A Tomb Called Iwo Jima Read online

  "Old Glory" no longer flies on Mount Suribachi, instead, there is a Japanese flag. Near the Japanese flag is a pole with fish-shaped streamers called koi nobori that flutter softly atop the dormant volcano. These windsocks are flown to commemorate "Boys Day" (Tango no Sekku or Kodomo no Hi). For centuries, Japanese parents have flown these koi fish streamers in hopes that their sons would grow up resilient and strong. There is a black fish flag to represent the father, and a red fish banner to represent the mother. Below these two fish are normally smaller blue or green fish that represent the son(s). However, on Iwo Jima, only the parent carp streamers fly to signify that their sons are gone. This flagpole acknowledges the broken hearts of 20,000 sets of parents whose prayers for a safe return went unanswered.

  After leaving the summit of Mount Suribachi, the group drove down to the black sand beaches where so many Americans paid the ultimate sacrifice. Akikusa walked to the water's edge and explained what he had seen the day that the Marines landed.

  Returning to the airfield, Akikusa was immersed in a surreal fog as the van passed dozens of stone markers engraved with the names of Japanese units that were sealed below. The markers more accurately could be described as tombstones. In fact, the entire island could be called a tomb.

  Akikusa searched for an entrance to Captain Samaji Inoue's Nanpō Shotō Naval Air Group command bunker, but so much had changed since 1945. With the help of one of the JMSDF officers stationed on the island, Akikusa found the northern entrance to the bunker that was overgrown with thorn bushes and not visible from the road. Akikusa looked back over his shoulder to get his bearings, choked back thick tears and said, "This is it. Kumakura killed himself down in there." Akikusa pressed his hands together and softly chanted a Buddhist prayer to deliver an overdue message to his friend's soul.

  Major James Crawford and the Japanese officer stomped their way down through the thorny undergrowth to create a path for Akikusa. As they neared the cave entrance Major Crawford exclaimed, "Holy cow, it's hot down there." Without pausing, Akikusa asked, "It hooks left, doesn't it?" Major Crawford peered in and confirmed that it did. Akikusa walked past him into the dark tunnel, alone.

  A floodgate opened to reveal suppressed memories that transported Akikusa back in time. He was the only one on the island who could still hear the echoes of gunfire, explosions, and piercing screams from a battle that ended over a half-century ago.

  Ships on the Horizon

  The calendar read Wednesday, January 24, 1945. Just before dawn, radioman Tsuruji Akikusa pressed his eye against a narrow three-foot long hollow tube that ran through to the outside wall of his concrete bunker. The small opening was originally one of several passageways for communication wires, but pre-invasion shelling had stripped them away. The hollowed out wire passages made excellent observation ports because they enabled the Japanese to safely monitor the invasion beaches below Tamana-yama.[2] Inside the dark bunker, Akikusa scratched at his pesky head lice and peered though the small observation hole out into the bright sunlight. His uniform was home to vermin, and reeked with the pungent odor that comes from living like an animal. Baths were a distant memory as water was too precious to waste on hygiene.

  There were similar observation posts at other sites across the island: Mount. Suribachi; the Funami-dai Command Center at the northern tip of Chidori Airfield (Motoyama Airfield No. 1); and Nidan-Iwa (Hill 382 or Radar Hill). Akikusa's spot was perhaps one of the best seats in the house, offering an unobstructed vista of the entire southern half of the island.

  A few weeks prior, the island's supreme commander, Lieutenant General Tadamichi Kuribayashi, had distributed mimeographed copies of his handwritten oath that read, "We must kill ten of the enemy before giving up our own lives."[3] Akikusa wasn't sure how he was going to fulfill the first part of Kuribayashi's command since he was never issued a weapon, but it was only a matter of time before the enemy handled the second part.

