Flyboys

by James Bradley

  Six hundred miles south of the imperial palace, the boys monitoring the radios on Chichi Jima were perhaps better informed than Hirohito about Japan’s ultimate fate. “Members of my army unit would ask me how the war was going,” Nobuake Iwatake recalled. “When I told them Japan was losing, they called me a traitor. They had no idea.”

  The Tokyo raid did not immediately change Warren Earl Vaughn’s surreal life. He remained a captive of the Japanese, yet he soaked in tubs with them and listened to Bing Crosby. Warren Earl and Iwatake were both on night duty on March 14, 1945. “All of a sudden Warren stood up, took his headphones off, and told us that the Americans had just announced, “All organized resistance on Iwo Jima has ended,” Iwatake-san remembered. “Warren told us the news calmly, but inside he must have felt differently. Tamamura-san was with us, so he gave the message to Captain Yoshii.” Yoshii immediately passed the message up the chain to imperial headquarters in Tokyo. So in all probability, the emperor learned that Iwo Jima was lost as a result of a message intercepted by a Flyboy on Chichi Jima.

  Disorganized resistance continued in spurts. Two days later, on March 16, a besieged General Kuribayashi radioed from Iwo Jima: “The battle is approaching its end. Since the enemy’s landing, even the gods would weep at the bravery of the officers and men under my command.”

  The next day, March 17, Prime Minister Kuniaki Koiso, Tojo’s replacement, went on the radio and called the fall of Iwo Jima “the most unfortunate thing in the whole war situation.” He was quick to add, however, that the nation would fight to the last man “to shatter the enemy’s ambitions.”

  Captain Yoshii had had enough. He spoke to his friend Lieutenant Yasua Kurasaki, who was in charge of the torpedo boat squadron down on the shore of Futami Bay.

  Late that morning of March 17, Warren Earl and Iwatake took a break from their duties. They lounged in the sun outside the radio station, leaning against the concrete wall. A truck with five navy men came over the hill. Iwatake had never seen them before. They were from the torpedo boat squadron.

  “Warren sensed they came for him,” Iwatake-san told me. “He stood up, turned to me, and shook my hand. ‘They came to get me,’ he said. He had a sad look in his eyes. I felt it was the final good-bye, the way he said it and the way he looked at me.”

  Twenty-two-year-old Iwatake watched his twenty-four-year-old buddy walk away with the navy men. They got in the truck and drove down the hill.

  Warren Earl was taken to the torpedo boat squadron headquarters on the edge of Futami Bay. At about 3 P.M., a crowd of 150 gathered near a bomb crater there. Lieutenant Yasuo Kurasaki was in charge. Captain Yoshii watched. They were good Spirit Warriors. They were drunk.

  Kurasaki spoke to Warren Earl in halting English. He told the Cherokee he was about to have his head chopped off. Kurasaki asked him if he was ready to meet death. “Yes,” Warren Earl replied. Is there anything you would like to say? “No,” Lieutenant Vaughn answered.

  Kurasaki gave a speech similar to the one his friend Yoshii had made prior to Jimmy Dye’s execution, something to the effect that “we are now going to execute an American flyer, and maybe one day you all will be in the same situation, so have a good look and remember all of the details.”

  Kurasaki called for a volunteer to kill Warren Earl.

  Nobody came forward.

  He called upon Ensign Takao Koyama.

  “When Lieutenant Kurasaki told Koyama to perform the execution, Koyama refused,” a witness later testified. In front of everyone, the lieutenant reminded the ensign he had been given an order. Koyama had no choice. “Lieutenant Kurasaki was drunk and said he himself would perform the execution. But he did not do it. He picked out Koyama because he was an expert in kendo.”

  Warren Earl knelt on a mat at the rim of the bomb crater. A later report noted, “In a gesture of defiance he insisted on rolling down his own collar for the execution.” He was then blindfolded.

  With one stroke, Ensign Koyama decapitated Warren Earl, who fell forward into the crater.

  Lieutenant Kurasaki shouted for Dr. Kanehisa Matsushita to come forward. A witness said, “Captain Yoshii ordered Dr. Matsushita to dissect the flyer and remove his liver.”

