The July heat weighed down on Taro almost as much as the news. Gyokusai! They had all killed themselves rather than be captured. It should not have come as a surprise. After all, hadn’t they been preparing themselves for such an event, should the war be lost? But to hear of it happening—was the war indeed coming to this brutal end?
“Secondly,” the commander continued, “the Imperial Navy has suffered the loss of several ships in the Philippine Sea. It is an embarrassment. Mistakes have been made. Such costly errors are not to be tolerated. As of yesterday the prime minister, General Tojo, has been made accountable. The Tojo government has resigned.”
Gasps filled the room, including Taro’s own. It was one thing to bear the defeat at Saipan in silence, but this? With no government in place, Japan was an aeroplane without a rudder. It was a disgrace to the Emperor. How were they expected to fight? How were they expected to win?
The CO raised his hands for quiet. “Remember what the Imperial Rescript tell us. You are the Emperor’s arm!” he declared stridently. “Not the prime minister’s. Not the government’s. There will be a new government, a new prime minister. But the Emperor is the Emperor forever! Do not forget that. You must train harder. Strengthen his arm. Strengthen your resolve. Remember the words of Lieutenant General Mutaguchi Renya as he faced difficult challenges in India: If your hands are broken, fight with your feet. If your hands and feet are broken, use your teeth. If there is no breath left in your body, fight with your spirit. Lack of weapons is no excuse for defeat!”
A great heat rose inside Taro, erupting in a wave of sound. “Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!” he yelled, and the other cadets yelled with him. Governments may come and go, even generals like Tojo might rise and fall, but Japan was forever. The Empire would live. They would make sure of it.
CHAPTER 22
HANA
“The ships are moving,” one of the boys tells me as I fix a tear on the collar of his spare shirt. “But no one seems to know where.” I am using white thread to match the fabric. It glides through my fingers like the strings of a koto, following the silver flash of the needle. I keep pins in my mouth, as if I will need them, like my mother last night. This way, I will not be expected to speak.
“So we have another day of waiting,” the boy continues. He lies down on the grass and sighs. “It’s a pretty day, isn’t it?”
I nod, dragging the thread in and out around the tear. I must not be rude. I am not invisible. Although if I could be, I would disappear. Become a pair of magic hands that mend shirts and socks unseen. Floating servant hands that pour the tea and serve the rice. That make the beds and, being magic, do not feel the tears on the pillowcases of boys who believe today is the day they will die.
It is strange to me that this boy’s fate depends on ships moving miles away across the gray-backed sea. Even stranger that those ships are moved by men who sit even farther away, across an entire ocean, in rooms with no windows, no light. Just smoke and radios, maps and power.
That’s what I imagine, at least. Does the man in America who tells the ships to come closer to our shores know that I am here sewing a small tear shut, fixing what I can in this terrible time of war? Am I who he wants? Is it this Nadeshiko sitting in her dusty monpé pants, a shirt in her lap, who makes him hate us so?
I do not think so.
I am a gnat on the cheek of an elephant.
He cannot see me. He cannot feel me here.
But he swats anyway.
And I die.
CHAPTER 23
TARO
Fall 1944
“It’s not enough.” Taro shook his head. “They can’t expect us to be ready with only thirty minutes of flight time each day. My father had over five hundred hours before he was considered ready. If this keeps up, we’ll have less than half that by the time we deploy.”
“If we’re lucky,” Nakamura agreed gloomily. Night flights had signaled the end of their intermediate flight training. Now all that stood between them and graduation was eighty more hours of required flight time. A woeful lack of aeroplanes made the waiting insufferable. And so they were on the basketball court, taking turns shooting hoops. It was better than sitting in the barracks, better than hanging out at the cafeteria waiting for their next meal. And far better than watching the lucky cadets on the flight line that afternoon. “They say we’ll make up for it once we get assigned, though.”
He lined up his shot and missed. Taro caught the rebound.
“Not with hands like that,” he quipped, and dribbled past Nakamura, lofting the ball into the air. It smacked off the rim and bounced away. They watched it go.
“What if it’s over by the time we finish training?” Nakamura asked. “The war.”
“The way they’re rushing us through, it seems unlikely,” Taro said. But it wasn’t unlikely. Even here in Tachiarai, they could tell the war was going poorly. The few aeroplanes they had were barely held together by the ever-vigilant ground crews. Just last week, Tomomichi had crashed one of the Ki-9s because of a faulty engine. When a replacement failed to show up, everyone’s flight time was cut even further. With all the fuel in the world, a hundred men still couldn’t easily share fifteen planes.
Taro jogged to pick up the escaping ball. He took a wild shot from where he stood. It smacked the backboard and spun off toward Nakamura, who leapt to catch it.
“Good one, Inoguchi.”
“Yeah, well, I’m bored of this,” Taro said.
“Me too. Let’s go find a drink.”
Nakamura fired the ball back at Taro, who caught it in the stomach. It was slick with sweat.
“That was on purpose.”
“Yep.”
