The famous Tetsuzo Iwamoto was also at Rabaul during that period, but he was based at Tobera Airfield, fairly far away from East Airfield where I was stationed. So, regrettably, I never had the chance to meet him though I’d heard he was a master to rival Nishizawa-san.
Another ever-present member of the Rabaul Air Corps was Miyabe-san. Looking back, I realize that it might have taken more than mere cowardice on his part to survive in those skies.
As I said before, starting in the latter half of ’43 the Zeros’ main mission at Rabaul was interception, and many American aircraft were shot down there.
Most of their pilots parachuted out. Where our Navy’s men would try to blow themselves up on an enemy target, the Americans chose to float down to enemy territory. They weren’t ashamed at all about becoming POWs. That came as a bit of a surprise because we’d been taught to shun the shame of captivity.
Once, our anti-aircraft artillery unit gunned down a B-17 bomber that had come to raid Rabaul. It crashed at the edge of the airfield. All the crewmembers had bailed, but their altitude was too low for the parachutes to fully deploy so they crashed into the sea or the island and died.
One crewmember, however, had fallen close to the airfield. The ground crew and airmen ran over to where he’d fallen to find he and his parachute had gotten caught in a tree. His body bore no signs of major injury, but he was no longer breathing.
We retrieved the dead pilot from the tree. Just then, someone started shouting and waving something in his hand. He was holding a photograph.
“The guy was carrying this with him into battle!”
He showed the rest of us. It was a photo of a naked white woman. Well, of her from the waist up. Those bared breasts gave me one hell of a shock. Not the fact that an American serviceman had such a thing on him, but the photo itself. I’d never seen one of a naked woman before.
For a brief moment, forgetting that I was on a battlefield, I gazed at the photo of the naked Caucasian woman. The others who had kicked up a fuss at first soon fell into a stony silence as they gazed at the photo too.
As it got passed around, it reached Miyabe-san. Like the others, he stared at it for a while in silence, but then he flipped it over, looked at the reverse side, and studied it intently. I foolishly thought to myself, Oops, there was another one on the back!
Miyabe-san slipped the photo into the breast pocket of the dead man’s flight suit.
Another airman—I forget his name—reached out to take the photo, but Miyabe-san yelled, “Leave it!” When the airman ignored him and stuck his hand into the pocket, Miyabe-san punched him. The other airman was stunned, but Miyabe-san seemed even more taken aback by his own action.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a teary voice.
“What the hell is your damn problem?!” the airman yelled, his face turning red.
“That photo is of his wife.” Miyabe-san’s voice was strained. “It said, ‘For my love.’ So maybe it’s his lover. In any case, they should be buried together.”
The airman went silent. Miyabe-san apologized to him again, and then walked back to the airfield alone.
I looked at the dead pilot. He was young, not much older than twenty. The face of the woman in the photograph came back to me, vividly. Her expression had been slightly bashful and somewhat tense. She’d likely mustered all the courage she ever had to get the photo taken for her husband, who was going off to battle.
But he had just died on a tiny island in the South Pacific. His young wife, waiting for him to come home, didn’t know yet. The photo would be buried along with him in the island’s jungles…
I can recall that event very well, even now. I saw many corpses on the front lines, more than I could possibly count. Dead men, both friend and foe, many of whose images have faded. Yet for some reason, that particular day remains a very vivid recollection.
Afterwards, they must have notified his wife back on U.S. soil that her husband was dead. Disrespectful though it may sound, I sometimes wonder if her lovely breasts were ever fondled again. You might think I’m just being lewd, but that’s not what it is for me.
How painful it must be to die like that, leaving a loved one behind.
The year after the war ended, I returned to the interior, and someone kindly bothered to find me a spouse. It’s not that I was particularly keen on getting married, but my life was in order by then, and I figured I should settle down. She, too, was at an age where she wanted to settle down, which is probably why she agreed to the match. Of course, since we weren’t dogs or cats, we must have at least not been turned off by each other at the arranged marriage meeting to decide to go ahead. But I honestly don’t remember exactly how I felt.
It wasn’t until about a year into our marriage that the first stirrings of love came into the picture.
One night, I was just casually looking at my wife as she mended a tear in my trousers under a bare light bulb. I worked at a post office at the time, delivering mail each day on a bicycle. My wife was sewing like there was no tomorrow, and it was something I’d never paid attention to. I glanced down at the shirt I was wearing. There was a mended seam along the elbow. When I looked at it closely, each stitch looked perfect.
The instant I saw that, I felt an indescribable fondness for her well up. This woman who’d had no relations to take care of her, this woman of plain looks, this woman who mended tears and cooked meals, for me…
I was the first man she had known. Without thinking, I reached out and pulled her close. “Careful!” she let out a little cry. She was worried that her needle might prick my finger. I didn’t care, and hugged her to me.
Then, for the first time, I called her by name. She looked surprised since this was so sudden, but bashfully replied, “Yes.” Then and there, I fell in love with her.
And what do you think sprang to my mind just then? Don’t be shocked—it was the dead American pilot and Miyabe-san putting the photo back into the pocket of his flight suit.
I made love to her. For some reason, like I’d gone mad. Later she told me that I was crying the whole time. I don’t remember. She said that I did, so I guess I must have.
Our son was conceived that night. That fellow, who went to pick you up from the station. He might not seem like much, but he’s now a town councilman.
How do I know he was conceived then? Because my wife said so. I guess she would be the one to know. My son became just as much of a treasure for me.
There was one other time that I cried upon remembering Miyabe-san. It happened when my son was in primary school, during the annual Sports Day competition. This was back in 1955. My wife and I were sitting on a mat at the edge of the school’s field and cheering on our son. Everyone was having a great time. Both the adults and the kids were laughing happily. Even when my son finished second from last in the footrace and started bawling, it delighted me to no end.
I looked around at the happy scene and was suddenly seized with a strange feeling. I felt like I’d accidentally slipped into another world. It hit me then—the country had been at war just ten years prior.
All the fathers laughing and smiling around me were once soldiers with rifles. They’d fought in China, in Indochina, on islands in the South Pacific. Just a decade ago, these office workers and businessmen working hard for the sake of their families had fought for their country, their lives forfeit.
That’s when I suddenly remembered Miyabe-san. Had he still been alive, he would have been partaking in a school event with his child just like me. Not a naval airman, not a Zero pilot, but a kind daddy cheering on his daughter as she raced around the schoolyard.