Prologue

Today, Lubang is a quiet place, one of more than 7,000 islands in the Philippines. Online ads for seaside cottage rentals promises there will be no other tourists. You can walk white sandy beaches, explore cliffside caves, snorkel around coral reefs, and wander through rain forest. No zip lines, no noise, no street vendors—no streets. The few thousand residents of Lubang fish and farm in peace.

The island was not always so quiet.  During World War II, the Japanese army established a base on the coast. Then Allied forces captured the island. In August, 1945, Japan surrendered. Both armies left. The bases closed. The island returned to peace—except for four Japanese guerrilla fighters hiding in the jungle. Those men did not know that the war had ended. They continued their covert actions. They made detailed maps. They stole food and tools.

Five years later, one of the men, Private Akatsu, surrendered to Filipino police. He sent a message for the others that the war was truly over. His comrades did not believe him. They were sure the enemy was torturing him, forcing him to lie.

A second commando, Private Shimada, was killed by the Filipino militia. Shimada’s death was proof that the two who remained must fight on. Why would people be shooting at them if the war was over?

Years passed. The last two guerillas were declared dead. Then, in 1972, a thief was shot and killed by Filipino police. It was Private Kozuka, the third Japanese commando.

People began to wonder if the last man, Hiroo Onoda, might still be alive in the jungle. Was he all by himself, fighting a war that had ended more than twenty years earlier?

He was. This is his story.

Chapter One

As a child in school in Kainan, Japan, I learned ideas that would guide my life. I learned that Japan was an invincible land, protected by the gods. I listened to tales of fearless Samurai. I was brought up on fighting words. Struggle to the end! Protect the empire at any cost! I knew I would be a soldier one day.

 Every day I checked the mark on the wall where my growth was measured. I was the youngest and smallest of my brothers. They left home to join the army while I was still in school. I was proud of them. It was hard to be patient.

I learned bushido – the way of the warrior. I longed to be a warrior. The virtues of a warrior were loyalty and the courage to give one’s life. Japan could never be defeated in war because other soldiers were afraid to die. Japanese warriors did not fear death. The greatest possible honor was to die for the emperor.

 The Yasukuni shrine honored all who had given their lives in service to Japan. If I grew up and became a soldier like my brothers, I would die for my country and people would come to the shrine to worship me. I dreamed of that honor.

 As a teenager, I practiced kendo. Kendo was a demanding martial art. We fought with bamboo swords, shouting and stamping a foot with each blow. A point was made with a strike to the opponent’s wrist, head, or body–all protected by armor. The first to make two successful strikes won the match. The goal was to develop self-control.

I loved to fight. I wanted to perform perfectly. One boy in our kendo class beat me again and again. I made him promise each time that he would give me another chance to win. When at last I won a match, he told me I had fought well. When he said that with such courtesy, I saw that I had won the match, but I had not yet mastered the way of kendo. I had not mastered myself. I continued to practice through secondary school.

 In May of 1942, I was 20 years old. At last I got notice that I would soon be drafted into the army. My older brothers were both officers. I quit my job to practice kendo full-time. I wanted to be in the best possible physical condition when I entered the army. I was 5’4”, and weighed 132 pounds. It was a perfect weight, exactly twice the weight of the pack I would carry. I aimed to be a perfect soldier.

 When we said goodbye at the train station, my mother gave me the traditional thousand-stitch belt, a symbol of protection and good luck. She also gave me a dagger with which to kill myself if captured.

Each soldier carried weapons of self-destruction. To become a prisoner of war would dishonor family. A Japanese POW returned home in disgrace. He would be imprisoned and possibly executed. The greatest honor was to die. I wanted to be worshipped at the Yasukuni shrine when my life was over.

I decided to try to become an officer like my brothers. The uniform of an enlisted man was not inspiring. I wanted an officer’s handsome uniform. Training required rigorous attention to every detail. My uniform had to be perfect at all times. There were countless regulations to be learned and obeyed. Over several months, I passed the tests to become a second lieutenant. My shoes were shined. My posture was perfect. My goal was ever closer. I would be a great warrior.

Chapter Two

But in 1944, everything I had learned turned upside down. At the Futamata training center, I was chosen and assigned to be a guerrilla fighter. We were a new group. Suddenly the rules were different. Everything I had been taught as a soldier was thrown out the window. As commando trainees, regulations were not important. The strict dress codes and daily routines we had worked so hard to master did not apply to us.

