I keep wondering if they will come today. The thought claws at my mind as I wake at 4:00 a.m., the rain clouds heavy overhead and the sea swell higher than usual. I have grown used to combat, I tell myself—fear no longer touches me. Yet the breeze chills my bones, and the distant drone of engines never quite fades.

Yesterday’s attack brought us triumph: nine enemy planes shot down, three more unconfirmed, and not a single loss to our air force. Our belief in our invincibility is finally high. But invincibility feels fragile when you are eating donuts in a sandbagged shelter, each one a treasure, while clutching a torn map of your homeland.

The map is all I have left of home. My father bought it for me, and now it is shredded by a bomb fragment. I stare at the outline of Japan and dream of hot springs, of my parents, of a journey that will never be. This map has a spiritual meaning now, ten times its material value, because it makes me happy and comforts me. I fold it carefully, as if the paper itself could break.

At 7:10 last night, the naval fire began. By 8:00, a blue signal flare rose from Renova, and I saw four enemy battleships on the horizon. This morning, they came in force: four cruisers, two destroyers, two transports, and countless boats. The enemy used countless boats and landed in Renova. Our guns and air power seemed weak—so weak.

At 8:00 a.m., our planes finally arrived, and by 8:30 the battleships withdrew. Twenty planes stood guard in the sky, but none were ours. We fired thirty shots at enemy ships from 8,500 meters. Then, at 2 p.m., about thirty medium attack planes appeared from the west—Rabaul, I believe—and we waved our hands, thrilled, shouting, “We’re counting on you! We’re counting on you!” Soon a report came that enemy transports and battleships had been sunk.

But by 2:30 p.m., seventy enemy planes attacked our positions with immense bombs. No direct hits, but the naval bombardment that followed shook the earth. Rain clouds fell over us, and we worked on shelters until 2:30 in the morning, hauling ammunition. Throughout the night, enemy boats moved. By dawn, four enemy battleships were in nearby waters again.

I was scared to death. I bent down to light a cigarette just as the shots came. If only we had some of our air forces there, the battleships would soon be put out of action. But when 10:00 came, the friendly planes did not appear as expected. The telegraph was jammed. We heard that the Eighth Area Army had begun the offensive, but don’t the super dreadnoughts Yamato and Musashi ever move?

The intense naval bombardment continues. At 1:20 p.m., I heard what I thought was bombardment from several ships—it turned out to be friendly bombers. The roar was terrible. For those without binoculars, they were identified as B-17s. What they thought was an enemy formation were actually new model heavy bombers, Mitsubishi G4M2 Betty. Everything is going just as the enemy wishes.

Today again, not a single friendly plane showed up. Not even a single boat came. Since the enemy landed, four days have passed, and it must be time for them to have completed their positions. If we are going to fight, now is the time. Come and get us. I pray that our movements begin an hour earlier—or even a day earlier. If it were now, we could defeat them. However, we are outnumbered ten to one, and our material and provisions are limited.

Last night, we received a report that the enemy was on the nearest island about 1,000 meters south of our positions. We fired naval 25 mm cannons with instantaneous fuses. The shells flew right over our positions. We warned everyone. The enemy did not return fire. Then the rain came—a big storm, terrible thunder from the direction of Renova. Everyone was completely soaked, but nobody said a word. Sleeping on the ground caused everyone to get diarrhea. Corporal Nishimura developed a fever of 42°C—107.6°F.

This morning’s report is that a mountain artillery battalion and two infantry battalions landed for guard duty. At 5:00 a.m., we heard bombs exploding around North Munda. The musty, penetrating smell is terrible. Everything is soaked. Private Otto used to live with his mother, his only living relative. Because he was drafted, his 64-year-old mother had to go to work. When they talk about the conditions back home, they say he cries. I feel sorry for him.

The bombardment stopped last night. There were no enemy planes. I went outside and for the first time in a while, I felt like a human being. After it got dark, the half moon was in the west. If this moon becomes full, I bet the battle will also become more violent.

Yesterday, we were supposed to bomb the enemy positions, but it was canceled. If we do that kind of thing at night, you never know what kind of bombardment we’ll receive because they can see everything from the hills of Renova. I prayed that the bombs wouldn’t fit well, but they did fit. I’m almost certain they’ll come to order us to fire. We certainly must not have control of the skies.

This morning’s bombardment started at 8. I was calm, lying down, when some bombs exploded 30 or 40 meters from me, which made me jump out of my pants. I don’t exactly appreciate this kind of bombardment. Sergeant Major Isharin returned last night from Shortland Island. He brought stationery and cigarettes. The second platoon lieutenant, Obazaki, also arrived. According to what they say, there is an order for two more probationary officers to be assigned to the 21st company, but they are currently being trained in Rabaul.

