Lieutenant Commander F. lectured this afternoon on the art of signal communication. Then he gave us a lesson in combat based on the Battle of Leyte Gulf, focusing particularly on the special attack force. Incidentally, he also described, in detail, the destruction of our airfield at Tainan (in Formosa). That field is now totally unusable, with the result that the Tainan Air Corps has been disbanded, its crews and aircraft dispersed to various bases. Many came to Usa, Lt. Cdr. F. among them.
His account of the decimation of Tainan is as follows.
Thirty or so Grumman fighters came in first, gaining command of the skies around the airfield, and here is how they did it: The enemy fighters approached in a stacked formation, the lower squadron flying in at 300 meters with a “rising sun” emblem painted on their wings (that was a base tactic). Some claim that the emblems actually changed, in accord with special beams of light emitted from their sister-planes: the rising sun one minute, U.S. insignia the next. But however that may be, our men were led to believe, all the way up to the bitter end, that these fighters had come to assist them. Our twenty Zeroes were shot down the second they took to the air. Next, Grumman carrier-based bombers flew in to attack. Their bombsights are very precise, and most of our hangars and other facilities were destroyed by direct hits on dive-bombing runs. I should say in passing that America’s bombsights (could they be radar-assisted?) have recently attained a formidable degree of accuracy: a margin of thirty meters from an altitude of 8000 meters. Also, there are a number of female pilots among the U.S. Navy. One of them went down in a parachute, and a native Formosan chased her, wooden stick in hand. When she was captured, she purportedly insisted that somebody “Show me the guy who shot me down!”
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.