In the summer, when I was in the fourth year of middle school, I joined a swimming club and went to a training camp at Futamigaura Beach in Ise. We were going to learn the classic long distance swimming method, the so-called Kankai School of Swimming, under the guidance of a master instructor. We used a six-foot long loincloth for the swimming lessons, and we were told to write our name on it. When I was ready to write my name on it, a brat nearby said he would do it on my behalf. It was too late to stop him when I found he wrote, “Tako” [meaning Octopus]. I was ashamed to use the loincloth, but I did not have another one, so I went out to the beach wearing it. Everybody grinned at the sight, which made me blush instantly.
The master instructor appeared and, during our lesson, corrected our swimming one by one. When he called out, “Kota-san,” I ignored him at first, but the moment I realized that he read “Tako” from right to left, I became a boiled octopus all over again. It gave so much pleasure to the brats, who always seemed to be looking for a new way to tease me. They started to call me “Kota-san,” and by accident I was released from the nickname “Octopus.”
As a side note, two students from the Naval Academy who were graduates of our swimming school were also attending the training camp. They wore a seven-buttoned jacket with a dagger and appeared so dashing and imposing. I swore then that that is how I would look next year. This resulted in remarkable progress in my swimming. At the end of the two-week training, I passed the 14-kilometer marathon swim and was complimented when I received my diploma for my outstanding progress. All this fueled my passion for the sea.
Next year, as soon as I graduated from Unebi Junior High School, I took the entrance exam for the Naval Academy. The competition was incredibly tough—one out of 14 was accepted. I barely passed the exam, and I was enrolled at the Naval Academy in Etajima on August 26, 1921. I was then 18 years old.
4
Your Enemy is the United States
Soon after I joined the Naval Academy, what I always heard was, “Your enemy is the United Stares.” At that time, the Japanese Navy set the United States as Presumptive Enemy Number One. Although a presumptive enemy is identical to an imaginary enemy, the entire armament of the Japanese Navy was developed with the US Navy in mind. In the midst of the intensive ship-building competition that was going on, the Japanese Navy was carrying out its aggressive 8-8 fleet-building project.
The 8-8 fleet was an attempt to prepare a well balanced armada centered around a group of capital ships, consisting of 8 battleships and 8 battle cruisers protected by auxiliary forces comprised of a significant number of cruisers, destroyers and submarines. It also required an abundant supply of naval officers, and the enrollment at the Navy Academy grew to 300 students for three consecutive classes, the 50th, 51st and the 52nd class. I was in the 52nd class, and the class was honored with the presence of Prince Takamatsu as the class head. I remember having our photograph taken at the commemoration of the 50th anniversary of the Naval Academy’s opening, all 900 students lined up on the parade grounds.
The imaginary enemy is set in order to decide on the appropriate magnitude of our armaments requirements. The public cannot support increased taxes solely on the basis of an explanation that bigger is better. As Sun Tzu, the ancient Chinese master of the art of war, put it, a military organization should be prepared not to fight. Soldiers are murderous weapons, and the best strategy is not to fight. This is the first lesson of military strategy. However, the generally held notion is that military power exists solely to fight, and the very existence of military power itself often provokes war. On the contrary, the essence of military power is to prevent war.
In other words, the primary objective of the strategy of not fighting cannot be attained without having adequate military power to fight. This is another essential principle which may be hard for ordinary people to understand. The world today has proven that an army incapable of fighting, like a scarecrow, can actually lead to war.
Under this motivation, the Japanese Navy set up the US Navy as the imaginary Enemy Number One for the convenience of determining the appropriate magnitude of its armaments requirements. However, once such an imaginary enemy is set, it tends to lead to a real—not an imaginary—hostility. Moreover, the Naval Academy’s cadets were full of vigor and arrogance. Disciplinary guidance dispensed by senior students to junior students often involved encouraging hostile sentiments against Yankees or white men, with the belief that patriotism could be built on this kind of hostility.
