Burial in the Clouds Read online

  An account on the special attack force followed.

  At that time, the 1st Air Fleet, commanded by Vice Admirals Teraoka and Onishi, had a scant total of forty aircraft, damaged but viable. Our surface force managed to inflict some damage on the enemy, but they were soon slaughtered by a new relay of U.S. carriers, and the surviving vessels had precious little chance to make an escape. This was when the Musashi went down. Some two hundred fifty fighters came in from the 2nd Air Fleet. Of these, a little more than a dozen suffered damage without even fighting, owing to adverse conditions at the base. When the balance of the fighters launched their attack a swarm of Grummans descended on them, and half of our planes were shot down before ever reaching a target. And the story goes that, as a last resort, and hoping to recover from the assault, the 1st Air Fleet ordered out the Kamikaze force. Lieutenant S. had been down with diarrhea, but he folded up his bedding and went out to lead the attack. Many objected to the decision to use such a tactic, despite the fact that the lieutenant deeply wished to make the sortie. But as things stand now, this “human bullet” tactic has been systematically and permanently adopted by Imperial Headquarters. In point of fact, all the instructors at Tainan had already been organized into “special attack forces,” even before the base was wiped out.

  When I heard this, I said to myself, “I will die, too.” Suddenly I felt the bottom drop out. It was as if something had been torn from inside my body. Ostensibly, I had long been prepared to die, had long been ready to become a “human bullet,” or whatever. But even so, I was hollowed out, and I groaned aloud before I knew it. Then the next moment my attitude wheeled about, and I said to myself, “Damn it all to hell! Let’s just knock them off!” It’s odd. Obviously I had wanted to survive, and had been fooling myself all along, believing that I was really prepared to die. And now that my death is a near certainty, I feel as if I’m living in a dream.

  Next year’s call-up will be for six thousand new recon men and six thousand new pilots, a total of twelve thousand men. No doubt these rosy-faced youths will be organized into “special attack forces,” just like the young warriors of Byakko-tai mustered to fight during the Boshin war. But how on earth will the navy come up with the aircraft and the fuel to make it all possible?

  December 25

  We are commissioned. At nine o’clock we hoisted the navy flag and bowed in the direction of the Imperial Palace, with the “cherry blossom” pins of ensigns on our collars. Technically we were inducted last night, the moment we were officially relieved of the title “Student Reserve.” As of today we begin our duty under instruction.

  I don’t feel particularly emotional. When graduates of the Naval Academy receive their commission they celebrate with a big bash, a whole forest of sake and beer, but no special event marks the occasion for us. We were supposed to be granted an outing immediately after the ceremony, but instead found ourselves placed on Defense Condition 2, as the report came in that an enemy plane was approaching Omura, and a whole formation was over Cheju. When the alert was called off at 1005, we were free to go. We stopped in at the Brotherhood of Enlisted Men to buy gaiters and a pair of slippers, which made me feel like a full-fledged something anyway. Then we headed for Beppu on the 1116 semi-express.

  The weather was mild, which seemed a waste on a day of liberty. I ordered a simple lunch of yam-and-rice porridge at our usual spot, the Kajiya Inn in Kamegawa. With a huff and a puff, I slurped down the boiling hot bowl of thick, sweet soup. It was good.

  I wrote to my father, to Professors O. and E., to Kashima, and also to several others, with news of our commission. I also wrote to Fukiko. This I did under the joint names of Sakai, Fujikura, and myself, although I felt a little twinge, like the prickle you get in your chest as you drink sparkling water.

  At night, to celebrate, the proprietress at Kajiya served us a half-gallon of sake on the house. Thanks to her, we had plenty to drink with our blowfish stew. The octopus tempura was tasty, but the testis of the blowfish is an indescribable delicacy. We had a little debate as to whether you feel pain when you die from blowfish poisoning. Some people say yes, some say no. And from there the conversation shifted to a debate as to whether or not you suffer when crashing into an enemy ship on one of those “special attack” missions. I expect I will lose consciousness before sensing any pain, and anyway my body will be scattered to the winds on impact. So, all things considered, I voted for the “no-pain” theory. Sakai believes that he will suffer excruciating pain for the second or so it takes for his life to be extinguished. But this is doomed to be a barren controversy because nobody has ever returned from such a mission to tell the tale. Fujikura just listened in silence, his knees drawn up.

