The Blossom and the Firefly Read online

  Mariko and I each grip our bamboo staves in both hands. We’ve been drilling with them since we were twelve years old. Some find the weight in their hands comforting. Mariko calls them a health hazard—no matter how tough her hands get, she always catches a splinter when we spar. I think they will not be hazardous enough. The staves are as long as we are tall, and two or three inches around—small enough for us to grip, but thick enough so that they will not easily break. One end is cut at an angle, creating a sharp point, like a hollow needle. The other end is blunt so we may lean our weight into it if necessary.

  I hope it will not be necessary.

  “I promise to take the life of at least one enemy soldier!” we cry in unison.

  “Ichi!” Sensei shouts, and we hoist our staves onto our shoulders.

  “Ni!” she shouts, and we stab the air in front of us.

  “San!” she shouts, and we shift our grips, thrusting and dancing forward one step, then two, like swordsmen. We pair off and spar with each other then, staves clashing and clocking together like poorly played drums. I don’t think the Americans will have bamboo staves when they land. I don’t know how well our maneuvers will perform against men with guns.

  But bamboo is plentiful here; guns and bullets are not. It is the story of our war in Chiran, and perhaps all across Japan. We use what we have, and we do what we must to survive.

  “Itai! Another splinter!” Mariko exclaims. We pause in our sparring to tend to her hand. The splinter is easily removed. Our fingers are not as soft as they once were.

  Nothing about us is.

  * * *

  —

  In the afternoon, we all file down to the runway to say goodbye. “We are running low on cherry blossoms,” Mariko comments.

  Kazuko points ahead. “Ah, that’s why.”

  Two of the girls have covered one of the aeroplanes in flowers.

  “It must be Fuji’i-san’s plane,” she tells me.

  It turns out we are still soft on the inside. Otherwise the sight would not be such a splinter in our hearts. Many of the girls are weeping openly today, even as they smile and say they are happy. Fuji’i-san is not smiling. Nor is he sad. He is ready. The boys from yesterday’s picnic are here to see the other pilots off. The one called Nakamura looks more solemn than I’d have thought possible. The laughing boys of yesterday’s picnic stand like soldiers now. They bow deeply as the pilots give their farewells. They have heard the tale of Fuji’i-san—from Sachiko, no doubt—and must have been deeply impressed. I am surprised to find my cheeks are damp. Beside me, Mariko wipes her eyes.

  The officers drink a toast with saké. White funeral boxes are set aside containing hair and nail clippings from each tokkō. Without bodies to bury, their families will be given these keepsakes to cremate at their local Buddhist temples. A final salute, and the line of pilots comes toward us. Fuji’i-san bows, but says nothing.

  “Be brave, little sisters,” one of his men says. “We will crash brilliantly for you. You must persevere.”

  We bow and the six pilots press letters and mementos into the hands of the Nadeshiko girls they know best. Some of these letters contain wills to be mailed to their families. One of the pilots gives the last of his pocket change to his Nadeshiko. “I’ll have no need for it from now on,” he tells her.

  Mariko and I stand back with Sachiko and Kazuko. We wish our brothers well and stand firm as the ground crew pull the chocks from beneath their aeroplane wheels. They hand-start their engines—these body-crashing planes are so unlike the ones that ferry important officers back and forth. Tokkō have neither guns nor powerful engines. That’s for the escort planes, the ones that lead them out to sea and witness their glorious attacks. No, their aeroplanes are simple, most notable for the large bombs attached to their bellies. This is the sign of ultimate sacrifice.

  “Scatter bravely and well!” we say to these boys like cherry blossoms, like fireflies that light the sky for only a day.

  A few of the engines sputter, but they all catch, and the planes take off in a roar of sound, a cloud of petals scattering softly to the ground.

  Mariko wipes a tear away with the dark sleeve of her blouse. She reaches for my hand, and we wave goodbye.