We were to go behind enemy lines and try to destroy defenses from within. We had to learn secret warfare in which information we could gather would be used to confuse the enemy. Our mission was hidden. Not even our fellow soldiers knew what we were doing. Lt. Colonel Kumagawa taught us: “The purpose of this school is to train you in secret warfare. Discard any ideas you may have of achieving military honors.”

I was not to die for my country. I was to do everything possible to stay alive. I would be the only officer in a group of four. We were to hide, gather information, and cause disruption in any way we could. If captured, I was to allow myself to be taken and use the opportunity to give false information to the enemy.

No one, friend or foe, would ever know our mission. Because I could not die, I would be mocked by my fellow soldiers and disgraced in the eyes of those at home. I would be seen as a slacker or even a deserter. If captured, I would seem to be a coward.

 It was a sacrifice no one would ever know about.  I had to be prepared to live and die without public honor. I expected to carry on secret warfare in the mountains until I died all alone. I did not care. If I was of use to my country, I would be happy.

I received my orders. I was to proceed to Lubang Island, and lead guerrilla warfare. That was the first time I heard of Lubang. I had no idea where it was or how big it was. The signed order said: “The commander of the garrison will support guerrilla warfare led by Officer Hiroo Onoda.”

When I arrived in 1944, we had no idea the war was coming to an end. We did not think a Japanese surrender was possible. We knew that every man, woman, and child in Japan would fight until they died.

General Muto, the commander, said, “The Great Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere we fight for could take 100 years to achieve. The war is not going well. It is urgent that you carry out your orders. It may take three years, it may take five, but whatever happens, we’ll come back for you. You may have to live on coconuts. If that is the case, live on coconuts! Under no circumstances are you to give up your life voluntarily. You are absolutely forbidden to die by your own hand.”

I said to myself, “I’ll do it. Even if I don’t have coconuts, even if I have to eat grass and weeds, I’ll do it! These are my orders, and I will carry them out.”

I was proud to be chosen for such a demanding mission. Unknown to me, the Americans had already taken Mindanao, and within a few months, there would be a total surrender. Japan’s war was almost over. Mine was just beginning.

Chapter Three

I was determined to do all I could to confuse the enemy. I remembered a famous Samurai who made straw men fitted with helmets. His enemies wasted their arrows firing at the straw men. On Lubang, I saw parts of airplanes that had been shot down. I told my men to put those parts together to look like planes on the ground. We used branches to make it look like the planes were hidden. I wanted to make the enemy waste bullets on those mock airplanes. My idea worked. Enemy planes fired on our useless parts of planes.

My course at Futamata had done nothing to prepare me for primitive life in the mountains. The rain forest was dense and humid in the tropical heat. During the rainy season, torrents of rain fell. Our palm leaf shelters were not much protection. We were often soaked and our skin turned white and wrinkled.

We had to move our campsite every three to five days to stay safe from searchers. We followed a circuit around the island. During the eight months of dryer weather, we would make the complete circuit four times. We ate bananas every day. Our main source of food was the islanders’ cows. We tried to use only one bullet. Two bullets on one cow meant one less cow later.

During my first year, the army bases emptied. Now the four of us were the only support for the Japanese war effort on the island. I firmly believed that when Japanese troops came back, they would need my reports.

I kept my men strictly disciplined. If we ate and slept all we wanted to, we would become lazy and demoralized. We did not want to think of ourselves as stragglers left behind. Our task was important. We were important. When friendly troops came back, they would need our information.

I set about mapping the island as carefully as I could. We kept reports about everything on the island. Each day we recorded the temperature, the humidity, the direction of the wind, the time that the tides came in, the fruits and vegetables that were ripe each season. We kept records of rainfall. We recorded the movements of the islanders. Our information was vital.

In October, I saw a flyer printed in Japanese, telling us to come out of hiding. “The war ended on August 15. Come down from the mountain!” I had been trained to watch carefully for fake messages. I knew this one was a lie. We had seen Japanese planes being fired on just a few days before. How could that happen if the war was over?

Around the end of the year, a Boeing B-17 flew over our hideout and dropped a lot of big thick pieces of paper. On the front were printed surrender orders from General Yamashita of the 14th army and a directive from the chief of staff.