  Back atop Mount Yoake, Iwatake wondered what had happened to his friend. Some navy guys walked by the radio station and casually remarked, “The prisoner who was with us was executed.”

  “I thought, how cruel,” Iwatake-san told me. “How could they do such a cruel thing? I was so sad. I hated Captain Yoshii because I heard he was the leader of the group who killed Warren.”

  In his shock and grief, Iwatake felt he had to do something. But what?

  “I kept wondering what I could do to carry on Warren’s memory,” Iwatake-san said. Then Iwatake had an idea. He would have to keep it secret on Chichi Jima, but he would not forget.

  After Warren Earl’s execution on March 17, pilot Floyd Hall was the last Flyboy left on Chichi Jima. Floyd had told his buddies Bill Hazlehurst and Joe White that he wouldn’t return alive, but he hoped he might make it off Chichi Jima in one piece.

  By now, Floyd had spent a month at Major Horie’s headquarters, where he had continued the English lessons Warren Earl and he had begun. As Floyd taught the major English, he also picked up some Japanese. The meek intelligence officer and the buoyant Flyboy seemed to be opposites, but as they taught each other, the differences melted away. Horie later wrote about Floyd, “I talked with Hall frequently. I ate with him often. He was lively and intelligent, and gave me great pleasure.”

  “He was born in Missouri,” Horie elaborated.

  He was still single because he had postponed his marriage on account of the war. He said that he intended to return home and marry his sweetheart as soon as peace was declared. He said if I ever came to the United States in the future he would guide me everywhere. I also told him that if I lived and if he ever came to Japan I would have him sleep at my home and would guide him. At that time there were many air raids, and we did not know when the American forces might land on Chichi Jima. Under such conditions he consoled my heart and gave me comfort more than anything else could do.

  One soldier remembered that Floyd was “on good terms with Major Horie and very friendly with everyone. He was always joking he was going to give Major Horie a good time in the States, and that he wanted to visit Japan. Everybody was friendly with Hall. Hall learned quite a number of words in Japanese.”

  Every day, Floyd must have grown more confident of his chances for survival. He was in the care of a relatively high-ranking man—a major—was never tied up, and enjoyed complete freedom. Floyd attended parties and drank sake with his captors. When American bombers appeared overhead, Floyd ran into caves along with the Japanese. Floyd had always been clever—this was a guy who had worked his way up from enlisted man to officer, from cook to Flyboy. Now he was teaching himself the Japanese language and customs well enough to use chopsticks and joke with his captors. Maybe he would be lucky.

  But Major Horie had no operational power. He was an intelligence man, subservient to the warriors. And Floyd’s death sentence had already been issued, although Horie and Floyd didn’t know it. On March 9, almost three weeks after Floyd was shot down, Major Matoba issued his order:

  I. The battalion wants to eat flesh of the American aviator, Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Hall.

  II. First Lieutenant Kanmuri will see to the rationing of this flesh.

  III. Cadet Sakabe (Medical Corps) will attend the execution and have the liver and gall bladder removed.

  Date: 9th March 1945

  Time: 9 A.M.

  Place: Mikazuki Hill Headquarters

  Battalion Commander: Major Matoba

  Two weeks went by. Then, on March 23, a surprise message from Iwo Jima was received at the Mount Yoake radio station. General Kuribayashi’s March 16 message from Iwo Jima was assumed to be the last one that would come from the American-conquered island.

  “The Japanese government had announce
d the fall of Iwo Jima,” Tamamura-san recalled. “We thought everyone was dead on Iwo Jima. But later we received a signal. They had portable radio transmitters. We got a message that there were thirty survivors on the northern cliffs. That night they were going to make a banzai charge.” Horie remembered the message as, “Good-bye to our friends on Chichi Jima.”

  This message apparently shook up the command on Chichi Jima. Various headquarters were consolidated to prepare for imminent American attack. Major Horie was ordered to General Tachibana’s headquarters as the general’s new chief of staff. Now the major could no longer protect his American friend. Major Matoba’s order would be carried out.

  On the evening of Friday, March 23, Major Horie and Floyd Hall had a last supper together in the major’s quarters. Horie told Floyd he would be “moved” but did not tell him he was to be executed. Floyd and the major spoke hopefully of a postwar world in which they would visit each other’s countries as friends.

