Never Forget Guadalcanal

Synopsis

When I was a child, there was a photograph of a young soldier next to the family altar in my parents' home. He was my Uncle Isao, who had helped his family in Kagamiishi, Fukushima Prefecture, left behind Ume-san, to whom he had promised a future, and departed for Guadalcanal as an officer in the 29th Infantry Regiment, never to return. My father carried the weight of his brother's death throughout his life, researching war history, traveling to the site, burying a memento of our grandmother Kiwa at the place where his brother died, and bringing back sand. After my father passed away, I saw the date, the rank of Army Captain, and the name Hideki Tojo engraved on the frame remaining in the Kagamiishi home, and I experienced the moment when the history from textbooks connected with my family's memories. Now, I have inherited the memory of the brother my father spent his life pursuing, and I am writing to record that a nameless soldier who perished on Guadalcanal truly lived.

Introduction

Next to the family altar in my parents' home, there was a photograph of a young soldier.

When I was a child, I called him the "war brother." I did not really understand at the time who he was, where he had died, or why my father cherished that photograph.

When I was scolded by my father, I was sometimes made to sit straight in front of that altar. As a child, I thought I was just being made to sit there because my father was strict, but looking back now, I believe that place held things that were precious to my father.

There was the altar, the ancestors, the memories of the family, and the photograph of the brother who never returned from the war.

That person was my father's older brother.

He was Uncle Isao, who had helped his family in Kagamiishi, Fukushima Prefecture, left behind Ume-san, to whom he had promised a future, and departed for Guadalcanal as an officer in the 29th Infantry Regiment, never to return.

I had known the name of the island, Guadalcanal, since I was a child. However, I did not clearly understand that it was an island in the Solomon Islands in the South Pacific, or that it was a fierce battlefield where many soldiers lost their lives during the Pacific War.

This text is not intended to be a grand narrative of the Pacific War. Of course, to understand the Battle of Guadalcanal, one must know the background of the war. Why was that island important? Why did such fierce fighting occur over the airfield? Why did the Japanese military struggle with supplies, and why did so many soldiers never return? Without knowing such history, the place where Uncle Isao was stationed cannot be seen.

However, what I want to write about first is one young man.

A young man who lived in Kagamiishi, Fukushima Prefecture. A young man who helped his mother, stood before his younger brothers and sisters, had someone he promised a future to, and tried to live in a way that would not bring shame to his family. And a young man who became someone who could not return from Guadalcanal.

War is often spoken of in grand terms like operations, units, war dead, retreats, and fierce battlefields. Such words are necessary to understand history, but behind them, there is always the life of an individual.

Uncle Isao was one of them.

I wanted to call out that one person's name once more.

Never forget Guadalcanal.

It does not mean remembering the name of a battlefield. It means not forgetting that a young man was there.

The Kagamiishi Home

Uncle Isao was born in a house in Kagamiishi, Fukushima Prefecture.

It was not just a house where a single young man grew up. The house had a grandfather, a grandmother named Kiwa, and many younger brothers and sisters, including my father. Uncle Isao was the eldest son among them, and the first child in the family to grow up.

The term 'eldest son' carries a weight that is a little hard to understand in this day and age. The one who inherits the house, the one who stands before his younger brothers and sisters, the one who helps his parents, the one who bears the family's expectations. I believe that in the local households of that time, being the eldest son was not merely a matter of birth order.

I have heard that Uncle Isao would light a lantern while it was still dark in the morning to help Grandmother Kiwa with her farm work. For a long time, I took that story as a virtuous tale of a filial son, but now I believe it was more than just that.

Helping his mother. Standing before his younger brothers and sisters. Meeting the family's expectations. I suspect these were not special tasks for Uncle Isao, but roles he naturally took on in his daily life.

He did not suddenly become a person with a sense of responsibility on the battlefield. He did not become a fine man just because he wore a military uniform. Uncle Isao had already been carrying something on his shoulders within the family since the days he lived in Kagamiishi.

I believe his life as a soldier was an extension of that.

Uncle Isao had many younger brothers and sisters, including my father. To my father, Uncle Isao was not just an older brother, but the eldest son who stood at the head of the family, the person who helped their mother, and someone his younger siblings looked up to.

Thinking of it this way, I believe that from a young age, Uncle Isao had a sense that 'it is not just about me' in his life. It was the feeling that he had to be strong—not just for his own sake, but for his mother, his father, his younger siblings, the family, and for Ume-san, to whom he had promised his future.

Of course, I cannot know now what words Uncle Isao actually used to think of his family. There are no letters left, nor is there a diary. Since I cannot ask him directly, I cannot say for certain.

Even so, considering that he lived in the family as the eldest son, helped his mother, and had younger brothers and sisters, it is hard to imagine that Uncle Isao did not have thoughts of his family.

Perhaps Uncle Isao was trying to live in a way that would not bring shame to his home.

So as not to shame Grandmother Kiwa. So as not to shame his grandfather. So as not to shame his younger brothers and sisters. So as not to shame Ume-san.

I suspect that feeling did not change even after he joined the military. At home, he stood before his younger siblings as the eldest son; in the military, he stood before his subordinates as an officer. While what he carried within his family and what he came to carry within the military were not exactly the same, there is something common to both.

I cannot be the only one to run away.

I cannot be the only one to complain.

I must be the one to stand firm.

That is not just something beautiful. It can be a strength that supports others, but it can also be a weight that drives a person into a corner. I do not think Uncle Isao was unafraid. I do not think he did not want to return. He must have wanted to see his mother, he must have wanted to return to the house where his younger brothers and sisters were, and he must have wanted to return to Ume-san.

Even so, when he was placed in a position from which he might not return, perhaps he tried to fulfill the role given to him, if only so as not to shame his home.

That is what I believe.

A person named Ume-san

Uncle Isao had a person named Ume-san with whom he had promised a future.

I believe this is a very important fact, so that we do not see Uncle Isao only as a 'young soldier who died in the war.' In war records, soldiers are often noted along with their unit names, ranks, and places of death, but it is rarely written who was waiting for them or what kind of future they had envisioned.

However, Uncle Isao had a place to return to.

There was someone waiting for him.

There was a time that was supposed to continue from then on.

For Ume-san, Uncle Isao was not just one soldier in the war, but the person she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with. The fact that he headed to a southern island and never returned might end in a single line in military history, but for the person left behind, it surely did not end in a single line.

I do not know in detail how Ume-san accepted Uncle Isao's death in battle. I do not know everything about how long she waited, how she received the news, or how she lived her days afterward.

However, Ume-san's name remained in the family's memories.

And, a letter addressed to my father also remained.

I cannot know everything about the thoughts contained within it. But the mere fact that the letter remains tells me that there was a time shared between Ume-san and my father centered around Uncle Isao.

I heard from my mother that when my father told Ume-san that he had gone to Guadalcanal, she was happy.

Thinking of that story, I believe that even within Ume-san, Uncle Isao did not fade away for a long time.

War ends a person on the battlefield. However, it does not end for those left behind.

Guadalcanal for Ume-san, and Guadalcanal for my father, continued long after the war.

Life before going to the battlefield

I do not want to write about Uncle Isao only as 'a person who died in battle at Guadalcanal.'

That is a fact, and it is the center of this writing. However, I feel that is not enough.

Uncle Isao was not a person who first existed on the battlefield.

Before that, he lived in Kagamiishi. He lived within his family. He helped with farm work, stood before his younger brothers and sisters, held a future with Ume-san, was expected of in the house, and carried out his roles.

War intruded upon the continuation of his life.

War severed the life that had existed until then.

That is precisely why, when I write about Uncle Isao, I feel I must not write only about the battlefield. I must write not just about where he died, but where he came from. I must write not just about which unit he was in, but what kind of family he was part of. I must write not just about how he fought, but who was waiting for him.

