ON A SMALL ISOLATED ISLAND, far to the south, an aeroplane lay on the white beach that sparkled in the summer sun.
I say “lay” because it really did look like some kind of creature sprawled out on the sand. Indeed, it gave an extremely lazy impression of gazing at the sea lost in thought, and it was hard to imagine it cutting a dashing figure up in the sky.
The plane had a two-blade propeller that was too large for its small fuselage, a clumsy-looking engine, double-tier wings, and on its side was the bold image of the Rising Sun flag.
A closer look revealed that one of its protruding legs had snapped, and one of the tail fins was torn off. Four days before, the plane had flown shakily over this island, circling forlornly like a bird looking for a branch on which to perch so that it could rest its wings, before finally summoning up the courage to land on the beach.
A normal plane would probably have sunk into the sand, burst into flames and ended up a complete wreck. As it happened, though, this was one of the basic training planes known as a “Red Dragonfly” that most people regarded with a mixture of affection and disdain. More toy-like than a regular plane, it had careened over the sand before coming to a stop with only minimal damage.
A young pilot, little more than a child himself, alighted from the cockpit. He was just eighteen years old, a fresh graduate of the Japanese Navy’s preparatory pilot-training course and still inexpert at the controls. And even if his plane was an ageing Red Dragonfly, it was what Japan was using at the time for its kamikaze attacks.
At the start of the war, Japan had had the world-class Zero fighter plane and many well-trained veteran pilots who shot down many American and British planes, but from 1943 the tables turned and Japan no longer had the upper hand. It was during the Leyte operation in 1944 that pilots were first ordered to crash their planes into enemy ships to sink them in what became known as kamikaze attacks. And since there was no time to manufacture new planes, it wasn’t long before they started using the Red Dragonflies.
These were effectively relics of the previous century. Not only were they slow, with the added weight of heavy bombs they even had trouble taking off. However, the Americans were initially unaware of this, and to begin with they apparently mistook the Red Dragonflies for a new weapon.
When their fighter planes like the Grumman, P-51 or Corsair, which were capable of outperforming the Zero, caught sight of a Red Dragonfly sputtering along and went in for the attack, before they knew it they had left it far behind. They were travelling so much faster that it was difficult to take aim at them, and they were convinced that Japan had managed to make a plane that could stop in mid-air.
Incidentally, there’s an anecdote about an American pilot, about to engage in battle with an even more antiquated plane than the Red Dragonfly, gesturing urgently to indicate its landing gear was still down. He apparently considered it unfair to fight a plane that had forgotten to retract its landing gear, but actually it was fixed and had no means of retracting it.
To get back to the story, the young pilot had twice before boarded a kamikaze plane, received his orders to attack and gone in search of an enemy ship. Both times he’d received notification of an enemy task force at sea to the south and had gone on sortie, but not only was his Red Dragonfly slow, it was also short-range and he’d been unable to locate the enemy.
The first time he’d gone out, his commanding officer had stood before the fledgling pilots and instructed them, “You are going to die protecting our country, which lovingly raised all of you, and your mothers and sweethearts. You are not the only ones to die, so go out in the knowledge that others will be following you, and annihilate the enemy devils!”
The youth couldn’t summon much enthusiasm for the idea of dying for his country, but if it was for his mother then he would gladly do so. Every morning without fail, come snow or blazing heat, his mother had laid out her vegetable wares on top of a small box on the streets where they lived in northern Japan. Goodness only knew when she managed to sleep, for she also busied herself with odd jobs at a sake brewery, the fruit harvest and night work. His father had died young, and all they had was a piece of land the size of a postage stamp, so she had had to work hard to send him to school. Her strong arms were tanned almost black, but she was gentle and loving to him.
“For Mama!” he thought, gunning the engine, and as he heard the forlorn put-put of the propeller, barely a roar, he felt no fear at his impending death, but rather smiled. He had always depended on his mother. He had opted to go on the training course of his own free will, but he had always been sure of the unconditional presence of his strong, gentle mother somehow watching over him from a distance. Now, though, it was he who could protect her.
She would no doubt be overcome with grief when her only child was killed in action, but he thought only of his joy at being at last able to fulfil his filial duty, repaying her kindness by protecting her. This too was merely youthful conceit, although he didn’t realize it at the time.
Even in the cockpit of the Red Dragonfly as it rose into the air, the youth thought only of his mother. She could take pride in him dying an honourable death as a kamikaze pilot, and with his soldier’s pension she would never have to sell vegetables again. Gazing at the photograph of him, brave and smiling, surely she could live content.
