April 22, 1945, 04:30
Underwater by day, above by night, they zigzagged across the East China Sea, circumventing enemy fleets amassing between Formosa and the North Pacific. Below deck, the submarine crew tunneled through hatches, calling out numbers—air pressure, water pressure, coordinates—as they searched for the cluster of aircraft carriers thought to be headed toward Okinawa. Confined to their quarters, a single cabin outfitted with shelves of bunk beds bolted to the walls, the Kaiten pilots read, played cards, wrote. Yamada stood for the hundredth time and paced. “How long can it take to find a whole fleet of carriers?”
Maeda, sitting with a book, banged the metal floor. “If you lose your shit now, there’s no way they’re going to launch you. You want to end up like Noguchi?”
Tanaka, lying in his bunk, stared at the metal ceiling inches from his nose. He was a side sleeper, and rest had become intermittent, his body waking him every time it tried to turn, his shoulders too broad for the space. “We might never find any carriers. Better get used to that idea too.”
Maeda tossed his book. “Who cares. This war is over anyway.”
“Yeah? So why are you still here, then?” Yamada toed Maeda. “Why didn’t you surrender to the white man when you had the chance? They wouldn’t have given two shits about you, but you might’ve made it; they might’ve sent you back home to your ma.”
Maeda swiped away Yamada’s foot as he stood. A Formosan, he’d been sensitive about his status, rounding up the colonial conscripts on base to fight for their collective respect. He’d gotten it too, brandishing his well-honed Japanese to outcuss anyone who challenged him. “Don’t talk like you care about the war. I know what you are. You’re an opportunist. Lots of guys went after those island girls, but you—you’re actually proud of it. You don’t care about anything except pleasing yourself.”
Yamada smirked. “Those were some good parties you missed. I guess they reminded you of your sisters, huh, Colonial?”
“You’re sick,” Maeda said.
Yamada laughed and flung an arm around his neck. “Come on, I’m an asshole. But don’t say I didn’t tell you. You should’ve surrendered to the white man when you could. As for me and Tanaka?” He drew a finger across his throat.
Tanaka closed his eyes. What they needed was a cigarette, the feel of fresh wind blowing down the conning tower.
April 27, 1945, 08:03
At the edge of the Philippine Sea, 75 meters deep, they picked up a signal moving rapidly toward them. Two escorts, and an unidentified vessel, possibly a cruiser. Unable to accelerate, the captain, risking sea pressure, dived deeper. Through the open density of water, they heard the faint sound of engines; each man gripped the nearest stationary object.
The first explosions rocked the submarine. The next snapped off the lights. Clinging to the railing, he listened to the shouts, the long list of damages barked over the shockwaves. Another boom, and steam hissed into his face. He dropped to his knees as the floor batted him into a cage of bolted table legs. Scrambling to latch on, he fought the swing of his body, but the floor pitched, and his head rattled like a sack of beans. He let go. A hand caught his wrist, and Yamada, moving like the fisherman he was, reeled him in. Minutes later the depth charges stopped. Two hours later, they surfaced, risking detection for air. On deck, all three Kaiten were astonishingly intact. The crew broke out a bottle of sake: one sip each to celebrate the miracle.
May 12, 1945, 15:21
At last the radar lit up, a microexplosion of lines: two long dashes followed by a third, a giant, flanked by many shorter ones. The captain descended to their cabin. With three Kaiten missions under his belt, the pilots’ emotional threshold wasn’t a mystery to him. He tapped the doorframe, and in a gentle, sturdy voice he described the state of the war, the risks and benefits of their options, the flaws and wastefulness of all except one. “Do you understand the importance of your task?” he asked. Yamada clenched his jaw. “We do,” he said. When no protests followed, the captain gripped each of their hands. Three minutes later, the standby sounded.
May 12, 1945, 15:24
Stopwatch, flashlight, sea chart. Tanaka took them from his maintenance man. Flipping the light switch, he shimmied up the hatch into his seat. As usual, the air, cold and still, was faintly sour with rust. He buckled himself in. Diving crank, rudder controls, compass. Water grazed his metal skin. He checked the gyroscope, the start bar. All set: he rapped three times. The hatch below him screwed shut. He breathed, letting the first wave of panic break over him.
At last the captain’s voice echoed through the earpiece. “Kaiten One, get set.” Tanaka raised his periscope to look at Yamada, his long nose prehistoric in the green-black water. Yamada had wanted to be the first to pass Yasukuni’s gates. Tanaka pumped his periscope three times, but Yamada didn’t return the signal. Ten seconds later, Yamada’s engine ignited; bubbles erupted from his tail. Then he was gone.
“Kaiten Two, prepare.” Tanaka swung his periscope to the right. In the dim water, he could make out the tip of Maeda’s vessel latched just aft of him. Before Noguchi’s suicide, Maeda, a student conscript, had often fought with Noguchi, also a student, about a people’s revolution that would or wouldn’t come out of the war. It had seemed pointless, two Kaiten pilots passionate about a future they’d have no part in, but it had made everyone dream of a different life. He wasn’t sorry when the talk stopped. The cables released, the engine whirred, and the glittery sound of bubbles carried Maeda away.
“Kaiten Three, prepare. Angle: forty degrees left. Range: ten kilometers. Enemy speed: eighteen knots. Course: two hundred forty degrees. Your target is a destroyer. Run full speed for twenty minutes, then check your position. Good luck. On your count.”
Ten seconds later, he gripped the start bar and pushed it back.
May 12, 1945, 16:15
The ship was enormous. Even at 500 meters, it filled his vision. He panned to the left: no ships, no debris. He panned to the right. Where were they? He could’ve sworn he’d heard the detonations. He straightened his periscope; the destroyer streamed back, larger than a moment ago. He glanced at his stopwatch: time had vanished. He steadied his hands, adjusted his angle. In less than two minutes he’d blast through Yasukuni’s gates. Fear aerated his veins. But out here, in the middle of the ocean, there was only one way to go. He flipped the activation switch and fired the engine to full throttle.
May 12, 1945, 16:17
Green sea; sparkles of light; the receding keel of the destroyer. He sat for a moment, staring at the depth meter. 17.5, 17.6, 17.7…He rattled the diving crank; its empty glide plunged his stomach. 18.1, 18.2, 18.3…He slammed the controls. A minute later, he flipped the self-detonation switch.