  CHAPTER 19

  TARO

  Spring 1944

  Taro watched Hakata Bay disappear from view as the train trundled toward his new home. Even Nakamura sat in reverent silence. Tachiarai Army Flying School was south of the city of Fukuoka, on the northern tip of Kyushu. It was there in the thirteenth century that Mongols attempted to invade Japan. But the gods chose to protect the home islands, blowing the invaders back out to sea with the kamikaze, or “divine wind.”

  Now, instead of wind, the Emperor sent aeroplanes. Taro sat a little straighter at the thought.

  “Hey! Girls!” Nakamura broke the silence. Heads turned. Sure enough, there were girls standing on a hillside above the tracks as the train slowed round a bend. “Ah, too young.” He scowled.

  “What are they doing?” one of the boys asked.

  “Drills,” another replied with a shove. Taro swallowed a sudden feeling of sorrow. They were elementary schoolgirls, each with a sharpened bamboo pole. A teacher stood before them, shouting instructions Taro couldn’t hear. The girls stood at attention, raised their poles, and thrust them in unison at an invisible enemy.

  “My mother told me the women in our mura also train like this,” he said quietly. When he had finally asked, after his graduation, she had been proud of her calluses. She was ready to defend the home islands against the gaijin invaders to the end. “The day after Pearl Harbor, my old schoolteacher said this conflict would be over in months. He claimed the Americans would beg for peace on our terms.” Taro ran a hand over his short hair. “I wonder what he thinks now.”

  The train rumbled on, past the girls with their makeshift weapons and determined faces, moving steadily toward its destination.

  A few minutes later, one of the COs ordered everyone to close their window shades. “Troop movements are top secret,” he said. “It won’t do to have you waving at every schoolgirl in the prefecture.”

  The boys sat soberly after that, the darkened windows like a wall between them and the life that came before.

  “They better put me in a plane quick,” Nakamura declared. “We’re going to win this war.”

  * * *

  —

  Blue sky, dust, and the scent of aeroplane fuel greeted them as Taro and the other cadets assembled for their first roll call.

  “Welcome to Tachiarai Army Flying School! I am your squadron leader, Lieutenant Saito! You will be divided into flights of twenty, two flights to a squadron. You will bunk together, mess together, train together. What is the duty of a soldier?”

  “Loyalty!” the cadets shouted. It was the first tenet of the Imperial Rescript for Soldiers and Sailors. They would be expected to recite it, start to finish, whenever an officer demanded.

  “Loyalty,” the squadron leader repeated. “That’s correct. Now, when your name is called, line up before your assigned barracks. You will be given two uniforms and a flight suit. You are soldiers now; you will dress as soldiers. Swords are to be worn at assembly. Do not shame yourselves.”

  With that, Saito turned on his heel and strode off.

  “Akama Toshiro!” the flying officer in front of the first barracks called. Taro waited as boy after boy accepted his clothing and joined the formation in front of his new home. Watching the new faces lining up, Taro began to feel a bit homesick for the familiarity of Oita. Fortunately, when his name was called, he and Nakamura were once again teamed together in the same flight. Dismissed, they were allowed to settle into their bunks until it was time for the evening meal.

  “What a dump!” one of the boys exclaimed. The barracks were underwhelming. Inside, the wooden walls were dusty and unpainted. Wha
t paint there was on the exterior had begun to flake in the sun.

  “It’s not so bad!” Nakamura declared, claiming a bed in the middle of the row. There were ten cots on each side of the narrow room. “At least there are no spiders.”

  Taro noted the cobwebs in the corners. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Nak,” he said. “Maybe there’s a broom we can borrow.”

  “And a bucket and a mop and a can of paint,” Nakamura added. “See? Stick with me, Peach Boy! We’re gonna do just fine.”