If I do not do that, Uncle Isao will once again be reduced to a single line in military history.

What I want to write is not a single line.

It is the life of a human being.

Uncle Isao as recorded in military history

Uncle Isao's footsteps remain not only in family memories but also in military records and historical documents.

Looking at his military service certificate, one can see that Uncle Isao did not head to Guadalcanal suddenly one day; rather, he enlisted, accumulated years as a soldier, was given roles within his unit, advanced along the path of an officer candidate, and eventually reached a position where he led subordinates as an officer.

In historical documents, there are passages describing the time of battle that read "Lieutenant," suggesting that Uncle Isao was leading subordinates as a lieutenant on the battlefield of Guadalcanal. On the other hand, documents provided by Yasukuni Shrine and a framed memorial remaining at his family home in Kagamiishi record his rank as "Army Captain." The frame also bears the date October 25, 1942, suggesting that Uncle Isao became an Army Captain on the very day he died in battle on Guadalcanal.

In other words, Uncle Isao fought as a lieutenant on the battlefield and was treated as a captain on the day he died.

This is significant when considering Uncle Isao's position. At home, he stood before his younger brothers and sisters as the eldest son; in the military, he led subordinates as a lieutenant; and ultimately, he was enshrined as an Army Captain. There, the responsibilities within his family and the responsibilities he was burdened with in the military overlap.

At home, he was the eldest son who stood before his younger brothers and sisters. In the military, he was an officer who stood before his subordinates.

Those two things are different. One cannot speak of responsibilities within a family and responsibilities on the battlefield as the same thing. However, in both, he held a position where he could not simply end things for himself.

His decisions affected someone. His behavior was watched by someone. He could not simply run away alone.

I believe Uncle Isao stood in such a place.

I do not want to write this as a heroic tale. Rather, I want to write about the weight of that position. A young man who had to carry the expectations of his family, have subordinates in the military, and eventually head to an island in the South Pacific. I do not want to turn the weight of that into a simple, beautiful story.

Uncle Isao did not fight to die.

He must have wanted to live and return home.

However, when he was placed in a position from which he might not return, I believe he tried to fulfill the role given to him so as not to bring shame upon his family, not to bring shame upon his grandmother Kiwa, not to bring shame upon his younger siblings, and not to bring shame upon his subordinates.

Thinking about it this way, I believe Uncle Isao's bravery was not simply the bravery of moving forward on the battlefield.

It was not the bravery of someone who was not afraid.

It was the bravery of someone who, even while afraid, could not run away from what he was carrying on his shoulders.

Why Guadalcanal?

To write about Uncle Isao as a young man, I must write about the house in Kagamiishi and about Ume-san.

But at the same time, I must also look at where Uncle Isao was sent. If I do not know why the island of Guadalcanal became a battlefield, what happened there, and what kind of situation the soldiers on the front lines were placed in, Uncle Isao's final moments will simply return to the single phrase, 'he died in battle.'

Therefore, from here on, I will enter into the story of the battlefield for a little while.

This is not to explain the military operations in detail. It is to understand what kind of place a young man who lived in Kagamiishi, Fukushima Prefecture, was sent to, and under what conditions he became unable to return home.

Guadalcanal is a distant island even for us today. If you look at a map, you can see where it is. It is in the South Pacific, one of the Solomon Islands. Now that we have airplanes, satellite photos, and the internet, we can even see the island on a screen. But even so, it is far from Japan.

For my grandmother Kiwa and Ume-san, who were in Japan in the seventeenth year of the Showa era, I think Guadalcanal must have been a place almost at the end of the world.

They could not see photos of the area immediately as we can now. Even if they opened a map, it must have been difficult to grasp the sense of distance to the southern islands. Perhaps all the family could know was the broad, vague phrase 'he went to the south,' or the notifications that would arrive later.

Why did that distant island become such an important battlefield?

At the heart of the reason was an airfield.

In the Pacific War, possessing an airfield meant controlling the sky in that vicinity. If you controlled the sky, it would affect maritime transport and supply lines. Conversely, if an airfield was taken away, you would lose control of the surrounding sea and sky, and the soldiers on the front lines would suffer in terms of both supplies and combat.

The Battle of Guadalcanal was not simply a battle over a southern island. It was a battle over an airfield, a battle over air superiority, and a battle over supplies. And it was a battle where the strain of such grand strategy fell upon each individual soldier walking through the dense forest.

Uncle Isao was also among them.

On a South Pacific island far from Kagamiishi, Fukushima Prefecture, he was made to stand there as a member of his unit, while being waited for by his family.

From a war of advancement to a war of attrition

The Battle of Guadalcanal cannot be called the last major ground battle of the Pacific War. After that, ground battles involving even more sacrifices continued, such as Saipan, Peleliu, Iwo Jima, and Okinawa. Therefore, it is not accurate to call Guadalcanal the 'last battle.'

However, Guadalcanal has a different significance.

It was the island where the war, which the Japanese military had been winning, began to turn into a war of attrition.

Immediately after the outbreak of war, the Japanese military rapidly expanded its front lines to the south. However, to maintain those expanded lines, sending soldiers was not enough. Food, ammunition, medicine, fuel, communications, transport, and air support—all of these were necessary.

The presence of soldiers on the battlefield means that a supply line is required to keep those soldiers alive and fighting. However, on Guadalcanal, those supplies gradually began to fall behind.

Ammunition ran out. Food ran out. Water became scarce. Bodies were ravaged by disease, wasting away in the jungle, the rain, and the mud.

I believe that on Guadalcanal, the reality that could not be sustained by the sense of responsibility and willpower of the soldiers on the front lines began to be revealed little by little.

This is something I cannot avoid when writing about Uncle Isao. No matter how much responsibility Uncle Isao felt, and no matter how much he tried to behave in a way that would not shame his family, I cannot properly accept his death without looking at the structure of the battlefield that exhausted his willpower.

Operations and supplies weighed directly upon the bodies of each and every soldier on the front lines.

Uncle Isao was in the midst of that reality.

To the Tassafaronga Coast

Tracing the records, the 29th Infantry Regiment landed on the Tassafaronga coast of Guadalcanal Island on October 9, 1942.

I saw the place name Tassafaronga in my father's documents. When I first saw the name, it was just a place name. But as I read the documents over and over, the name gradually took on weight as the place where Uncle Isao landed.

On a map, a coastline looks like a single line.

However, for the soldiers who landed there, it could not have been just a line. They got off the ships, carried their gear, carried their weapons, and entered the island in the humid air. Beyond the coast lay the jungle, the airfield, the enemy, and the path they had to advance along.

Uncle Isao stood on that coast, far away from Japan.

At that time, Grandmother Kiwa was in Kagamiishi. Ume-san was also in Japan. His younger brothers and sisters, including my father, were also in Japan. I do not know what thoughts Uncle Isao had as he stepped onto that coast, but I cannot believe that his family was not on his mind.

In military history, a landing date is recorded in a single line. But within that line are the footsteps of each individual soldier. There is the baggage of each individual. There is the anxiety of each individual. And there is the place each individual has to return to.

Uncle Isao also stepped onto the Tassafaronga coast as one of them.

From there, he went into the jungle of Guadalcanal.

From Landing to the Battlefield

At the time of the landing, it could not have been the case that everything was despair.

The soldiers received orders, acted as a unit, and had the objective of recapturing the airfield. They might have even felt that if they advanced and the attack succeeded, they could change the course of the war.

However, Guadalcanal was different from the island they saw on the map.

Records indicate that the various units did not have accurate maps, the jungle on the island hindered their movements, and food supplies became difficult, reaching a point where they had no choice but to seize food from the enemy.