  We met a pretty little girl on the train back. I gave her two “eyeballs”—vitamin-rich snacks used for high-altitude and duration flying. I always carry a few in my pocket. Her mother was so gratified that she offered me a parcel in return. I declined the gift, but Fujikura barged in with a “Thank you, ma’am’ and snatched up the package. He was quite but he was a bastard nonetheless. When we disembarked at Yanagiga-ura, we opened the package to find six rice cakes, and with azuki bean-paste no less. I felt much obliged to see two vitamin supplements metamorphosed into six an-mochi. The mother and the daughter were bound for Monji.

  Incidentally, it seems children these days are brought up precocious, a whole pack of junior scientists and junior nationalists. Well, adults have to stop building an artificial world for their children. Kids should never be deprived of the chance to wallow in the mud and climb trees. They need their butterflies, their mountains and rivers. Let our generation die off, and let the coming generation enjoy a new and auspicious era, an era of real liberty and prosperity.

  January 1, Showa 20 (1945)

  Sunny. Reveille at four. Departed at 0430 in military uniform to worship at Usa Shrine. Returned at seven. Hoisted the naval ensign at eight, followed by a bow in the direction of the Imperial Palace. At 1000 all at the rank of warrant officer or above drank in celebration in the drill hall. No lunch together. Immediately went out for an excursion.

  It was festive on the train, as might be expected. Women in their best kimonos, red-faced drunken peasants—everything contributed to the rustic New Year’s atmosphere. But my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of my family and of the Fukais of Minamata. I wonder how they are faring. This year will probably see the end of my life. This New Year’s holiday will be my last. On one of the three hundred sixty-five days of Showa 20 my obituary will be written. My brother Bunkichi is already dead, and when I consider how hollow my parents’ lives will be after I, too, die, I regret that they didn’t have more sons. I hope they will seriously consider adopting a child.

  I had quite a few rice cakes today, as though I were trying to mark the New Year by eating them. However, in these parts zoni isn’t very good, as they don’t use any miso (the same goes for the Tokyo area). I crave the Kyoto-Osaka version of this traditional New Year’s soup, with its rich base of white miso.

  January 7, Feast of the Seven Herbs of Health

  I pulled second shift as probational assistant officer of the day, half past eleven to half past five. All manner of business flows in, but in spurts. I don’t really understand any of it, so I just keep a straight face and say “Roger,” no matter what comes my way, and then the clerks and the sentries handle it. The trainees are pouring back in from their holiday excursions, faces flushed by the cold winds, but still in the warm embrace of the family hearth.

  “So-and-so of the Xth Division has just returned, sir.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Thank you for the time back home, sir.”

  “Roger.” That’s the way it works.

  At about 1530, a Type 99 Carrier Bomber crashed. I thought we had yet another martyr, but the pilot came out all right. It was Ensign K., my 14th Class comrade. He was grinning. He knew he wouldn’t be reprimanded, as he remembered well what Lt.jg E. said some time ago: “I’ve already wrecked si
x airplanes. Any man who’s scared to bang up a plane or crack a fart is good for nothing. Don’t let it get to you.”

  Ensigns Tsubota, Nakame, and Tsukamoto have left this air station. Please meet with a death that shall be a model for us all, I prayed.

  A while ago, a Lt.jg Tanaka briefly sojourned here after making an emergency landing in Oita, and he told us all about the Kaiten and the German V-1 rocket. Word comes in now that he made his sortie to the Philippines as planned, perishing gracefully in a Suisei carrier bomber attached to the special attack force.

  They keep a monkey named Hanako in the medical ward, and at around 1710 notice came in that a petty officer had made her eat three cigarettes. Of course, I was busy enough as it was, without having to file a report because a monkey ate three cigarettes. I went over and told that petty officer off. Hanako looked perfectly fine, though, behaving as if nothing had happened.