The mood at the PX wasn’t any better. They each bought a bottle of Calpis, downing the cold milky drinks so fast it set Taro coughing.
“What’s the news, Ojii-san?” Nakamura asked the old man behind the counter while Taro caught his breath.
The old man shrugged. “Same as always. We lose some ships, we send some planes. They lose some ships, they send some planes. All I really know is my wife is hungry, and she’s unpleasant when she’s skinny. Marry a fat woman, I say. The best insulation in a cold, uncaring world.”
He grinned, and Nakamura slapped him on the back. “Thanks for the advice, Ojii-san. Did you hear that, Taro? Let’s go into town tomorrow and find some fat women.”
“You gotta go a lot farther to find a fat one these days,” the old man said. “Why not just have another Calpis instead?”
He uncapped two more bottles and pushed them toward the boys. “On me. I was young once. Never jumped around in the heat after a ball, but I know what it’s like.”
Taro bowed his thanks. Nakamura rubbed his head. “Momotaro, such a good kid.”
“Someone’s gotta be.” He shrugged.
“Oh, there is some news,” the old man continued. “A new plane came in—”
They grabbed the old man by the shirt, pulling him halfway across the counter. “What plane? Where?”
“Relax, relax!” the old man said. “Put me down! It’s not for flying, it’s for looking at.”
“What’s the point of that?” Nakamura wanted to know.
“Search me. But it’s in Hangar Two. The commandant said so when he picked up his smokes this morning. They’re going to give you a whole show about it, just you wait.”
They thanked the old man and paid for the extra drinks to make up for mussing his shirt. Quick showers, combs in damp hair, and the two were back in uniform, waiting for the news.
And it was news.
Hangar Two was a high wooden structure, home to half the planes on the base in times of peace. With the increasing risk of American air raids, the aeroplanes were now hidden in the fields beneath the trees, encircled on three sides by embankments nicknamed “octopus pots” for their U-shapes. They were designed to prote
ct the planes from bombings. Pearl Harbor wouldn’t have been half as successful if the Americans had done a better job of hiding their aircraft instead of lining them up on the runway, where one explosion could trigger a dozen more.
But this, as the old man had said, was a plane for showing, not flying. It stood in the center of the cavernous hangar, surrounded by a hundred curious faces.
“The Mansyu Ki-79 is an advanced trainer, not unlike the Nakajima Ki-27,” Lieutenant Saito said in a pleased voice as he paced in front of the open cockpit of the single-seater plane. The sleek fuselage sat at an angle—its large front wheels pointing the body upward, while tiny rear wheels held the tail section close to the ground. Painted olive-green and sage camouflage, it boasted a deep brown propeller and a vibrant red circle on either side. “You’ll have heard about the Seventy-Nine, maybe even seen one. But this one is special. Look under the wings, what do you see?”
Taro and his company mates surrounded the plane in a half circle. They dropped into crouches to examine its underbelly.
Tomomichi was the first to spot it.
“There’s room for more than the two standard bombs,” he said.
Lieutenant Saito nodded. “That’s right. The standard Ki-79b holds two fifty-five-pound bombs. This one can hold over five hundred pounds. This is a Tokkō Tai attack plane.”
Taro felt the room go still and very loud at the same time, all of the air sucked up in a sharp group inhale. He had heard of them, of course, a new secret weapon of the Imperial Army and Navy. Special pilots, hand selected to destroy the enemy with every ounce of themselves. Kamikaze—the word had been whispered across base. Like the divine wind of history, sent by the gods, these new pilots would sweep the Western forces away.
Taro could hear the ticking of his wristwatch. The pounding of his pulse.
And then the questions began.
Tokkō Tai? Who did the plane belong to? Had another tokkō attack commenced?
The twinge of excitement Taro had felt upon hearing about the new aeroplane returned, but this note was different, sharper. Nakamura was smiling, as were Tomomichi and even Lieutenant Saito. Everyone was. Just an hour ago, the war had seemed hopeless. And hadn’t they seen the schoolchildren in town drilling with bamboo staves, like those schoolgirls they saw from the train? Every citizen was preparing for the imminent invasion.
But now this plane and all it represented promised a turning of the tide, the deliberate sacrifice of a few to save the many. It was the embodiment of Yamato-damashii—true Japanese spirit—at its greatest. It was bravery like this that would see Japan prevail.
The half circle of cadets drew closer to the aeroplane, as if it were an animal they could pet. Taro found himself reaching out gingerly to touch the familiar coolness of painted metal. Not so different from the aeroplanes they already flew, but imbued with a purpose beyond any he had ever known.
And then a new question rose in his own mind. Why show them this aeroplane—this tokkō plane—now?
His mother’s face flashed in front of him for a moment. The two kinds of tears in her eyes, laughter and pain.
“We thought you boys should see what it really means to be a pilot of the Imperial Army,” Lieutenant Saito was saying.
And like that, the image of his mother was gone, replaced by the magnificent plane before him. An honorable plane. An inspiration.
He slid his hand along its flank like the rest of the boys, admiring the grace of its fuselage. Awed by the power it could contain.
