Hiroo Worship

Not since the 1954 arrival of honeymooning Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio had there been such delirium at Tokyo International Airport. A record crowd of more than 4,000 was on hand to greet the returning hero as he flew home from Manila. Press helicopters hovered outside his Tokyo hospital window, while newspapers devoted full-page spreads to him. Prime Minister Kakuei Tanaka personally took writing brush in hand to inscribe ten poetic characters. The message: "The air of a heavenly hero will prove awesome through a thousand autumns."

The subject of these worshipful encomiums was Imperial Army Lieut. Hiroo Onoda, 52, Japan's last-known World War II straggler, who had finally been persuaded to surrender on the remote Philippine island of Lubang. For many Japanese, Onoda's ordeal seemed to strike a more responsive emotional chord than that of Sgt. Shoichi Yokoi, another wartime Rip van Winkle, who returned from his hideout on Guam two years ago (TIME, Feb. 7, 1972). Yokoi had remained in hiding because he was afraid, and did not know that the war was over.

But Onoda, a modern incarnation of a loyal samurai, knew precisely what the situation was. During his long years in hiding, he had listened on a stolen transistor radio to the Japanese language service of the BBC. He had even refused to respond to a $400,000 effort by Japan's Welfare Ministry to persuade him, via loudspeakers, search parties and air-dropped leaflets, that the war was truly over and that he should surrender and come home. The ministry had known for some time that he was alive because the Philippine police had reported occasional gun battles involving its constables on Lubang and a mysterious recluse dressed in a Japanese army uniform.

No Matter What. A graduate of an Imperial Army intelligence school, Onoda was posted to Lubang in late 1944. His orders were specific: "To continue carrying out your mission even after the Japanese Army surrenders, no matter what happens." After the island was liberated by American and Philippine forces, Onoda went underground with three enlisted men; one of his compatriots surrendered in 1950, and the other two were killed in shoot-outs with Philippine police, the first in 1954 and the second in 1972. Meanwhile, Onoda set up a series of hideouts across the 74-sq.-mi. island, stealing food to keep alive and keeping intact several caches of live ammunition. Over the years, Onoda and his men are suspected of having killed at least 30 Filipinos who came upon their path, and wounding 100 others.

Last month, a young Japanese adventurer named Norio Suzuki went to Lubang to hunt down Onoda. When the two men finally met in a remote jungle clearing, the lieutenant laid down his condition: "Only in case my commanding officer rescinds my order in person will I surrender." Last weekend Suzuki returned to Lubang accompanied by former army Major Yoshimi Taniguchi, 63, a Kyushu bookseller who had been Onoda's last military superior. Dressed in a shapeless cap and a tattered uniform and clutching his old regulation infantry rifle, Onoda stood at attention as Taniguchi read out an Imperial Army order dating from September 1945: "As of this moment, all officers and men under this command shall terminate all hostilities." Onoda bowed stiffly in acknowledgment that his war was over--and then proceeded to brief his commander about his 29 years of intelligence gathered on "enemy movements."

At a ceremony in Manila later, Onoda formally presented his rusty samurai sword to Philippine President Ferdinand Marcos in a gesture of surrender. Mindful perhaps of his country's valuable economic ties to Japan, Marcos returned the sword and pardoned Onoda for whatever crimes he may have committed during his years in hiding. "You're a great soldier," said the President.

Returning home to the plaudits of his countrymen, Onoda accepted his new-found celebrity with philosophical calm. What had been his toughest experience? "To have lost my comrades-in-arms." And the most pleasant experience? "Nothing--nothing pleasant happened to me through all these 29 years." Still, he was not quite willing to admit that it had all been in vain. "My country today is rich and great," he said. "When my purpose in the war has been attained, in the fact that Japan today is rich and great, to have won or lost the war is entirely beside the point."

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