  It was not until my watch ended and I had some dinner that I felt any relief

  My memory is really going these days. It’s not just peoples’ names or foreign words that I forget. I’m uncertain, for example, even about the total number of poems in the Manyoshu. All kinds of things just slip out of my head, and apparently the problem is chronic. I peeked into my diary to help myself remember what I did during the New Year’s holiday last year, and found that we made our first excursion from Otake Naval Barracks, and also that I had grown a trifle sentimental gazing at the waters of the Iwakuni River. Yes, I remember now: We were wearing our sailor’s caps. The memory materializes like an old, old dream.

  I’ve read quite a few books since we stopped flying, but these, too, are swept from my mind, one after another. Partly this is because I just don’t come across any really good books. Mostly I read novels, not poetry, but unless it is a truly great work, a novel will only do you harm.

  January 11

  U.S. troops finally landed at Lingayen Gulf. Pouring down a storm of shells and bombs, they climbed onshore with their tanks in the lead. According to reports, even our reconnaissance planes launched desperate attacks, but there is no word about the result. The enemy is said to have a tremendous number of Grumman fighters for cover. Our special attack forces can hardly even make it to their targets. This is especially true in the case of carrier-based attack bombers. If they make a sortie in the daytime, hugging their torpedoes, they are wiped out before they ever reach the enemy. As for the army’s Hayabusa fighters, these are reputedly helpless against the B-29s. They are unable to approach them, let alone crash into them. Given this state of affairs, what difference would it make even if we had thousands of aircraft? Apparently, the war has progressed to the last stage in this cycle of our nation’s rise and fall.

  This morning a Type-96 carrier bomber crashed. Later, this afternoon, a Type-99 bomber touched down only to catch fire on the runway and promptly go up in smoke. Only the tail remained. This happened when we were about to commence the special course. As black smoke plumed up from the airfield, we dashed out. The loudspeakers sounded off: “First Rescue Unit, deploy!” and there was the Type-99, gliding along in flames. When we arrived, it was ablaze at the end of the apron, its duralumin alloy emitting intense white light, only the tail and engine still recognizable. Red flame in a fat column of black smoke, a blinding incandescent blaze at the core: transfixed by the sight, I thought that these will be the colors under which we depart this world. Mysterious, solemn colors. There must be something wrong with the alcohol fuel, as crash landings of carrier bombers are now a daily routine. Fuel and flight tests were completed today for the carrier attack bombers, too, and before long our training flights should finally resume. If we are to burn alcohol fuel, though, we must be extra careful. They say that when the temperature inside the cylinders drops to 150 degrees Celsius, the propellers will stop. The last thing I want to do is die in an accident, but inevitably some among us will.

  A cat has been meowing for days now, somewhere in the barracks. Who knows, maybe it gave birth to a litter of kittens in the attic. But whatever the cause, it keeps meowing uncannily, day-in and day-out, gradually shifting its location. They tell us to catch the cat and zap it, but we don’t know where it is. I can’t help regarding it as an evil omen in light of the recent chain of accidents.

  January 15

  Yet anotherType-99 crash-landed today. Also, when one of our Type-96 bombers pulled into the approach path and closed its throttle, the propellers seized and the plane almost crashed into the ground. Still, the two crewmen were OK. Everyone thought they were done for, but they emerged with only a few minor injuries to the head and face. And though they griped about the pain, their lives didn’t seem to be in any danger. Day after day, we watch planes crash or flip over, with the 1st and 2nd Rescue Units deployed. Considering the frequency of accidents, though, there have been relatively few casualties, thanks entirely to the shoulder straps. If we suffer the same sort of accident in a carrier attack bomber, which is not equipped with shoulder straps, we surely die on the spot, our skulls shattered. No matter what the cost, we simply must equip our Type-97 carrier attack bombers with shoulder straps before resuming flights. Reportedly, they are having a fair number of accidents of unknown cause at Hyakuri-hara Air Station, too, using alcohol fuel.

  A recon student called before lights out and summoned us.

