CHAPTER 18
HANA
Laundry again. I suppose pilots should not have to sleep on day-old sheets, but I wish just once they would want to. Wet sheets on a windy day can chill you to the bone. I rub my fingers to warm them and pick up another clothespin.
“Oh!” Sachiko chimes in. “Did you hear the sad news? Lieutenant Fuji’i will finally body-crash today! He has written the commandant so many times, even in his own blood! And they always refused him because of his wife and children.”
“He is a very good instructor,” Mariko says.
“Yes! That’s what I thought! But now they say he’s had a letter from home. His dear wife has drowned herself and their children, to wait for him on the other side! Isn’t that romantic? How like a heroine in a novel! A true samurai wife! He must be very proud. You will see how happy he is when he finally joins his men. We should sing a good song for him.”
“We should light incense at the temple for his family,” I say. The thought of that woman, with two young daughters tied to her body, terrifies me. Is it brave to be so obedient? Perhaps. “Did he ask her to do this?” I wonder out loud. I should not let Sachiko’s gossip drag me in, but I do. I can’t even guess what my mother would do in this situation. What I would do.
“No! That’s what’s so wonderful!” Sachiko cries. “He didn’t ask! She knew he was unhappy and that they were the cause. That’s true love. She died to set him free!”
“I would have lied and had a neighbor send the letter. Then he could die, but his daughters would live,” Mariko says gravely.
“Mariko!” Sachiko gasps. “That is so selfish!”
“It’s practical.” Kazuko steps in. “Those girls were future mothers of Japan, weren’t they? Just like us.”
That silences Sachiko for a while, and we all return to the heavy work at hand. The sheets are cumbersome this morning, and my fingers are red and raw. My stomach grumbles beneath my middy blouse. I pat the buttons to soothe it.
“We can make tea next,” I tell Mariko, who has fallen into a dour mood. She nods, but does not smile, and I see that it’s happened. The war has finally worn her down. Now she will become the old woman she so feared. The wind has made her pigtails unruly. I pin the last corner of the sheet to the line and reach to brush a stray hair from her cheek.
“Mariko?”
She smiles wistfully at me, and I see there are tears in her eyes.
“Hana, I don’t think I can be a samurai wife.”
I return her small smile. “Just be Nadeshiko, then. Your dolt of a farmer husband won’t know the difference.”
“Hana!” She swats me with the corner of one of the hanging sheets, and like that, the old woman disappears, and we carry on like we’ve been told to do.
When the last sheet is hung, Kaori-sensei gathers all the Nadeshiko in the field behind the barracks. A stack of bamboo rods lie on the grass beside her. Mariko makes a disgusted sound. “Time for drills,” she moans. “I thought we’d left those things behind.”
“Line up, girls!” Kaori-sensei says brightly. “There are no farewell ceremonies until this afternoon, so we have time to do our exercises. Each of you, take a stave from the pile. Sergeant Kawahara was kind enough to drive them over from the school. He thinks we might consider keeping them nearby so we may practice whenever we have time. That’s a wonderful idea. Are you ready?”
“Lucky for you.” I nudge Mariko.
“Splinters every day!” she cries.
Kaori-sensei stands in front of us, looking fresh and cheerful as always. I don’t know how she does it. If Sergeant Kawahara had told me it was a good idea to be armed and ready every day, I would take it poorly, but she seems to believe he is only being practical. That it’s not a veiled warning of an invasion to come. But I cannot forget, if the enemy lands on our shore, honor and the Emperor demand we fight to the last woman and child—gyokusai, the shattering of the jewel that is Japan. I think of Lieutenant Fuji’i’s wife, wading into the river, stoic, obedient. This is different, I tell myself. This is the way of a warrior.
Mariko and I each grip our bamboo staves in both hands. We’ve been drilling with them since we were twelve years old. Some find the weight in their hands comforting. Mariko calls them a health hazard—no matter how tough her hands get, she always catches a splinter when we spar. I think they will not be hazardous enough. The staves are as long as we are tall, and two or three inches around—small enough for us to grip, but thick enough so that they will not easily break. One end is cut at an angle, creating a sharp point, like a hollow needle. The other end is blunt so we may lean our weight into it if necessary.
I hope it will not be necessary.
“I promise to take the life of at least one enemy soldier!” we cry in unison.
“Ichi!” Sensei shouts, and we hoist our staves onto our shoulders.
“Ni!” she shouts, and we stab the air in front of us.
“San!” she shouts, and we shift our grips, thrusting and dancing forward one step, then two, like swordsmen. We pair off and spar with each other then, staves clashing and clocking together like poorly played drums. I don’t think the Americans will have bamboo staves when they land. I don’t know how well our maneuvers will perform against men with guns.
But bamboo is plentiful here; guns and bullets are not. It is the story of our war in Chiran, and perhaps all across Japan. We use what we have, and we do what we must to survive.
“Itai! Another splinter!” Mariko exclaims. We pause in our sparring to tend to her hand. The splinter is easily removed. Our fingers are not as soft as they once were.
Nothing about us is.
In the afternoon, we all file down to the runway to say goodbye. “We are running low on cherry blossoms,” Mariko comments.
Kazuko points ahead. “Ah, that’s why.”
Two of the girls have covered one of the aeroplanes in flowers.
“It must be Fuji’i-san’s plane,” she tells me.
It turns out we are still soft on the inside. Otherwise the sight would not be such a splinter in our hearts. Many of the girls are weeping openly today, even as they smile and say they are happy. Fuji’i-san is not smiling. Nor is he sad. He is ready. The boys from yesterday’s picnic are here to see the other pilots off. The one called Nakamura looks more solemn than I’d have thought possible. The laughing boys of yesterday’s picnic stand like soldiers now. They bow deeply as the pilots give their farewells. They have heard the tale of Fuji’i-san—from Sachiko, no doubt—and must have been deeply impressed. I am surprised to find my cheeks are damp. Beside me, Mariko wipes her eyes.
The officers drink a toast with saké. White funeral boxes are set aside containing hair and nail clippings from each tokkō. Without bodies to bury, their families will be given these keepsakes to cremate at their local Buddhist temples. A final salute, and the line of pilots comes toward us. Fuji’i-san bows, but says nothing.
“Be brave, little sisters,” one of his men says. “We will crash brilliantly for you. You must persevere.”
We bow and the six pilots press letters and mementos into the hands of the Nadeshiko girls they know best. Some of these letters contain wills to be mailed to their families. One of the pilots gives the last of his pocket change to his Nadeshiko. “I’ll have no need for it from now on,” he tells her.
Mariko and I stand back with Sachiko and Kazuko. We wish our brothers well and stand firm as the ground crew pull the chocks from beneath their aeroplane wheels. They hand-start their engines—these body-crashing planes are so unlike the ones that ferry important officers back and forth. Tokkō have neither guns nor powerful engines. That’s for the escort planes, the ones that lead them out to sea and witness their glorious attacks. No, their aeroplanes are simple, most notable for the large bombs attached to their bellies. This is the sign of ultimate sacrifice.
“Scatter bravely and well!” we say to these boys like cherry blossoms, like fireflies that light the sky for only a day.
A few of the engines sputter, but they all catch, and the planes take off in a roar of sound, a cloud of petals scattering softly to the ground.
Mariko wipes a tear away with the dark sleeve of her blouse. She reaches for my hand, and we wave goodbye.