Japanese Empire

By Lieutenant Hiroshi Tanaka, Imperial Japanese Naval Air Service

"December 7, 1941"(Above Pearl Harbor)

December 7, 1941 – Above Pearl Harbor

The roar of the engine drowns out my heartbeat. The cockpit vibrates violently, my hands wrapped so tightly around the flight stick that my knuckles are bone white. Below me, the endless blue of the Pacific stretches out, calm, undisturbed, unknowing.

I steal a glance to my left—row upon row of Mitsubishi A6M Zeroes, sleek and hungry, cutting through the morning sky like a silent tide. My comrades, my brothers. Some of them grin behind their flight masks, others nod solemnly. We are bound by duty, by honor, by the unyielding steel of our empire.

Ahead, the rising sun gleams on our fuselages, the crimson emblem of Japan painted proudly on our wings. The gods of war have willed this moment into existence, and we are their chosen executioners.

Then, the radio crackles. The words come like a blade through flesh.

"Tora! Tora! Tora!"

The signal. The gates of hell swing open.

I push the stick forward, and my Zero dives—faster, faster, the wind shrieking past my canopy. The world tilts, the blue of the ocean swallowed by the green of Oahu, then the dull metallic gleam of Battleship Row. The USS Arizona, the Oklahoma, the West Virginia—fat, sluggish giants still half-asleep in the harbor. They do not yet know death is coming for them.

A bead of sweat runs down my brow, but I do not blink.

I am a samurai of the skies.

I release my payload.

For a breath, time ceases.

The bomb falls, spinning, whistling, before it meets steel. Then—a flash, a deafening explosion, fire blooming like a lotus across the deck of the Arizona. A second later, the fuel ignites. A thousand tons of ordnance detonate at once.

The battleship erupts.

A towering inferno of fire and shrapnel swallows men whole. Sailors run, screaming, their bodies aflame, diving into the oil-slicked water that burns as fiercely as the heavens above. Smoke billows, thick and black, blotting out the sun.

I bank hard to the right, dodging anti-aircraft fire that finally awakens, red tracers slicing through the sky like jagged lightning. My breath is heavy, chest heaving. My fingers tremble.

We did it.

But why, then, does my stomach twist?

I see them below—the Americans. Rushing to man their guns. Some still half-dressed, scrambling out of their bunks, faces twisted in terror, confusion. I was taught they were weak, cowards, living in decadence while we in Japan sharpened ourselves into blades. But here they are, fighting back, even as the world burns around them.

I feel no joy. No triumph. Only the weight of something I cannot yet name.

1942-1944 – The Grinding War

We had victory, yes, but it was fleeting. The Americans did not break. They became something else.

Six months later, at Midway, I watched our dreams of an unstoppable empire sink beneath the waves. Four carriers lost. Akagi, Kaga, Soryu, Hiryu—gone. It was as if the gods had turned their backs on us.

Now, in 1944, the war has become a nightmare. The Americans learned. They adapted. They built planes faster, deadlier. Their F6F Hellcats hunt us like wolves, their machine guns tearing through our once-invincible Zeros as if they were paper lanterns.

Every mission is a death sentence.

I have lost count of the friends I have watched fall from the sky, trailing smoke, their final cries lost to the wind. I still hear them when I close my eyes. "Mother! I don't want to die!"

I have become numb. I do not fear death. But I fear what we are becoming.

They tell us that Japan is the divine nation. That surrender is a fate worse than oblivion. The enemy will devour us if we falter. So we fight. We fight because we must.

And now, a new word is spoken among the high command.

Kamikaze.

They are asking for volunteers. For men who will not return.

1945 – The End of the Empire

Iwo Jima is lost. Okinawa is burning.

And then, the unthinkable happens.

Hiroshima. Nagasaki.

I cannot fathom what I hear. A single bomb. A city erased. The Americans have harnessed the power of the gods themselves. Thousands upon thousands—gone in an instant. Women. Children. Everything.

The emperor speaks. The war is over.

I fall to my knees, the weight of the words shattering me. For the first time in history, Japan has surrendered.

What was it all for?

Pearl Harbor. Midway. Guadalcanal. Saipan. Leyte Gulf. Iwo Jima. Okinawa.

I fought for honor. For my nation. But I look around now, at the rubble of Tokyo, at the starving children, at the broken souls who once called themselves warriors…

And I wonder if I was ever truly fighting for anything at all.