Nakamura might have started it, or maybe it was Lieutenant Saito, but soon, all of the boys were shouting—to the Emperor, to the aeroplane and her brave pilots, to Japan—their voices echoing throughout the cavernous hangar. “Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!”
May you live ten thousand years!
CHAPTER 24
HANA
“Hana! Are you coming?”
I’ve just returned the last of the sewing to the barracks, nudging the basket inside with my foot. The boys will claim their items when they return. The base had seemed quiet, the open barracks door looming like a hungry mouth, until Mariko popped up out of nowhere, calling my name.
“Going where? I think we are done for the day, neh?” I gladly turn away from the darkened maw.
“Done working, yes,” she says, tugging at my sleeve. “Some of us are walking to the river. The comfort girls are putting on a show. Come with us!” Together, we climb down the hillside to the road.
“I can’t. My mother needs my help today. I told her I would come straight home.”
Mariko makes a pouting face. “You need to have fun, too, Hana. Next time, you have to come.”
“I will,” I promise. Although the thought of watching those women, girls really, singing and dancing just makes me homesick for when we all used to sing and dance. We would laugh and drink tea and eat bean cakes. Now all we do is work, go hungry, and worry.
Mariko clatters up the road and waves at me before cutting across the field to the river. I told her Okā-san needed me, and she does. But, for a moment, I don’t move. My arms are tired, and my fingers ache. I wiggle them and roll my shoulders. No one can see me. It is utterly silent. Just me, the trees, and the air. I am the only person in the world. This is peace.
And then I hear a bird, or perhaps the wind sawing through the trees. It freezes me, frees me. I have lifted a foot toward home, and it hangs there, half an inch above the gravel. What is that sound?
I close my eyes, slowly turning, until my ears point the way. It’s coming from the barracks. I open my eyes, ease my way back up the hill, and lean against the rough bark of the triangle roof.
Someone is playing an instrument.
It has been years since there was music in my life. Real music, not military marches or schoolgirl songs.
My heart moves sideways. It’s gorgeous.
The melody trembles like sakura in the wind. I find I have left the safety of the roof. I am standing in the doorway, listening to the lone musician, the boy with the black case in his duffel. He stands in the center of the barracks, playing a Western violin.
I take a step inside.
There was a moment when I was dead, swaddled in darkness, a moment of utter stillness. My ears were ringing because of the bomb, a constant hum, like the first note of creation.
And then there was light.
Just a tiny dot of it, streaming in as if it were all the light in the universe.
And it grew. And grew.
Until there were fingers, hands, faces, and blue sky.
And voices screaming, “She’s here! She’s alive!”
Now my ears ring with that first note once more. Through the doorway, a dot of light. And fingers, hands, a face like the open sky, and music singing, I am here. I am alive.
I stand in the sunken barracks, and no stone hands reach out to suffocate me. The sweep of music is holding up the roof, and I realize I am unafraid.
The song ends. The musician opens his eyes. A catch of breath, and he sees me. I do not know what to say, so I bow in deep gratitude. He is startled. He nods, his eyes still on me, a doe he is afraid to frighten away. I pause, a fox unwilling to startle the hare.
And then, eyes on me, he takes a deep breath, straightens, and begins the song again.
If I stay too long, I fear I will cry. So I pull back from the doorway and climb the hill toward home. But I am listening.
And when I am too far away to hear the music, I still feel the song.
CHAPTER 25
TARO
Winter 1944
Brass buttons, double-rowed and shining like twin suns. Olive twill slacks side-striped in scarlet. The uniform jacket, trim and braided. The smart cap with its black sun visor. Taro flexed his hands inside their white gloves and gave each a sharp tug down to his wrist. His shoes were mirrors, his eyes bright. He was an of
ficer now.
“Hmm,” Nakamura said beside him. “Not too bad, Lieutenant! No one would ever know you’re lacking in moral fortitude.”
Taro smiled. “Or that you have the tail of a pig.”
Nakamura snorted a porcine laugh and held out his hand in a Western shake. By now, Taro knew not to bow into it. He clasped the offered glove and shook it.
“This is it, boys!” Nakamura said a bit louder, so the rest of their cohort, newly bedecked in dress uniforms, turned their attention his way. Of the hundred boys they’d started with, only fifty-seven remained. The rest had moved on to ground crew or other airfield staff. “Today we graduate. Tomorrow we fly for the Emperor!”
“Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!”
Taro clapped Nakamura on the back and finished packing his duffel. They would leave directly from graduation to their first deployment on a twelve o’clock train to Akeno Air Base in Mie Prefecture, on the main island of Honshu. From there, after a few months of fighter training, who knew where the wings of his Ki-43 would take him? At least, a new Nakajima Ki-43 was his hope. They had all heard rumors that new recruits were less and less likely to get the best planes. Matériel and men—both were running low in this confounded war.
The barracks door flew open, and one of the younger cadets burst in, cheeks red from exertion. When he saw the graduates arrayed in their finery, he stumbled to a stop and bowed deeply.
The Blossom and the Firefly Page 10