  The next day, Major Horie telephoned Captain Kanmuri of the 308th Battalion, who had received the order to kill Floyd from Major Matoba. Major Horie told him to come get the prisoner.

  “Major Horie told me not to kill Hall in any inhuman way because Hall was very much in his favor,” Kanmuri said. “I understood that Hall was to die but to do the job as humanely as possible.”

  Floyd stayed in a guardhouse at Major Matoba’s 308th Battalion headquarters overnight. His hands were tied in front of him, but he was not tethered to anything. He could walk around. He was fed well and given cigarettes.

  Floyd must have sensed he was in trouble. He wasn’t being abused, but he felt the rough rope against his wrists. Yet Floyd wasn’t giving up hope. “The flyer was talking to the people around him in broken Japanese,” one witness said. A Korean laborer later testified, “I saw the flyer joking with a navy man. The man had a beard the previous day and during the night he shaved it off. They were joking about it.” Floyd, hands tied, held in a guardhouse, was trying to make human connections with anyone. Maybe . . .

  Major Matoba ordered Dr. Teraki, who had dissected Marve Mershon, that he was to do the same with Floyd. Teraki told the corpsmen there would be a demonstration the next day. One corpsman recalled, “It was just an order that the prisoner was to be executed, and after the execution the body would be dissected; and all of the corpsmen should be present at the dissection in order to study the human body.”

  On Sunday, March 25, Major Matoba bestirred himself and gave the order for Floyd to be executed. It was a routine matter.

  “All the Japanese on Iwo Jima were lost,” Matoba said. “No one on this island had the least idea of returning to Japan alive. Therefore it was just an understanding that all captured flyers were to be executed.”

  But the brave major wouldn’t do the dirty work himself. He barked to Captain Kesakichi Sato, “Behead the flyer today.”

  “I cannot do so,” Captain Sato replied. Major Matoba eyed his subordinate coldly. He reminded him that it was “an order.” As Matoba departed, Sato commanded that Floyd be taken from the guardhouse to a nearby crater for execution.

  Sato realized he had to carry out the order, but Matoba had not told him to kill Floyd personally. Captain Sato had been born into a Buddhist home and taught never to kill anything that was living. “To kill persons who are defenseless was against bushido,” he said. So, in the tradition of other Chichi Jima Spirit Warriors, Captain Sato passed the buck. He eyed Sergeant Furushika nearby and said, “I have been ordered to execute the prisoner by Major Matoba. You do it.”

  Sergeant Furushika refused. Captain Sato told him it was “an order.” The sergeant said yes.

  A crowd milled around Floyd at the guardhouse. “All of the men were talking about the coming execution,” said Corpsman Kanemori, who had assisted Dr. Teraki with the dissection of Marve.

  But Floyd couldn’t understand enough to know the men were speaking of his execution. He kept his cool and continued joking.

  “The prisoner knew many words in Japanese,” Kanemori said. “We were all fooling around with him and just talking. We gave him cigarettes and so forth.”

  After about ten minutes, a guard came and took Floyd to the bomb crater. The crowd followed.

  Captain Sato walked out of the headquarters building and was about to follow the crowd to the execution site when he realized the assigned head-chopper, Sergeant Furushika, had disappeared.

  “I went to Sergeant Furushika’s quarters, but I could not find him,” Sato said. “I told an orderly to find him and bring him to the scene.”

  Floyd stood with about fifty Japanese soldiers at the edge of a bomb crater on Mikasuki hill, about three hundred yards from 308th Battalion headquarters.

  Captain Sato approached. He told Floyd he was going to be executed. He gave Floyd a final cigarette. Floyd smoked it slowly, not speaking. He was offered a glass of whiskey, which he drank.

  Floyd was blindfolded. He was made to sit on the edge of the crater, facing west, away from the imperial palace.

  Twenty minutes had elapsed since the group had arrived at the crater, but the assigned executioner, Sergeant Furushika, still hadn’t appeared. Now Sato was in a bind. He had to get the show on the road.

  “I looked around and saw Corporal Nakamura with a sword,” Sato said. “I went over to Nakamura and ordered him: ‘Execute the prisoner.’”

