The Eternal Zero

by Naoki Hyakuta

  “Ensign Miyabe,” I called out to him.

  He merely glared at me and didn’t utter a word in response.

  “I’ve improved a whole lot since back then. I won’t lose to you so easily this time, sir.”

  He gave me a suspicious look and nodded vaguely. Still silent, he turned on his heels and walked away.

  He doesn’t remember me? The rage and humiliation I’d felt a year ago came roaring back.

  It was again my heart’s deepest desire to witness his death. I remembered that what had kept me alive until that day was my wish to see him perish before my eyes.

  * * *

  —

  The next day, before daybreak, all aircrew were assembled before the command post. An assortment of planes culled from all over Kyushu stood in rows along the runway. All the engines were running.

  In the gloom, amidst the growling drone of the engines, I looked at the blackboard and the lists of the pilots selected for either special attack or escort duty. My name, just like the previous day, was listed among the guard contingent.

  After the commander gave his salutation, he traded the customary farewell cups of water with the pilots, who then walked off towards the waiting aircraft. I casually glanced over at them and instantly froze. Miyabe was among the group of special attack pilots.

  I immediately broke into a run. Catching up to him, I said, “Ensign Miyabe.”

  He gave a small jolt and turned around.

  “Are you really conducting a special attack?” I asked.

  I was left speechless when he nodded.

  “It puts me at ease to know you’ll be backing me up, Kageura.”

  With this, he gave me a bright smile, slapped me on the shoulder, and headed towards his bomb-hugging Zero.

  This was a situation I’d never considered. To think Miyabe of all people would become a kamikaze…I could only look on in a blank daze as he walked away.

  A few minutes later, all the aircraft took off.

  My eyes were locked onto Miyabe’s plane. To my surprise, his Zero was not a newer Model 52, but the old Model 21 that had been used at Pearl Harbor. Where had they found such an old Zero? A 250-kilo bomb was strapped to its belly.

  There was only one thought in my mind: I absolutely need to protect Miyabe. That and nothing else.

  I would defend his plane, no matter what. I wouldn’t let a single bullet touch him. I would shoot down every last hostile that attacked him. If I ran out of bullets, I’d hurl myself at them if that’s what it took.

  But suddenly the fuselage of my plane began shuddering violently, and smoke started pouring out of my engine.

  “You damn piece of shit! Get it together!” I yelled, but the engine failed to recover. I soon fell behind and watched on helplessly as Miyabe and the formation disappeared into the distance.

  I screamed at the top of my lungs. I screamed, beside myself, Lose, Japan! Perish, Imperial Navy! The military can go to hell! I hope all professional soldiers die!

  After screaming my head off, I whispered hoarsely, “Miyabe-san, please forgive me.”

  When I realized what I’d muttered to myself, tears streamed down my face, endlessly.

  * * *

  —

  A few days later, the war was over.

  When I heard the Emperor’s broadcast, I fell to the ground and wept, loudly. There were others who cried as well, but none wailed at the top of their lungs like I did. But I wasn’t weeping over Japan’s defeat. I didn’t care about Japan. I had known for a while that we were going to lose.

  I cried for none other than Miyabe. Had he lived just one week longer, he would have been saved. He could have gone back to that wife of his whom he loved so dearly.

  After the war I became a yakuza. I wanted to take revenge against this insane world. I hated being in a world where the ones in power threw their weight around.

  I murdered, too. I killed so many people it’s a wonder that I’m still alive today.

  But I forgot about Miyabe. I didn’t think about him again until today.

  * * *

  —

  “That ends my story,” Kageura said brusquely.

  He had put on dark sunglasses partway through, so I wasn’t able to read his expression. The young man standing behind him had kept his lips tightly sealed.

  “That time, though,” Kageura suddenly muttered, “Miyabe’s eyes weren’t those of a man who’d decided to die.”

  He looked up at the ceiling.

  I couldn’t think of a reply. Maybe Kageura wanted to say that my grandfather had held on to hope to the very end.

  The former yakuza folded his arms. Now he seemed to be staring at me, but his sunglasses made it hard to tell.

  After a while he said, “You said your grandmother passed away?”

  “Yes, six years ago.”

  “Did she have a happy life?”

  “I think so.”

  Kageura’s expression seemed to soften momentarily. But that might have been my imagination.

  “Glad to hear that.”

  “Did you ever meet her?”

  “No,” he replied immediately. “I had absolutely no interest in his family.”

  He abruptly got to his feet then practically shouted, “I’m done with my story. Now get out of here!” His tone was intimidating and final.

  I stood up and thanked him. The next instant, something totally unexpected happened. Kageura, sunglasses still on, pulled me into a tight hug. I froze, at a loss for how to react. I could feel the warmth of his thin, old frame. Then he released me.

  “Pardon me. It’s just that I like young men,” he said with a grin, and instructed his bodyguard to see me to the door.

  Then Kageura left the room.

  The young man led me to the entryway. “I was able to listen to a moving story,” he said, bowing deeply.

