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 six 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.