A Tomb Called Iwo Jima Read online

  To a youngster, Obon Matsuri meant bright happy music, special summer foods, soda pop, games and staying up late telling ghost stories.

  Upon leaving the temple, the Iwo Jima veteran drove his guests a short distance to the 110-year-old house where he was born. The two-story clapboard wooden home is a weathered but sturdy structure with original hand-blown window glass marked with small imperfections. Akikusa said, "My grandfather built this house by hand. My father was born in the house, and so was I. Back then people were born in their own homes, you know." The house is set down a sixty-foot-long gravel driveway with an entrance marked by an eighteen-inch-high stone marker. To the left is a rustic horse stable with walls made of mud and straw. The simple barn has stood more than 110 years with only a few loose antique shingles to show its age. Hanging from the thick, hand-hewn rafters are woven straw pads and various relics of the farming days, now covered with rust and a heavy layer of dust. The stable has become a storage area cluttered with odd farm implements whose functions are now a mystery to the younger generation.

  "We used to dry the rice harvest in this area," Akikusa said with a sweeping motion of his hand over an area of the yard overgrown with bushes and sapling trees. "My mother had a vegetable garden over there," he said as he pointed to another area. To the right of the stable is a long forgotten pigpen. It has a roof and old walls that are leaning askew. Akikusa pointed to another empty part of the property and added, "There was a big tree over there, and we had chickens over there."

  After the war, Akikusa was unable to carry on the tradition of farming due to his injuries, so the house and farm went to his younger brother. "My little brother passed away, so his widow lives here alone," he said. The grandkids moved to the city, so the family's farming days are over. Upon walking back down the gravel path to leave Akikusa's birthplace, the author asked about the stone marker at the entrance, to which Akikusa replied, "Our horse died while I was in the service. Grandma loved it so much that she gave it a funeral and buried it." The weathered granite marker bears a simple, faint Japanese inscription, "Our Dear Horse."

  After a healthy dose of reminiscing, Akikusa decided it was time to pay a visit to Yabegawa Elementary School where he had attended his own funeral back in January 1946.

  War in China

  In July 1937, Japanese newspapers heralded the "Marco Polo Bridge Incident," a clash between Japanese and Chinese troops at Lugao Bridge south of Beijing. It would ignite the fuse on the smoldering powder keg in China. Ten-year-old Tsuruji Akikusa recalled the neighbors' jubilation at hearing the news. At school, the students proudly shared stories of relatives serving in the military.

  On Sunday, August 15, 1937, while the Akikusa family was visiting the temple to offer their obon respects, the Japanese had undertook their first overseas bombing of the Chinese mainland. One of Akikusa's uncles, Petty Officer 2/c Yoshinori Aoki (later Ensign), was with the Kisarazu Naval Air Group, which was one of the units that carried out that attack. PO 2/c Aoki was in one of twenty Type-96 "Nell" bombers that left Omura Air Base (near Nagasaki) to bomb a pair of Chinese airfields outside the capital of Nanking. Japanese newspapers heralded the naval air crews as heroes.

  However, Tsuruji Akikusa's enthusiasm towards the war was soon dampened when a recall notice arrived addressed to his forty-two-year-old father, Army Reserve Corporal Kōhei Akikusa. The family patriarch was to report for duty on September 10, 1937. The war, known as "The China Incident," was barely two months old when the Akikusa family gathered to share sake cups filled with water in a traditional parting toast called mizu sakazuki.[6] Young Akikusa bid a painful farewell to his father at the train station the next day.

  When the author asked Akikusa how he felt seeing his father go off to war, Akikusa looked down at his folded hands and said nothing. A few years later, he and his father's roles would be reversed.

  While his father was away in China, the young Akikusa promised to study hard and take care of his younger siblings. Akikusa's military indoctrination began in middle school. Each school day started with the students bowing to a portrait of Emperor Hirohito that hung in the classroom. "Army officers taught us military etiquette, the duties of a soldier, and devotion to the Emperor," said Akikusa. "We learned how to march with a rifle. We knew how to disassemble and clean it, too."