  I bowed in return and left the Kageura residence.

  Chapter 11

  Final Moments

  The hot summer was drawing to a close. So was the journey to learn about my grandfather.

  As summer turned to autumn, I set about collating the stories about him for Mom. I plugged the voice recorder into my computer and listened over and over again to the tales. I had asked Keiko to let me handle the job of putting everything together. I thought that she might turn me down, but she had no objections.

  “You’ve really put a ton of work into this project from the beginning, Kentaro. So, of course you should be the one to bring it all together.”

  I had no intention of hastily writing everything up in a slam-dunk manner. It wasn’t my intent to romanticize my grandfather, but I hated the idea of putting his story into words before I was able to convey his true form. But as I listened repeatedly to the testimonials on the voice recorder, I began to think that I should let Mom listen to all of the stories.

  I received word from Suzuko Emura that her father Genjiro Izaki had passed away in mid-August.

  “He looked very peaceful as he went,” she told me at the funeral.

  I saw his grandson, Seiichi, when I went up to the small table in front of the coffin to light a stick of incense. At first I didn’t recognize him. It was hard to believe that he was the same youth whom I’d met in that hospital room. He had cut off his long hair and dyed it from blond to his original black. We didn’t speak, but once he realized who I was, he bowed deeply.

  Small changes were taking place in me as well. I opened up my law textbooks that had been collecting dust for some time. And I found myself wanting to try one more time to pass the bar exam.

  I’d regained the desire I’d once had to become a lawyer and to devote myself to helping others. Since such a naive motivation and dream had begun to make me feel embarrassed, it was a mystery even to me that I now wanted to pursue that goal more than ever.
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  * * *

  —

  At the end of August, Keiko invited me out for drinks. One look at her face told me there was something weighing on her mind.

  After we had sat down and ordered beer, Keiko said with forced casualness: “Takayama-san formally proposed to me.”

  “Oh. And how did you reply?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I really don’t want to have to call that man ‘brother.’ ”

  “Please don’t say that. He’s very sorry for what happened that time. He says he took Takeda-san’s insults against his company personally and lost his cool.”

  “But he still insulted our grandfather. Not directly, but he did insult all of the kamikazes.”

  “And Takayama-san regrets that. After listening to Takeda-san, he realized that he’d had the wrong idea. You might find it hard to believe, but he was crying when he told me that.”

  That was very difficult for me to even imagine, but I trusted that Keiko wouldn’t lie to me. “Do you really think you’ll be happy as a couple?”

  She seemed a bit peeved by my question. “Yes, I do think I’ll be happy. He loves me, and—”

  “And he meets your qualifications for a spouse.”

  “Is that so wrong?”

  I shook my head. To women, marriage is about reality. And he really did seem to love her. Sure, he was biased, but that didn’t necessarily make him a bad person. If anything, for an elite like him to admit fault and weep in remorse suggested that he was a fairly sincere human being.

  And besides, Keiko was committed to her dream of getting a book published. He was someone who could help her pursue that dream.

  “There’s just one thing that bothers me,” I said. “You haven’t said anything about the most important factor.”

  “What?”

  “Do you love Takayama-san?”

  Instead of answering, Keiko picked up her beer and silently drained her glass. She ran a finger along the rim.

  “And what are you going to do about Fujiki-san?”

  Her face went pale.

  “Fujiki-san saying that he wanted to marry you was probably him taking a leap into the dark. I think it required death-defying courage for him to ask you.”

  Keiko looked down. Then she said in a barely audible voice, “I think so, too. I’ve done something awful, haven’t I?”

  “I think it was a childish form of revenge. But if you agree it was wrong, then I’ve nothing more to say. But I do want you to properly apologize to Fujiki-san at least.”

  Keiko nodded.

  “Your life’s your own, and I won’t say anything more about your marriage plans. You should choose what you think is best.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  I changed the subject, talking about how I meant to throw myself into my studies like mad to try for the bar again next year. At first she seemed surprised, but then she smiled and said, “Good luck!”

  I wasn’t anxious about the exam. Looking back, on my first attempt I had been tripped up by ambition. Failure had sparked impatience. And on the last attempt I had just been dumped, so I was in a very bad state of mind. But now, I surprised myself by how calm and settled I was as I tackled my studies. I felt as though I could simply do my best and then leave the rest up to fate. If I failed, then my plan was to look for a job of some kind. Having a job wasn’t a bad thing. In fact, I felt as though I should participate in society by earning a living. And if I felt like it, I could try for the bar again in my thirties, like Grandpa had done.

  “By the way, why do you think Grandfather Miyabe ended up dying a kamikaze?” Keiko said out of nowhere.

  “This is just a guess, but…” I trailed off.

  “It’s okay, tell me, Kentaro.”

  “What Kageura said…the stuff about the Yamato heading to Okinawa even though the crew knew she’d be sunk. It was a pointless death, but they couldn’t stand by and do nothing while there were other people fighting in Okinawa.”

  Keiko looked at me with a serious expression.

