When My Name Was Keoko (19 page)

The noise is incredible. At first I can hardly hear myself think. But then we're climbing—climbing fast! Noise—and the power to go with it.

In no time we're high above the airfield. The instructor banks the plane—his voice is in my head—something about going easy on the control...

I can't listen anymore. I have to look down at the ground.

Everything is so tiny! The trees are like little sprouts, the buildings like toys.

The seat is beneath me, I know that, and then the undercarriage of the plane, and the wheels.

But all I feel underneath me is air.

I was wrong. It's
better
than I imagined. I want to shout, as loud as I can. But of course that wouldn't be very soldierly. I might even get in trouble.

So I shout silently—one enormous yell of joy.

More flying lessons. I pilot the plane several times, with the instructor in the second seat—two sets of controls, in case of trouble. If you go out three times in a row without him having to touch his controls, you get to solo.

I'm one of the first. Flying feels so natural. Timing, control, speed—like playing with my top when I was little. Or riding my bike. I feel like I was born to do this.

We have so many things to learn. How to take off with as little runway as possible. How to control the plane no matter what the weather. How to land properly—very important, as even a small mistake on landing can damage the plane.

After we solo for a while, the instructor rides in the plane again. Now he demonstrates all kinds of maneuvers and teaches us to fly them. Then he gives us a series of tests: He puts the plane into a dive, and we have to climb out of it. Or he makes the plane spin, forcing us to regain control. With the plane upside down, he cuts the power. We have to get the power back on and get the plane right side up again.

Still more to learn: another plane in the air, pretending to be the enemy, so we can practice evasive maneuvers. Sometimes scary, always exciting.

The time comes for us to practice our actual mission tactics. There's no way to do this, really. Two different tactics. The dive approach: target, the radio tower. We go into a dive from high above. But of course we have to pull up and out well above the target.

There's also the wave-hopping approach. For this we fly in low, as if we're just above the waves but beneath enemy fire, in a straight line toward the target "ship"—a marked tree on the edge of the field. Again, we pull out and up before we hit the tree.

The first few times we try the dive approach, we all pull out too soon. Hundreds of meters from the tower. It looks so foolish, watching the others from the ground. But when you're the pilot, it feels like the tower is right up your nose.

Our instructors are disgusted with us, they make us run around the airfield, stifling in our heavy canvas jumpsuits, until most of us have collapsed. Like little ants crawling around the perimeter of the field.

When we finally get so we're pulling out only fifty meters or so from the tower, they give us our next assignment: Do the dive
with our eyes closed.
This is to practice the timing, to prove that we know the planes and our flying abilities so well that we can tell where we are without looking.

The first time, I open my eyes at least half a dozen times. Impossible, what they're asking us to do—I feel like I'm going to crash right into the tower. But it's funny, how—how
interested
I feel. I like it, the challenge of it—I want to prove I can do it. Not to them. To myself.

They had us count during our earlier dives, so we know about how long it will take before we have to pull out: ten seconds from two thousand meters. The second try with my eyes closed, I start counting. How far could I get without
looking?
One. Two. Three—don't peek, get to five.
I try to picture the tower, getting bigger and bigger ...
Four. Five—don't peek, get to seven...

I can feel the sweat pouring down my face and body. I yell at myself inside my head—
Don't look!
—and squeeze my eyes shut tighter. Those last few seconds are the longest in my whole life.

At ten I open my eyes, blink once to clear them. The tower, right where I thought it would be. I pull out and go soaring.

That day I don't have to run.

Reveille one morning in June. The sergeant shouts for full dress uniforms. We've only worn them twice—on our first day here, then again when we got to fly the planes for the first time.

We line up. I take a quick glance around. In our uniforms we're a pretty smart-looking bunch. The CO seems to think so, too. He praises us for our success in training.

Then he assigns us our mission date.

Four days: If the weather's clear, we leave in four days.

For Operation "Kikusui," off Japan.