I was alert for disinformation. A sentence made me doubtful. It said those who surrendered would be given “hygienic succor” and “hauled” to Japan. What was “hygienic succor?” How could people be “hauled?” Whoever wrote that message was not a native Japanese speaker. The enemy was making every possible effort to confuse us with trickery.

There is rain on the island from July to October. After months of rain one year, Akatsu deserted.  He was a simple private, and life alone in the mountains must have seemed pointless to him. We found a note from him saying, “When I surrendered, the Philippine troops greeted me as a friend.” We were sad for him. We were sure he was being tortured to say such lies.

The next day, a voice over a loudspeaker said, “You have three days, that is 72 hours, to surrender. In the event that you do not surrender within that time, we will have to send a task force after you.”

Japanese military would never use the term “72 hours.” They did not count time in that way. Once again, the enemy was going to great lengths to trick us into a surrender. We were not fooled. If the war were really over, there would be an order from my division commander releasing me from my duties.

In the months of the rainy season, the search parties did not come looking for us. We did not have to move our camp. Sometimes we stayed in our palm leaf shelter all day with nothing to do but talk. Shimada, in particular, liked to talk about the festivals in his hometown. He often sang, “The only ones not dancing tonight are the old stone Buddha and me.” I enjoyed his tales. I had never been to a festival.

On a summer day five years after Akatsu’s desertion, Shimada was killed by a search party. He was shot standing up, which told us that they had displayed a Japanese flag to trick him to come out of hiding. The fact that we were being searched for and shot at was proof that the war was raging on.

It had been many years since I had seen electric lights. In the 1950s, electricity came to Lubang. The towns lit up. The harbors filled with large white ocean liners instead of battleships. It seemed that as soon as the Americans landed, the islanders went to their side. No one could be trusted.

Chapter Three

One day a plane circled overhead, calling my name. Packages dropped, including a letter from my brother. The letter said that the war was over and my older brothers had left the army. Both parents were still well. I could not figure how the trick had been carried out. The Americans had outdone themselves this time.

We studied the Japanese newspapers that were dropped. One carried this report: “Lt. Jimbo has gone to Lubang to persuade the Philippine government to cease punitive missions against Japanese soldiers on Lubang.” The fact that there were “punitive missions” against us proved that the war was still going on. We had no idea that they saw us as outlaws or common thieves.

I taught Kozuka to always be on the lookout for fake messages. Looking at the pictures in the newspapers, Kozuka said, “Why would my family be standing in front of a new house?” At the time, we didn’t know about the damage from the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

One day in the jungle I found a flag on which the names of my relatives had been written. Among the names were “Yasu” and “Noriko.” My brother’s wife was named Yasue, and I had a cousin named Nori. Because the “e” was left off of Yasue and the “ko” added to Nori, I knew the flag was a fake.

We did not doubt that all the Philippine islands around us were full of soldiers like us. What convinced us was the occasional dropping of bombs. I learned later that the islands were a training ground for Philippine air force planes.

In May, 1954, a voice announced, “I am Katsuo Sato, former chief of staff of the Naval Air Force.” Why would they send a naval officer to talk to us? We were both in the army.

In short, all of the messages we received in many forms only convinced us that the war was continuing and that Japanese troops would soon be landing on the island. We increased our efforts, knowing that when they arrived they would need our information.

Chapter Four

The attempts to confuse us and trick us grew more constant and cunning. “Lt. Onoda! Private first class Kozuka! We have come from Japan to talk with you. The war has ended. Please talk with us and come home to Japan with us!”

They played the Japanese national anthem and a lot of popular songs. They moved around the island, camping in various places. We were sure these people were enemy agents. Each time they came near, we moved farther into the jungle. We had no intention of responding to them.

“Hiroo, come out. This is your brother Toshio. Kozuka’s brother Fukuji has come with me. Please come out where we can see you.”

I thought, “That’s really something. They’ve found someone who looks like my brother and can imitate his voice perfectly.” I found it amusing. For a moment he had almost taken me in. Years later, I found out that my brother and Kozuka’s brother had actually been in Lubang, searching for us.

They left stacks of newspapers full of the wedding of the crown prince, with thousands of cheering Japanese lined up along the way. Japan was obviously thriving and prosperous. It made me feel that our sacrifice–holding out as we were doing–was worthwhile.