  After what felt like an eternity, Akikusa's father returned from China on February 10, 1939. He brought home a scrap album documenting the dates and locations of his service on the continent. There were photos of his war buddies and temples, dried pressed flowers, various foreign cigarette labels and other keepsakes, too. One photo showed Akikusa's father sitting at a desk, and behind him tacked to the wall were sheets of paper with kanji ideograms scrawled by a child's hand. "He displayed the letters we sent him," said Akikusa with a smile.

  Although his father was now home, his father's brother, army Major Shun Akikusa was still in Manchuria. After Major Shun Akikusa graduated from Rikugun Shikan Gakkō (West Point Academy of Japan) he first served in the 1st Imperial Guard Regiment. The Army then sent him to Tōkyō Foreign Language College to study Russian before dispatching him as a spy to Harbin, Manchuria, which was a cosmopolitan, multi-cultural city with beautiful European-style brick buildings, factories, stores and foreign consulates.

  Major Shun Akikusa's job in Harbin was to coordinate with the German Embassy to conduct espionage activities against Russia. In 1938, Major Shun Akikusa was deeply involved in the development of the Army's "Nakano Intelligence (spy) School" and became its first commandant. He was eventually promoted to Lieutenant General in 1943, and made chief of the entire army intelligence service in Manchuria with over a dozen branches.3 This was akin to being named head of the Nazi Abwehr or the American Office of Strategic Services (OSS). When the war ended, LtGen Shun Akikusa surrendered to the Russians and is buried outside the Soviet gulag where he died in 1949.[7]

  You're in the Navy Now

  On Dec 8, 1941, radios across the Japanese Empire crackled with news of the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor. Radio announcers boasted that Japan would deliver all of Asia from the oppression of the West in what was termed the "Great East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere" of Japanese influence. The Japanese were touting a new world order; the battle cry was "Asia for the Asians."

  News of the attack on Hawaii was followed by reports of stunning victories at Manila, Sumatra and Singapore. Akikusa recalled, "It seemed like our forces were unstoppable." His airman uncle, Petty Officer 2/c Yoshinori Aoki, was now with the Takao Air Group in Taiwan. Hours after the Pearl Harbor attack, Mitsubishi G4M Type-1 "Betty" twin-engine bombers from Aoki's Takao Naval Air Group were among the hundreds of Japanese navy and army aircraft that attacked the Philippines. American aircraft under the command of General Douglas MacArthur's US Army Forces in the Far East were largely destroyed on the ground.

  The Japanese Empire was caught up in a rose-colored victor's frenzy. Eager army and navy recruiters slapped up posters in cities, towns and villages across Japan. The Navy's snazzy recruiting posters depicted a dashing young Yokaren aviation cadet in flight gear. Akikusa admired the idealistic posters and told his chums, "As soon as I am old enough I'm going to be an airman like my uncle." Akikusa was the eldest son, so he was expected to inherit the farm and care of his parents in their old age. But he wanted adventure, he wanted to fly.

  The Navy's Yokaren (Youth Aviation Course) provided the equivalent of a high school education while training young men, ages sixteen to twenty, to become pilots, radiomen, navigators, and aerial gunners. Most of Japan's naval pilots and aircrews were graduates of the Yokaren program.

  In early February 1942, shortly before graduating from Yabegawa Middle School, Akikusa begged his father for permission to visit the Navy recruiter to take the first of two qualification exams for Yokaren. His father did his best to talk him out of it and warned, "Pilots have a short lifespan." His father was unable to squelch his dream
s of flight; so young Akikusa secretly borrowed his father's ink-chop seal to forge the consent form.

  Shortly after covertly taking the test, Akikusa received a card from Yokosuka Naval Base with instructions to report for a second round of testing to commence on February 23, 1942. Akikusa's father quickly figured out what his son had done, but was unable to get things straightened out in time. His son would have to show up or risk legal consequences from the Navy. Akikusa expected to pass the exams, graduate from middle school and be off to Yokaren to earn his wings in April 1942. He had it all figured out.

  For this weeklong secondary battery of tests, Akikusa was excused from school to travel to Yokosuka Naval Base. On the fourth day of the Yokaren exams, Akikusa was called into the head flight instructor's office. Akikusa stood in the doorway and bowed a salute, he feared he was about to be sent home for an infraction of some kind. The instructor gestured for him to sit down to a dish of sweet bean cakes. After a brief, friendly chat, the youngster was excused without explanation.