As far as I was concerned, I thought that a soldier was someone who put on medals and carried a sword; and it was my dream from my childhood. Rather than feeling hostility against the United States, my stronger motivation was my determination to see my old classmates again who disgraced me by nicknaming me “Octopus.” I would be in my smart and crisp uniform and would be wearing a military dagger. Each day—four months of them—was so long until the winter vacation in December!
When the long-awaited winter vacation was approaching, there was a disquieting rumor that had spread throughout the Academy. At that time, the Big Three—the US, the UK and Japan—were holding a disarmament conference in the capital of the United States, Washington, D.C.. This Washington Naval Conference ended in an agreement that we called the Washington Naval Treaty. Japan was allotted an inferior ratio of 5-5-3, meaning that we could have only three battleships to the US and UK’s five each. The Japanese government was forced to swallow this. The Americans and British also said that the Japanese Navy would have to abandon their 8-8 fleet plan. The rumor that followed was that most of the 52nd class was to be dismissed because such a large number of cadets would no longer be required. I thought “Good grief!” Just when I had started my career at the Naval Academy, on my way to becoming a full admiral, I was discouraged by this negative development.
Then, as I returned home for the winter vacation, contrary to my expectation of showing up and showing off in my smart uniform and dagger, I spent most of the time feeling bitter, thanks to the winds of disarmament. When I returned to the Academy, I learned that enrollment reductions in the 52nd class were narrowly avoided because school officials made the critical decision to reduce recruitment for next year’s 53rd class to a mere 50 cadets.
5
Aspirations for the Sky
One day, when I was in my third year at Etajima, two F5 seaplanes visited Etauchi Bay. It was still rare to see planes in those days, and students were instructed to observe the planes’ operations as they landed and took off from the water. Before the start of the operation, the commander of the air squadron, Sub-Lieutenant Miyazaki, explained the performance profile of the seaplane and said that he would allow those who aspired to be aviation officers to ride in the plane. The limit was six cadets.
“Yes, Sir!” I was the first to raise my hand. At that time, I had no particular desire to be an aviator in the future, but I raised my hand anyway. In an effort to conquer my shyness, I made it my second habit to raise my hand before the others whenever the teacher asked a question, whether I had the answer or not. I thought that I could always think up the answer afterwards.
Consequently, I was flying in a plane for the first time in my life. Based on that experience, I was instantly addicted to planes, and I decided to be a flier from that day. As I am monomaniacal, once I am immersed in something, no other things interest me. I no longer wanted to be a sailor; that notion appeared ridiculous, once I decided on my career as a flier. Nevertheless, the Naval Academy is where sailors are trained; it is not the Air Force Academy. And the Navy would not put me in a plane automatically after graduation. After graduation, what awaited us was the mandatory long-distance cruise designed for the practical training of sailors.
Following my graduation from the Academy, on July 24, 1924, I was assigned to the training ship, the Yakumo, as a cadet ensign. I was 21 years old. Our training fleet was organized with old-fashioned cruisers, Yakumo, Asama and Izumo, each one of which had belonged to the Kamimura Fleet and had
a brilliant battle record in the Russo-Japan War. The commander of our training fleet was Vice Admiral Saburo Hyakutake.
The fleet crossed the Pacific Ocean and arrived at San Francisco on January 23, 1925, stopping on the way at Hawaii, Panama and Acapulco.
6
Spirit of Perversity
Upon my return from the long-distance cruise, I was promoted to Naval Ensign as of December 1, 1925, and I became a crew member of the man-ofwar, Yahagi. Yahagi was to be moored in Etauchi and used as the Naval Academy’s training ship that year. I thought that could mean trouble for me.
As I anticipated, the Vice Commander was a martinet, fully devoted to discipline based on the belief that lower-ranking officers on board should set a good example for the Naval Academy’s students. The Vice Commander used to call his notion of proper behavior “seamanship” with his bad English pronunciation, and he gave lectures at every opportunity. I was motivated to become a flier, and I had absolutely no interest in the time-honored seamanship of the windjammer days. It was natural that I became a constant target of his scolding.