  * * *

  —

  At 0600, Taro woke to the call of a bugle playing reveille. He rose with the nineteen other cadets in his flight. In unison, they rolled up their sleep sacks and stored them in their cubbies before washing and dressing for the day. Even though it was called flying school, much of it took place on the ground. The army didn’t have enough fuel to waste on untrained pilots. And so, despite the brown silk summer flight suits that had been handed to them on arrival, they mostly wore their drab uniforms and fell into a routine of military instruction— calisthenics, fencing, and martial arts—along with aviation mechanics and meteorology in the morning, and navigation, communications, and “flight training” in the afternoon. Then there was dinner, study time, and curfew at 2200. Once again, there was little time left to practice violin. The call of the bugle to wake, to mess, to assemble, and to sleep was the only music he heard.

  “Flight training” meant the cadets built their aeroplanes before they flew them—detailed models intended to teach them how the aircraft worked. Taro was reminded of the hours spent with his father as a boy, carving lightweight wood into struts and wings. This model of aeroplane was newer, but it took the same amount of time and care.

  Nakamura couldn’t do it.

  “Aaagh!” He threw a pile of sticks across the room like an old man reading I Ching fortunes. “I’ve glued my fingers together again.”

  “We can’t fly until we know our planes inside and out,” Taro chided him. “You’d better not wash out over this and leave me here alone.”

  Nakamura grumbled and groused as he picked up the wood again.

  “Fine. Show me how you did this.”

  * * *

  —

  When the models—miniature Ki-9 trainers two hand spans long—were complete, their company graduated to simulators.

  “Finally, a flight suit!” Nakamura crowed the first morning, smoothing down the silk jumpsuit. It was a hot summerlike day, and the thin fabric stuck to their sweat in places like a second skin. The fit was a bit snug across his broad shoulders, but he wore it proudly. “I saw some Ki-55s on the airfield this morning. Maybe we can at least sit inside them today.”

  Taro patted his friend on the shoulder. “Don’t count on it,” he said. The Tachikawa Ki-55 was an advanced trainer. Nakamura was asking to run before he could walk. “And don’t forget your model plane.”

  Taro was right. The simulators weren’t aeroplanes. Not even full fuselages. Nakamura groaned when the flying officer introduced them to the device. It was nothing more than a seat on a sled with a rudder and control stick attached in front.

  “Nakamura,” the instructor said, “you’ve been so eager; you get to go first.”

  Taro swallowed his smile as Nakamura shuffled into the seat.

  “You have your aeroplane?” the instructor asked. Flying Officer Akagi was a thin man with an equally thin mustache. His uniform was always pristine. Taro had decided this was the man to emulate at Tachiarai. He stood straighter now, determined to learn from any mistakes Nakamura might make, to prove himself from the start.

  “Sir!” Nakamura held his model aloft. It wasn’t the prettiest version of a Ki-9, but it was sturdy and accurate—unlike the seven other models he’d thrown across the room before this one.

  Akagi used a bamboo switch to point out the controls on the simulator—how the levers controlled the throttle and flaps, how to make turns.

  “Cadet! You will make the proper actions with the simulator and adjust your model in accordance with those actions, as if it is in flight. You bank left, it banks left. Like so—” He grabbed Nakamura’s wrist, twisting it so the little model tilted left. “Understood? Now, prepare for takeoff!”

  Nakamura jumped, then mimed going through takeoff procedures, his model still in his left hand.

  “Bank left!” Akagi shouted.

  Nakamura pulled the joystick to the left, tilting his aeroplane model in the proper direction.

  “Bank right!”

  Nakamura banked right but forgot to move his model as he managed the controls.

  “Wrong!”

  The bamboo switch came down suddenly, slicing an arc of red across Nakamura’s cheek.

  Taro flinched, but Nakamura did not. “Hai!” he shouted, correcting his model. From then on, he followed Akagi’s instructions more closely, but still earned two more cuts of the switch before he was done.

  Nakamura returned to the line silently, blood running down his cheek. Akagi sneered at the cadets. Taro stared over the flying officer’s shoulder, unwilling to show him any emotion.

