by Toland, John
“I’ll avenge you and then die with you!” Kamiko crouched behind a fallen tree. He had three grenades. He would toss two and save the last for himself. One of the wounded men, Nakajima, again pleaded with Kamiko to shoot him. He called out that he wanted to help him, but since Nakajima lay hidden in the tall grass, Kamiko couldn’t see where he was without exposing himself. Nakajima managed to raise himself in a sitting position, and Kamiko saw him point to his forehead with one finger. Kamiko took aim, closed his eyes and fired.
The buffaloes thundered toward the crest. In one moment I will be dead, thought Kamiko. Twenty-four years old … never had a woman … Kiyoshi Kamiko will have disappeared … Mother, forgive me.
“You missed!” Kamiko could hardly believe his ears; it was Nakajima’s voice. “Shoot me again!” But before Kamiko could pull the trigger, dismounted guerrillas swarmed over Nakajima.
Guerrillas were lurching behind a bush above Kamiko. They shouted to their comrades below that they had discovered another one. The leader of the main group—a big man wearing a panama hat—rushed forward, a rifle with fixed bayonet in his left hand.
Kamiko saw his mother’s face. He suddenly got up and aimed at the big man who was lunging at him. Startled, the Filipino tried to shift his gun to his right hand. Kamiko hesitated—the man was so close and suddenly so helpless—then fired. A bright red blotch instantly stained the guerrilla’s shirt. He staggered and collapsed.
All at once there was silence. Kamiko looked around him. There wasn’t a Filipino in sight. (According to Nakao, who watched hidden in the grass, the three men directly behind the big Filipino were simultaneously bowled over, apparently all felled by Kamiko’s single bullet. The other guerrillas panicked “at the fantastic sight” and disappeared.) Kamiko, who never dreamt he would survive the skirmish, hastily collected the three grenades and the bullets he had placed on the grass and leaped over the bush. There was a crackle of gunfire as bullets whizzed by like angry bees. But he scrambled safely up the hill, rifle cradled in arms. At the top there was a ravine. Without hesitation he leaped into space. He bounced like a ball but still clung to the rifle. Stunned, he hid behind fallen trees just as curious faces poked over the edge of the ravine. One Filipino started down on a thick vine but gave up halfway.
Utterly exhausted, Kamiko fell asleep. He woke with a bright full moon shining down on him. He climbed up the ravine. The hillside was empty. He found a field of onions and ate a dozen before he dozed off again.
Crazed by fatigue and attacks of malaria, he followed a highway that seemed to lead to the coast until he dropped from exhaustion. He was wakened by the deafening roar of trucks—U. S. vehicles going in the opposite direction. Now he knew he was heading for the coast and Borneo, but he lost track of the days. He was so weak he could hardly put one foot in front of the other. He made hazy plans to ambush an American truck for K rations with his last grenade, and rehearsed killing himself with his rifle by pushing the trigger with his toe. But no truck passed and he fell asleep.
He heard a voice saying as from a great distance, “It’s a Japanese soldier. He’s dead.” He wanted his rifle but couldn’t move. His head throbbed and he was getting fainter. He knew he was dying. “Mother, sayonara,” he mumbled. A moment later (in fact, it was days) he saw stars shining and heard the buzz of conversation. Someone—a man in uniform—was speaking Japanese but Kamiko couldn’t make out the words because of the clamor of locusts. Gradually he realized that the sound of locusts was in his own head and that the stars were rays of sunlight coming through holes in a tent. The tent was American and so was the soldier. Kamiko knew he was captured, and that his dream of Borneo was also an illusion.*
2.
There were more stragglers concentrated per square mile on Iwo Jima than on any other island in the Pacific. When Iwo Jima was officially declared secure in mid-March, Marines estimated there were not more than three hundred Japanese left alive in the caves; there were close to three thousand. Those who finally emerged after dark to prowl for provisions and safer caves found an unrecognizable landscape. Seven thousand Seabees had laid down twenty miles of roads, erected extensive housing, built breakwaters and piers, and levelled the central plateau near Motoyama to make a 10,000-foot runway, the longest in the Pacific. Scavengers often crossed paths at night without exchanging a word, but when the new moon shone (a time of sentiment to the Japanese) they would reminisce furtively about home, family and food—and finally wonder how they would die: hara-kiri or a suicide attack.
