Page 43 of Daikon

Jokbari. Cloven foot. It was the term Yagi’s father had used in private for the Japanese people he worked with and lived among and secretly hated.

Yagi was going to spit it right in Onda’s face, then drop him with his fist if he tried to get physical.

He had done it to others, one swift blow to the chin.

There was that seaman on the Iro who had tried to push him around.

And that Dutch prisoner of war at Balikpapan, for no reason, when he was drunk. Yagi had regretted doing that.

But the insult hadn’t come. He was still being included on the mission.

Come on, Onda! Where’s my insult? Yes, I’m Korean. My name is Yang Byeong-il. I have Yi Sun-sin in my blood!

The camaraderie he had experienced at the farewell banquet had meant something to Yagi. He couldn’t deny it. And the songs they had sung together had almost moved him to tears. It wasn’t just the words. It was the feeling that he was being included without reservation in the group.

And Kamibeppu’s arm across his shoulder…

Don’t be a fool, Yagi! You’re being used!

Yes, he was being used. But it was too late now. His pride had led him into a trap—a trap from which the only escape was to demean himself and confirm every insult he had ever endured.

Yes, the petty officer backed out at the last minute. Lost his nerve. We gave him a chance to prove himself, but he’s Korean, you know.

Yagi looked across the table at Kan, laboring at his letter with tears in his eyes. He picked up his pencil and addressed a letter to the only immediate family he had left, his younger sister.

“Dearest sister,” he began. “Please excuse this hastily written letter. I will soon be setting out on a special mission which you will no doubt read about in the newspapers. There will be nothing left of my mortal body, so I will leave fingernail and hair clippings to be placed in the white box. When you receive it, please remember me without tears.”

Yagi’s own eyes now were misting. A tear escaped down his cheek. Annoyed, he brushed it away.

“I am sorry for not being able to do anything more to help you beyond the insurance money,” he continued. “Please work hard and be cheerful and live a long life. Give my regards to Arima-san when you see them. And if you ever run into Nobuhiko, tell him—”

The door opened. It was Captain Onda.

“Thirty minutes,” he said.

Eight o’clock in the evening. Colonel Sagara arrived by motorcycle.

He had to struggle to get out of the sidecar and onto his feet, waving off the helping hand of the driver.

He donned his cap and straightened his uniform, then set out with Captain Onda to inspect the black bomber parked in the waning twilight.

He paused to admire the large rising sun emblem that had been painted on the rear of the fuselage, discreetly in maroon to meld into the black. He continued on, walking with a limp, clutching his left hand, his arm oddly akimbo.

“You’ve done an excellent job, Captain Onda,” he said as they completed their tour. He looked up at the sky. “What do you think of these clouds?”

“I’ve been worried,” said Onda. “But they appear to be breaking.”

Sagara continued to gaze up. “Yes… Any trouble with the navy man and Kan?”

“No, Colonel. They’ve been very useful.”

“Good. I want them on the plane.”

Sagara turned to Onda, his face now intense.

“All right, now listen. His Majesty spoke to the Supreme War Council and said that he wants the war to end. I could hardly believe it, but War Minister Anami has confirmed that it’s true.

It was a trick Prime Minister Suzuki arranged, asking the Emperor to give his opinion to break the deadlock. ”

Onda gravely nodded. He knew that important meetings had been taking place at the Imperial Palace. But for the Emperor to intercede—that was unprecedented.

“It’s treason, of course,” Sagara continued, “the Badoglios using His Majesty that way. And now they’ve sent a cable to the Allies, saying they’re willing to accept the terms of surrender. I’ve just heard this from Colonel Takeshita.”

Onda’s eyes widened with horror. “No…”

“They won’t get much further. They’re going to be stopped. But this mission needs to be a success. Do you understand? We need a victory that the War Minister can use to smash the traitors back into line. Can you give me that victory?”

Onda straightened to attention.

“I think so, Colonel. We had some trouble with one of the engines, but it seems to be functioning now. A lot will depend on the weather. If we encounter…”

Onda’s voice petered out. Sagara’s expression had hardened. He did not want to hear it.

“We’re ready,” Onda said, snapping a nod.

Ten o’clock. A table covered with a white cloth was set up in front of the Renzan.

On it lay a sake bottle, six cups, and six strips of white cotton, hachimaki on which Shichisho Hokoku, “Serve the Nation Through Seven Lives,” had been brushed in black ink.

The Renzan’s crew stood in a line in front of the table, Captain Onda in the middle, Keizo Kan and PO Yagi side by side at the end.

Colonel Sagara walked to the front. He surveyed the men before him—the Renzan crew at the fore, their faces dimly lit by the shaded lanterns flanking the colonel, the mechanics who had worked on the plane dark shadows behind.

“Most of you,” he began, “don’t know the significance of this aircraft you have helped to prepare.