  Akikusa pressed his face against the opening of the observation tube; the brisk ocean air felt good against his sweaty face. He could see the waves in the pre-dawn haze hitting the beaches functioning as a luminescent signpost for the enemy on where to land. However, there was no doubt as to where the Americans would attempt to breach the island's defenses. As the darkness slowly retreated, he fixed his eyes on the constellation of US invasion ships carpeting the dark surface of the water. Akikusa noted the numbers and types of ships that revealed themselves. The seemingly endless armada stretched far out over the horizon. The only sound was the morning breeze whispering into the observation tube. A shiver ran down Akikusa's spine, an involuntary convulsion that brought cooling relief from the heat of the crowded tunnel. Akikusa had a box seat right above the long black sandy beach on which a tsunami of US Marines would soon come rolling. He peered intently through the small opening and wondered, What are they waiting for?

  His friend Yasuo Kumakura sat down next to him, his presence noted by a telltale grunt and stale tobacco-breath. While maintaining his gaze at the ships, Akikusa asked, "Hey Kuma, you know what today is?" Without waiting for a reply from Kumakura, Akikusa said, "It's January 24th, our 179th day here."

  Kumakura snorted, "Why keep track? We aren't ever going home." The distant peak of Mount Suribachi was gently bathed in the soft glow of the rising sun.

  "Keep your chin up, we'll make it home someday," Akikusa's reassuring words were more for himself than for Kumakura.

  The Americans routinely pounded the tiny island from the air and sea for months, and had stepped up their efforts in the past few weeks. Why don't they get it over with? That morning, Akikusa craned his neck to get a better view of the enemy ships. As he counted, his outlook took on a grayer hue that matched the color of the ships offshore. There are a lot more of them today.

  Staring through his over sized peephole, Akikusa was startled by a dark orange flash from the sea. On its heels was a thunderclap rumbling over the beach and terraces; it was mixed with a Doppler scream and a boom. The shell slammed silently into the rocky soil near the airfield. At a distance, the sights and sounds of battle didn't match up like in the movies. The impact launched a dirty column of sand, rocks and razor-sharp iron hundreds of feet into the air. The explosion sent an invisible shockwave of concussive air against the peephole. A cloud of brownish-black smoke shrouded the ship that fired the opening shot. Several other cruisers joined in to create a booming cacophony.[4] The impacts tossed truckloads of dirt into the air like a cat tearing feathers off a bird. For the next several hours the ground beneath, around, and above the Japanese defenders trembled as the shelling continued. The caves and tunnels were buttoned up tight with rocks and sandbags, yet the pungent odor of gunpowder steadily seeped in through the ventilation shafts.

  Rocks and boulders showered down only to be heaved up into the sky again. The thundering sound reminded Akikusa of a summer typhoon back home when his family would gather inside and listen to the storm. He wondered how his parents would react when they received the telegram that no parent every wants to get.

  The US sailors and marines on the ships must have cheered as Iwo Jima disappeared beneath the smoky barrage that methodically swept the southern part of the island. Even though the US Navy impressed itself by hurling useless debris high into the sky, the maelstrom engulfing the island had little affect on the defenders. And despite months of bombing, the Japanese fortifications were growing in number. The following is from a WWII US intelligence report.

  "Aerial photos taken during early 1945 revealed that the number of field fortifications, pillboxes, and covered artillery positions increased despite air bombardment… A study of these changes resulted in a sharp upward revision in estimate of enemy strength on Iwo…. Photographic coverage of Iwo Jima on 24 January 1945, indicates that damage to installations resulting from bombing strikes between 3 December 1944, and 24 January 1945, was, on the whole, negligible. These strikes have apparently not prevented t
he enemy from improving his defensive position and, as of 24 January 1945, his installations of all categories had notably increased in number. The island is now far more heavily defended by gun positions and field fortifications than it was on 15 October 1944, when initial heavy bombing strikes were initiated."2

  At noon, the shelling stopped but resumed after what Akikusa assumed was a lunch break for the US blue jackets, leading him to ponder, Does the enemy observe banker's hours? As the wind gradually cleared the smoke, the acrid odor of gunpowder continued to drift down into the caves and tunnels through the air vents. During the day's shelling and aerial bombing, the stoic defenders offered no rebuttal. There were strict orders to hold fire until the command was given; it would come in the form of the familiar "attack" bugle call.

  As evening fell, the US ships stayed in their positions. The other radiomen around Akikusa talked about an enemy landing occurring under cover of darkness. "That's what we would do," said one sailor. There was tension in the caves. A petty officer tried to reassure his men, "The ‘Blue Eyes' won't come tonight because of their inability to see in the dark."

