The following document, classified Top Secret by the U.S. Department of
Defense, was released to the public in 1986 through the Freedom of Information
Act. The document is now kept in the National Archives in Washington, D.C.,
and can be accessed there.
The investigations recorded here were carried out under the direction of Major
James P. Warren from March to April 1946. The field investigation in [name
deleted]
County, Yamanashi Prefecture, was conducted by Second Lieutenant Robert
O'Connor and Master Sergeant Harold Katayama. The interrogator in all
interviews was Lt. O'Connor. Sgt. Katayama handled the Japanese interpreting,
and Private William Cohen prepared the documents.
Interviews were conducted over a twelve-day period in the reception room of the
[name deleted] Town town hall in Yamanashi Prefecture. The following
witnesses responded individually to Lt. O'Connor's questions: a female teacher at
the [deleted]
Town [deleted] County public school, a doctor residing in the same town, two
patrolmen assigned to the local police precinct, and six children.
The appended 1:10,000 and 1:2,000 maps of the area in question were provided
by the Topographic Institute of the Ministry of Home Affairs.
U.S. ARMY INTELLIGENCE SECTION (MIS) REPORT Dated: May 12, 1946
Title: Report on the Rice Bowl Hill Incident, 1944
Document Number: PTYX-722-8936745-42213-WWN
The following is a taped interview with Setsuko Okamochi (26), teacher in
charge of the fourth-grade B class at the public school in [deleted] Town,
[deleted] County. Materials related to the interview can be accessed using
application number PTYX-722-SQ-118.
Impressions of the interviewer, Lt. Robert O'Connor: Setsuko Okamochi is an
attractive, petite woman. Intelligent and responsible, she responded to the
questions accurately and honestly. She still seems slightly in shock, though, from
the incident. As she searched her memory she grew very tense at times, and
whenever this happened she had a tendency to speak more slowly.
I think it must have been just after ten in the morning when I saw a silver light
far up in the sky. A brilliant flash of silver. That's right, it was definitely light
reflecting off something metal. That light moved very slowly in the sky from
east to west. We all thought it had to be a B-29. It was directly above us, so to
see it we had to look straight up. It was a clear blue sky, and the light was so
bright all we could see was that silver, duralumin-like object.
But we couldn't make out the shape, since it was too far up. I assumed that they
couldn't see us either, so we weren't afraid of being attacked or having bombs
suddenly rain down on us. Dropping bombs in the mountains here would be
pretty pointless anyway. I figured the plane was on its way to bomb some large
city somewhere, or maybe on its way back from a raid. So we kept on walking.
All I thought was how that light had a strange beauty to it.
—According to military records no U.S. bombers or any other kind of aircraft
were flying over that region at the time, that is, around ten a.m. on November 7,
1944.
But I saw it clearly, and so did the sixteen children in my class. All of us thought
it had to be a B-29. We'd all seen many formations of B-29s, and those are the
only kind of planes that could possibly fly that high. There was a small airbase in
our prefecture, and I'd occasionally seen Japanese planes flying, but they were
all small and could never fly as high as what I saw. Besides, the way duralumin
reflects light is different from other types of metal, and the only planes made out
of that are B-29s. I did think it was a little strange, though, that it was a solo
plane flying all by itself, not part of a formation.
—Were you born in this region?
No, I was born in Hiroshima. I got married in 1941, and that's when I came here.
My husband was a music teacher in a junior high school in this prefecture. He
was called up in 1943 and died fighting in Luzon in June of 1945. From what I
heard later, he was guarding an ammunition dump just outside Manila when it
was hit by American shells and blew up, killing him. We have no children.
—Speaking of children, how many were you in charge of on that outing?
Sixteen all together, boys and girls. Two were out sick, but other than that it was
the entire class. Eight boys and eight girls. Five of them were children who'd
been evacuated from Tokyo.
We set out from the school at nine in the morning. It was a typical school outing,
so everyone carried canteens and lunches with them. We had nothing in
particular we were planning to study; we were just going up into the hills to
gather mushrooms and edible wild plants. The area around where we lived was
farmland, so we weren't that badly off in terms of food—which isn't to say we
had plenty to eat. There was a strict rationing system in place and most of us
were hungry all the time.
So the children were encouraged to hunt for food wherever they could find it.
The country was at war, after all, and food took priority over studying. Everyone
went on this kind of school outing—outdoor study sessions, as they were called.
Since our school was surrounded by hills and woods, there were a lot of nice
spots we used to go to. I think we were blessed in that sense. People in cities
were all starving. Supply routes from Taiwan and the continent had been cut off
by this time and urban areas were suffering terribly from a lack of food and fuel.
—You mentioned that five of your pupils had been evacuated from Tokyo. Did
they get along well with the local children?
In my class at least they did. The environments the two groups grew up in, of
course, were completely different—one way out in the country, the other in the
heart of Tokyo. They spoke differently, even dressed differently. Most of the
local kids were from poor farming families, while the majority of the Tokyo
children had fathers who worked for companies or in the civil service. So I
couldn't say they really understood each other.