  “Grandfather saw off many kamikaze pilots, a good number of whom had been his own students. Maybe it made him think that he shouldn’t live on when they’d all died.”

  Keiko looked down towards the table, focusing on the glass before her. Then she replied softly, “I don’t think that’s it.”

  I waited for her to expand on her response, but she didn’t explain. “About Kageura-san, I think I understand his feelings,” she said instead. “He admired our grandfather from the bottom of his heart.”

  Maybe he did, I thought.

  “So is the research over now?” she asked.

  “Actually, not quite yet. A few days ago, I got a call from the veterans’ group for the first time in a while. There’s a man who was a Navy communications specialist at Kanoya, and apparently he remembers a few things about our grandfather. But not much, it seems. Like it’s just at the edges of his memory.”

  “So are you not going to go?”

  “Well actually, I want to see the place grandfather took off from for the last time. And I figure while I’m there, I’ll go see the man. After that, the journey to learn about Grandfather Miyabe will be over.”

  “When are you going?”

  “This weekend.”

  Keiko thought for a moment then said, in a firm tone, “Can I come too? No, I mean, take me with you.”

  * * *

  —

  The old Kanoya Navy Base was currently used by the Self-Defense Force. It was right near the center of the Osumi Peninsula, and Mt. Kaimondake lay to the southwest.

  From Kirishima-ga-oka, a nearby hill, we had a sweeping view of the runway. We learned that they were still using the same one. Bunkers built sixty years ago still remained, too.

  I felt very sentimental when I realized I was gazing out over the same scenery my grandfather had so many years ago.

  There was a museum adjacent to the SDF base with various materials related to the Naval Air Corps on display. I saw a real Zero for the first time, too. It was far smaller than I had imagined. Some of the wills left by pilots were also on display, but I couldn’t bring myself to read them.

  I felt I had to get out of there as quickly as possible, and left. Keiko stayed behind, reading some of the wills, but soon after came out with red, weepy eyes. I didn’t ask what she thought about them, and she didn’t volunteer any thoughts. The kamikazes’ sorrow and suffering was something of a common understanding between us.

  We paid our respects to the Special Attack Force Memorial, and then left Kanoya city.

  * * *

  —

  Former Petty Officer 1st Class Yasuhiko Onishi lived in Kagoshima city, on the opposite side from Kanoya across Kagoshima Bay. It was a three-hour trek via bus and ferry from one city to the other.

  Onishi ran a small inn. Or rather, his son ran it while he enjoyed his retired life.

  Keiko and I were shown to the inn’s drawing room. It was a sunny one that looked south over a small garden.

  The most surprising thing we learned about Onishi upon meeting him was that he spoke the standard form of Japanese. When Keiko commented, “You don’t speak in the Kagoshima dialect,” Onishi laughed and said, “That’s because I’m originally from Tokyo.”

  He spread open a large notebook on the desk. The pages were yellowed and the cover was falling apart. “I wrote down what I remembered of the war after it ended,” Onishi explained as he flipped through the notebook. “I’d written down the names of every one of the kamikazes that took off from Kanoya Base.”

  * * *

  —

  I was sent to Kanoya in 1944—that’s sixty years ago now. I still can’t speak in the local dialect very well, but speaking standard Japanese is useful if you’re running an inn.

  After the war ended, I tho
ught about returning to Tokyo. But it had been ravaged by fires after the many air raids, my family had evacuated to our relatives’ place in Chiba, and there wasn’t much to return to. My wife and I were seeing each other here at that point, so I decided to stay put. She’d worked in the bomb shelters at Kanoya as part of the women’s volunteer corps. We never spoke to each other during the war, though. We only had our first conversation after the war came to a close.

  Her family had run this inn. She had two older brothers who both died in the war. So I was adopted into the family and ultimately took over running the place. Yes, we get along fine.

  * * *

  —

  My job at Kanoya was communications.

  Comm specialists did a whole bunch of things, communicating with other units as well as with attack forces. But starting in the spring of 1945, a major part of the job was to receive wires from the kamikaze flights. This was very difficult, heartbreaking work.

  By that time, confirming the results of a special attack had become a tall order. Even if a kamikaze successfully rammed himself into a ship, if there was no one out there to witness and report back, we had no way of knowing what had happened.

  During the Philippines operation, the formations all had monitoring aircraft to report results, but by the Battle of Okinawa the monitors would be shot down if they sortied with the kamikazes, so none were deployed at all.

  The promise that Vice Admiral Onishi made when he spoke to Shikishima Unit, that word of their achievements in battle would be delivered to the Emperor, had long been abrogated. The kamikazes died all alone without anyone knowing their last moments. How sorrowful that is.

  So, how to confirm the results of kamikaze missions? Make the pilots themselves do it. Their aircraft were outfitted with radiotelegraphs so that they could make a dispatch right at the moment of the attack. Back then, the wireless phones of the Navy were plagued by static and noise, which made them useless. We had to rely on Morse code transmissions. Those dots and dashes.