"Your assignments are posted on the barracks," he says. Then he turns to the sergeant, who explains how the assignments work. The best students have been assigned as fighters or bombers. Then signalmen, and last, mechanics.

Not one of us moves—we all remain standing at attention—but I can feel the shock go through my body and I'm sure the other trainees are feeling the same. Signalmen? Mechanics? That means
some of us won't be flying.

What if I'm assigned mechanic? A few short weeks ago
I thought I wouldn't mind having that job. But those mechanics—they trained as pilots, too. Now they work on planes all the time and never have a chance to fly one. I'd hate that.

Then a thought hits me so hard I feel my stomach lurch. My plan! For my plan to work, I
have
to be a pilot. If I get the wrong assignment ... if I can't fly...

We're dismissed, and there's a mad rush to the barracks. Everyone crowds around the assignment sheet posted on the wall. I get bumped and jostled and have to wait forever for my turn. I'm praying silently,
please, please...

Running my eyes down the list. The K names.

KANEYAMA Nobuo.
Bomber.

None of us is truly ready to fly a mission, but the military command is desperate. No squad is getting full training. We've been luckier than some—we've had target practice for more than a month now.

We don't get bream for our last meal. They must not have any. We get rice and beans, but instead of bream some kind of meat. It's been a long time since I've had any meat. This stuff is tough and full of gristle. I don't even want to know what it is.

Back to the barracks one last time. Each of us is given a little box for our things. We trim our nails and put the trimmings in a little envelope. A lock of hair, too. Both Koreans and Japanese do this, something about leaving behind whatever you can that your parents have given you.

Then we write letters home. I don't know what to say at first. But once I start writing, it gets easier. When I reach the end, I hesitate for a moment. They've promised us that these
won't be censored, that no one but our families will read them. I don't know if I believe that or not. But it will be my last letter ever, so I sign it with my real name.

The excitement has been washed away by a huge wave of fear—so strong that I feel the blood drain from my face. But it's too hard to imagine that the day after tomorrow I won't be here on this earth. It's probably better that way.

I put the letter on top of the box. Then I lie around on my bunk for the rest of the night. I don't think any of us sleep. I know I don't, anyway. I think about home. Not about Omoni—it makes me too sad. Or about Abuji either—it's uncomfortable, somehow, thinking about him. Mostly I think about Sun-hee and Uncle.

Sun-hee. She's a nice kid, even with all those questions. One good thing about never getting back home, I joke to myself—I won't have to answer a million questions. And Uncle. Best of all, thinking about Uncle. It makes me feel less sad to know that he'd be proud of me ... if he knew. He won't know, of course—there's no way to ever tell him. But I feel like he'll know somehow. Not know it as a fact, but feel it in his heart. He'll think the best of me, anyway.

Then I think about other things. Girls. I've never had a girlfriend. Hee-won, Jung-shin's older sister—I wish I could have gotten to know her better. Maybe we could have talked about things, about her family being
chin-il-pa,
about me joining the army, how life gets so complicated sometimes.

Now the simplest things seem the best. Marriage, a family of my own, children. I never thought before about being a father—it seemed too far in the future. But now it feels like it would have been just around the corner for me. If it weren't for ... tomorrow.

I'm not excited anymore. Or afraid. Just sad.

A deep, wide feeling of sadness.

Reveille. For the first time since I started training, every single one of us is out of bed before the wake-up call. Before dressing, we all go to the latrines. It's too hard to go after you have your flying uniform on—it's a jumpsuit, all one piece.

One addition to the uniform: our ceremonial swords. After a final salute from the sergeant, we put our swords back on our beds with the little boxes. As we file out of the barracks, a soldier is already collecting them. To send to our families.

Out onto the tarmac. A table is set up there, with cups of sake lined up. Time for our three toasts. I've worked this out already. The first toast is to the Emperor's shrine. The shrine on the base isn't far from the airfield itself, and beyond that, the woods where the training planes are hidden. I raise my cup like everyone else, but in my mind I toast the planes, not the shrine.