In the dense forest, a path did not necessarily continue as a path. The ground was muddy, their bodies were enveloped in humidity, and their clothes and equipment became heavy. It was hot during the day, and anxiety increased at night. If they could not get enough water, the soldiers might have had to rely on the dew left on vines and plants.

That was an attrition that had begun even before the battle.

Before being shot by the enemy, the dense forest sapped the soldiers' strength. Before being hit by bullets, hunger and thirst wore down their bodies. Before the attack even began, the soldiers were already exhausted.

In the midst of that, attack orders were issued and then canceled.

Should they advance or wait? Should they attack or postpone? The units had no choice but to follow orders. However, for the soldiers on the front lines, a change in orders did not just mean a change in schedule. The time spent waiting in the dense forest dragged on. Food supplies dwindled. Physical strength declined. The danger of being discovered by the enemy increased. Only the tension remained, and they were exhausted before they even fought.

The battlefield of Guadalcanal was not just a battle during the moments when bullets were flying. The march through the dense forest to get there, the lack of food and water, the changes in orders, the tension of not being able to use firearms—all of that was already the battle.

Uncle Isao was in the midst of that process.

The eldest son who had supported his family in Kagamiishi, Fukushima Prefecture, left his homeland by ship, landed at Tasafaronga, advanced through the dense forest, and approached the battlefield in the position of leading his subordinates.

I cannot write about Uncle Isao's final moments without writing about this time.

This is because Uncle Isao did not suddenly appear in a scene of a suicide charge. He left his homeland, landed on the island, advanced through the dense forest, suffered from a lack of food and water, waited amidst the confusion of orders, approached the enemy lines while unable to use his firearms, and then entered the final battle.

Uncle Isao's final moments exist within that flow.

The southern dense forest walked by a young man from Tohoku

Uncle Isao was a person who grew up in Kagamiishi, Fukushima Prefecture.

He was someone who knew the winters of Tohoku, someone who used his body in the cold and helped his grandmother Kiwa with farm work while it was still dark in the morning by lighting a lantern. I think that in such a life, Uncle Isao must have possessed the strength to endure the cold and the patience to keep moving his body in silence.

However, Guadalcanal was a completely different place from Kagamiishi.

What was there was not the cold of Tohoku, but the humidity of the tropics. It was not snow or cold wind, but the heat of the dense forest, rain, mud, slush, and a jungle with poor visibility. Water and food were not sufficient, there were no accurate maps, and the soldiers had to advance without being able to use their firearms as they wished in order to get close to the enemy lines.

Even if he had the patience forged in Kagamiishi, it must not have been a place that could be overcome by that alone.

Enduring the cold is different from advancing through humidity, hunger, and thirst. Using one's body for farm work is different from holding one's breath to approach enemy lines, unable to fire even when one wants to, and leading subordinates through a dense jungle.

Even so, Uncle Isao stood at the front as a platoon leader.

He was not the only one suffering. His subordinates must have been just as thirsty, just as tired, and just as anxious. I do not know what kind of expression Uncle Isao wore during those times, or what words he spoke to them.

However, he was a man who had stood before his younger siblings as the eldest son at home, and before his subordinates as an officer in the military. I suspect he could not simply show his weakness on his face.

He must have been thirsty, too. He must have been tired, too. He must have wanted to go home, too. Yet, as one who stood at the front, he likely kept walking.

When I imagine that figure, I do not want to see Uncle Isao merely as a brave soldier. Rather, I want to think about the young man who grew up in a home in Tohoku and supported his family, who, while having his body and mind worn down in a completely different tropical jungle, still tried to stand before his subordinates.

I believe that there, it was not a flashy bravery, but a bravery of endurance.

The patience he learned in Kagamishi may have supported Uncle Isao even in the jungles of Guadalcanal. But at the same time, the battlefield gradually wore away even that endurance.

I believe Uncle Isao was a strong person. But even a strong person gets thirsty without water. They grow thin without food. If they approach enemy lines without being able to use firearms, they feel anxiety and fear. If they are in a position to lead subordinates, that burden increases even further.

That is precisely why I do not want to end the story of Uncle Isao's battle with the single word 'brave'.

A young man from Tohoku walked through a tropical jungle. A person who grew up enduring the cold advanced through humidity, hunger, and thirst. The eldest son who had stood before his family now stood before his subordinates.

Beyond that accumulation of experiences lies Uncle Isao's final moments.

A mission where you cannot fire your gun

When thinking about the situation Uncle Isao and his men were placed in at Guadalcanal, one cannot simply write that they 'headed toward enemy lines.' Reading the documents, the attack by the 29th Regiment was not a strategy of overwhelming the enemy from the front with firepower, but one of advancing through the jungle at night, approaching as stealthily as possible without being noticed, and attempting to break into the enemy lines with a hand-to-hand assault.

The orders stated that while soldiers were to carry rifles, bayonets, ammunition, and hand grenades, they were to reduce their packs as much as possible. Machine gunners were also to be lightly equipped, and there were limits on the ammunition boxes per machine gun. For the battalion artillery units, it was even indicated that they should leave their guns behind and act only with bayonets.

What we see here is a strategy that does not bring sufficient firepower to the front, but instead moves the soldiers' own bodies closer to the enemy lines.

The documents state that the night attack was to be a surprise attack, using tabi (split-toe socks) to approach stealthily and carry out a hand-to-hand assault, and that firing was to resume only after the assault succeeded. In other words, firearms were not intended to be fired freely from the start, but were positioned as tools to be used in earnest only after approaching and breaking into the enemy lines.

Even though they had weapons, they could not fire them.

Even though they knew the enemy was there, they had to hold their breath and approach without letting their position be known.

How great a tension must this have been for the soldiers on the front lines?

Carrying a gun is, in essence, a means of self-protection. However, using that gun can also become a tactical danger. Firing reveals your position. Firing ruins a surprise attack. Firing might invite the enemy's firepower upon you.

The soldiers advanced while carrying weapons they were unable to use freely.

Moreover, the opponent possessed sufficient firepower. Records note that the U.S. military's firepower equipment was superior, with abundant ammunition, and they were equipped with automatic rifles, pistols, signal pistols, mortars, heavy artillery, and hand grenades. It is also said that their defensive fire positions were organized and dense.

We were advancing through the jungle at night, trying to get as close as possible without being discovered. The enemy, on the other hand, was waiting with barbed wire, fortified positions, and dense firepower.

Perhaps this disparity did not look significant on the operational maps. However, for the soldiers on the front lines, that disparity was something they felt directly in their own bodies.

Uncle Isao was leading his subordinates as a platoon leader amidst all of this.

He himself must have been thirsty, exhausted, and tense. Even so, he had a position to maintain in front of his subordinates. Whether to advance or wait, whether to fire or not to fire—each of those decisions must have affected not only his own life but the lives of his men as well.

The frustration of being unable to use firearms was not merely a tactical constraint. I believe it was something that increased the soldiers' anxiety, prolonged their tension, sapped their physical strength, and wore down their spirits.

Suspension of attacks and waiting time

On the battlefield, it is not only the moments of combat that are painful.

Rather, the time spent waiting due to changes in orders or the suspension of attacks, while preparing to move forward after receiving an attack order, also wears the soldiers down. From the perspective of those grasping the overall picture of the battlefield, it may have been a tactical adjustment or a situational judgment.

However, for a soldier in the jungle, the suspension of an attack does not just mean a change in schedule.

The waiting time drags on. Food runs low. Water becomes scarce. The body cannot rest, and only the tension continues. There is also the danger of being discovered by the enemy. And they even lose track of when they will move and in which direction.

If told to advance, they advance. If told to wait, they wait. If told to attack, they attack. If told to stop, they remain in the jungle.

