airbase was enclosed by barbed wire, but we knew of a small opening in the fence through which we could sneak inside. We lay on our stomachs in the long grass alongside the runway observing the planes circling above. The pilots must surely have seen us. On occasion, soldiers would come by in cars to watch as well. We hid motionless in the undergrowth and waited for them to move along. All I wanted to do from then was become a pilot.
I was 14 on that fateful day of December 8, 1941 when Pearl Harbor was attacked. I heard the news on the radio. “Japan has declared war on America and Britain.” Large families were common in those days. If there were three sons, the eldest was expected to remain and take care of family affairs, but the second and third sons were destined for the front. Knowing this, I was determined to enter the “Yokaren” (Naval Aviator Preparatory Course), the elite preliminary training program for navy pilots. I wanted to fight for Japan in the sky.3
I told mother of my intention to sit the Yokaren examination. She objected at first, but I persisted and told her that if at least one of her four sons were not prepared to serve, our family would lose face in the village. Mother cried as she realized that there was little choice in the matter. My father said nothing. As it happens, one of my other brothers joined the army. He also survived the war.
The Yokaren examination was tough and consisted of Japanese, mathematics and science. These were all subjects I studied at school, but the examination was of a much higher level. In addition, we were expected to memorize the “Imperial Rescript to Japanese Soldiers and Sailors” as an introduction to the martial spirit of Japan. I studied it every day, and even bought supplemental textbooks to prepare for the exam held in Mie Prefecture’s naval base. Thousands of candidates gathered from around the country, including many from Saitama. I was 16 at the time.
I travelled to Mie (just below Nagoya) by train with two friends from a neighboring village—Kinzo Kasuya and Hiroshi Toyoda (see photos). Hiroshi was the dux of his school, and Kinzo was also a smart kid. Other boys in our villages failed, but we three passed. Father, hearing of my success, said nothing. To him it was a matter of course. Mother said with a tinge of sadness, “Good for you.…”
Locations in Japan important to the story.
CHAPTER TWO
Training Hell
The Kasumigaura “Naval Aviator Preparatory Course” (Yokaren) in Chiba Prefecture was full. A new “Special B-Class” course was established at the Iwakuni Naval Airbase in Yamaguchi Prefecture in Spring of 1943. It was designed as a shorter, more intensive training program, and I was inducted into the first cohort of cadets.
It was an enthusiastic send-off by the villagers, not the usual adieu given to draftees, as I was the first ever Yokaren trainee from our village. This was considered quite an honor and seemed to warrant much pomp and ceremony. Relatives and well-wishers gathered at my home for a big party the night before departure. At 8:00 the following morning, I marched to the Kitano Tenmangu Shrine where the district’s traditional protective deity is enshrined. Hundreds of people turned up to wish me luck and walk with me to the shrine. Village youngsters at the head of the parade brandished a big flag emblazoned with the words “Congratulations Kazuo Odachi! Yokaren Trainee.” Others performed military songs with their trumpets and drums. I followed the band, and the mayor, assemblymen, and teachers walked behind me. Nearly 200 elementary school pupils also joined in the parade.
We ascended the stone steps of the shrine where I was blessed by a Shinto priest in front of the main worship hall. Returning along the same route to the station we passed hundreds of children in front of the school waving small Japanese flags and enthusiastically shouting “Way to go Kazu-san! Good luck!” I was about to respond in kind but remembered the distinguished gentlemen behind me and thought it prudent to behave in a more adult manner.
Even more villagers were waiting near the station. The mayor entered the station building with trumpeters lined up next to him. They blasted a fanfare, and all gathered turned and bowed in the direction of the Imperial Palace. The mayor then delivered his address. “Allow me to offer a few words of encouragement to our brave young Mr. Odachi who is about to embark on his adventure to fight for Japan.…” When he finished, I made a snappy salute and responded in kind. “I thank you all for this send-off. I will do my best to serve with honor and repay your kindness with dedication to duty. I shall now humbly take my leave.” I boarded the train amid a flurry of red and white as everybody waved their flags.
My parents did not attend my grand farewell. They were too busy making traditional celebratory food to give to neighbors for their support. The send-off was lavish in every way. I figured that they all secretly thought I’d be dead within a couple of years, and this was my last hoorah. Kinzo Kasuya and Hiroshi Toyoda boarded the same train at the next station. We all set off together as brothers of the so-called “cherry blossom corps.”4 In their case, however, it was to be their final goodbye. They were killed in action a few years later.
Training in Iwakuni
The Iwakuni Naval Airbase was built in 1938, and that was where we commenced our Yokaren training there.5 Rising at 6:00 each morning, the days started with physical exercise followed by breakfast. Then it was classes and training sessions until 17:30. Evenings were set aside for self-study and revision. We took classes in mathematics and other subjects just as we did at school with the addition of Morse code and English. Flying didn’t come until later. Our instructors in the early stages were originally school teachers, but their lessons were severe beyond compare.
Our basic military training consisted of bayonet fighting and marching. We also practiced Sumo wrestling, marksmanship, and various team-building exercises. Rowing was particularly exacting. The oars were thick and blistered our hands, and our backsides became bruised from the hard seats. Everything we did was connected to training. Even walking from one barrack to another was prohibited. We had to run.
We were not allowed into the mess hall when morning classes finished until passing an impromptu test first. An officer would order us to halt. A soldier on the roof then signaled with flags and we had to decipher the code. Whispering our answers into the officer’s ear we were given permission to enter the mess hall if we got it right. Otherwise, we would be stuck outside and subjected to a barrage of insults decrying our “lack of military spirit.” Insults were one thing but being forced to forgo lunch was the worst.
Every minute of every day felt as if we were in our own small war, but I had no issue with even the strictest instruction. I was determined to never show the “white feather” of defeat as it was a matter of pride. I kept my sights firmly on becoming a fighter pilot. Kinzo, Hiroshi and I chose this way, so failure was not an option.
There were about 1,800 fellow trainees in Iwakuni, and many of the cadets in our first Special B-Class course were outstanding fellows. As more pilots were killed in action, we were sent to fill the gaps and became core aviators in the air fleets stationed around Taiwan and the Philippines. Thrust into the center of the action, our cohort was destined to suffer the largest number of casualties in the war.
One memory I have from that time was the mysterious demise of the battleship Mutsu in June 1943. The Mutsu was one of the largest battleships in the world. Even though it was anchored in Hiroshima about 20km away from our base, the almighty noise from the explosion was clearly audible. The cause of the explosion remains unknown.
Training in Nagoya
After six-months in Iwakuni, we relocated to the Nagoya base to undertake the midterm training course. The base was on top of a hill near the little town of Koromo. It was appallingly chilly there, and life was bleak. We were taught flying basics in gliders before advancing to the “Red Dragonflies,” the nickname for Yokosuka K5Y biplane trainers (see photos). Their color, however, was orange. Four trainees made up one team and we repeated take-offs and landings under the watchful eye of instructors seated in the back.
Typical