In the afternoon, a transport loaded with anti-aircraft guns entered Renova. During the night, our seaplanes bombed the enemy naval base. I could clearly see the fire from the enemy’s anti-aircraft guns and their searchlights. From this action, I judged that there must be six or eight guns. 3,000 men, Japanese reinforcements, have already landed in Kolombangara. Only 800 men landed in Munda last night due to a lack of boats. The enemy also landed at two different points. And right now, our forces are attacking the enemy.

Last night, I received my first and possibly last letter from home. It seems they have not yet received my letters and are somewhat skeptical about my survival. They learned that I am in New Georgia. They will really be worried if the news of the enemy landing is announced in the newspapers. My father repeated in his letter that I must fight to the end as an honorable warrior. I will fight to the end always for the emperor. I will show them that we will fight to the very end. My elderly father wrote on April 12th: “Even if your soul must remain in the South Sea Islands, follow the will of heaven.”

Hardly any correspondence for the entire company was more than mine. The men came and said, “Sir, it really turned out to be a great mistake sending the sergeant major to Shortland since it ended up being all for your sake.” Everyone laughed, all because of my father’s care.

The artillery bombardment started at 2:00 in the morning. There were a large number of illumination shells which made it look like daylight. However, the illumination shells passed overhead and did not hit the positions. At 5, the shelling stopped. Second Lieutenant Imura, a graduate of Naseda University, who was attached to the searchlight battalion, and another soldier were killed by a direct hit. Many officers within my immediate acquaintance were dying right beside me.

When the shelling stopped, three Zero planes came for reconnaissance and then returned. At 7:30, about 50 Grumman TBFs appeared. Since our positions could be clearly seen from Renova, we could not fire. I was really irritated when the order came from the field defense HQ to shoot. Our commander began to feel sympathy for the men. He couldn’t find any way to shoot that wouldn’t be disadvantageous to us. After laughing and saying, “I would like to die now,” he continued by saying he would leave all decisions to the platoon leaders. He showed a sense of sympathy and never issued an order to fire.

If our operations would just start, I would fire again and again, even if our positions were exposed and we became targets. As it is now, we are being fired upon and not returning fire. Enemy planes are constantly over us, so I cannot even take a step outside of our shelters. If we fired now, they would concentrate their fire on us, and our positions would be leveled, and then we would all be annihilated together. We will fight. At this moment, staying alive is more important. In the final stages of this battle, if we can just prevent the tanks from coming from the south, then we can die laughing.

The bombardment is fierce, but besides a little scare, the results have been zero. But still, if a shell hits our shelter, we are done for. All the personnel wearing steel helmets inside the shelters waited silently for action. The heat inside the shelter was like that of a cellar, and the unpleasant odor hung in the air. It is suicidal to go to the toilet. I put on my helmet, and after fully preparing myself, I went out to the bomb crater in front of me. While I was defecating, six or seven shells fell, so I rushed out and came back.

At 3:30 p.m., the shelling ceased. The accuracy of the artillery has become something real. We can never tell when we are going to die. Oh God, I wish to die after seeing the action of our invincible Imperial forces. After looking at a dud shell, I see that the enemy’s artillery is 150 mm—actually 155 mm.

I clutch the torn map of my homeland and wonder what tomorrow will bring. The moon will soon be full, and with it, the battle will rage even fiercer. Come and get us, I whisper into the darkness. But the darkness only answers with the distant thunder of guns.

The dawn of July 5th broke with a silence so complete it felt like a lie. No shells. No engines. Just the drip of water from the shelter roof and the low moan of a man with fever. I crawled outside and saw the sea, flat and gray, empty of ships. For a moment I believed a miracle had come.

Then the radio crackled. The enemy had taken the airfield at Munda. Our planes could no longer land. The supply boats would not come. We were cut off, encircled, and forgotten. Sergeant Major Isharin stared at the receiver and said nothing.

I looked at my hands—dirty, trembling, still holding that torn map. My father’s words burned in my chest: Even if your soul must remain in the South Sea Islands, follow the will of heaven. I folded the map one last time and tucked it against my heart.

“We will fight,” I told the men. “Not for victory—that is gone—but for the emperor, and for the homes we will never see again.” Private Otto wiped his eyes and nodded.

By noon, the first enemy tanks appeared on the southern trail. We had no anti-tank guns left. Only rifles, a few grenades, and the courage of men who had already died a thousand times in their minds. I raised my hand. Come and get us, I whispered one final time.

And then the world erupted.

— What would you have done, reader, if you had been in Ura’s boots that morning—fight to the last bullet, or surrender to see your mother one more time? Tell us in the comments.