As long as being in the military means following orders, the soldiers on the front lines had almost no choices. Yet, the wavering of those orders was felt directly by the soldiers' bodies.

Especially on Guadalcanal, the shortage of food and water was critical. Without food, physical strength declines. Without water, thinking becomes dull. Even just moving through the jungle is exhausting, and I think that waiting for the moment of attack in that state was just as harsh as the combat itself.

Uncle Isao was in the midst of such times.

He was in the midst of not just the moments of attack, but the waiting before them, the advances, the changes in orders, the food shortages, the water shortages, and the tension of being unable to use his firearms.

If one skips that time and writes only about his final moments, it becomes difficult to see how Uncle Isao was driven into a corner.

Uncle Isao did not suddenly find himself in the scene of his death.

Leaving the homeland by ship, landing at Tassafaronga, advancing through the dense forest, enduring thirst and hunger, keeping the men together amidst wavering orders, and approaching the enemy lines while unable to use firearms.

Beyond that process lay the final battle.

Only willpower remains.

When I think about the situation my uncle and his comrades were in at Guadalcanal, I cannot help but think about the time that was whittled away from the soldiers on the front lines even before they entered combat.

They left their homeland by ship and headed for a southern island. They landed on the coast of Tassafaronga. From there, they entered the dense forest and advanced without accurate maps or sufficient supplies. Food was scarce, water was insufficient, and the jungle hindered their movements.

I believe that at this point, the soldiers were already fighting.

Even before charging into enemy lines, they were fighting against the dense forest, hunger, thirst, and the confusion of orders. They did not reach enemy territory with their physical strength intact; the very process of getting there gradually wore the soldiers down.

There was also confusion in the headquarters and the chain of command.

An attack order would be issued, and they would prepare to advance. However, depending on the situation, orders would be changed, the attack would be called off, and the waiting would continue. From the perspective of those commanding the whole, it might have been a judgment of the war situation or a tactical adjustment. But for the soldiers in the dense forest, a change in orders did not just mean a change in plans.

As the waiting time dragged on, food supplies dwindled. Water decreased. Physical strength declined. Only the tension remained. The danger of being discovered by the enemy increased. Moreover, they did not know how much of the overall situation was shared, where they were heading, or when they would attack.

The soldiers were not just fighting the enemy. They were fighting the time spent waiting for orders, hunger, thirst, the dense forest, and the frustration of not being able to use their firearms as they wished.

The attack by the 29th Infantry Regiment was a night raid, a surprise attack, and one predicated on hand-to-hand combat. Documents record the idea of using tabi (split-toed footwear) to approach the enemy stealthily, carrying out a hand-to-hand assault, and resuming fire only after the assault succeeded.

In other words, although the soldiers had weapons, they could not freely keep firing from the start.

If they fired, they would reveal their position. If they fired, the surprise attack would collapse. If they fired, they would draw the enemy's firepower.

Therefore, they had to approach the enemy lines while holding their guns but unable to fire them.

It is hard to believe that the soldiers had sufficient physical strength left when they reached enemy territory. Without adequate supplies, without sufficient firepower, and without enough rest. Yet, I think what remained at the end was their willpower.

Perhaps the Japanese military at the time saw strength in that. Even if supplies were lacking, equipment was insufficient, and reinforcements did not arrive, they would advance with spirit and willpower. In the end, human beings themselves would collide with the enemy lines.

However, while that was a form of strength, it was also a way of fighting that placed an excessively heavy burden on the soldiers on the front lines.

There is a type of warfare later referred to as 'tokko' (special attacks). It is a form of combat where one crashes into the enemy with an airplane or boat, attempting to strike a blow in exchange for one's life.

This night raid at Guadalcanal, though different in form, is somewhat reminiscent of that.

With limited weapons, limited ammunition, and insufficient supplies, they approached the enemy lines, intending to deliver a final blow through a hand-to-hand charge. It was not a suicide attack from the sky. However, I believe that on the ground, a battle was taking place where soldiers carried their own bodies toward the enemy lines, entrusting a single strike to that act.

I want the readers to know that.

Guadalcanal was not just a ground battle fought on a southern island. There were soldiers there who were exhausted before even reaching enemy territory, suffering from a lack of food and water, shaken by confused orders, and unable to use their firearms freely, yet they still moved toward the enemy lines.

Uncle Isao was among them.

Perhaps the eldest son, who grew up in Kagamiishi, endured the cold, and supported his family, was leading his men in the tropical jungle, moving forward with the last of his remaining strength.

Without writing about this process, I cannot understand Uncle Isao's final moments.

Uncle Isao did not suddenly appear at the scene of his death in battle. He left his homeland, boarded a ship, headed for a southern island, landed, walked through the jungle, suffered from a lack of food and water, was worn down by orders to halt attacks and wait, and approached the enemy lines while still carrying a gun he could not fire.

Beyond that lies the battle of the 3rd Machine Gun Company.

Beyond that lies the human-bullet charge after the machine gun ammunition had been exhausted.

And within that flow lies the final moment of Uncle Isao.

Toward the Charge of the 29th Regiment

At the end of such attrition, the 29th Regiment headed toward a charge into the enemy lines.

Documents record that the main force of the 29th Regiment launched a human-bullet charge into the enemy lines. Furthermore, it is known that after that, an order was issued for the remaining regiment to conduct another night attack.

At this point, the unit had already suffered significant losses.

Documents state that the 29th Regiment lost 70% of its total combat strength, including the automatic rifle platoon, in two night attacks.

The figure of 70% does not merely indicate a difficult battle. It shows that the unit's strength had been severely depleted, and the remaining soldiers were already in a state of exhaustion and confusion.

Even so, those who remained had to head toward the enemy lines.

Uncle Isao did not charge alone. He was there as an officer who had to continue moving forward amidst a collapsing operation and a unit that had suffered repeated losses.

3rd Machine Gun Company

Beyond that lies the battle of the 3rd Machine Gun Company.

When considering the unit to which Uncle Isao belonged, the existence of the 3rd Machine Gun Company cannot be ignored. A machine gun company is fundamentally tasked with supporting infantry units with firepower. It is a unit responsible for suppressing enemy movements, assisting friendly advances, and providing the firepower that determines the life or death of a unit on the battlefield.

However, on Guadalcanal, even those machine guns could not be used freely from the start.

The operations were based on night raids, surprise attacks, and hand-to-hand assaults. If you fired first, you would reveal your position. If you fired, you would also draw the enemy's firepower. Moreover, ammunition was not infinite. Machine gunners were also lightly equipped, and there were limits to the ammunition they could carry.

In other words, even for a machine gun company, it was not a situation where they could keep pushing forward with firepower.

Until they got close to the enemy lines, they could not fire even if they wanted to. Even if they fired after breaking through, ammunition was limited. And the enemy was waiting with barbed wire, fortifications, and organized firepower.

It was in this situation that the 3rd Machine Gun Company was fighting.

Documents record that members of the 3rd Machine Gun Company exhausted their machine gun ammunition and subsequently launched a banzai charge.

The machine gun company exhausted its machine gun ammunition.

This single sentence well describes the situation on the battlefield. For a machine gun company, exhausting ammunition meant they had used up all the firepower they possessed. What remained after that was not continuing to fire, but a banzai charge.

Therein lies the severity of the Battle of Guadalcanal.

If there had been sufficient supplies, sufficient firepower, sufficient rest, and sufficient intelligence, perhaps the way of fighting would have been different. However, at this point, what remained on the front lines was limited. Ammunition was gone, food and water were scarce, and the unit had already suffered repeated losses. Even so, the battle to strike a blow against the enemy lines continued.

Uncle Isao was in the midst of that flow.

The End of Uncle Isao

Reading the account that the 3rd Machine Gun Company exhausted its machine gun ammunition and launched a banzai charge, I am reminded of the story my father used to tell.