Especially in the beginning you could sense some tension between the two
groups.
I'm not saying they bullied each other or got into fights, because they didn't.
What I mean is one group didn't seem to understand what the other group was
thinking. So they tended to keep to themselves, the local kids with other local
kids, the Tokyo children in their own little group. This was only the first two
months, though. After that they got along well. You know how it is. When kids
start playing together and get completely absorbed by whatever they're doing,
they don't care about things like that anymore.
—I'd like you to describe, in as much detail as you can, the spot where you took
your class that day.
It was a hill we often went to on outings. It was a round hill shaped like an
upside-down bowl. We usually called it "Owan yama." [Note: "Rice Bowl Hill."]
It was a short walk to the west of the school and wasn't steep at all, so anybody
could climb it.
At the children's pace it took somewhere around two hours to get to the top.
Along the way they'd search the woods for mushrooms and we'd have a simple
lunch. The children, naturally, enjoyed going on these outdoor sessions much
more than staying in our classroom studying.
The glittering airplane we saw way up in the sky reminded us for a moment of
the war, but just for a short time, and we were all in a good mood. There wasn't a
cloud in the sky, no wind, and everything was quiet around us—all we could
hear were birds chirping in the woods. The war seemed like something in a
faraway land that had nothing to do with us. We sang songs as we hiked up the
hill, sometimes imitating the birds we heard. Except for the fact that the war was
still going on, it was a perfect morning.
—It was soon after you observed the airplane-like object that you went into the
woods, correct?
That's correct. I'd say it was less than five minutes later that we went into the
woods. We left the main trail up the hill and went along a trampled-down path
that went up the slope of the woods. It was pretty steep. After we'd hiked for
about ten minutes we came to a clearing, a broad area as flat as a tabletop. Once
we'd entered the woods it was completely still, and with the sun blocked out it
was chilly, but when we stepped into that clearing it was like we were in a
miniature town square, with the sky bright above us. My class often stopped by
this spot whenever we climbed Owan yama. The place had a calming effect, and
somehow made us all feel nice and cozy.
We took a break once we reached this "square," putting down our packs, and
then the children went into the woods in groups of three or four in search of
mushrooms. I insisted that they never lose sight of one another. Before they set
out, I gathered them all together and made sure they understood this. We knew
the place well, but it was a woods, after all, and if any of them got separated and
lost we'd have a hard time finding them. Still, you have to remember these are
small children, and once they start hunting mushrooms they tend to forget this
rule. So I always made sure that as I looked for mushrooms myself I kept an eye
on them, and a running head count.
It was about ten minutes or so after we began hunting mushrooms that the
children started to collapse.
When I first spotted a group of three of them collapsed on the ground I was sure
they'd eaten poisonous mushrooms. There are a lot of highly toxic mushrooms
around here, even ones that can be fatal. The local kids know which ones not to
pick, but a few varieties are hard to distinguish. That's why I always warned the
children never to put any in their mouths until we got back to school and had an
expert check them. But you can't always expect kids to listen, can you?
I raced over to the spot and lifted up the children who'd fallen to the ground.
Their bodies were limp, like rubber that's been left out in the sun. It was like
carrying empty shells—the strength was completely drained from them. But they
were breathing fine. Their pulses were normal, and none of them had a
temperature. They looked calm, not at all like they were in any pain. I ruled out
things like bee stings or snakebites. The children were simply unconscious.
The strangest thing was their eyes. Their bodies were so limp it was like they
were in a coma, yet their eyes were open as if they were looking at something.
They'd blink every once in a while, so it wasn't like they were asleep. And their
eyes moved very slowly from side to side like they were scanning a distant
horizon. Their eyes at least were conscious. But they weren't actually looking at
anything, or at least nothing visible. I waved my hand a few times in front of
their faces, but got no reaction.
I picked up each of the three children in turn, and they were all exactly the same.
All of them were unconscious, their eyes slowly moving from side to side. It was
the weirdest thing I'd ever seen.
—Describe the group that first collapsed.
It was a group of girls. Three girls who were all good friends. I called out their
names and slapped them on the cheek, pretty hard, in fact, but there was no
reaction.
They didn't feel a thing. It was a strange feeling, like touching a void.
My first thought was to send somebody running back to the school for help.
There was no way I could carry three unconscious children down by myself. So I
started looking for the fastest runner in the class, one of the boys. But when I
stood up and looked around I saw that all the children had collapsed. All sixteen
of them had fallen to the ground and lost consciousness. The only one still
conscious and standing was me. It was like... a battlefield.
—Did you notice anything unusual at the scene? Any strange smell or sound—or
a light?
[Thinks about it for a while.] No, as I already said, it was very quiet and
peaceful.
No unusual sounds or light or smells. The only thing unusual was that every
single pupil in my class had collapsed and was lying there unconscious. I felt
utterly alone, like I was the last person alive on Earth. I can't describe that
feeling of total loneliness. I just wanted to disappear into thin air and not think
about anything.
Of course I couldn't do that—I had my duty as a teacher. I pulled myself together
and raced down the slope as fast as my legs would carry me, to get help at the
school.