  Akikusa performed well on the tests so was confident that once the paperwork cleared, he would be given orders to report to the Yokaren campus at Tsuchiura Naval Base in neighboring Ibaraki prefecture.

  A few weeks later, Tsuruji Akikusa graduated from Yabegawa National Middle School on March 30, 1942. A few of his classmates went off to further their education, but most started working full time as farmers, laborers, apprentices, etc. While he waited for the Navy to call him up, Akikusa decided to get a temporary job. It would look bad if an able-bodied young man wasn't working to contribute to the family. His friend, Tadashi Mita, worked at Nakajima Aircraft Company's Dōnryū Kōjō Aircraft Institute, and encouraged Akikusa to apply to the company's Youth Engineering School. He and Tadashi Mita rode their bicycles to the facility where Akikusa earned a small sum as he studied the rudiments of aircraft construction, world history, geography, mathematics, English, and general engineering. Japanese manufacturers such as Hitachi, Mitsubishi, Mitsui and others organized similar schools for students who would otherwise not be able to continue their formal education past middle school. It was also a form of three-year trade school for future employees.

  Akikusa's days at the Nakajima Aircraft Institute ended prematurely that summer when an official letter from the Navy arrived in mid-August. He opened it front of his parents and was shocked to read, "Report to Yokosuka Navy Base Recruit Training Depot No. 2 on September 1, 1943." This meant that he wouldn't be going to flight school but serving as a regular sailor. He was confident that he had passed the Yokaren aviation entrance exams, so what had gone wrong? Akikusa's father revealed that the kindly officer who offered Akikusa sweet bean cakes in his office was an old family friend. Akikusa's father had pulled a few strings to sabotage his son's chances of getting into the Yokaren flight program.

  However, Akikusa had inadvertently volunteered for the Navy by applying for the Yokaren Course and then selecting the communications course as a secondary choice. Akikusa was off to start a new life in the Navy, but it would not be in the "flying navy" as he had hoped.

  At hearing the news, a neighbor remarked, "Be thankful, you aren't going into the flight program, the flyboys never come home." Perhaps so, but Akikusa secretly resented his father for dashing his dreams of flight.

  As the date of his departure approached, the Akikusa clan gathered for a farewell party. They signed a Japanese flag (yosegaki) for him and conducted a farewell toast with water. This time it was the son who was going off to war. The following morning, neighbors and friends assembled to see him off. The fifteen-year-old wore his yosegaki signed flag tied over his shoulder like a sash. Carrying little paper flags, the group walked to the shrine to pray for a safe return. Representatives from the various patriotic societies within the village lined up to shake his hand. As the group sang military songs, Akikusa mounted the family horse that was festooned for the special occasion. A rousing three cheers from the crowd startled his steed, and caused Akikusa's chest to swell with pride. With his family in tow, Akikusa slowly rode out of the village like an ancient warrior. The elderly folks dropped back at the bridge over Yabegawa River and and waved their farewells. The rest continued to the train station where they gave him another round of cheers under a cloud of fluttering hand-held paper flags.

  Akikusa dismounted, handed the reins back to his cousin and looked into the eyes of his mother. She wasn't smiling like the others; she was holding her little paper flag still. Akikusa said that as the train pulled away, "Images of my family's faces flashed through my mind like a revolving lantern."

  Akikusa arrived for duty at the newly opened Yokosuka 2nd Kaiheidan Recruit Training Depot at Owada Bay, in Takeyama. The calendar read Tuesday, September 1, 1942. As a Seaman 4th Class Recruit, Akikusa was assigned to the 5th Squad (han) of the 26th Platoon (buntai) commanded by Lieutenant (jg) Kikuchi. All of the boys in his platoon were volunteers. Akikusa's serial number was "Yoko Shi Sui 49367" (横志水49367). Yoko stood for Yokosuka Navy Base, Shi meant volunteer, and Sui is short for seaman. His personal ID number was 49367. He was proud to write this information on the white labels that were sewn into all of his clothing and his Donald Duck–style cap. The flat cap came with a special tally that read "2nd Yokosuka Kaiheidan" embroidered in yellow thread. Once the sailors advanced to their various secondary specialization schools, they would get a new ribbon with the name of that school or base. They would get a third cap tally once they received their final posting to a base or ship. Each time they were transferred they would receive a new cap ribbon. Later that year, Akikusa's dream of collecting cap tallies was dashed when, as a cost reduction measure, the Navy announced a single-tally system that simply read, "Great Imperial Japanese Navy."