Regarding Uncle Isao's final moments, my father repeatedly pored over documents, listened to stories from those involved, and even went to Guadalcanal. What my father said was that in the end, with both guns and ammunition exhausted, he likely charged forward with his military sword.

When I heard that, for a long time, I simply accepted it as 'it was a terrible end.'

However, as I read the documents, followed the war situation on Guadalcanal, and began to think about the situation the 3rd Machine Gun Company was placed in, the weight of that story changed.

Guns and ammunition were not sufficient. Despite being a machine gun company, they had exhausted their ammunition. The enemy was waiting with barbed wire, fortifications, and dense firepower. Even so, the unit had to move forward.

It was in this flow that Uncle Isao's final moments occurred.

Documents record that after the 3rd Machine Gun Company members exhausted their machine gun ammunition, they launched a banzai charge, during which Uncle Isao moved to the front, was shot in the head, fell, and died instantly.

In historical records, this scene is described only briefly.

However, before that brief description, there is a long period of time.

There is life in Kagamiishi. There are the days spent helping Grandmother Kiwa. There is a future with Ume-san. There is the time spent after enlistment, accumulating years as a soldier. There is the time spent leaving Japan and heading south by ship. There is the time spent landing on the shores of Tassafaronga and walking through the dense jungle. There is the time spent suffering from a lack of water and food, being swayed by changing orders, and approaching enemy lines with a gun that could not be fired.

And then, there is the charge after the machine gun ammunition was exhausted.

Uncle Isao fell there.

I do not want to write about this final moment only as a heroic tale.

Of course, I believe Uncle Isao did not run away but moved forward. I believe he tried to fulfill his role as an officer standing before his men. Perhaps he tried to move forward to the very end so as not to bring shame upon his home, Grandmother Kiwa, his younger brothers and sisters, or his subordinates.

But at the same time, it was also a battle where he had been driven to that point.

There was no sufficient supply. There was no sufficient firepower. There was no sufficient food or water. Without accurate maps, blocked by dense jungle, exposed to the confusion of orders, he approached the enemy lines without being able to use his firearms freely.

In the end, Uncle Isao lost his life.

Uncle Isao did not go to the battlefield to die.

He must have wanted to return alive.

He must have wanted to return to Grandmother Kiwa. He must have wanted to return to the house in Kagamiishi where his younger brothers and sisters, including my father, were. He must have wanted to return to a future with Ume-san.

But he could not return.

October 25, 1942.

Guadalcanal Island, east of the Matanikau River.

On that day, Uncle Isao, who was leading his men as a lieutenant on the battlefield, was killed in action and posthumously promoted to army captain.

That date was also engraved on a framed memorial remaining at the family home in Kagamiishi.

When I saw that frame after my father's death, Uncle Isao's final moments suddenly ceased to be a story from the distant past.

A battle like a suicide attack on the ground

When I think about the final moments of my Uncle Isao, I cannot help but think of the term 'ground-based kamikaze'.

Of course, the night attacks on Guadalcanal cannot be spoken of in the same breath as the later institutionalized aerial kamikaze attacks. The timing and the nature were different. A battle where one crashes a plane into an enemy ship is not the same as a hand-to-hand charge toward enemy lines in the jungle.

Even so, there is something similar there.

Supplies do not arrive. You cannot overwhelm the enemy with firepower. Ammunition is scarce. The enemy has barbed wire, fortified positions, and abundant firepower. In such conditions, the soldiers are ultimately forced to carry their own bodies into the enemy lines, entrusting everything to a single strike.

It is not an aerial kamikaze. But I believe that on the ground, a form of warfare where human bodies were sent toward enemy lines as if they were the final weapon was indeed taking place on Guadalcanal.

I do not wish to write about this as a heroic tale.

Rather, I want to write about the structure of the war that drove people to such extremes.

It is not enough to say that Uncle Isao moved forward because he was strong. It is not enough to say he charged because he was brave. Of course, I believe there was courage there. But there was a way of fighting that took that courage for granted and placed an unbearable burden on the human body.

We must look at that.

On the battlefield, Uncle Isao was a first lieutenant. He was in a position to lead his subordinates. It was not a place where he could act solely on his own judgment; there were orders, a unit, a strategy, and a role to fulfill.

At home, he stood before his younger siblings as the eldest son; in the military, he stood before his subordinates as a first lieutenant.

If that man ultimately took his military sword in hand and headed toward the enemy lines, it cannot be explained by personal bravery alone.

There was responsibility there. There were orders. There were subordinates. Perhaps there was also a desire not to bring shame upon his family. And there was the atmosphere of a battlefield from which one could not retreat.

I do not want to end the story of Uncle Isao's final moments by simply saying it was 'admirable'.

Because I feel that by just saying it was admirable, the agony Uncle Isao was subjected to would vanish.

There is no way he was not afraid. There is no way he did not want to return home. There is no way he did not want to see his mother. There is no way he did not think of Ume-san.

Even so, he had to move forward.

Within that contradiction lies war.

Within the limits of strategy

When I think about the battle of Guadalcanal, I feel I cannot end by looking only at the soldiers on the front lines.

This is because the suffering of the soldiers on the front lines did not stem from a lack of individual effort or the weakness of their units.

The lack of adequate supplies. The scarcity of accurate maps. The fact that marching through the dense jungle was far more difficult than imagined. The strength of the enemy's firepower and defenses. The constant changes to attack orders and the confusion in the chain of command, which further exhausted the soldiers on the front lines.

These were not things that each individual on the front line could resolve through sheer willpower alone.

No matter how much responsibility Uncle Isao felt, he could not conjure food out of thin air. No matter how much he cared for his subordinates, he could not distribute water that wasn't there. Even if he held a rifle, he could not keep firing once the ammunition ran out. If the enemy's firepower was overwhelming, he could not silence it with willpower alone.

Yet, on the battlefield, they were required to keep moving forward.

That is where the tragedy of Guadalcanal lies.

The soldiers did not fall because they were weak. I believe that within limited conditions, without sufficient preparation, supplies, or information, they were still required to keep fighting, and as a result, many were unable to return home.

In writing this, I do not wish to easily blame any one person. I do not believe history can be understood simply by identifying villains. However, we must at least face the fact that the soldiers on the front lines were forced to bear the limits of strategy, supply, and command with their own bodies.

The limits of strategy do not appear only on maps.

They manifest as a soldier's thirst. As hunger. As the fatigue in their legs. As the weight of a rifle that cannot be fired. As a machine gun that has run out of ammunition. And finally, they manifest as the figure of a young man stepping forward with nothing but his military sword.

Uncle Isao's end was the death of an individual.

But at the same time, it was also the result of the structure of the Guadalcanal battlefield reaching all the way to the body of one young man.

I do not want to forget that.

I do not want to write about Uncle Isao only as a hero; I want to write about him as one of those who could not return home within the structure of the war.

I feel that is how I can get closer to Uncle Isao.

Guadalcanal, which did not end even after the war

Uncle Isao's battle ended on October 25, 1942.

However, for his family, Guadalcanal did not end on that day.

After a life ended on the battlefield, the news reached Japan far away, and my grandmother Kiwa had to live with the reality that her son would not return. Ume-san had to live through the time without the person she had promised her future to, and my father, along with his younger brothers and sisters, grew up in a house without their older brother.

And my father spent his life chasing after his brother.

For my father, Guadalcanal was not a historic battlefield, but the place from which his older brother could never return. I believe that is why he collected documents, drew red lines, followed up on stories from those involved, and eventually set foot on that island himself.

Even after the war ended, Guadalcanal remained within our family. It became a photograph placed beside the family altar, the documents my father collected, the war history books with red lines drawn in them, the photographs from memorial pilgrimages, my mother's tanka poems, the sand from Guadalcanal, and the letters from Ume-san, all remaining within the family over a long period of time.