If we had lost the war, there would not have been such prosperity. Everyone would be dead. I knew that the population of Japan would die to the last man before surrendering. Reading the newspapers, I thought, “Japan is safe after all! Safe, and still fighting.”

I had no inkling that Japan’s ships had been sunk, her cities leveled. The newspapers gave us no idea of her defeat. It appeared that Japan was now in cultural and economic relations with a large number of foreign countries.

I thought it only a matter of time before the Philippines would split from America and join our side. I knew from the radio that the US had failed badly in Vietnam. I thought Japan would see that opportunity to turn the Philippines to the Japanese side.

When Kozuka was shot, I understood that my work would be more critical than ever. I was the only hope my country had of taking back the island. I had made a solemn oath to myself that I would die for the cause, and I was willing to carry it out. I had kept that vow for many years now. I was outside the flow of time.

Chapter Five

There had been so many years of fake messages, so many tricks! One day in the fall of 1974 I found a young man standing between me and my shelter. He wore a t-shirt, blue pants, and rubber sandals. If he had not been wearing socks, I might have shot him. No islander would wear socks with sandals. Not only that, the islanders always ran away if they saw me. He stood his ground. I came to the conclusion that the boy was Japanese.

He saluted me, though his hands were shaking. His knees were shaking, too. He said, “I’m Japanese. I’m Japanese. My name is Norio Suzuki. And you are Hiroo Onoda.”

“Did you come from the government?”

“No.”

“Then who are you?”

“I’m only a tourist.”

I didn’t believe that part. Why would a tourist come to this island? I was fairly sure he had been sent by the enemy.

He said, “I know you’ve had a long, hard time. The war is over. Won’t you come back to Japan with me?”

Did he think he could just make a statement like that and I would believe it and go with him?

“I can’t go back. For me, the war hasn’t ended.”

“Why not?”

“Unless I am given proper orders, I will die here. If you want to prove the war is over, let me see my orders.”

“I will get your orders. But if I tell the embassy I have found you, they won’t believe me. Will you let me take a photograph to show them?” He took a flash bulb from his rucksack. “This will make light.”

I said, “It ought to. It’s a flash bulb.”

He said, “Oh. You know about flash bulbs!” He seemed surprised. I shook my head, and began walking to my shelter. I did not look back, I knew he would follow.

When we arrived at my shelter, we sat at my campfire in silence. After a few moments, he said, “I never dreamed that I would be sitting here with you. If I take your picture by yourself, no one will believe me. We must take a photo together.”

After posing for the photo, he said, “Onoda-san, the emperor and the people of Japan are worried about you.”

“Did you bring orders for me?”

“No.”

“Then they will have to go on worrying. Major Taniguchi is my commanding officer. Without direct orders from him, I cannot abandon my post.”

We sat around the fire and talked far into the night. What he told me agreed with all the propaganda I had read in the flyers that had been dropped on us. If I believed him, I would have to change my thinking completely. That idea upset me and I became silent.

We agreed to leave messages in a box hidden on Snake Mountain. When he left the next day, I did not really expect to see him again. He was an adventurer who found me. But I wondered: what if the things he told me were true?

After many days, I went to check the box. I saw a plastic bag. Inside was the photo we had taken together, blown up to 8X10 size. It was the first time I had seen my own face in thirty years. A message said, “I have come back for you, just as I promised.”

There were two copies of army orders. One said, “Oral instructions will be given to Lieutenant Onoda.” In special units, there are always oral instructions in addition to the printed ones. Maybe this was not a trick.

Apparently, Major Taniguchi had been sent to deliver my orders orally. I might be instructed to continue fighting. I might be sent to another location. I might be completely relieved of my duties. The only certainty was that the oral orders were secret. I said to myself, “The time has come to take a chance.” I hiked down to their camp.

Chapter Six

It was the first morning in thirty years that I had no duties to carry out. Suzuki introduced me to Major Taniguchi. The major wore casual clothing. He said that he was now the owner of a bookstore in Tokyo. He had been out of the army for years. I thought that he might be posing as a bookdealer, but was still a secret warfare agent. I was wary. I did not want things to go wrong because of any misstep of mine.