Escape from Iwo Jima was virtually impossible but there were those with the audacity to try. Ohno, the young Navy lieutenant who had escaped apparent death by dynamite in a pillbox, was one of these; he still had visions of becoming a trader or diplomat. By April 2 he had improvised a compass by magnetizing a wax needle with the magnet in a telephone receiver, and with four others collected enough material for a raft—eighteen-foot planks, empty water drums, one half of an American pup tent for a sail and the other half torn in strips, for rope—and laboriously buried it in the sand so it could hastily be assembled on the first moonless night. Hopefully they would sail north at six knots and in twelve hours catch the Kuroshio, which swept up past Japan.
On the first completely overcast night they hastened to the beach with their supply of food and water, and began building the raft. They estimated it would take two hours, but by the time they had erected the mast and attached the shelter half it was midnight. Too late, said Kitagata, formerly a fisherman from Hokkaido, who would navigate. Moreover, the waves were running high. He held back until Ohno drew his sword and threatened to kill him.
Kicking energetically, the five men managed to propel the bulky craft through six-foot-high breakers, coming in at long regular intervals. Thirty yards offshore a towering breaker smashed into the raft. Ohno found himself alone and thrashed desperately. Another breaker crashed down; he was torn away and knocked out. He came to on the beach. Kitagata was staring down at him almost accusingly. One of the men was sprawled in the wreckage of the raft; his skull was split open. The survivors buried him in the sand and returned disconsolately to their cave, all hope of escape gone.
In a cave at the base of Mount Suribachi, the last twenty-two survivors of that battle had withstood everything. Neither flamethrowers nor burning gasoline had been able to dislodge them, but when sea water came gushing at them from hoses, they were forced to surface. Private Kiyomi Hirakawa was next to the last in line and the exit caved in before he was half out. He flailed for his life through the sand but was held back by the last man clutching his legs. Hirakawa was wrenched to safety by those already out, and as he vainly burrowed for the man below, they disappeared up the beach. Hirakawa patiently waited until dawn, but only five of his comrades returned. They had been ambushed by the enemy. Four of them went underground again but the fifth man and Hirakawa decided to stay in the fresh air and terminate their nightmare existence with a grenade.
The sunrise was beautiful, the ocean a deep green, the grass glistening with dew. They found a cigarette butt dropped by some GI—the Army had just taken over from the Marines. They lit it with a book of U. S. matches and hunkered down behind a rock sharing puffs. Not twenty yards away GI’s began issuing from tents to wash and brush their teeth, and noticed the smoke curling from behind the rock. The two Japanese were signaled to come out. They didn’t move; they wanted at least one American to draw closer so they could all die with the single grenade.
Several GI’s approached cautiously and flipped two lighted cigarettes near the rock. Hirakawa retrieved his—the first whole cigarette he had seen in more than a month. Two packs landed at their feet. Certain they would die at any moment, the two stragglers frantically smoked one after another. Two apples bounced to the base of the rock. Hirakawa, already dizzy from the cigarettes, devoured his but couldn’t taste it.
An American started to move slowly toward them with a couple of beer bottles. This is the last treat before death, thought Hirakawa, and r
eached for his grenade. The GI stopped fifteen feet away. He put down the bottles and tipped his hand to pantomime drinking. He was too far away to be killed by the grenade. The two Japanese moved forward but the GI stepped back. Hirakawa put the bottle to his mouth. It was water! Ambrosia after the sulphurous drippings they had subsisted on in the cave.
While the two stood indecisively savoring the water, a Japanese cadet in American uniform arrived breathless. He told them that the entire garrison on Iwo Jima had been listed as dead in Japan. “Why should we die twice?” the youngster reasoned. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Life had suddenly become possible for Hirakawa. I’m “dead” already, he rationalized, and now have the chance for a second existence, almost like reincarnation.