The second toast is to the Emperor himself. I picture Uncle instead. And the last toast toward our hometowns. For me, west and a little south. I can be honest about that one.

One last speech from our commanding officer. Then we gather in squads to receive our orders. "Listen carefully," says our flight lieutenant, Watanabe. He's Japanese, of course, but a pretty good guy all the same. "Last known location of the enemy ships was a hundred forty-four degrees twenty longitude east, thirty-nine latitude north. As you know, we'll be
flying in three formations. Keep your speed between seventy-five and ninety kilometers per hour. Altitude, fifteen hundred meters. All planes to use the dive tactic. Do not under any circumstances break formation. Understood?"

"Hai!" we shout all together and salute him.

Just then a soldier comes running out onto the tarmac, waving a piece of paper. "Sir!" he shouts. "Wait! An important message from Military Command!"

I turn at the sound of his voice. I've got one hand on the struts, ready to climb into the cockpit. A message? It's not a normal part of the routine, as far as I know. Should we fall back into squads?

The CO reads the message. I'm pretty far away, so I can't tell from his expression if it's good news or bad. A change of enemy position, maybe? New information about their fighters?

He calls us back into squad formation.

I hustle into line. I can see everyone's faces. They don't know what's going on either.

When we're all settled, the CO waves the paper. "A personal message from His Divine Majesty! Wishing you all the strength and guidance of Heaven on your mission!"

I keep my face steady, but inside I'm rolling my eyes. Just what I need: personal encouragement from the Emperor.

We're dismissed again. I climb into my plane. It's not really mine, but that's how I think of it. And it will be mine now, all the way to the end.

Strapped in, headset on, instruments checked. Engine running, Watanabe's voice, and another sound—a strange thumping. I listen hard for a moment. Is there something wrong with my plane?

No. It's my heart, thudding hard. Stupid.

I check everything again, just to have something to do while I wait to take off.

Watanabe leads the way. I'm third in line. I love taking off. The wheels, grumbling on the tarmac.
Grumblegrumblegrumble
—and then that sound, gone. Only the engine noise left.

We circle the base once and waggle our wings. I look out the window.

The whole base, saluting us.

Saying goodbye.

Nothing makes time go slower than waiting. And we were waiting for so many things—waiting for Uncle to come home, for the war to end, and now, worst of all, waiting to hear what would happen to Tae-yul.

The first few days were terrible. Every time I heard a car outside, I was sure it would stop at our house—that it was the army coming to tell us ... what? That Tae-yul was in jail? Or the other—which I couldn't say even to myself.

A few days passed, then a week. Sometimes I thought I was losing my mind—that if we didn't learn something soon, I wouldn't be able to bear it. But if I couldn't bear it, what would I do? March into the military headquarters and demand an answer? Take the train and boat to Japan to find out myself? I thought about asking Tomo. His father was an important education official—perhaps he could find out something.

In the end, I did none of those things. I stared at my diary
for hours at a time and wrote what I could, which was only a few words.

Uncertainty: A flower
dying for want of rain,
the nearest cloud a world away.

The weeks slowly grew into a month. It was full summer now, and so hot that I always felt dirty. Sweat made everything sticky. I found myself wishing I could take off every stitch of clothing and go around naked, the way babies did.

I walked home from school, trying not to drag my feet—I was hot and tired, but if I dragged my feet, I'd kick up clouds of road dust and get even dirtier. I rounded the corner and heard a loud noise. It took me a moment to realize that the noise was the voice of someone screaming.

I raised my head and froze in midstep.

It was my mother's voice. It was Omoni who was screaming.

I ran so fast that I nearly crashed into a soldier who was coming out of our gate. I stepped aside, frantic and panting, as he was followed by an officer in a smart uniform, and two more soldiers. When they'd passed me, I ran the last few steps to the door.