A Thousand Stitches

by Constance O'Keefe

  By the end of the second Sunday, we were a bit bored: we wanted more than just eating, drinking, and relaxing in the warm waters. Someone mentioned geisha. As the conversation continued, I realized I wasn’t the only one confused. I knew that geisha were high-class entertainers, specialists in traditional Japanese instruments, art song, and classical dance, and I knew that the word geisha literally meant “arts person” or artiste. But with the altered circumstances of the war years, the term had been adopted by women at all levels of the “water trade,” from the traditional geisha artistes, whose performances were no doubt beyond our tastes as well as our wallets, to the lowest level “entertainers,” who provided nothing more than sex.

  Not having even the remotest idea of how to find these geisha, we asked the hotel manager for advice. He was happy to oblige, and we soon found ourselves at a tea house where the women were all too well acquainted with Naval officers. They knew all the Navy songs and joined us in spirited renditions. Once everyone was drunk, we and the girls joined in an off-key but robust chorus of the Navy’s Battleship March: Defending or attacking, like a floating fortress of steel…so reliable. I loved the singing, just as I had when I was singing hymns in English, but I didn’t have the skills to join in when my colleagues from the big cities spun the girls around the room in foxtrots.

  When the party wound down, we paired off and went to bed. It was my first experience with sex. The physical act itself was pure delight, but that experience taught me that with sex comes a cascade of emotional reactions and connections.

  After we finished, “my girl”—whose name I cannot for the life of me remember—sat with me and talked for quite some time. It slowly dawned on me that she was an indentured servant, not an employee, and had virtually no personal freedom. She had to have special permission to leave the premises, and was only allowed out for short periods of time. She was checked weekly for venereal disease, and she had absolutely no say in when she had to work or how many customers she had to entertain. Evidently, a number of her “customers” were quite unpleasant and some of them downright abusive. I resolved then and there to stay away from the sex-for-money business. And in the years since the war I’ve wondered why so many of my countrymen expend so much energy denying that the “comfort women” system existed in Japan and in the lands we conquered.

  On June 1, we were all promoted and officially made officers. I was now Ensign Imagawa. It was also the first day for summer uniforms. We were all delighted with our shining cherry blossom pins and our new epaulets with one gold stripe. We knew we looked sharp. We were also told that the repair work at Wonson was finally finished. We could expect our orders any day.

  But first, the stern Commander told us, “All of you brave new officers will have three days leave. You can leave tomorrow as early as you like. Pick up your travel vouchers at the gate. Enjoy your time with your families.” I realize now that this was a form of compassionate leave. There would be a death in each of our families, and those deaths were likely to be far away from home. But we tamped down those thoughts as we raced off in our crisp, bright uniforms, with our new cherry blossoms, our glittering convictions, and our dreams of glory.

  I got home to the Ishii Village house by early afternoon. It felt so good to sit on the tatami. Of course, there had been a tatami at the Tanakas when I was in Izumi, but this was special, this was home. Here I could relax. I looked forward to the rest of that day and another full day with my parents.

  My fears that Mother’s ambitions to advance my match with Kayoko would occupy my one precious day at home proved unfounded. At breakfast the next morning she announced that she was satisfied that her negotiations with the Katayamas were almost finished; all that remained were the details on when and where the marriage would take place. She bemoaned the fact that I had appeared without notice and that no visit could be undertaken because Kayoko’s mother was sick. “If only we had known you would be here,” she said. “But no worries, I’ll have everything arranged and will write to you with all the information I know you’ll be anxious to receive.”

  So I was able to enjoy my day at home, cherishing what I was sure were my last hours with Mother and Father, and put all thoughts of the Katayamas and Kayoko out of my head. Dinner with my parents in the quiet of the farmhouse was to be savored—I did just that, and then slept well, safe at home.

  The next morning at Takahama Port, my head was filled with memories of the year before. But this time Father was not with me. And now I knew this would really be the last time, that there would be no more reprieves. Matsuyama faded away; the ferry went through the Inland Sea and down the east coast of Kyushu to Beppu.