The two men surrendered. They were given a shower and clean fatigues, and they watched incredulous as an American doctor tenderly dressed a Japanese enlisted man’s leg, allowing blood and pus to stain his own uniform. No Japanese doctor would ever do that, thought Hirakawa. How could he fear Americans after that? What a waste, those terrible months in the cave, he thought. Why did so many of us die so needlessly?
Misfortune still plagued Lieutenant Ohno. Two of his men—Yamakage and Matsudo—had left one evening for food and ammunition but never returned, and he was alone with Kitagata. For endless hours they endured a solitary confinement in their cave, punctuated occasionally by jarring explosions of grenades tossed at random by patrolling GI’s. The two fugitives were so close to Seabee work parties that they could hear jazz music piped over a loudspeaker, and once it seemed they would surely be discovered by Americans gossiping overhead when Kitagata farted.
One unrealistic hope sustained them: there would be a major Japanese counterattack from the sea on May 27, Navy Day. That morning they celebrated with the last of their stolen food—a can of ham and eggs and fruit punch—and confidently waited hour after hour for the arrival of the Combined Fleet. As the sky darkened, so did their spirits. They brooded for two days and then impulsively left their cave armed with three grenades apiece and a determination to make their own deaths as costly as possible. The darkened island seemed deserted until they intercepted two wandering GI’s, who fled before Ohno could activate the first grenade—the two “GI’s” were his own men, Yamakage and Matsudo.
They returned discouraged to their cave and slept. Ohno was alerted by a hissing. Grenade! He seized a blanket and was only half covered before it exploded. At first he thought he was unharmed, then he saw that his clothes were smoldering. A phosphorus grenade had showered him with burning red specks. He brushed at them frantically; bits stuck under his fingernails. In agony he dug his inflamed fingers into the ground. A package of dynamite tumbled through the cave entrance. The two men were thrown to the dirt by the thumping concussion. Through the clearing smoke they saw the entrance blasted wide open. Ohno, sword in one hand and grenade in the other, started forward. Kitagata seized him. “Useless,” he whispered.
The throaty rumble of a motor and clanging gears preceded an avalanche of earth. Then everything was dark. They had been sealed in by a bulldozer. They crept back to an emergency exit and at dusk once more came to the surface with their six grenades. A complex of tents had magically mushroomed nearby and Kitagata thought grenades were not sufficient for a “proper” assault. He wanted to search for land mines buried during the battle. After five hours they were still empty-handed. Now Kitagata refused to attack altogether, but Ohno remained resolved to end it all that night. “You need only one grenade to kill yourself,” he said. “Give me the other two.”
Kitagata refused even that. Cowering in the predawn fog, Ohno smeared himself with stolen toothpaste and Lux soap so he would smell like an American. As he hung a necklace of three grenades around his neck he said, “We’ll meet at Yasukuni Shrine.” He began crawling toward the barbed-wire fence enclosing the tents. Near the gate he reached for his sword but it had slipped out of its scabbard; he cursed himself for not carrying it in his teeth like a movie commando.
In the dim light he was confident he could deceive the sentry with his “Yankee odor.” But there was no guard to fool. He picked up a stone to activate the grenades and made for the largest tent, one enclosed by screen. He peered inside—a mess hall. Creeping to the next tent, he cautiously rolled up a canvas side. A man, bare to the waist, was lying on a cot a few feet away sleepily scratching his hairy chest. Ohno struck the grenade and waited for the hiss. The fuse apparently had deteriorated after several months in damp caves. He tried a second. This one hissed briefly but fizzled out.
