A Thousand Stitches (15 page)

Mr. Kim and his wife served me a full course meal on beautiful silver dinnerware. I love spicy, hot food, and that dinner met the bill. We had a free, wide-ranging discussion. The Kims brought up the issue of Korean-Japanese relations. Not all Koreans, they told me, automatically hated Japanese. There was always some good in people, and person-to-person, there was always a lot to be learned; they believed in the benefits of cross-national exchanges. I hadn't heard anyone express such sentiments since the last time I had spoken with Yamamura-sensei. I accepted their hospitality gratefully. I ate and drank my fill of the peppery dishes and the delicious cold beer, expressed my thanks, and bid them a good night.

As I took the bus back to the barracks, I tried to make sense of the last two Sundays. Other than realizing that Mr. Kim reminded me of a mixture of Professor Hoshino and Minister Graham, I just couldn't figure it out. I sat on the bus humming one of the hymns we had sung in the Grahams' parlor after dinner on Sundays. But when I hurried through the gate just before my curfew, my speculations evaporated, and all my focus was once again and only on the Zero, the beautiful Zero.

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.