  Less than a week later, we headed out from Oita for Shimonoseki, where we boarded the Kampu Ferry for Korea. As I stepped aboard, I thought about the 12th century battle fought nearby at Dan-no-Ura, the battle that brought to an end the power and influence of the Taira clan and set the stage for the rise of the Minamotos, and Japan’s first military government. Thoughts of the Taira often led to thoughts of cherry blossoms and transience. Basho’s samazama haiku that Professor Takahashi taught us floated quickly into my consciousness, but I found myself focusing on the victorious Minamotos. I was trying to work out some sort of link between their Kamakura government of long ago and the government that had led us into the grand but perilous adventure in which we were now engaged as the ferry pulled away.

  After we cleared the straits between Kyushu and Honshu, we were out on the open sea. I remembered our pleasant cruise at Amakusa just two months earlier, but now things were different. The Americans had taken Guadalcanal and the Marshall Islands, and air raids had started on the major cities; it was dangerous to be so exposed. But we reached Pusan safely and then took a long train ride north to Seoul. After a layover in Seoul, we headed farther north and finally reached Wonson, which is on the eastern coast, facing the Japan Sea, in what is now North Korea.

  Early the next morning we finally got to see what had been our obsession since we first started training as aviators: the Zeros. They were magnificent. As we headed for our first morning assembly, most of us had big grins on our faces—we were finally going to fly the Zero! And the Zero did not disappoint. It was the pinnacle of aviation engineering. Its engine power of about 1,000 horsepower was about twice that of the clunky Model 96s we had trained on at Oita. It was sleek and responsive, and the pilots had excellent views from the cockpits.

  But the weight of history was pressing on us and we soon learned how precious time was. The situation at the front was worsening. Island after island was falling, Japan was losing pilots, cherry blossoms falling and scattering. As soon as we had a feel for the Zero, our instructors began formation and dog-fight training. And we worked, intensely, on night flights and target shooting. The accident rate was even higher than at Oita. I especially remember the horror of a mid-air collision. And since the base was short on fuel, each of us was able to train for at most half an hour a day. I checked this memory last year; the official records show that Mie’s Thirteenth Class had an average of only seventy hours flight training, a mere tenth of the number of hours of flying experience Japanese Navy pilots had before Pearl Harbor.

  Sundays were again a day for diversion. We took a bus to town. One time, a group of us decided to go to the local beach. We swam a bit, but spent most of our time eating and drinking at a small restaurant. One of the waitresses seemed to take a special liking to me. She was very pretty and very young—only about seventeen, I think. I took myself back to the same place—alone—the next week. I ate. I drank. We flirted. She disappeared. I was surprised when she reappeared in a few minutes and announced that her boss had given her the rest of the day off so she could take me home to meet her family.

  Her family was quite large. We all sat in the living room sipping tea and chatting about life in the Navy. Her mother and father talked about how some Japanese officers got drunk and rowdy when they were on leave. After about an hour, I realized that everyone else ha
d drifted off. The girl and I were alone in the living room—the entire house was suddenly empty. This was now, without question, a seduction scene—or an entrapment. I’m still not sure how I got out of there—when I broke away she was fondling me, making her intentions quite clear. I hurried back to the base, burning with desire, anger, and shame. In my heart, I realized that this confused and confusing episode was part of what a number of my colleagues had talked about: the deep fury and loathing that sat just beneath the surface when the Korean people dealt with their Japanese occupiers. But that day and for a long time afterward I resolutely told myself another story—that I had been smart to avoid an unwise romantic entanglement since I wouldn’t be in Korea long.

  The next Sunday, I made sure I went in the opposite direction. About ten minutes away from the base, I thought I saw a stable from the bus window. Curious, I got off at the next stop and walked back. Sure enough, there was a stable, with a beautiful white horse. I stood in admiration and didn’t hear the person who materialized beside me until he began to speak. When he got a good look at me, he was startled to see a Naval officer, but recovered enough to introduce himself as Mr. Kim and ask if I was interested in horses. I explained that I had been the president of the riding club at my college. Mr. Kim told me with pride that his horse was a Russian Cossack—he was a magnificent animal, taller and slimmer than the average Japanese horse. As I expressed my thanks to Mr. Kim for giving me the pleasure of visiting his stable and prepared to leave, he asked if I had any plans for the evening. When he learned that my only obligation was to be back at the barracks by ten, he invited me for dinner. So I got back on the bus, entertained myself in town, and returned for dinner at six.

