I happened to be next to the division officer in the shelter, so I asked him candidly about what I heard the other day from that lieutenant attached to the Hosho.
“Misidentification of targets isn’t that unusual during a nighttime attack,” he said, “but the reports issued by Imperial Headquarters are generally considered reliable. Even the enemy trusts them. I wouldn’t expect to find any really significant or factitious errors. Truth be told, the Hosho can’t withstand actual combat. She just hangs around the Seto Inland Sea for use as a training carrier. With her, it’s the same as it is on warships like the Yamashiro. She tends to collect crewmen who fall behind in promotion, due to health problems or some such thing, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they gripe whenever they get the opportunity out of smoldering frustration.” I was a little relieved. I certainly have my gripes against the navy. But still, I have more faith in it than that lieutenant.
October 29
Flights were canceled again.
News of a decisive sea battle in the Philippines. More magnificent results.
The commander-in-chief of the combined fleet had issued an urgent message: “Trust in divine favor and launch an all-out attack.” And with that began a colossal naval engagement, in which the fleet employed its primary guns, an unusual thing these days. They say, however, that the enemy aircraft carriers swarming around Leyte Gulf number close to a hundred. This means that, even if we did in fact sink nineteen enemy carriers, it would hardly be a devastating blow. The material resources of the enemy astonish me.
“It’s like fighting with King Kong,” G. commented. We all laughed, though tensely.
When I heard that the warship Musashi was cruising along at twenty knots after absorbing six torpedoes, I took heart, thinking that the ship had lived up to its unsinkable reputation. But soon enough came news, strictly confidential, of its sinking. I’m at a loss for words. The greatest warship in the world is gone, the battleship over which I flew while at Izumi (the stunt that landed me in such hot water). I can only hope, desperately, that we are misinformed.
November 1
We were supposed to fly this afternoon, but the ring of a telephone put an end to that. A student in my outfit laughed in despair, bending backward in his chair.
I received a thank-you letter from Fukiko in which she said she really liked the boxwood comb. I hid the letter immediately, embarrassed by my act and conscious of others’ eyes, though, needless to say, I opened it again when I went to bed at night, and read it over and over, three or four times. Apart from what she said in appreciation of the comb, the letter was simple and light, which was both a relief and a disappointment. Afterwards I indulged myself in a daydream for quite some time, concerning which I am too embarrassed to write.
“Please send my best regards to Mr. Fujikura and Mr. Sakai,” she said, but how can I send her best regards to them?
We did some repair work on the airfield this afternoon, draining it and filling it in with earth. In other words, it was hard labor. They are building a new runway on the eastern part of the field, in preparation for the 3rd Air Fleet’s advance to Usa. Our task is to carry the surplus soil in rope baskets all the way back out here and fill in the hollows with it. The airfield is built over clayey soil and drains poorly. Consequently, it lacks the proper grading and is pocked with bumps. At 1630, the time set to stop, we had not yet completed half the task. A number of Korean laborers were assigned to the eastern runway, though only a handful were in fact applying themselves to the work, and the rest, several hundred in number, had no drive at all. They dawdled along for a spell, and then simply stopped altogether, staring about, vacantly. I gained a new idea of the Korean people, quite different from the sympathetic attitude I took when I was thinking about them in the abstract.
Speaking of airfield maintenance, I remember a story that an instructor told us. He said that enemy troops always seemed to land, whether on Guadalcanal, Attu, or elsewhere, just a scant week or so prior to the completion of construction work on our airfields. Our Corps of Engineers works unremittingly, and at great length, to build these airfields with manual labor, only to have them seized just before they are ready to be put in service. The enemy occupies them, easily finishes off the work with heavy equipment, and within a day or two begins using the fields to stage attacks against us.
During the Battle of Leyte Gulf, the 1st Air Fleet deployed an extraordinary unit called the Shinpu Special Attack Force (a.k.a., the “Kamikaze”). It seems the fighters were fitted out with special bombs, and the crews hurled themselves, planes and all, into enemy targets. Well, I suppose we won’t get anywhere in this war unless we resort to drastic measures like that. Any man who wants to drop out, let him do it now. For my part, I no longer have any reservations about this kind of tactic. My only worry now is that I can’t get up in the air. Who knows when I will fly the Type-97 solo.
They say the commander of the special attack force, a Lieutenant S., got his training in the carrier-based bomber unit here, and that he left Usa shortly before we arrived. The women at Senbiki-ya in Beppu wept at the news of the kamikaze attacks, remembering what the lieutenant had told them only a few days earlier: “If I die, lay out an offering of shiruko and fruit.” So I’m told anyway.
November 5
Finally, after a long hiatus, we resumed training, starting with formation flights. From 500 meters up, I saw clearly just how bad this airfield is. Basically, it is nothing but a stretch of swamp. “Why don’t we let the Yanks occupy the field for a while?” someone joked.
Flying in formation is hazardous. These aircraft don’t shed their momentum as quickly as the intermediate trainers, and it’s hard get a sense of space. I took three blows to the jaw for landing at seventy-five knots. I was fined one yen and fifty sen as well. M. had to cough up ten fifty-sen silver coins for damaging the tail of his plane as he taxied onto the apron. Failing to erase the blackboard neatly costs you two fifty-sen pieces. They will rack up a considerable sum of money by the time we graduate, so long as we continue to fly. From the previous class they collected two thousand yen.
When we land, we tend to the aircraft. The undersides of the wings and fuselages are liable to be caked with dirt, especially if you glide in over the mud. It’s quite a chore to wipe it all off.
Sunshine soon fanned out through the clouds, revealing a clear autumn sky. Young trainee pilots engaged in dive-bombing drills. Now and again they plunged, with an almighty roar, down over the field headquarters, almost to the point of crashing into it. Their planes dropped headlong, generating clouds at the wingtips. One came in especially low, scattering willy-nilly a flock of birds perched on the roof. If the pilot had pulled out just half a second later, he would have been a goner. When you’re up in the air, you tend to be so preoccupied with precision, lest you get a dressing down, that the danger tends to escape your mind.
“Reading the personal remarks you submit,” the chief flight officer commented, “I often come across such phrases as “I must cultivate my character.’ Indeed, it is important to cultivate your character. But what we want now are men who can win the war. We will welcome any miscreant at all, so long as he can hurt the enemy. Do the very best you can to cultivate your skills.” He makes perfect sense, of course, but it’s not so easy to cultivate our skills when flights are canceled, day after day.