I believe that for my father, the death of Uncle Isao was not an event from the distant past.

My father could not bring his brother back directly. He could not confirm everything that happened on the battlefield. However, by collecting documents, drawing red lines, listening to the stories of those involved, and going to Guadalcanal, he was trying to get closer to his brother.

It was not merely an act of researching history.

It was an act of searching for his brother.

It was an act of returning gratitude to his brother.

And I believe it was an act of trying to bring his brother home to his family.

Support left for the bereaved family

When considering the reason why my father kept pursuing his brother, there is one more thing that must be touched upon. That is the fact that a certain level of support was left for the bereaved family due to Uncle Isao's death in battle.

It seems that Uncle Isao led his subordinates as a lieutenant on the battlefield of Guadalcanal and became an army captain on October 25, 1942, the day he died in battle. The framed certificate remaining at our family home in Kagamiishi bore that date, the rank of army captain, and the name of Hideki Tojo. When I saw that frame after my father's death, Uncle Isao's death in battle suddenly ceased to be a family story and pressed upon me as a reality directly connected to the Pacific War found in textbooks.

At the time, if a soldier died in battle, there was institutional support for the bereaved family involving aid, condolences, and pensions. I do not wish to write about the details of that system here, but I believe that at the very least, my father was keenly aware that what was left behind by his brother's death in battle had also played a role in his own life thereafter.

It is not something that can replace a life.

It does not fill the sorrow of my grandmother Kiwa, who lost her son, nor does it bring back the future that Ume-san lost. In essence, there is nothing that can replace Uncle Isao living, returning to Kagamiishi, and growing old with his family.

Even so, I believe it is also a fact that this support played a role in the actual lives of the remaining family as they lived through the postwar period. Perhaps my father accepted his brother's death in battle not just as a sad event, but as a heavy foundation that made it possible for him to learn, move to Tokyo, and build his life.

That is why my father's gratitude was not a simple thing.

Perhaps his own path in life was opened because his brother did not return. How should he accept that fact? I think my father carried that question with him his whole life, unable to put it into words.

The reason my father kept pursuing his brother

My father never forgot his brother.

From the time I was a child, there was a photograph of the 'war brother' in our house, and it was understood without being said that Uncle Isao was a special presence to my father. However, for a long time, I did not think deeply about why my father pursued his brother to such an extent.

Looking back now, I wonder if Uncle Isao was not only the brother my father lost, but also the person who supported his entire life.

My father was a younger brother who had lost his older brother. But at the same time, he was also a man who, because of his brother's death in the war, received the institutional support that allowed him to study, move to Tokyo, and build his life. I was never able to hear enough from my father in his own words about how he felt about that, but considering that he pursued war history materials, drew red lines in them, and even traveled to Guadalcanal, I believe there was something more than mere interest involved.

I think my father was grateful to his brother.

And I think that gratitude was, at the same time, a burden.

If his brother hadn't died, he might have lived a different life. If his brother had returned, the shape of the family and his own role might have been completely different. Having lived while receiving what was left behind by a brother who never returned, what could he give back to him?

I wonder if my father continued to follow his brother's footsteps as an answer to that question.

Reading books on war history. Drawing red lines. Listening to the stories of those involved. Traveling to Guadalcanal. Burying a memento of our grandmother Kiwa at the place where his brother died. Bringing back sand.

I believe each of these things was my father's own way of mourning and his own way of offering a return.

The red lines left by my father

There are red lines drawn in the war history materials my father left behind.

Those red lines were not just marks to indicate important passages. I believe they were lines drawn in places where my father felt something significant lay, places he read and thought about over and over as he tried to get closer to his brother.

Beyond the red lines are place names. Unit names. Landing dates. Attack orders. Descriptions of machine gun squads. Records of casualties. And descriptions that lead to the final moments of Uncle Isao.

To me, those red lines were like the traces of my father's fingers.

Where was my father reading? Where did he stop? Where did he try to find his brother's image? Every time I open these materials after my father's death, I feel as if I am following his gaze through those red lines.

If I had asked my father while he was alive, he might have told me more details. Why did he draw a line in this passage? Why did he cherish this page? Did his way of reading these materials change before and after he went to Guadalcanal? There are many things I could have asked.

But I can no longer ask him.

That is why I read the red lines he left behind.

Reading the red lines means tracing my father's research and retracing, albeit belatedly, the path he took to get closer to his brother. Trying to see what my father was trying to see. I believe that is one of the things I can do after my father's death.

The day my father went to Guadalcanal

My father went to Guadalcanal in his later years.

Considering that my father, who was getting on in years and had trouble with his legs, traveled to an island in the South Pacific, I can understand how strong the conviction behind that journey must have been. My mother, I am told, was very worried that he might slip or fall in the local jungle.

Even so, my father went.

To the place where his older brother could not return, my father, the younger brother, went.

My father did not go to Guadalcanal for sightseeing. He did not go just to verify military history, either. I believe that for my father, that journey was a trip to go see his brother, and a journey to deliver the feelings of our grandmother, Kiwa, to the place where his brother was.

In the photos left behind, there is a picture of my father kneeling in the jungle. It records that he buried a memento of our late grandmother, Kiwa, at the site where his brother died in battle.

Every time I look at that photo, I think that my father did not go to Guadalcanal alone.

I think my father took grandmother Kiwa with him.

Of course, grandmother Kiwa herself could not go there. She could not stand at the place where her son died, touch the soil, or call his name. However, by taking her memento, was my father not trying to bring his mother to her son?

When my father knelt in the jungle and buried grandmother Kiwa's memento, there must have been not only the figure of a younger brother thinking of his older brother, but also the feelings of a mother who had lost her son, layered upon that spot.

I do not know what my father said at that place.

Did he say, 'Brother, I've come'? Did he say, 'I've brought Mother'? Or perhaps, unable to find words, he simply touched the soil.

At this point, there is no way to be sure.

However, the very fact that my father went to such lengths to travel to Guadalcanal conveys just how significant his brother's presence was to him.

My father went to search for his brother.

And he went to deliver grandmother Kiwa's feelings to the place where his brother was.

Bringing back the sand

My father brought back sand from Guadalcanal.

It was not remains, nor a military uniform, nor a sword; what my father brought back was sand. I do not know exactly which point in Guadalcanal that sand came from. I can no longer hear from him in his own words where he picked up that sand or with what thoughts he brought it back.

However, when I think about how my father buried grandmother Kiwa's memento at the site of his brother's death, I want to believe that the sand was also something deeply connected to the place where his brother had been.

After being memorialized at Saikoji Temple in Kagamiishi, the sand from Guadalcanal was placed on the Buddhist altar at the home of my father's uncle, Isao, in Kagamiishi, and later it was also placed in my own family home. My father could not bring back his brother's remains, but I believe that by bringing back the sand, he tried to bring the place where his brother had been back to his family.

In my parents' home, there is sand from that Guadalcanal.

Beside it, there is a memorial photograph of my grandmother Kiwa, and also a letter from Ume-san. I keep those three things as close together as possible. I do so with a strong wish that they will never be separated again.

My grandmother Kiwa could never go to Guadalcanal, where her son died in battle. Ume-san never stood in the place where the person she had promised her future to could not return from. Uncle Isao could not return to Kagamiishi.

Even so, now, the sand from Guadalcanal, the memorial photograph of my grandmother Kiwa, and Ume-san's letter are in the same place.

Of course, that does not bring back the lost time. It does not mean Uncle Isao will come home alive, that my grandmother Kiwa can welcome her son back, or that Ume-san can reclaim the future she lost.

Even so, I did not want to leave them apart.