Autumn was the season to submit our annual evaluation sheets. All the officers were gathered in the officers’ room, and the Vice Commander ordered us to submit our personal statements, and I turned mine in, stating, “Strongly desire to be an aviation student.”
Several days later, a sailor in charge of the officers’ room came to me. “Navigation Officer, the Vice Commander wants to see you.”
“Here we go again,” I thought, as nothing good ever comes from complaining. I was not eager to report.
The Vice Commander got right to the point: “You say that you want to be an aviation student. Undoubtedly, you should have gotten your parents’ consent. Have you done so?” I was dumb-struck. As a matter of fact, far from obtaining his consent, when I returned from my long cruise, Father told me emphatically that, “Now that you are going to be a naval officer, I am relieved. But, I am telling you not to volunteer in the future for anything having to do with planes or submarines.”
My father had the impression that planes and submarines were risky. Many cases of accidents involving plane crashes as well as submarine deaths had been reported. He meant to say that rather than volunteer for such dangerous activities, I should stay in the main branch of the Navy—on board fighting ships. It was not that I had a clear insight at that time that the main element of sea power would shift to planes. I simply wanted to be a flier, no matter what. My father’s efforts to dissuade me were not enough to crack my will. I was optimistic that my father would concede in the end—if I became a pilot first and after it was an accomplished fact.
As the Vice Commander was talking to me, I got rattled as it seemed that he required written approval from my parents. So I responded, “Well, as a matter of fact, I have not talked to my parents yet, but when I return home during the winter vacation, I intend to obtain their approval…” Blushing, I stammered as I tried to explain.
The Vice Commander nodded and said, “Planes are dangerous as you can see. Talk seriously with your parents before you decide. Besides, as you are quite capable, you don’t have to force yourself to move into flying.”
I was repelled by his strange remark. It appeared that the Vice Commander believed that those who choose aviation were failed third-class officers, who, despite knowing all the risks involved, still dared to take the risk of never returning someday. In a way, that might have been true in those days.
As the time for assignment rotation approached, everyone was busy whispering. Rumors were rampant that senior officers had already received tips on what their next assignment would be. Then one day, a sailor in charge of the Commander’s room came for me. “Navigation Officer, the Commander is summoning you.”
Summons from the Vice Commander were frequent, but it was rare to be called by the Commander himself. I reported to the Commander’s room after getting properly dressed.
“Navigation Officer, I understand that you hope to become an aviation officer. Good. We are entering the age of aviation. We need talented people to move into aviation.”
I was confused by his encouragement. Our Commander was a gunnery specialist, and he had never shown any sign during the past year that he had any understanding of or interest in aviation. His comment about aviation was an incredible transformation. I was totally perplexed. Then he said, “By the way, Navigation Officer, from today, I myself want to learn about aviation. For my immediate use, why don’t you collect all the books on aviation that are available on the ship, and bring them to me?”
Now I understood what he wanted. Control of the military education library on the ship was part of my responsibility as Navigation Officer, and I gathered roughly 10 books related to the subject and delivered them to the Commander. He wanted me to leave them all.
Finally, the official announcement of new assignments was made. My assignment was a student at the Navy Gunnery School. I was happy as it was a mandatory course for junior officers, and the sooner the better to take this course. I was anxious to hear about our Captain’s situation, and I learned he was assigned as the Commander of the Hosho. Although it was small, the Hosho was an aircraft carrier. “Now I see,” I chuckled to myself. Our Commander made a 180-degree turn to aviation as soon as he learned that he was to be the Commander of an aircraft carrier.
Incidentally, our Commander, about to enter the new, unknown world of aviation, did not tell me to return the books to the library until the final moment of his departure from the ship. Since he was a well organized person, it could not be that he had forgotten. As the officer responsible for the books, I cautiously approached the Commander and found that he—already in ceremonial uniform—was absorbed in reading the books. I smiled, as it reminded me of a test-taker who reads his notes until he enters the examination room.
