side of my collar.

At dinner time, I strolled into the dining room as nonchalantly as I could manage. Most of the other junior officers were already there. No one noticed anything until I took my seat at the table. Kawazaki, sitting across from me said, “Hey, Imagawa, are you sure you’re wearing your own jacket?” When all heads swiveled in my direction, I explained. There was some joking about how I shouldn’t pull rank on them. I truly couldn’t figure out why I was promoted, and I don’t think any of my colleagues could either. I did find out later that about ten percent of those whom I started with at Mie were promoted that day; I was the only one at the Tokyo Detachment.

With my promotion, I was appointed Deck Officer, which, I learned, meant I was responsible for morale. We had a three-day break to celebrate the New Year holiday. As Deck Officer, I was at the front gate to welcome the professional comics, dancers, and singers who came to entertain us. Several of them greeted Hashimoto as old friends. The cadets loved the performance, and the other officers and I enjoyed it too, of course. Losing ourselves in laughter was a rare treat.

Now that I was Deck Officer, Seaman Second Class Ito was an even greater asset to me than Hashimoto. Ito was a well-known samurai actor. Like Hashimoto, he had been drafted and considered himself lucky to be stationed in Tokyo. I often sent him to movie distributors to borrow films. The distributors were happy to supply them and refused to accept payment. The cadets loved samurai films, and all of the first ones we watched featured Ito. There was always a great cheer when he appeared on the screen.

One day when Ito returned to the Detachment, he told me that we had seen most of the samurai films available, but the distributors had American films we could borrow. I was surprised, thinking they had all been locked away or destroyed. They were absolutely forbidden in movie theaters. The other officers wanted to see them, and I was curious. I told Ito to bring some back the next time. They had Japanese subtitles, so the cadets enjoyed them—but not as much as the samurai films, of course. I sat transfixed in the dark, watching the elegant, long-limbed actresses, and listening to the language of my childhood. Many winter and early spring mornings were foggy. When there wasn’t enough visibility to fly, we organized activities to keep the cadets busy. Volleyball was the most popular. We also organized group singing. We had the cadets form circles, with one ring around another. I loved watching the inner ring march in one direction, and the outer ring the other way. The cadets sang as they marched, and the sounds of their voices crossed each other, mingled, and made a wonderful whole. Every one of these group sings concluded with the naval aviators’ version of the popular song Doki no Sakura: We are cherry blossoms that bloomed on the same day. Although we are not blood relatives we cannot be separated. We will scatter and fall together for our country. Although we will die elsewhere, we will meet and bloom again as cherry blossoms in the spring tree tops of Yasukuni Shrine. Music was always sheer joy for me, and I loved watching the cadets march and listening to them sing. Listening to the lyrics and the layers of harmony of the song made me remember the cherry blossoms at Matsuyama Castle. I didn’t allow myself to think much about Yasukuni Shrine and these teenagers—and myself—dying far from home.

As it got warmer, we let the cadets wade in the Bay on some of the foggy mornings, digging for clams. The area was off-limits to civilians, so the catch was quite plentiful. And when the cadets were successful, the officers were the beneficiaries; because they had no way to cook the clams they caught, the cadets gave them all to us, and we grilled them on a hibachi in our Gun Room. Needless to say, a great deal of sake went down with those clams. Our bellies were full, and one evening I realized that I had come to quite enjoy the shabby place called the Tokyo Detachment.

February 11 is the day Japanese celebrate the origins of the country, the old story I had learned at Bancho about the god and goddess dipping their spears into the sea at Amanohashidate and shaking off droplets that became the islands of Japan. During the war, the holiday was called Empire Day, and the glory of the Japan’s Asian Empire was the focus of the celebration. It was still dark at our morning assembly that day. We knew there would be no training because of the holiday, but had no idea how special the day would be until Commander Fujimura finished his holiday address, and then went on, solemnly, to say that he had received a special communication. The Naval General Staff Office had ordered him to form a Special Attack Unit at the Tokyo Detachment. By then we all knew what that meant. Special Attack units had been operating since the fall, first from the Philippines and then from Okinawa and Kyushu.

Commander Fujimura never mentioned the death—the suicide—that was involved. Instead he said, “The time has come for you to serve your country in the best way possible. But the Special Attack Unit of this Detachment will be formed with volunteers only. You need not volunteer if you are married or if you are the first or only son of your family. Think carefully. I will ask those of you who want to volunteer to take one step forward.”