Just as my father brought back sand from Guadalcanal, I placed that sand near my grandmother Kiwa's memorial photograph and Ume-san's letter. It was a small act of mourning that I could perform.

Just as my father tried to bring his brother home with that sand, perhaps I am trying to bring Uncle Isao back into the family once more by placing what remains of him close together.

My mother's tanka

My mother left behind a tanka poem about my father's journey to Guadalcanal.

On November 2, 2003, my mother composed this:

I feel that the meaning of the sand my father brought back is quietly contained within this tanka.

Far from his hometown, he became earth on a distant southern island, and after many long years, his spirit returns. Falling leaves descend upon that returning spirit. There are no grand words or intense emotions here, but it conveys how my mother accepted the sand from Guadalcanal that my father brought back.

My mother was the person who watched most closely as my father continued to think of his brother.

My mother was by his side as he collected materials, drew red lines on maps, traveled to Guadalcanal, and brought back the sand. Because my mother turned it into a tanka, I believe my father's journey became more than just his own; it took on another form as a family memory.

Furthermore, in the autumn of 2018, my mother composed another tanka about Guadalcanal.

Here, there is the phrase "tears of many years."

I think those tears were the tears of my grandmother Kiwa, the tears of Ume-san, the tears of my father, and the tears of the family that my mother herself had been watching over for a long time. It was Uncle Isao who went to the battlefield, and it was my father who crossed over to Guadalcanal, but that memory had reached my mother within the family as well.

My mother's tanka poems do not appear in military history.

My mother's tanka poems are never included in records of unit names, ranks, battle sites, operations, or casualties. However, in writing the story of this family, my mother's tanka are indispensable. This is because they contain the time the family spent even after the war had ended, and they preserve how the family left behind received the sand that my father brought back.

As a battlefield, Guadalcanal is an event from 1942.

However, within our family, it continued to exist even in 2003 and 2018.

Since my father passed away

Since my father passed away, Guadalcanal has become a more concrete place for me than it was before.

Even when my father was alive, there was a photograph next to the family altar, there was sand from Guadalcanal, and the phrase "the brother from the war" existed within our home. I had known since I was a child that my father thought of his brother in a special way. Even so, I do not think I truly grasped the meaning of it.

While my father was alive, Guadalcanal was a place that existed within him.

My father read the materials, my father drew red lines, my father went to the site, and my father brought back the sand. Even though I was around him, I thought somewhere that those were memories my father was carrying.

However, when my father passed away, those memories became something left behind for me.

I can no longer ask my father. I can no longer confirm in his own words why he drew red lines on this page, why he cherished these materials, what he thought when he stood in the jungles of Guadalcanal, what he said when he buried the memento of his grandmother Kiwa, or what kind of expression he had when he heard that Ume-san was happy. Those things can no longer be verified.

That is precisely why the time I spend looking at what was left behind has increased.

Photographs, materials, red lines, tanka, sand, letters. Things that were in the house as my father's memories while he was alive were placed before me after his death as things I should receive.

At that moment, Guadalcanal became a distant island in the south, and at the same time, something that existed within my family home.

The day history entered the family

After my father passed away, I visited the family home of Uncle Isao in Kagamiishi.

There, I saw a framed document that had been left in the house.

On it was the date October 25, 1942, the rank of Army Captain, and the name of Hideki Tojo.

When I saw those characters, Uncle Isao suddenly stopped being a story from the distant past.

The name Hideki Tojo was a name from a textbook to me. He was a historical figure who always appeared when talking about the Pacific War, and a name placed within the grand history we learn at school.

However, that name was inside Uncle Isao's picture frame.

In that moment, I felt as if the history in my textbooks and the memories of my family had clearly overlapped for the first time.

Until then, I had known Uncle Isao as the 'brother from the war.' I knew he was someone my father cherished, and someone who could not return from Guadalcanal. But I think that somewhere along the line, I had accepted it as just an old story within the family.

However, when I saw the date, the rank, and the name of Hideki Tojo inside the frame, that story suddenly began to take shape.

October 25, 1942.

Army Captain.

Guadalcanal.

East of the Galloping Horse Ridge.

Those words were no longer just characters in a document. They were what my father had been chasing, what my grandmother Kiwa had been waiting for, what Ume-san had not forgotten, and what I was now about to receive.

The war I knew from textbooks was filled with grand terms like the outbreak of war, the Southern Campaign, Guadalcanal, Hideki Tojo, and defeat. There, there were national decisions, military operations, and shifts in the war situation. On the other hand, the war that existed within my family was the photograph next to the family altar, the red lines my father left behind, the sand from Guadalcanal, the portrait of my grandmother Kiwa, and Ume-san's letters.

Perhaps those two things had existed in separate places within me for a long time.

But when I saw the frame at my parents' house in Kagamishi, those two things connected.

What was there was not just a war from a textbook. It was a war that had intruded into my family.

At that moment, I felt as if something had begun to move.

It was less of a grand resolution and more of a feeling that I could no longer leave it alone. I felt as if the memories that had resided within my father while he was alive had been presented to me after his death.

Why did my father keep searching for his brother?

Why did he go to Guadalcanal?

Why did he bring back the sand?

Why did my mother write a tanka poem about it?

Why did I want to place the sand from Guadalcanal and Ume-san's letter next to the portrait of my grandmother Kiwa?

Everything, little by little, began to connect into a single line.

What I Received

I do not believe that after my father passed away, I can speak for my older uncle in his place.

I also do not believe that I can fully understand the gratitude, guilt, or respect my father felt toward his brother. I never met Uncle Isao, and I do not directly know the time Grandmother Kiwa spent waiting for her son, nor how Ume-san continued to think of him.

Even so, there are things left behind before me.

There are the materials my father collected, the red lines, the sticky notes, the sand from Guadalcanal, my mother's tanka poems, the memorial photograph of Grandmother Kiwa, and Ume-san's letters. And there is the framed document I saw at our family home in Kagamiishi, dated October 25, 1942, bearing the name of Army General Hideki Tojo.

While my father was alive, these were things that existed in the house as his memories.

But now that my father has passed away, they have become things that I must receive.

I do not think that receiving them means understanding everything.

I can no longer verify Uncle Isao's final thoughts, what Grandmother Kiwa was praying for, what kind of time was imbued in Ume-san's letters, or what my father spoke of in the jungles of Guadalcanal.

However, it is not that I cannot write because I do not understand. I believe that precisely because there are things that remain unknown, I must write them down while I still can.

When there is no one left to tell their story, photographs become nothing more than old pictures. Without knowing where it came from, sand becomes nothing more than sand. If we forget what the letters, red lines, tanka poems, and the dates and ranks written on frames are connected to, they may eventually lose their meaning.

That is why I am writing now.

It is not just for Uncle Isao, nor just for my father, but for Grandmother Kiwa, for Ume-san, for the thoughts my mother left in her tanka, and to ensure that this memory is not lost in the future.

Returning Through Words

My father brought back sand from Guadalcanal.

I have not yet been to Guadalcanal. I have never walked the jungles my father walked, I have never stood in the place where my father buried Grandmother Kiwa's memento, and I have never felt with my own body the air of the place where Uncle Isao is said to have spent his final moments.

Therefore, I believe that what I can do now, just as my father brought back the sand, is to return Uncle Isao to our family through words.

Of course, just because I have written it down does not mean the lost time will return. Uncle Isao will not return to Grandmother Kiwa, the future with Ume-san will not continue, and my father will not meet his brother in person. Things severed by war cannot be restored by writing about them.

Even so, there are things that will vanish if I do not write.

I write this so that Uncle Isao does not return to being just a single line in military history. I write this so that the time Grandmother Kiwa spent waiting does not become just an old story. I write this so that what Ume-san kept in her heart does not end without anyone ever knowing. I write this so that I myself can grasp the meaning of why my father drew a red line, went to Guadalcanal, and brought back sand.