Soon after, I left the ship myself to be enrolled in a four-month course at the Naval Gunnery School in Yokosuka, where I would learn about guns, which are the Navy’s main weapon. After completing Gunnery School, they put me in the Naval Torpedo School for another four-month course to learn about the Navy’s support weapon.
Enduring many hardships, I completed both courses, which meant that I was now a qualified junior officer. Waiting for me was a welcomed appointment letter to the destroyer, Akikaze. I also received a message from the Akikaze to board the ship urgently at Saeki Bay in Oita Prefecture for a special assignment. On the way from Yokosuka to Saeki Bay, I got off at Osaka to see my bed-ridden mother, in spite of the urgent nature of my trip on the Akikaze. She was close to the end of her life, suffering from uterine cancer.
My mother was delighted to see me, and she spoke gently to me. “I am happy that you are back. This is our last farewell in this life. Look at your mother well. After my death, I want you to take care of Father. As you are a military officer, you must be ready to die any moment, but your father is worried about you—especially because you want to be a flier. Since he is becoming old, I want you to set him free from any worries—as much as possible. Your mother will always be watching over you from a different world to protect you.”
As I had to hurry to return to my ship, I could not stay any longer and left home, leaving my heart behind.
The special assignment of the destroyer Akikaze was to escort His Majesty, the Emperor, on his tour to the southwest islands. I was on duty on the Akikaze’s bridge, and I was watching the Imperial Ship, Hiei. I remembered my mother’s words. When she wanted me to give up the idea of becoming a soldier and become a doctor instead, I insisted on becoming a soldier. When she said then that I should quit the Navy and join the Army instead, I insisted on going to the Navy. And now, I am insisting on becoming a flier when she wanted me to abandon the idea. I must have a perverse spirit.
I remember thinking, “Ahead of the Akikaze, the Imperial Flag is wind-whipped at the top of the Imperial Ship’s mast. I am an officer of the Imperial Navy, and as such I stake my life or death for the sake of aviation, whether it is ris
ky or not. I dedicate all the passion of my youth to the belief that the future of military might depends on aviation. For a greater cause, I accept the death of my parents as well.”
The Imperial Ship completed the royal tours of His Majesty, the Emperor, to Okinawa Island, Miyako Island and Ishigaki Island. She was gathering speed to return to Yokosuka. I was on duty on the midnight watch on the Akikaze’s bridge. The bell rang, indicating that it was 1:00 AM. The date was August 10, 1927, and we were just off the cape at Shiono-misaki. Suddenly, I saw my mother’s face in my mind. I thought, I am now passing the closest point to where my mother is. As I thought about my mother, a strong flash of the Shiono-misaki Lighthouse pierced through the darkness and disappeared. In the afternoon the following day, our ship arrived at Yokosuka, and there was a telegram waiting for me.
“Mother died at 1:00 AM.”
Yes, right at that moment when she was passing away, her spirit actually came to where I was. Mother really protects me.
7
Forced Down in the Taiwan Strait
It was April, 1930. I was 27-years old and a Sub-Lieutenant on board the aircraft carrier, Kaga. I was part of the reconnaissance squadron. The Kaga, part of the Combined Fleet, was the flagship of the First Air Squadron and carried Rear Admiral Yurikazu Edahara’s Commander’s Flag.
The Combined Fleet was engaged in a field exercise, and we passed through Tsingtao, Dalian and Incheon. We were heading for Magong. It was a strenuous exercise, day and night, and the fleet was going to arrive at Magong the next day. Before we entered the port, there was going to be another joint drill with Magong’s Port Department. Therefore, after we completed the previous night’s drill, I sacked out on the sofa in the crew’s ready room, and I still had my flying suit on.
For That One Day: The Memoirs of Mitsuo Fuchida, Commander of the Attack on Pearl Harbor Page 3