  “This is not grade school, children! This is the Imperial Army! What does the soldiers’ Rescript tell us?”

  “The soldier and sailor should consider loyalty their essential duty. Who that is born in this land can be wanting in the spirit of grateful service to it? No soldier or sailor, especially, can be considered efficient unless this spirit be strong within him—” the cadets began. Some officers allowed them to recite only the highlights, but they were learning Akagi was a harder sort. Word for word, he drilled the Emperor’s wishes into their hearts day and night.

  Akagi cut them off before they could continue. “That’s right! If you fumble, drop your model, treat it as a toy, are you of use to the Emperor? No! Your spirit is weak! You are less than useless! Remember what his Imperial Majesty says! ‘We rely upon you as Our limbs and you look up to Us as your head.’ What do we do with an arm that is useless? We cut it off!”

  Akagi regarded the line of boys before him. Taro could feel the sweat building on his top lip, his neck. He willed it away. Beside him, a drop of blood fell from Nakamura’s cheek onto the ground. His first blood shed for the homeland. Taro gripped his model. He would not fail.

  “All right, then,” Akagi said. “Next!”

  Cuts, slaps, and punches. Those were the rewards for nervous fumbling. By the end of the day, no cadet was unscathed. In addition to the cut on his cheek, Nakamura had red marks up and down his left side beneath his flight suit. Taro had welts on his cheek and one hand. He had grown up doing just such maneuvers and received two lashes when he forgot himself and started making engine noises to go along with the motions. Still, Akagi had given him a begrudging nod when he finished his simulated flight.

  “Do we have Akagi for all our training?” Nakamura moaned as they got ready for lights-out.

  “I hear he came up from infantry,” one of the other boys said. “They’re rough over there. My brother has a friend who says they regularly punch cadets in the face! I guess we’re pretty lucky.”

  Nakamura snorted, touching his wounded cheek tenderly. “Yeah, lucky I’m so pretty, or I’d regret this. Eh, Taro?” He threw a grin across the room. “I hear girls like scars.”

  * * *

  —

  Taro’s class graduated to new simulators, ones that were attached to wheeled platforms. The boys would push with all their might, propelling the devices along one of the runways to simulate the feeling of flight. Flying Officer Saito took over for this training. He was a jovial type and not so hard to please as Akagi.

  “Are we ever going to actually sit in a plane?” Nakamura wondered over dinner a couple of weeks later. Spring was warming toward summer, but the excitement of being at Tachiarai had begun to cool, replaced by a nervous tension. “We only have nine more
months to get up to speed. My brother says when he joined up, cadets got two years.”

  “Wow.” Tomomichi, a round-faced kid with spiky hair that no comb could control, almost choked on his rice. “Two years! They probably spent four months just building models!”

  “Ugh. I hadn’t thought of that,” Nakamura groaned. “Fine. I can handle a couple more weeks. But I can’t wait to fly.”

  But there was more to ground school than models and control panels. They had to learn how to handle maneuvering in the air, which was a lot different from being pushed along the ground by five sweaty boys. For this, they trained in a large Ferris-type wheel, like a metal hoop made from a ladder. The trainee stood inside in a shape like an X—feet braced against U-shaped cross bars, hands grasping a second set above his head—while his classmates rolled him along so that he twisted upside down, sideways, all the directions an aeroplane could go. It was dizzying and, worse, nauseating. More than one trainee emptied his stomach in that gizmo.

  Only after Lieutenant Saito saw that each cadet could manage it without getting sick did he announce, “First flight’s tomorrow. You’ll each go up with me or with Flying Officer Takei. Get a good night’s sleep. Write your families. Tell them what you are doing, and that it’s dangerous. There are no guarantees once you’re in the air. Such a letter is good exercise for your moral fortitude. Besides, if anyone screws up, I don’t want to be the first to break it to your mothers.”

  With that vote of confidence, the boys were released for the evening.