My father brought back sand.

I want to bring him back with words.

To the house in Kagamiishi. To Grandmother Kiwa. To the side of Ume-san's memories. To the place my father kept searching for. And into the memories of those who have read this text.

Just as my father tried to bring his brother home with sand, I think I want to bring Uncle Isao home with words.

As one of the nameless soldiers

Uncle Isao is not someone whose name remains on the center stage of history.

He is not a famous general, a politician, or a figure in textbooks. To most readers, he is a soldier who lived in a distant era, whom they learn about for the first time through this text.

However, just because he is unknown does not mean his life was insignificant.

War is often spoken of in grand terms. The Pacific War, the Southern Front, the Battle of Guadalcanal, the recapture of the airfield, the failure of supplies, the war dead. Such words are necessary to understand history, and they are indispensable for thinking about how the war spread, what happened where, and why so many people lost their lives.

But within those grand words, the lives of individuals become difficult to see.

Within the term 'war dead' are lives that cannot be counted by numbers. There is someone's son, someone's older brother, someone's younger brother, someone's lover, and someone who was waited for by someone else. There was a home they were supposed to return to, a daily life that was supposed to continue, and time that had been accumulated before going to the battlefield.

Uncle Isao was one of them.

He was a young man born in Kagamiishi, Fukushima, who helped Grandmother Kiwa, stood before his younger brothers and sisters, held a future with Ume-san, and tried to live in a way that would not bring shame to his family. That young man headed to Guadalcanal as an officer in the 29th Infantry Regiment, and amidst the tropical jungles, hunger, thirst, and gunfire, he became someone who could not return.

I do not want to write about Uncle Isao as if he were the only special person.

Rather, I think I do not want to forget that there were countless people like Uncle Isao. There were those who lost their lives on southern islands without their names being known, those who were spoken of only within their families until those memories faded, and those whose remains never returned, whose grave markers were far away, and who were left in the soil of the battlefield.

Each and every one of them had a life.

That is why I write about one person.

By writing about one person, people become visible behind the numbers. By writing about one person, families become visible behind the battlefield. By writing about one person, the lost time becomes visible behind history.

To the reader

I cannot strongly insist that those who have read this text must remember my Uncle Isao forever.

To the reader, Uncle Isao is a stranger. He is just one soldier who was born in a distant land, lived in a distant era, and died in battle on a distant southern island.

Even so, I hope that when you hear the name of the island of Guadalcanal somewhere, you might remember, just for a moment, that a young man was once there.

That person had a mother. He had a father. He had younger brothers and sisters. He had someone with whom he had promised a future. There was a home he wanted to return to, and a life that was supposed to continue. And even after he did not return, a long time continued within his family.

My grandmother Kiwa waited for her son, Ume-san kept him in her memory, my father kept searching for his older brother, and my mother turned that journey into tanka poetry. Now that my father has passed away, as I look at what was left behind, I am finally trying to think about the place called Guadalcanal in my own words.

When we think about war, we must look at the large frameworks of nation versus nation, strategy and supply, victory and defeat, withdrawal, and politics and the military. Without doing so, we cannot learn why that war occurred and why so many people lost their lives.

However, there are things that cannot be reached by that alone.

There was a young man. He did not return. Because of that, his family's lives changed.

There is also a war that can be seen from such a small place.

I want to see Guadalcanal from that small place. And I want to write down what I saw from there as quietly as possible.

Calling his name once more

I think that not forgetting does not just mean remembering every day.

It is not just about building a magnificent monument, nor is it just about speaking of peace with grand words. Of course, those are important things, too. But for me, not forgetting meant, first of all, remembering that he existed.

Calling his name.

Thinking about the fact that there was a place he wanted to return to.

Thinking about the fact that his life did not suddenly begin on the battlefield, but that before that, he had time with his family, days of work, a heart that cared for someone, and a future with the person who was waiting for him.

Uncle Isao did not become a 'soldier' for the first time on Guadalcanal. Before that, he lived in Kagamiishi. He lived within his family. He lived in a future with Ume-san. He continued to live in my father's memories. And now, within me, he is about to become words once again.

In the records of the war, Uncle Isao is one of the war dead. He is one among his unit, one among the operations, and one among the many soldiers who could not return from Guadalcanal.

However, it is different within the family.

To my grandmother Kiwa, he was her son. To my father, he was his older brother. To his younger brothers and sisters, he was the eldest son. To Ume-san, he was the person with whom she had promised a future. To me, he was the person in the photograph that sat beside the family altar when I was a child.

And now, he is the one who asks me why my father spent his whole life searching.

A nameless soldier.

That is what we can call him.

However, the word "nameless" really only means that we do not know his name. That person had a name. There were people who called him. There were people who waited for him. There was a place for him to return to.

That is why, one last time, I want to call out that name.

Uncle Isao.

I will not forget that you existed.

Never forget Guadalcanal.

To never forget Guadalcanal does not just mean remembering the name of a battlefield.

I believe it means not forgetting that there was a soldier there who could not return home, remaining unknown. And I believe it means not forgetting that this soldier also had a name, a family, a place he wanted to return to, and people who were waiting for him.

Uncle Isao became someone who could not return from Guadalcanal.

But he did not disappear completely.

Grandmother Kiwa waited for him. Ume-san kept him in her memory. Father went to search for him. Mother turned him into a song. And now, I am writing about him.

Father brought back sand.

I want to bring him home with words.

To the house in Kagamiishi. To Grandmother Kiwa. To the side of Ume-san's memories. To the place Father kept searching for. And into the memories of those who have read this text.

Uncle Isao may have been one of the nameless soldiers.

But to his family, he was an individual with a name.

Never forget Guadalcanal.

It means I will never forget you.

And it means never forgetting the nameless soldiers who perished on Guadalcanal, just like you.

Afterword

While writing this, I often thought that I should have asked my father more questions.

Why did he draw red lines on those documents? What did he see in the jungles of Guadalcanal? What did he say to his brother when he buried the memento of our grandmother, Kiwa? When he brought back the sand, how did he want his family to receive it?

There were so many things I could have asked.

However, as I look at what my father left behind after he passed away, I have come to believe that he was speaking about his brother not through words, but through his actions.

Collecting documents. Drawing red lines. Going to Guadalcanal. Burying Grandmother Kiwa's memento at his brother's resting place. Bringing back the sand.

Perhaps all of those were my father's words.

I am reading those words now, albeit late.

Just as my father tried to bring his brother home with sand, I wanted to bring Uncle Isao home with words. That was how I started writing this, but now that I have finished, I think this is not just a story about Uncle Isao; it is a record of my father facing his brother throughout his life, and a story of family memories passed down from Grandmother Kiwa, Ume-san, my mother, and finally to me.

Never forget Guadalcanal.

That does not just mean remembering the battle that took place on a distant southern island.

It means never forgetting that there was a young man there who had a home he wanted to return to.

Reference Materials

In writing this text, I referred to the following materials:

Complete History of the Wakamatsu Regiment
War Records of Local Units, Vol. 2
Response materials from Yasukuni Shrine
Military Service Record
Photos and materials from my father's Guadalcanal memorial pilgrimage
A framed item left at the family home in Kagamiishi
Interviews remaining with the family
My mother's tanka poems
Ume-san's letters
Sand from Guadalcanal

In this text, some names have been omitted out of consideration for the personal information of current relatives. Additionally, descriptions regarding the war situation have been constructed by referring to war history materials and cross-referencing them with the memories left within the family.

This is not a text intended to glorify war.

That a young man existed.
That he did not return.
That even after that, Guadalcanal never ended for our family.

This is a text written to record those facts.

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