So I’ll tell you. It’s equipped with a new-type bomb many times more powerful than any conventional weapon.

It is so powerful that it can destroy whole cities, sink entire fleets, level whole islands.

The Americans have used such a weapon against us twice.

At Hiroshima. And at Nagasaki. Now it’s time for us to strike back. ”

Sagara paused and looked around.

“These six men…”—he gestured toward the crew—“these six courageous warriors are about to fly this weapon south to the Marianas. They will use it to destroy the airfield complex on Tinian Island where a large part of the Yankees’ bomber strength is located.

This will be a major blow! It will cripple the enemy’s ability to launch strikes against Japan.

This single aircraft and these six men will do that tonight to protect our homeland!

Could there be any greater glory? I envy them for it. And I revere them!”

A wild fervor was coming into Sagara’s face. It was the dangerous look that Kan had seen before. He dropped his own gaze, then glanced at PO Yagi beside him. Yagi was staring straight ahead, his face hard, no sign of emotion. Kan admired him for it. He was sure his own face was revealing his fear.

“But that’s not all,” Colonel Sagara was saying.

“For we are not fighting only enemies without. We are also fighting enemies within, enemies occupying the highest levels of our own leadership who have lost their courage and seek to surrender. I tell you now with complete frankness, these traitors would pray for the failure of this mission so that they can bow to the Allied powers’ call for our surrender.

But that won’t happen! This mission will succeed and these treasonous voices will be silenced.

And we will continue to prepare for the decisive battle!

For that is where we achieve victory in this war.

When the Yankees invade, we will break them with our fighting spirit.

Our resolve, the collective will burning inside every man and woman and child in this country, will crush them.

The Yankees will find themselves drowning in a sea of blood and it will horrify them, so that they will be forced to withdraw.

Because if they don’t, we will fight them, the Japanese people will fight them— until we eat stones ! ”

Eat stones . It was an old expression. It conjured up the image of a samurai warrior fighting to the death on the field of battle, slashing at the enemy until he fell facedown, mouth agape, in the dirt.

Kan recalled the term from his youthful reading.

He recoiled from it now. Then his mind returned to the colonel’s previous revelation: enemies occupying the highest levels of our own leadership who have lost their courage and seek to surrender.

He had not known this.

He glanced up at Sagara. The colonel had fallen silent and was looking at the crew, from one face to the next, his eyes blazing almost in challenge.

Sagara’s eyes met Kan’s. And Kan saw the madness. He held the colonel’s gaze, unable to look away, afraid that he would reveal himself if he did.

“Captain Onda!” Sagara called out, breaking the spell.

Onda stepped forward and stood at attention. Sagara handed him one of the hachimaki cloths to tie around his head, then served him a drink in the small cup. Onda downed it, replaced the cup on the table, and stepped back into line.

“Captain Yoshino!”

The copilot stepped forward to receive his headband and toast. Sagara continued down the line until he came to PO Yagi. Kan observed the colonel hesitate slightly. Then it was his turn.

“Dr. Kan!”

He stepped forward. He tied the hachimaki crookedly around his head, hampered by his painful hand. He received the cup and gulped down the contents. He could not keep a look of surprise from his face when he realized it was only water.

“The death toast,” Sagara quietly explained. He seemed almost gentle. “Water to signify a pure soul.”

He leaned closer, his mouth to Kan’s ear. “Your wife will be taken care of, Sensei. You have no need to worry.”

Kan bowed deeply. “Thank you,” he whispered, momentarily overcome. He resumed his place in line, feeling confused.

The ceremony was over. It was ten-fifteen. Fifteen minutes to takeoff.

“A photograph,” said Colonel Sagara. He began shepherding the crew over to the Renzan. The sergeant who had driven him out to the airfield jogged over to the motorcycle and returned with a camera and flash apparatus.

“Stand a little closer,” the man instructed, lining up the crew in the darkness.

Kan stood solemn-faced in front of the plane and the maroon rising sun, flanked by copilot Yoshino and PO Yagi, both looking robust.

“There will be a bright flash,” said the sergeant. “Please don’t close your eyes. Ready? Three-two-one…”

A white light exploded in Kan’s vision. Yagi murmured a curse beside him.

“One more, please,” said the sergeant.

Kan heard the voice, the click of metal as the spent bulb was removed and another inserted. But he could not see a thing, only the white disk of light lingering in his vision, refreshed with each blink.

His stunned retinas began to recover. Shadows started to become apparent.

“Ready? Three-two-one…”

Another explosion of light plunged him back into blindness.

The sergeant’s voice: “Thank you!”

A voice rose from the assembly, leading the cheer: “Tennō Heika… Banzai!”

Two dozen voices responded: “Banzai!!”

“Banzai!”

“Banzai!!”

“Banzai!”

“Banzai!!”

Kan stood helpless, bedazzled, waiting for his vision to clear.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Captain Onda.

“Come on, Sensei. It’s time.”