  The evening passed into night and there was still no sign of a landing. The ocean was eerily dark and silent. From the absence of light and sound, one could not imagine that there were hundreds of ships and tens of thousands of Americans so close to the island. The ships were under blackout conditions, but here and there a ghostly trace of light escaped one of the ships. It reminded Akikusa of the fireflies in the rice paddies back home.

  His friend Shōji Kageyama leaned over and whispered, "We are supposed to hold out until our fleet arrives, right? Well, where are our ships?" The same question crossed the minds of the nearly 22,000 defenders that were burrowed deep inside the island.

  The Dream of Flight

  The author interviewed Tsuruji Akikusa in 2008, and then corresponded until they met again in 2012. During the 2012 trip to Japan, Akikusa invited Major Jim Crawford, Takashi Matsuda and the author to visit a Japanese traditional hot springs for the weekend. Following two days of luxurious soaking in piping hot baths and dining on sumptuous food wearing cotton yukata robes, Akikusa drove the group to his country home to see his old photos and WWII-era documents.

  Akikusa's home was large with a nicely tailored Japanese-style garden. After removing their shoes in the foyer, the group was escorted into a room covered in tatami straw mats and took seats on the floor around a short-legged table. The Iwo Jima veteran served hot green tea and small confections to the guests who admired the various paintings and antiques that filled the room. In one corner was the family Butsudan Buddhist altar where Akikusa has prayed every morning and night for decades. He prays for the souls of his departed family, and for the spirits of his dead comrades that he left behind on Iwo Jima. Akikusa shared tales about his childhood, and of his father and famous uncles. Accompanying his stories came the old family photo albums.

  Akikusa was the oldest child, born to humble farming parents Kōhei and Masu Akikusa who named him Tsuruji, which means "The Next Crane." The red-crowned Japanese Crane is a sacred bird, and is seen as the bearer of good fortune and long life in both Japan and China. Tsuruji Akikusa would become living proof of that ancient belief.

  At the time of Akikusa's birth on January 7, 1927, the village of Yabegawa (current day Ashikaga City in Tochigi Prefecture) was a speck of a berg, with 52 households and a population of 323 souls. It was named after the small river that ran through the village. Yabegawa had no automobiles or indoor plumbing, but did have electricity. The nearest telephone was at the Kameya family's sake store, and it was an open party line shared by others. Although Akikusa's home didn't have a telephone, it was one of only three households with a radio.

  The village consisted of farms anchored around a modest Shintō shrine and a Buddhist temple situated on opposite ends of the little town. The religious centers were not in competition, but worked in harmony to attend to the needs of the residents who adhere to both the Shintō and Buddhist faiths, which is a uniquely Japanese situation. The Japanese are not a religiously zealous tribe; they don't proselytize nor do they attend weekly services. They won't argue over religion and hold no concern for what beliefs others hold; it is, after all, a private matter. One is married by a Shintō priest, and ushered into the afterlife by rhythmic mantras falling from the lips of a Buddhist priest. Japanese think there is no hypocrisy in placing both Shintō and Buddhist icons in their homes.

  The aging veteran drove the author around the small farming town. The first stop was the town's Shintō shrine, Sugahara Jinja, home to the deity Tenjinsama that guards the village. It was here that Akikusa and his family would offer prayers for good fortune. At the entrance to the courtyard stand a pair of five-foot-tall granite monoliths, their edges rounded by over 100 years of wind and rain. One is engraved with the faded inscription, "Victory Commemorative Russo-Japan War;" while the other bears the barely legible names of a dozen men who gave their lives in the conflict. "My grandfather fought in that war," Akikusa said.

  The quiet courtyard is solemnly guarded by a few ancient leafy nutmeg trees, which provide tranquil shade for infrequent visitors. The shrine also boasts an old gnarled plum tree that shares its fragrant pink cloud of blossoms with anyone who visits in the spring. Akikusa pointed to an empty corner of the property and explained that there once stood a grand cedar tree that burst high into the heavens; during the war it sported a rising sun flag. The tree is gone now, and so are the patriotic flags that adorned the shrines and homes across the land; they were quickly tucked away after the war.