He recalled the unseasoned logs smoking in the sunken hearth in the middle of their living room, and the strawthatched roof which sucked up the smoke; and how, when it was about to rain or snow, the smoke would linger and bring tears to their eyes; and, when they made the blaze fiercer because of the cold, how he’d burnt his legs badly enough to leave scars. The youth let his thoughts wander in the past, and he could clearly hear her voice against the sound of the engine, and smell her warm scent.
The group of three Red Dragonflies flew in formation, their engines running smoothly with a light put-put sound. It hardly seemed credible that once they caught sight of the enemy they would go into a dive, and the youth would also become a component of the bomb. The sea was calm, and the shadows from the planes were clearly reflected on the surface, although of course there wasn’t anything so peaceful as fishing boats anywhere in sight.
Eventually the pilot of the lead plane, accustomed to navigating over the sea, turned its nose back towards the mainland, and the youth followed. If they had carried on any farther without finding any enemy to attack, they would have crashed into the sea and the mission would have been in vain. And the Red Dragonflies were a precious military capability that couldn’t be allowed to go to waste.
Arriving back at the base he had never expected to see again, the youth felt as though the past two-hour flight had been a dream. Now when he thought of his resolve to protect his mother he felt a little ashamed, but when he realized that he would have died had they found the enemy, he was gripped by such fear that his knees felt wobbly and his teeth chattered.
Upon hearing their report their commanding officer, as if he knew what the youth was thinking, instructed them irritably, “Recently, you lot seem to be lacking in spirit when out searching for the enemy. Any attack delayed by even a day just gives the enemy more time to prepare for the invasion. Martyring yourself for a good cause is the greatest opportunity for honour, never forget that.”
The youth didn’t think he was particularly cowardly, or prone to attacks of nerves, but it was true that he’d been the one flying the plane. It was a strange way to put it, but he had the feeling he’d been rather lax: instead of searching for enemy ships, he’d been lost in thoughts of his mother, the mountains of home, the river’s winding course. Reflecting deeply on this as he returned to his quarters, he overheard two labourers about the same age as him who were working on the base.
“The kamikaze pilots have it good, they can eat and drink their fill and spend the whole day playing around.”
“We’ll die just the same, but squashed like bugs during the invasion.”
It was true that the kamikaze pilots received special treatment on the base; the food was good, and they had a fair amount of freedom. Rather than feeling angry, the youth was ashamed that he had returned alive today. He told himself that he had to die, not to protect his country or his mother, but because it wasn’t right for him to be eating eggs and tomato and sweet bean porridge every day when there was such a shortage of food.
The time for the second mission came round, and this time the commanding officer kept it short, telling them merely, “I am praying for your success. The Japanese people, indeed Japanese history, are watching your ambitious undertaking,” as he waved them off.
Once again the three Red Dragonflies headed south to the tune of the put-put of the propellers under the languorous summer sun. This time the youth was wondering whether or not he would feel pain when he crashed into the enemy ship. It probably would hurt, but, then again, he might lose consciousness before the impact.
He’d heard from his seniors that the barrage of anti-aircraft fire was like the spray rebounding from a heavy shower, and even a Zero would have its wings torn off if hit by bullets from an anti-aircraft machine-gun. How much more so, then, for this little Red Dragonfly? If he was hit, would he feel a shock, or would the plane disintegrate leaving him hanging alone in mid-air?
Everyone has to die, and mine will be an honourable death in action for the sake of my country and my mother. I will become one of the devils that helped to annihilate the despicable enemy in defence of the nation, and that will together form the cornerstone of the East through the glory of our unfailing devotion to the Empire.
Since completing his training, he had often repeated these words taught to him by his instructor, but they struck him as somewhat hollow. He wondered what he would be thinking at the moment of impact. It was said your life flashed before your eyes like a kaleidoscope, but was that really true?
The sea was as calm as ever, and now and then he would hurriedly take a look around, but there was nothing in sight. Cloud cover was level two, visibility good, and moreover the youth had 20/20 vision, yet somehow it was as if there was a mist over the water blurring the pattern of waves and clouds on the surface. No, in fact he could see it clearly, but lightly floating there in the sky he felt aimless, unsure even whether he was upright or upside down, whether the expanse of sea below him was in fact sky, whether he was actually now travelling south—or perhaps he had already died and was on his way to the Yasukuni Shrine.
And again the lead pilot signalled for the three Red Dragonflies to return to base, having failed to locate the enemy. This time the youth had felt keenly afraid. The thought of his own body converted into a bomb and scattered in all directions was just so outlandish that he had rather been lulled into a dreamlike state. However, the gazes of those waiting for him as he returned alive were only too real, and he could hear them muttering amongst themselves.
“Once a guy fails a mission he gets cold feet.”
“Whoever heard of a living god? Is this what the Imperial Navy has come to?”