  Mr. Kim and his wife served me a full course meal on beautiful silver dinnerware. I love spicy, hot food, and that dinner met the bill. We had a free, wide-ranging discussion. The Kims brought up the issue of Korean-Japanese relations. Not all Koreans, they told me, automatically hated Japanese. There was always some good in people, and person-to-person, there was always a lot to be learned; they believed in the benefits of cross-national exchanges. I hadn’t heard anyone express such sentiments since the last time I had spoken with Yamamura-sensei. I accepted their hospitality gratefully. I ate and drank my fill of the peppery dishes and the delicious cold beer, expressed my thanks, and bid them a good night.

  As I took the bus back to the barracks, I tried to make sense of the last two Sundays. Other than realizing that Mr. Kim reminded me of a mixture of Professor Hoshino and Minister Graham, I just couldn’t figure it out. I sat on the bus humming one of the hymns we had sung in the Grahams’ parlor after dinner on Sundays. But when I hurried through the gate just before my curfew, my speculations evaporated, and all my focus was once again and only on the Zero, the beautiful Zero.

  11. SAM

  Tokyo, 1944–1945

  In early October, we finished the last of our training at Wonson. I still have the commemorative photo taken in front of the hangars to mark our “graduation.” Our orders would be notice of how long we would survive. Okinawa or further south meant very little time, perhaps only weeks, before a mission.

  My orders read Tokyo Detachment of Kasumigaura Naval Air Corps. I had never heard of it. When I inquired, I learned that it was a small training facility for yokaren, the teenage recruits. Farm boys one month; mission-ready pilots the next. They were sent off with even less air time than Mie’s Thirteenth Class.

  The Tokyo Detachment was located at Haneda, a commercial airport and the home base of Japan Airlines. It wasn’t at all what I expected; I would be an aviation instructor and would therefore survive for a while. Utsumi, Yamamoto, and Watanabe, who had been with me since Mie, were assigned to Tokyo too. And so was Kawazaki, who had joined us at Wonson. Most of the others, including my good friend Kobayashi, were sent to the front lines.

  Once we arrived back in Japan at Shimonoseki, we had until 5 p.m. the next day to report to Tokyo. Yamamoto, who was from Tokyo, was delighted. He and the others rushed for the trains, sweeping me along with them. Kawazaki was going to stop at home in Nagoya, and Watanabe in Shizuoka, both on the way to Tokyo. Utsumi, who was from Sendai, far to the north of the capital, decided to visit an uncle in Tokyo. I was at loose ends; there wasn’t enough time for me to make it to Matsuyama for a visit. And then I thought of Michiko, at Kure Naval Arsenal near Hiroshima.

  I was the first to get off the train. I remembered working at the ­Arsenal during my last spring break at Kosho. Hiroshima Station was bustling with sailors. I walked especially tall through it, a Naval officer with cherry blossoms shining on my lapel. The local train to Kure was full of other Naval officers, and as we traveled south past the huge shipyards, I could see the beautiful green hills, the sweeping blue bay, and nestling between them, Hiroshima’s busy downtown, spread out on the delta formed by the city’s rivers.

  At the Arsenal’s gate, I explained why I was there. The guard responded that it was the middle of the work day, and even volunteers, like Michiko, were not permitted visitors. But then he gave me a big grin, nodded at my insignia and said, “But the Naval Arsenal will be happy to accommodate one of its own,” as he reached for the phone to call the factory floor.

  I was seated in the Visitors’ Room when she came in. She was wearing mompe pantaloons like a farmer’s wife and smelled of gunpowder. When she saw me, a huge smile replaced the puzzled look on her face, “Imagawa-san, I couldn’t imagine who it was. They just told me to report here to meet someone. What a wonderful surprise.” As she sat down, she untied her headscarf and shook her hair loose. “Oh, that feels good.” She was pale and thin, but seeing the beautiful balanced oval of her face and her warm eyes lifted my heart.