  “Before today’s lesson, one of you guys was wearing a shirt during calisthenics. Everyone assemble in the officers’ lounge.” Now, just the other day a senior officer said it was all right for us to wear shirts, so we went to the lounge and pleaded, explaining what the officer had told us. But it was all in vain. Some of us got the maximum of seven blows, some got the minimum of two, and I got five. Afterwards, we were made to run, double time, two circles around the apron, or about four kilometers. We were drenched in sweat on a cold winter night. We thought we would certainly be dismissed after that. Wrong. They hauled us out to the grounds (it had started to rain) and ordered us to do knee-bends combined with an exercise where we throw our arms up at an angle: four hundred fifty repetitions. We endured it well. Then, our backs and legs quaking, we crawled back to the barracks, hunched forward as if with an acute bellyache, and barely able to support our bodies. On my shaky legs, it’s dangerous to walk down a staircase. I have to say this is a lunatic way of correcting us.

  And how do the recon students perform at calisthenics? On cold, snowy days, after turning up for form’s sake, they vanish into thin air. They wear jackets while doing double time, and when they fly, these reconnaissance men burn octane #87 fuel simply because they graduated from the Naval Academy, while we pilots make do with alcohol fuel. That’s the navy.

  January 19

  The hazard light on the radio pole was on all through the night. I just looked at it, saying to myself that red beacon lights have a certain atmosphere about them, whether it’s the running light on a ship or the rear lamp of an express train, not giving the matter a second thought. But it turns out that the commander went missing on his way back from an official trip to Tokyo, and he still hadn’t returned, even though it was well past nine. And that was why the light was on all night. The report came in this morning, however, that he made an emergency landing at Suzuka Air Station.

  One more carrier bomber crash-landed yesterday, which finally brought their training flights to a halt. Strange to say, the cat stopped meowing, as if in reply. Made me a little superstitious.

  Today, a recon student was hit by the propeller of a plane as it taxied onto the apron. He was killed instantly, and as his body was flung away it struck another man who was seriously wounded and presently died in the medical ward. One of them was the ensign who really put us through the wringer because someone wore a shirt during calisthenics. For the most part, we think it was sweet, sweet justice, though we certainly don’t say so aloud. There was no denying the general mood: Take that, you bastard. The accident was attributed to carelessness, an aftereffect of the liberty the recon students were granted yesterday. So an instructor
lectured us, “Never let your guard down during liberty. When you are out on an excursion, always remember its purpose. You are getting the rest and relaxation you need in order to fly your aircraft into battle. Don’t lapse into intemperance simply because you feel free.”

  “We’re always to blame!” someone said afterwards, in a sulk. “It’s our fault that mailboxes are red. And if the utility poles are tall, well, that’s our fault too. Everything’s our fault. Shit!” Indeed, we reserve officers are blamed for everything. Well, do with us as you please.

  We have devised a piece of equipment we call the “W.C. band.”

  “Hey, give me your band,” someone said. I didn’t get it at first, but he meant the belt from my judo outfit. And here’s why: On top of the four hundred fifty “knee-bends with arm lifts” we did, we run some eight kilometers a day at double time. This only compounds the pain in our muscles. Our legs ache even when we are standing, and we can’t squat down in the toilet. So this fellow lashed my judo belt to a steel pipe in the john, and used it to hold his body in position while emptying his bowels. What a brilliant idea! And in short, this is the story of the “W.C. band.”

  One enemy tank division and two infantry divisions have landed on Luzon. Two more divisions are said to be on standby.

  The temperature dropped to six below zero Celsius this morning.

  Fujikura’s letter

  Usa Naval Air Station, Oita Prefecture

  January 23, Showa 20 (1.945)

  Professor E.

  Kita-Shirakawa, Kyoto

  Professor E.

  K. sent me a letter that fills me with envy. He says that, on the spur of the moment, he visited your house in Kyoto wearing his sergeant’s uniform, and that you treated him to beer over reminiscences and rumors. He also told me that your family has evacuated to the countryside in Tottori Prefecture. You prepare your own meals now, and you ventured to say that, if it were only the old days come again, you would bring together under your roof all the members of the usual Manyo circle—K., Yoshino, Sakai, Kashima, and myself. I felt a catch in my throat as I thought back on those good old days. How did K. look as a sergeant?