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CHAPTER ONE

Kendo and the Yokaren

LEADER OF THE PACK

I was born on December 11, 1926, and raised in a little country village called Kitano Kotesashi in Saitama Prefecture, not too far from Tokyo. I am the second son with three brothers and two sisters. We lived in a big house separated from our neighbors by eight zelkova trees and sheltered by oaks to the south.

My family name, Odachi, literally means “big house.” My ancestors can be traced back to the Nitta-Genji clan, a prominent aristocratic warrior family of a thousand years ago. At the end of the twelfth century, a Genji general by the name of Minamoto Yoritomo established Japan’s first military government, the Kamakura shogunate. In the fourteenth century, vassals of the Kamakura shogunate enacted a coup d’état to topple the military government and my Odachi ancestors joined them.

A new Muromachi shogunate was subsequently established in Kyoto, but the political situation was far from stable. A split soon formed in the imperial court, and for many decades in the fourteenth century, a northern and a southern court coexisted. The Odachi clan supported the southern court and were thus shunned by the Muromachi shogunate which established the northern court. Eventually the northern court became recognized as the sole imperial authority, and supporters of the defunct southern court were forced to scatter and hide throughout Japan. My ancestors returned to the Kanto plain, and that’s where we remained.

I entered Kotesashi Elementary School in April 1933. It was the only school in the village. It had one first-grade class of around 70 students. We were quintessential hale-and-hearty country kids. The younger ones were looked after by the seniors, and we all played together in the fields and at the village shrine every day. Before I took up the traditional martial art of Kendo, I filled my days playing war games or hunting sparrows with the others.

The so-called “bosses” of children gangs were usually fifth or sixth graders. This lofty mantle of authority was bestowed upon me in the sixth grade. After school, I would direct my tribe of urchins to gather at a designated time and place, such as at the shrine gate. I would rush home, gobble down a snack, and then head to the rendezvous point. Homework was never a priority. I called the shots and all the boys in my posse followed my lead. Each tribe had its own patch of turf and gang scuffles were not an uncommon occurrence.

Mr. Kuroda and Kendo

I remember Japan gearing up for war in my childhood days. Physical training started to take precedence over academic classes in schools. I excelled in physical education classes and enjoyed competing. I also joined the village’s newly-formed bugle group. Our main task was to regale young men of the village with patriotic compositions at the local train station as they departed for the front.

As the world descended into chaos, we kids were more concerned with our own battles. We fought constantly with children from the neighboring village of Yamaguchi. Mr. Kuroda’s house was located between our two villages. Respected by all who met him, he exuded an air of stateliness like a samurai of old. He wore a black jacket with a high collar and loudly recited old poems as he walked to and from school with his characteristic ramrod-straight posture.¹

Mr. Kuroda was transferred to our school in 1937 when I was a fifth grader. He was 23 years old at the time and had just graduated from Saitama Prefectural Normal School where he trained as a teacher. He was reputed to be a Kendo practitioner of considerable skill. He told us that the style of Kendo he practiced was related to the Hokushin Itto-ryu, one of the predominant styles of classical swordsmanship during the Edo period (1603-1868). It was under his strict tutelage that I started Kendo.

Kuroda-sensei taught Kendo during physical education classes for which we were required to buy a wooden practice sword. Training was harsh. Although prohibited in Kendo today, foot sweeping and wrestling the opponent to the ground was standard. Kendo is usually practiced in bare feet on polished wooden floors. Our school did not have a martial arts dojo, so at first he took us through sword forms outside. Alas, in the name of tradition he wouldn’t allow us to wear shoes. This resulted in severe grazing of knees and elbows. Torn shirts and bloodied bodies were par for the course. The wounds would become infected because of the grit and sand, and red pee because of the severity of the exercise was not unusual.

My mother was not keen on me continuing, but quitting was not an option. I thrived on the thrill and excitement of it all. In all honesty, I didn’t enjoy being dragged across the ground, but resisting all attempts by Mr. Kuroda to grind me into the dirt made me stronger in body and mind. Before long, he was unable to get the better of me.

Eventually we were allocated a classroom to train in, which required moving the desks and chairs out of the way before each session. It sure beat jumping around barefooted on the gravel in the schoolyard. It wasn’t until we got the protective equipment that Kendo became interesting. The local government gifted 50 sets of Kendo armor to the village. This allowed us to engage in full-contact sparring using bamboo practice swords.

There were seven or eight members in our Kendo club. I outshone all of them. During the day we would practice in PE class, and had extracurricular sessions two nights a week. Other boys from the area also started Kendo, and Mr. Shimizu from the nearby Army Academy came to help with the teaching. Adults in the village with some experience came to assist Kuroda-sensei as he took us through our paces. Every time we tried to land a strike with our bamboo swords on Mr. Kuroda-sensei’s head, he would kick our feet out from under us. It was tough going.

A Kendo tournament was held annually at the local shrine. I entered the competition and remember standing proudly on the winner’s podium to receive a prize of bamboo swords for my efforts. I then participated in the prefectural championships when I was in the sixth grade. It was held in a special Kendo hall at a big Shinto shrine in Omiya. Kendo was popular throughout the mountainside regions of Saitama Prefecture, but not so much in the plains area where we were. It was always the mountain boys who prevailed in the major tournaments. They were hard to beat.

The tournament was officially started with a demonstration of sword forms by the legendary Kendo masters Sasaburo Takano and Hakudo (Hiromichi) Nakayama. Mr. Kuroda told us observe them carefully. I was not particularly interested in the exhibition of prescribed forms and failed to appreciate the great men I was watching. I was more captivated by an old Army General with his magnificent moustache in the VIP seats.

As for the matches, my team was knocked out of the competition early on. The individual competition was a different matter. I won my early bouts and made it to the semi-finals. It could have been the first time a plains lad defeated the almighty mountain boys to become the junior champion, but sadly I had to settle for third place.

Yearning for Wings

The bells of war were ringing louder than ever by the time I graduated from elementary school. Junior high school boys wore black uniforms with high collars like priests, and puttees on their legs like soldiers. Schools were transformed into training grounds to prepare youth for battle, and bayonet training was added to Kendo practice. With a military base located near our village, the militaristic mood was perhaps more pronounced than in other regions.

We took great delight in watching the giant mechanical birds landing and taking off at the Tokorozawa Airbase.² There were no roads leading to the base, so we walked for an hour navigating blindly through fields and pastures to get there. The 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.