  “I’m glad I had a chance to see you today. I thought I had lost you. The Navy has moved me around so much, and now I’m on my way to Tokyo—as an aviation instructor, can you believe it?”

  “You’ve only been in the Navy a year and you’re already an officer? Congratulations.”

  “Only an Ensign,” I said, struggling to keep the pride out of my voice.

  But there were more important things to talk about. “Michiko, I heard about your brothers. I’m so sorry. I remember marching in the parades to the station when they left. And then your mother and father. My deepest condolences.”

  She nodded, but didn’t speak, her eyes filling.

  “And I wanted to thank you for the senninbari. It means a lot to me. It’s done a great job of keeping me safe so far, and I’m counting on it to keep doing that job. I have it here in my bag. I’ll keep it and my memories of you with me always.”

  She was trying not to cry, so I kept talking, telling her about Izumi, the cranes, the shochu, and learning to fly, and about Wonson and the thrill of mastering the Zero. As Michiko recovered, she told me a bit about her life at Kure. She talked about her friend Keiko, who, she said, understood her and kept her laughing. We visited for about an hour, remembering our happy times in Matsuyama. I was sad to have to say goodbye. As I sat on the train back to Hiroshima, I thought of how lucky we were to have had that hour, some final precious moments together. I was sure she felt the same way.

  After a trip through the foggy capital city, I met up with Utsumi, Yamamoto, Watanabe, and Kawazaki at the gate to the Tokyo Detachment, which was wedged into a small area hugging Tokyo Bay. We were directed to one of a number of shabby wooden buildings. In the Commander’s office, we found a small, gray old man behind a modest desk. Despite his insignia, I found it hard to believe that he was our leader. He didn’t have the dignity I expected of a Naval officer. He looked like a kindly grandpa, but when he spoke, his voice was strong and assured. The office was too small for all of us to sit, so Commander Fujimura took us to the junior officers’ Gun Room. He told us that there were two hundred yokaren at the Detachment, which he expected to soon be upgraded to a Naval Air Center. We were to train them on the Intermediate 93 trainers—the plane I had learned on in Izumi. When he finished explaining our du
ties, Commander Fujimura told us about himself. In his younger days, he had commanded a destroyer that collided with another destroyer during training maneuvers. And that, he thought, was the end of his career. He retired as a Lieutenant Commander. He had been recalled to service earlier in the year due to the Navy’s manpower shortages. He cheerfully explained that as a “real” sailor he knew nothing about flying, and left all responsibility for all flight operations to Shimizu, his Lieutenant Commander. It was time to eat by the time we finished.

  Our opinion of the Tokyo Detachment improved at dinner. We were among the group of about twenty eligible to eat in the Officers’ Mess. Gone was the cafeteria-style dining hall of our other postings; we were seated in a real dining room. Rather than metal bowls and plates, we used real chinaware. And, best of all, instead of mass-produced meals, our food was cooked in a special, separate kitchen, and a group of seamen, under the supervision of an NCO, served the dinner. The first night the five of us sat with the Commander. Our opinion of the Detachment improved even further when he delivered a final piece of news: each of us would be assigned one of the seamen to assist with our personal needs. My valet, Seaman Hashimoto, was one of those serving dinner, and we were introduced then and there. Hashimoto was rather effeminate, and I learned that in civilian life he was the choreographer and director of a traditional Japanese odori dance troupe before he was drafted, but what impressed me most was his age. Commander Fujimura was old enough to be my grandfather, and Hashimoto was surely old enough to be my father. What strange situations military service put us in.

  After dinner, Lieutenant Commander Shimizu called a meeting for the five of us who were new to the Tokyo Detachment. He was about forty, a sharp Naval Academy graduate. A former dive-bomber, he had been assigned to Tokyo after being injured in a crash landing. We were impressed with his military bearing, his obvious competence, and his high level of knowledge about the war situation. He introduced us to four Senior Grade Lieutenants: two were regular Naval officers, but the other two were college-graduate reserve officers like us. Lieutenant Suga would lead my group—Squad 2.