  But the D.I.s were helpful and accommodating, almost like big brothers, as they instructed the recruits on how to properly wear their new uniforms. Akikusa recalled how difficult it was to adjust his jonbera shoulder flap.[8] That night he was filled with pride as he heard the bugle call "Taps" for the first time as a navy man.4

  On the morning of his second day in the Navy, Akikusa was awakened by a bugle call, a shrill boatswain's whistle and the command, "All hands awake!" Even as the last few notes of Reveille were bouncing off the barracks walls, Akikusa and the other recruits were doing their best to quickly roll and stow their canvas hammocks above their open-ended wooden wall lockers. The recruits needed to get into the habit of rolling the hammocks tightly to reduce storage space aboard ship. Prior to battle, the tightly wrapped hammocks were hung outside ships' bridges to absorb shrapnel, and could also be cut free to serve as rafts in the event of a sinking.

  Like a hungry wolf, one of the D.I.s slowly circled the ranks of nervous recruits while screaming at them to pack their hammocks faster. What happened to the kindness from yesterday? With an air of disgust the D.I.s inspected the teenager's fumbling efforts to stow their hammocks and settle their gear.

  After the recruits were dressed and standing at attention, a D.I. examined each uniform as if it were a rare gemstone. The D.I. stopped behind one boy and shouted, "You! One step forward!" The recruit leapt out of line and came to attention like a dart hitting a board. The D.I. demanded to know why his cap tally was misaligned. The squad stood motionless as the man growled, "You are all soft and lazy. You need a good dose of military spirit." Another D.I. produced a longer version of a wooden police baton and said, "This is what we call ‘the club to instill military spirit.'"[9] Akikusa had never heard of such a thing. What was he going to do with that club? The man ordered the boys to spread their legs, bend over and raise their hands in the air. The club wielder lined up behind the initial cap tally offender and delivered a sharp punishing blow down on his buttocks. Akikusa heard a sickeningly dull ‘whack' as the instructor beat each recruit, working his way towards Akikusa who was frozen with fear. No one told me about this. Are they allowed to do this? The answer was a hard blow to his backside causing pain to sho
ot up the base of his spine making him see stars. Blood rushed to his head creating a swelling sound in his ears that nearly drowned out the ranting of the petty officer's parade-deck level voice.

  For the next two months it was bedlam as the D.I.s screamed, shouted, and rousted the recruits. The recruits' movements were controlled by the sound of boatswain's pipes, bugle calls, barked orders and roundhouse ōfuku binta slaps to the face. Walking was not allowed; all movement was done in squad formation at double-time. The basic training was designed to harden the boys and drive the milk of human kindness from their hearts.

  Akikusa recalls always being hungry during boot camp, "They fed us low-grade brown rice, watery miso soup, small portions of fish, vegetables and pickled vegetables." Instructors were not stingy with roundhouse slaps or howdy-do greetings with a leather slipper (worn while in the barracks), punches in the face, or doses of the club. None dared to write home about the corporal punishment because their mail was censored by Lt (jg) Kikuchi. This ensured that cards and letters would contain nothing that would worry the recruits' parents. The boys' mothers might be fooled, but their fathers, uncles and grandfathers knew the score as most had already served in the military.

  There was little time for self-pity because each 17-hour day was packed with classes, group calisthenics, rowing, group swimming in the bay, endless homework, and laundry. The teenagers studied naval history, military etiquette, warships, basic flag signals, and English. The recruits learned to shoot rifles and pistols, and practiced the martial arts of Jūdō or Kendō. There was even a martial art developed for honing bayonet-fighting skills called Juken-jitsu.