  Now Corporal Nakamura would be the third to refuse an order to execute the American devil.

  “When Captain Sato said that I should do it,” Nakamura said, “I didn’t want to. I said, ‘You have a man scheduled to do it.’”

  Captain Sato walked across the road to consult with Dr. Teraki. The captain and the doctor came back to Corporal Nakamura.

  “Dr. Teraki walked up and said that he was going to be late for the dissection,” Nakamura said. Then Captain Sato grunted, “Behead the flyer.” It was “an order.” Nakamura said yes.

  All this time, Floyd was sitting blindfolded and silent on the edge of the crater. Now Nakamura reluctantly pulled out his sword. He wiped it with a handkerchief. He approached Floyd from the rear. He aimed twice, slowly swinging the blade up and down. He struck. He stepped away.

  “Corporal Nakamura did not entirely decapitate the flyer,” a corpsman said. “His sword entered about two thirds of the flyer’s neck.”

  Private Iso remembered, “Immediately after the blow was struck, blood gushed out of the wound. It made me feel sick and so I left.”

  “After Corporal Nakamura beheaded the flyer,” Sergeant Mori said, “the body rolled over. I was just there as a witness, but before the beheading, Captain Sato told me to borrow a rifle and bayonet and stand by. Now Captain Sato told me to bayonet him. I didn’t refuse the order because it was public and in front of the enlisted men. Although I did not like to do it, I did it anyway. I still do not know why I was made to bayonet a dead body.”

  It was about 11 A.M. on Sunday, March 25, 1945. The boy from Sedalia, Missouri, who had enlisted the day after Pearl Harbor, had lived twenty-four years and eight months.

  Dr. Teraki came forward and said to the assembled corpsmen, “The body will be dissected and all corpsmen are to study the anatomy of the human body.” A guard stood at the perimeter of the dissection area and prevented additional onlookers from coming close.

  Later, one corpsman gave this account:

  I saw the bloody body was placed on its back. I heard Doctor Teraki order all corpsmen present to come near the body, as he was going to dissect the flyer. There were five of us corpsmen. Corpsman Kanemori took off the clothing of the flyer. He stripped his chest and abdomen bare. Doctor Teraki instructed corpsmen while he dissected the body.

  Doctor Teraki made an incision from the flyer’s chest to the abdomen and laid open his chest. We examined all of the intestines, and the doctor cut right down to the insides. The doctor lifted up the lungs and heart and let all of the corpsmen examine them. He lifted out the stomach and had it examined. He later cut out the li
ver and wrapped it in cellophane paper.

  “I knelt at the doctor’s left side,” Kanemori said. “He cut into the left thigh. Every time he came upon a sinew, he took the scissors out of my hand to cut it. While he was cutting around the thigh, he told me to hold on to the flesh because he did not want to get any dirt on it. I complied with this request.”

  Kanemori wrapped Floyd’s liver and thigh meat (“about eight pounds”) in cellophane. A soldier took it from him and brought it to Major Matoba’s headquarters. One of the corpsmen found two photos in Floyd’s pocket, which he replaced. Soldiers shoveled dirt onto Floyd, lying at the bottom of the bomb crater.

  That night, Major Matoba and a number of other army officers brought a delicacy to Admiral Kinizo Mori’s headquarters. Matoba had had Floyd’s liver prepared specially for the party. “I had it pierced with bamboo sticks and cooked with soy sauce and vegetables,” Matoba said.

  “Major Matoba came to my headquarters and was very drunk,” Mori recalled. “The meat was cut in very small pieces and pierced together by bamboo spits.”

  The officers remarked how liver was good for the stomach. The drunken major repeated this several times. Matoba remembered: “Admiral Mori mentioned that during the Chinese-Japanese war human liver was eaten as a medicine by the Japanese troops. All the other officers agreed that liver was good medicine for the stomach.”

  All the soldiers on Chichi Jima believed that, like the executed Flyboys, they would soon be in their graves. They were wrong. Chichi Jima was not invaded. The focus was now on burning down mainland Japan.

  In the summer of 1945, the army air force issued an astonishing document. It was a map of Japan with the cities listed that General LeMay had scorched. It detailed the percentage of each city burned and compared each city in size to an American city.