Major Taniguchi suggested I shave before receiving my orders. “You will be a celebrity when you return to Japan. You will be asked to make appearances all over the country. You might as well get used to paying attention to your grooming.” When I went to the river to bathe and rinse out my clothing, the major handed me a package of clean underwear. “My wife sent you this.”

The idea of going back to live among ordinary people frightened me. I could not imagine it. When I had left home so many years before, I had worked to keep all thoughts of my family out of my mind. My personal hopes for the future did not exist. The military assignment was my life.

When I was as clean as possible, I presented myself formally to Major Taniguchi. He had changed into his army uniform.  “Lt. Onoda presenting for orders.”

Major Taniguchi read solemnly from a paper:

Command from Headquarters, Fourteenth Area Army

Orders from the Special Squadron, Chief of Staff’s Headquarters, Bekabak, September 19, 1900 hours:

1. In accordance with the Imperial Command, the Fourteenth Area Army has ceased all combat activity.
2. In accordance with Military Headquarters Command No. A-2003, the Special Squadron is relieved of all military duties.
3. Units and individuals under the command of the Special Squadron are to cease military activities and operations immediately and place themselves under the command of the nearest superior officer. When no officer is to be found, they are to communicate with the American or Philippine forces and follow their directions.

Special Squadron, Chief of Staff’s Headquarters, Fourteenth Area Army, Major Yoshimi Taniguchi. That is all.

I handed over my weapons:

• 1 Arisaka 99 rifle
• 30 rounds of ammunition
• hand grenades
• the dagger my mother had given me

I waited for the secret orders that would come orally. But there were no secret orders. Everything I had heard was real. We had lost the war! A storm raged inside me. What had I been doing here for all these years? What had Shimada and Kozuka died for?

I insisted on presenting my report. I had memorized information about times, tides, seasons, weather, and the movements of the islanders. I reported all of it, pacing back and forth inside the tent. A detailed field report to the major took all night. Taniguchi struggled to keep his eyes open. The sun was coming up as I finished.

Young Suzuki used the lantern to signal a contingent at the camp below. Two hours later, they joined us. Among them was my oldest brother, Toshio. He put both hands on my shoulders and said, “We finally found you!” He gave me a new suit and a camera.

As we walked back along the narrow path through the jungle to town, two army men insisted on walking beside me. I understood that this was to prevent islanders from taking a shot at me. They had reason to hate me. I had killed more than one of them.

But when we came into town, I saw nothing but curiosity on the faces of the townspeople. Several hundred islanders had gathered. They did not seem angry. They were laughing and waving at me. My brother sighed with relief.

Chapter Seven

Before we left for Japan, I went to visit Kozuka’s grave and thought of him and Shimada. “Forgive me,” I whispered to them. “I let you down.” I was leaving the spirits of my comrades on this island and returning to Japan without them. If there had been no people around, I would have put my head on the ground and wailed.

During my years on Lubang, it had been easy to reject any information that didn’t fit what I believed to be true. I had mentally constructed an entire world. Not until I saw Tokyo from the window of the plane did I realize that it had all been a figment of my imagination.

 Suddenly I was a hero, but I was troubled. For thirty years I thought I was doing something for my country, but now it looked like I had just caused a lot of people a lot of trouble. What had I been fighting for? What was the cause?

People said kind words. They praised me for integrity. They praised me for determination. They praised me for self-control. People said that Japan had been defeated, but I had not. People said that I had won my war. Maybe I had.

I was offered back pay for all of my years of service. It did not feel right to accept that payment for years spent in error. When people gave me donations, I contributed all of it to the Yasukuni shrine that honored those, like Shimada and Kozuka, who had given their lives for their country.

As I looked around, I saw that Japan was losing many of the values that I thought important. It takes courage and stoicism to endure, even without a war. I started the Onoda Nature School to teach young people survival skills. The school grew to several locations.

Back in the Philippines, President Marcos pardoned me for my actions, but some of the Lubang islanders did not. They asked for reparations for the relatives I had killed. I felt sorrow, but I told them, “Soldiers operate under orders. As long as they obey their orders, they are not to be held responsible.”

I married, and my wife Machie traveled to Lubang to donate $10,000 as a scholarship fund for students there. On that visit, Candido Tria, an 81-year-old man that I had shot and wounded, came out of the crowd to embrace me. It was a moment of healing for both of us.