There’ve been women, though. I never wanted for female company. I even lived with one for a time. That was all after the war. During the war I never had a lover, never longed for anyone back home. Out on the front lines I was only concerned with fighting. I lost my virginity after the war to a streetwalker.
Never wanted kids. Since I don’t have any siblings, the Kageura line will end when I die.
But so what? Children are merely a consolation. Men who can’t recognize any other proof of their own existence have kids and treasure them for the rest of their lives.
I chose not to have kids. I knocked up several women, but I made them get abortions each time. When I was forty, on a friend’s suggestion I got a vasectomy. That was a huge relief. I thought, Finally I’m free of shackles. Somehow it made me feel like I was ready for death at any time. I should’ve had it done much sooner.
I figured as soon as you have kids, you can no longer live like a true man. Same thing with taking a wife, of course. Women are nothing more than playmates in this fleeting life. There was one woman that I lived with for years. But I never fell in love with any, not once. And I don’t think any of them ever loved me.
But Miyabe, even in the midst of a life-or-death struggle, thought of his family more than anything else. Does a bushi clashing swords on the battlefield spare a thought for his family? I can’t forgive a man who deemed his wife and child most important when the fate of the nation was at stake.
Even so, had he been a wimp, I could have just laughed at him. The thing that I couldn’t tolerate one bit was all the talk about him being such an outstanding fighter pilot.
He thought of nothing more than his family while fighting, and yet he excelled at aerial combat. Why couldn’t I forgive that? All I can say is that I was still young.
While all of us were putting our life on the line, he alone thought of his wife and child and engaged in combat on the side, so to speak. And yet his skills were supposedly better than everyone else’s. I couldn’t stand it.
It’s not that I ever saw him in action myself, but many veteran pilots including Nishizawa all held him in high regard. His kill score was a total mystery, though. The rumors were all over the place. Some said he’d downed nearly a hundred; others thought the number was closer to a dozen. This was due to the fact that he hardly ever stated kills when he was debriefed. Kills were only considered confirmed if you succeeded in blowing up an enemy aircraft in midair or witnessed the pilot bailing, or if the aircraft crashed into the ocean. Aside from those cases, if you could only report that you saw the aircraft falling or that it began to spout fire, the kill was considered “unconfirmed.” Most of Miyabe’s kills seemed to fall into that category.
One day, I asked him point-blank: “Flight CPO Miyabe, how many kills do you have?”
“I do not remember,” he replied without drama. His manner of speech was excessively polite. He spoke to someone even three ranks below him as if he were addressing a superior officer. That only added fuel to my anger.
“The guys are spreading all kinds of rumors,” I persisted. “Some say ten, others say a hundred. So what’s the real number?”
“I think that I might have shot down more than ten.”
This answer was a surprise. I was hoping to estimate the number through his response. If he’d laughed it off, it meant his kill total wasn’t all that impressive. If he’d given an outsized number, he was nothing more than a braggart. Yet his response was neither of these.
And then he said, “No matter how many of their aircraft I shoot down, if they shoot me down just once, I’m done for.”
I was momentarily lost for words.
He continued, “It’s important to the air corps to know how many enemy aircraft were taken out. War is about inflicting losses on each other. If our losses are small and their losses are large, HQ considers that a win. If we lose only one aircraft and they lose ten, then it’s a major victory. But what if that one aircraft is yours?”
His question left me bewildered. “I fight my own battles,” I said.
Miyabe laughed. “I feel the same way. So instead of focusing on how many aircraft I downed, I fight desperately to avoid getting shot down.”
I felt like he was laughing at me. I had always considered air battles to be like fights between master swordsmen. I wasn’t the slightest bit afraid of dying. If I’d fought with every esoteric technique available to me, then losing was fine. Miyabe’s words directly opposed my kind of resolve.
“But—” I started to say when Miyabe suddenly grasped my shoulder.
“Flight Seaman 1st Class Kageura, you seem to fancy yourself a Musashi Miyamoto, but remember that Musashi did plenty of running away in his time. And another thing: Musashi never challenged an opponent that he couldn’t beat. Is that not the inner-most secret of a top swordsman?”
I could feel my face heat up. I was sure he was making fun of the phrase I’d drawn on my scarf—The Sword and Zen are One—and telling me that I seemed childish to him. It was Musashi Miyamoto who had said that.
After Miyabe left, I tore my scarf to shreds, tears of chagrin rolling down my face. I swore I’d become a better fighter pilot than Miyabe.
My hatred of Miyabe wasn’t some half-baked thing. Whether I slept or I was awake, my mind was always filled with thoughts of him. Sometimes he appeared in my dreams. On some occasions, I would spring out of bed in the middle of the night covered in sweat, Miyabe’s laughter still ringing in my ears.
One day I said to him, “Flight CPO Miyabe, I have a request.”
“What is it?” he asked, his expression typically dispassionate.
“I would like for us to engage in a mock dogfight, sir.”
“That isn’t necessary. You are a very skilled pilot, Kageura.”
“I have heard that you are unparalleled when it comes to mock dogfights. Please, I ask for your instruction, sir.”
“A mock battle is nothing more than a practice run. It’s not a real fight. You are much better than I when it comes to actual combat.”
“Please, sir!”
“We are on the front lines. We currently do not have the time or resources to spare on such a thing. And HQ won’t allow it.”
I fell to my knees and begged, “Please!”
“No!” Miyabe said sharply, and quickly walked away.
I had never been more humiliated in my life. And in the sixty years I’ve lived since then, I have never tasted such mortification. I was on the verge of launching myself at him. If there hadn’t been several mechanics looking on from a short distance away, I might have done so.
For the next few days, I was obsessed with the idea of dogfighting Miyabe. If only I were with the American forces—then I could dogfight him, I even thought.
Several days later, as I was racing towards my fighter in order to intercept incoming aircraft, I caught sight of Miyabe next to me. In order to make myself heard over the roar of the engines, I shouted, “Flight CPO Miyabe, after today’s defensive action, please fight a mock battle with me!”
Miyabe, not even looking in my direction as he ran, said no.
“I’ll do it even if you don’t,” I shouted.
Miyabe glanced at me. His expression was filled with an intensity I’d never seen until then. Then, without a word of reply, he ran off towards his plane.
That day, we had to fend off attacks from 30 B-17s and about 150 Grummans. Forty Zeros went up to intercept them. We were overwhelmingly outnumbered, but we had the advantage of fighting above our own base.