Indeed, before he’d entered the cockpit of a suicide plane, the youth himself had looked coldly upon any pilots returning fruitlessly from a mission.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” the lead pilot, two years his senior and his mentor, consoled him upon returning from reporting to the commanding officer. “In any case, if you’re in a Red Dragonfly, a hundred times out of a hundred the dive-bomb will be ineffective. Even with the best planes in Japan today, the success rate is less than ten per cent. Still, you never know, we may get lucky so I’m waiting for our chance. Just follow me.”
Since the kamikaze pilots were exempted from work, the youth spent all his time sprawled out on his straw mattress. If the lead pilot was right, how on earth could he summon the will to go on a mission just to die? It was all very well calling it a glorious death, but in effect all they were doing was costing the Americans a few bullets.
He lost his appetite, and was too young to drown his sorrows with alcohol. One day he found a cockroach in the mattress. He caught it and put it in a matchbox, where he could gaze at its glossy skin and touch its long, wavy whiskers with his finger. When he first saw it, he hadn’t thought of keeping it, but it was still young and easy to catch. He couldn’t bring himself to kill it, and instead fed it with scraps of bread and vegetables, and ended up feeling quite fond of it. He distracted himself by telling the cockroach he would take it with him on the next mission, and reassured himself with the thought that it would witness his last moments.
At length the order for the third mission was issued, and again the three Red Dragonflies set off southwards. The youth put the matchbox in his flight-suit pocket, and once he reached cruising altitude, he let the cockroach loose on his knee. It must have become accustomed to being shut up in a small space, or was perhaps affected by the altitude, for it remained unmoving. When the youth nudged it, it crawled onto his finger and sat there waving its whiskers.
What would happen after he died? The Americans would of course land on the mainland, and would probably advance to the north where his mother lived. He had seen Japanese Army personnel in the vicinity of the base. They were supposed to be the national defence guard, but they didn’t have proper guns and were spending their time either building shelters or training with bamboo spears. It was obvious they didn’t stand a chance of winning like that. Would all the Japanese population die? What about his mother, would she be burnt with flame-throwers as he’d heard had happened on Saipan, Iwo Jima and Okinawa, or would she kill herself first?
He didn’t feel sad, or pumped up for the battle, but instead was enjoying the ticklish feeling of the cockroach as it began to crawl around. You’re the only friend I have, he thought as he stroked its back. Its skin looked hard, but it was actually quite soft to the touch. You’ve got wings, so get away before we crash. Even if it did, though, it probably wouldn’t survive out there at sea, and he felt sorry for bringing it along with him. It suddenly occurred to him that if he’d just let it be, it would now be back at the base crawling around the wall as it pleased, eating scraps of leftover food. He began to regret having been so cruel.
Maybe all the people in Japan would be killed and Japan would be taken over by cockroaches. All the Mama, Papa and baby cockroaches would enjoy flying and crawling around the mountains and fields, and maybe that was okay.
While he’d been engrossed in his thoughts about cockroaches, he’d somehow lost sight of the other two planes and now found himself all alone hovering between the sky and sea. Shocked, he scanned the sky all around him, but he couldn’t see his two companions, let alone any enemy ship.
He was acutely aware of his impending death now. How could he have lost sight of the lead plane? He had no idea which way was which, and all he could do was carry on flying until his fuel ran out and he crashed into the sea.
Surprisingly, he didn’t feel afraid. Even if he had to die like a dog, though, he wanted to let the cockroach live and decided that he would crash-land on an island if the opportunity presented itself. He strained his eyes harder, and eventually spotted land. The beach sparkled as sunlight caught on the fragments of coral mixed in with the white sand. It looked solid enough to be a runway, so he urgently sought out the widest space and manipulated the Red Dragonfly into a shaky landing.
The youth alighted from the plane with the cockroach, but the sun was beating down so fiercely that he put the cockroach back in the cockpit. He took the remains of a rice ball out of his pocket along with his flight chocolate and placed them beside it. Then he went into the forest in search of better food for it. He didn’t know whether it would like the soft leaves and grasses he gathered, but perhaps it would be able to survive on them.
When he’d done all he could, the youth took off all his clothes and walked to the water’s edge, where he turned back for one last look at the Red Dragonfly. It looked like a clumsy creature that had simply alighted there. Better that for a Red Dragonfly than disintegrating in mid-air engulfed in flames, he thought. Then he started swimming straight out to sea. He briefly wondered in which direction lay the northern region where his mother lived, but immediately banished the thought and just focused on moving his arms and legs, stretching them out and pulling them in, swimming single-mindedly on and on.
On 15th August, a Red Dragonfly lay on the white sand of a southern island. In its cockpit a cockroach with glossy skin crouched waving its whiskers, as if yearning for the familiar smell of the youth.