  Akikusa undoubtedly sees the shrine through the eyes of a fifteen-year-old boy about to enlist in the Navy, pleading to the deity for a safe return. In his mind he can still see the ancient cedar tree standing proud with the national flag flapping high above the throngs of well-wishers who gathered to say prayers for their sons, brothers and fathers that were going off to war. Akikusa looked up and sighed, "It's a shame they cut it down, it was a beautiful old tree."

  Behind the shrine still stands the Kameya family sake store that has been in business for three generations. Akikusa remarked with a smile, "I would go on errands to buy sake for my father there. Sometimes I got candy, too."

  After leaving the Sugahara Jinja shrine, Akikusa guided his guests to the Buddhist temple. It is of the Shingonshū sect, which pays homage to Japan's beloved Prince Shōtoku, one of the earliest members of the Imperial family. The temple's 400-square-yard courtyard was the perfect spot for young Akikusa and his friends to play sandlot baseball. The girls jumped rope, singing their chants in high-pitched voices that the boys tried to ignore. There was one girl who had caught Akikusa's eye, a button-nosed girl named Ayako. They were classmates through elementary school and middle school and held an unspoken innocent fondness for each other; stealing smiles and glances in class. The pair trekked side by side on the four-mile one-way journey to school. "Back then we walked to school rain or shine. It made us tough," Akikusa said as he led the way into the temple grounds.

  Akikusa walked under a stone gate entrance and turned left to point out at a large flat heavy stone that seemed out of place. "See this? We used to play marbles on it," he said. He knelt down deftly as if he were a much younger man. "See these divots on top of the slab?" he asked. "We gouged them out by pounding on it like this," he said as he demonstrated by picking up a fist-sized rock and began hammering on the large stone. "We rolled marbles across the face of the stone and played different games," he said as he mimed the action. He was a nine-year-old boy once again.

  There were rows of graves behind the temple, some of which had witnessed centuries of mourners. Akikusa said, "My parents and most of the Akikusa clan are buried here."[5] However, empty are the graves of his uncle Sergeant Hideo Aoki who died in Burma, his cousin Sergeant Yūzō Akikusa of the Mitō Regiment Combat Engineers who died in the Philippines, and his uncle Lieutenant General Shun Akikusa,
head of the Kantō Army Intelligence Division who died in a Soviet gulag. Like tens of thousands of other soldiers and sailors, their remains were never recovered.

  One large headstone stood out, a polished black granite memorial stone that bore the inscription "China Incident and Pacific War, Honorable Dead Memorial." Akikusa pointed to the fourteen names engraved on the face of the memorial, eight of which bore his surname. After the war, Tsuruji Akikusa took it upon himself to erect a proper memorial for the war dead that came from Yabegawa. He felt it was the least he could do for coming back alive. His withered finger gently rubbed each name as he read them aloud with reverence, "This was my cousin who died in China. This one died at Guadalcanal. And this one was a naval pilot, shot down a few days before the war ended." He knew them all. His finger rested on the name of an eighteen-year-old named Tadashi Mita, and he choked up for a moment. "We grew up together. He was my best friend in the world," he whispered. Then, as if speaking to himself, he glanced around and said, "We played right here in the courtyard as kids."

  In different times, the temple's wide courtyard was the gathering place for the summer Obon Matsuri festival. During the month-long Obon season, the Japanese welcome home the spirits of their departed loved ones. It is a time to tend family graves, and offer prayers and food to the spirits at the household Buddhist altar.

  There was a special night for ritualized folk dancing and merriment at the festival. Young Akikusa looked forward to this annual event. Everyone gathered, wearing their light summer yukata robes to dance around a platform where musicians performed. The people moved in a large circle dancing in unison to booming drums, shrill fifes, strumming shamisen (three string banjo) and a tinny bell. Each song had its own repetitive dance choreographed from generations past. Some dances were slow and dignified, others lively depicting farm life or ancient folklore. Everyone moved together as one to the cheery music under the paper lanterns fitted with electric lights.