There was absolute silence. Time stretched and warped during his pause of a few seconds. “Volunteers, one step forward!”

There was a loud thud. Virtually everyone stepped forward—together. Cadets and instructors alike. I was among them. I gave no thought, no consideration to the fact that I was the first and only son of the Imagawa family. In fact, I don’t think I thought about anything at all. At the command, my body moved automatically. To volunteer to die for the country was the only thing to do. I was not afraid, and afterwards I had absolutely no regrets.

“I commend you for your courageous decision, but I see that we have too many volunteers for the small number of aircraft available to us. The squadron commanders will take down the names of the volunteers, and later the senior officers will select the pilots and navigators needed for the Unit.”

We were given the news in the Gun Room. Lieutenant Commander Shimizu was appointed the training commander for the Special Attack Unit, which would consist of two squadrons. Each squadron would have three squads of four planes each. I was to lead the second squadron and was also the leader for my group’s first squad. With twenty-four planes assigned to the Special Attack Unit, there would be only about a dozen planes left for regular flight training.

Special Attack Unit training began the next day to prepare us to fly those flimsy bi-wing trainers into the territory of enemy fighters. If we allowed ourselves to think about it, we would have felt helpless at such a prospect, but we were determined to succeed in our missions. We put everything we had into our training.

We concentrated on formation flying. The squad leader took off first and had to gain altitude while keeping speed down to give the others time to catch up. At first the formations were quite loose, but with practice they got tighter and tighter, until the four pilots could make out each other’s facial expressions. We cruised at 2,000 meters to specific points, such as Odawara to the south and Choshi to the east, before turning around to return to the airfield.

On March 1, 1945, the Detachment became the Tokyo Naval Air Corps (NAC) under the command of the Eleventh Combined Air Force. But it was a change in name only. Everything remained the same. By then we were ready to begin night flight training. Taking off for our missions in the dark would help us evade enemy fighters and give us a chance to make it to our targets. The idea was that we would dive into the targets at dawn.

March 9 was a lovely spring-like day—a first taste of real warmth. That afternoon we again witnessed a single B-29 flying high above the city. The afternoon was windy and the sky clear. By evening, even though the winds had risen, we decided it was warm enough to show the evening movie outside. We were enjoying Olivia de Havilland in Robin Hood when the air raid siren sounded. We ran toward the planes still on the tarmac, moved them into the hangars, and then scrambled into the shelters. The B-29s roared in overhead. It sounded like there were hundreds, in large formations. They flew from the southwest to the northeast, dropping bombs—most of them incendiary bombs—along the way. It sounded to us like the central and northern parts of the city were taking the hardest hits. Fires began almost immediately; they were so huge that we heard and felt them in the shelter. When we emerged it looked like the entire city was in flames. We scanned the sky, looking for the enemy planes. When the cloud cover parted, the underbellies of the huge silvery aircraft glowed red, reflecting the sea of fire below. The B-29s remained beautiful, sailing high above the destruction.

The all clear sounded just before dawn. After our morning assembly, Commander Fujimura took me aside and ordered me to fly around the city and report back with an assessment of the damage. He was particularly concerned about the Imperial Palace. Following orders, I flew to the Palace first and was relieved to see that the large green oasis in the middle of the city was untouched. But when I turned northeast, the picture changed dramatically. The central, northern, and eastern portions of the city, the oldest and most traditional parts—Tokyo’s old shitamachi—spread on either side of the Sumida River, were flattened, burned to nothing. Where there had been miles and miles of factories and the small wooden houses of the working classes, only the shells of a few concrete buildings remained.

The winds had tossed burning embers and debris into the air and whipped the fires from the incendiary bombs into a storm that had devoured the flimsy dwellings along with their occupants, who had heeded the government’s instructions to avoid the few public shelters and stay near their homes to defend them. Fires were still burning and I could make out the smoldering skeleton of Kokugikan, the national sumo wrestling hall. I descended to look for the nearby Asakusa Kannon Temple, which had been a refuge for the people of that neighborhood during the great Tokyo fire that followed the earthquake of 1923. I couldn’t find any trace of that grand structure and was shocked that at the lower altitude, the heat from the ground reached up to my plane.

It was hard to grasp what I was witnessing. Tokyo, the heart of the nation, the vast ocean of the metropolis that I had encountered as a ten-year-old, was devastated. Much of one of the world’s great cities was gone. The B-29s had done their job with startling and ruthless efficiency. America’s might had obliterated much of the capital and many of its citizens. How much longer could this be endured?

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.