He tied the two duds to the third grenade and tried to activate it. Again nothing happened. Tears of vexation came to his eyes. There were no weapons in the tent, not even a trenching tool. What kind of soldiers were these? It was growing lighter now and he slipped into another tent. Two of the four field cots were occupied—but no guns. Someone approached, whistling a tune. Ohno ducked behind an empty cot just before the whistler, a tall, heavyset man, stalked into the tent. He went directly to Ohno’s cot and started making it. Certain he had been discovered, Ohno sprang to his feet—a scraggy apparition with Medusa hair. The big American plunged out of the tent with a shrill scream. The two men on the cots leaped at Ohno and clung to him until the whistler returned with half a dozen armed men. At bay, waiting to be shot, Ohno asked the whistler in stumbling English for his name—it would be an interesting tale to tell in Heaven. The big man, his face still drained, reluctantly mumbled “Bill.” The other GI’s burst into laughter. One of them said, “Please,” and casually motioned Ohno to follow. Inexplicably Ohno felt as if he had found new friends. He turned to Bill and said, “How is Gary Cooper?”†
Not far from where Ohno was enjoying hot cakes and coffee, Lieutenant Satoru Omagari, who had spent two full days trying to blow himself up along with an American tank, again failed to kill himself—this time he thrust a pistol into his mouth and pulled the trigger. There was an empty click. He had long since given his troops permission to surrender, but few had done so. It would have meant eternal disgrace to a man’s family, and he himself would become a musekimono (an outcast), one whose name was erased from the census register of his town or village. Legally he ceased to exist and the only way to get employment would be to move away and assume a false name.
Even Omagari allowed himself to contemplate surrender, but as an officer he knew that such an act could be punishable by death after the war. Driven from hiding place to hiding place by the Americans, he decided to return with his men to the Navy Aviation cave, whose occupants guarded its entrances against Japanese as well as Americans: their hikocho (squadron leader), a lieutenant, and his staff refused to share the spacious cave and its plentiful supply of food and water with anyone.
Now at night Omagari and his men nevertheless surprised the guards at one entrance and broke in. There were at least 150 sailors in the rambling cave and they pressed around the interlopers, curious about what was going on above—few of them had seen daylight in the past two months. They were being terrorized by the hikocho’s regime; enlisted men were sent out systematically on assault missions and not allowed to return lest they “draw enemy attention to the cave.” They wanted Omagari to help rid them of their commander. Perhaps he would encourage the lieutenant to steal an American plane for escape from the island—a plan the hikocho was tentatively considering.
He talked eagerly of his plan to the newcomers, and Omagari’s encouragement sounded so genuine that the lieutenant and four of his followers left the cave to find a plane. Their departure was celebrated with song, sake and whiskey, but the revelry was interrupted by a commotion near the rear entrance. The hikocho’s party was clamoring to get back in—they had quickly discovered that it was impossible to approach the flight line. They were blocked by an irate group of enlisted men. “You yourself made the rule that once a man left, he couldn’t return,” one of them shouted.
As their new senior officer, Omagari told the sailors, as he had previously
told his own men, that they were on their own. Life in the cave became relaxed with the evaporation of military discipline. In the intense heat the men reverted to nakedness, but the officers did retain a measure of dignity by wearing their loincloths.
Within days the cave was discovered by the Americans. Grenades and smoke bombs drove the occupants into its deepest recesses. As the attacks intensified, a large group decided to flee the island by raft. Everyone was captured almost immediately, and several were released so they could return to the cave to persuade their comrades to surrender. Their appeals failed and the assaults continued. Omagari was singled out by loudspeaker: “I want to talk with you. Will you come out?” It was a fellow officer, but Omagari ignored him. An American took the microphone and announced that the cave would be flooded the next day.
The sailors refused to believe that there was enough water on the island for such an operation. “Let them pour it in,” someone boasted. “We’ll drink it!” As sea water was pumped into the cave the men scrambled to lateral tunnels which were slightly higher. Then with a crump, fire raced across the torrent; gasoline had been poured on top of the water and ignited. Only those who had retreated to the highest lateral survived.
The following day a yellowish beam probed the smoke-filled cavern. Omagari fumbled for a light machine gun, then saw it was one of his own petty officers with a flashlight. He was wearing an American uniform. Two more Japanese, also in GI fatigues, came forward. They had cigarettes. They had been treated well by the enemy and said there were many Japanese prisoners, including a major. Then they left to allow their countrymen to make their own decision. No one spoke until a sailor said, “I think I’ll leave, too.”
