Category KAMIKAZE

he first American air raid on Tokyo had occurred more than two years before, and attacks against keyJapanese strongholds had increased ever since, but it was not until my fighter training that the bombs hit Hiro.

By now the loss of such vital bases as Indonesia, Burma, and Sumatra had greatly reduced our fuel supply. Already, in fact, the shortage was severe enough to prohibit engaging the enemy in lengthy air battles, even with our best fighter planes. Radar stations on our main islands warned of enemy approach. If their course was from Nagoya to the east or Oita the opposite direction, we relaxed. If they headed for Osaka between the two, we took to the sky, fearing that they might veer toward Hiro. Already it was mainly a matter of preserving our aircraft in virtually any manner possible.

It was just before noon one day in November that Hiro’s air raid sirens shrieked for the first time in earnest. Rushing to our trainers, we scrambled in, thundered down the runway, and headed for the clouds. Upon our return a short while later, the base was still in tact. A flight of

fighter-escorted B-29’s had bypassed Hiro and assaulted nearby Kure. For several days afterward the situation was repeated. Sirens keening, our scramble for the frantic take off, and cautious return. Each time Hiro remained unharmed.

Before long our training increased, and I graduated from my trainer to the Hayabusa 2, becoming a full-fledged fighter pilot, something I had dreamed about much of my life. Our furtive hide-and-seek tactics with the enemy, however, had disillusioned me terribly. Yasuo Kuwahara was not the invincible samurai of the skies, not the noble and glorious fighter pilot who would perform stunts over Tokyo on the Emperor’s birthday or on National Foundation Day. Instead, I was compelled to flee at the first sign of danger, to hide like a coward.

The situation filled us all with disgust and humiliation. Simultane­ously, it was depressing and alarming to realize that our country was in such dire straits. True, we were assured by our leaders that our elusive tactics were only temporary, that Japan was prepared for continual en­emy encroachments, that at the right moment it would counter attack with overwhelming savagery. But such propaganda had acquired the odor of decay for many of us. True, Kamikaze had taken its toll on our enemies, but it had not turned them back.

One day we returned from the clouds to discover that the games of our recent past were over. Hiro was belching smoke, one of its hangars enveloped in flame. Several Liberator bombers had appeared with scant warning and assaulted us, tearing up part of the airstrip, destroying much of the fighter assembly plant.

Fire fighters were battling frantically while a repair crew hastily struggled to fill in craters along the runways. It was more than two hours before, fuel running low, we were able to make a precarious landing. Having given our reports in the orderly room, we wandered aimlessly about the base, surveying the destruction. A bitter and dejected group of young fighter pilots.

Nakamura and I plodded slowly along the gray-white runway, hands in our pockets, heads down, except for an occasional glance about to assess the damage. So this was what bombs could do to a base, and it was only a small taste of things to come. We both knew that, and stared for a time at the charred hangar with its ruined aircraft. “Fighter pilots that can’t fight,” Nakamura sneered. “Ha!”

Later that day I visited Tatsuno. He had made his solo flight in the Akatombo and was doing well thus far. With the bombs now striking Hiro, it was unlikely that he and his companions would undergo a full apprenticeship. “You might be flying the Hayabusa before you know it,” I said, “maybe any day now.”

For a while Tatsuno offered no reply. We were seated together on the tail section of a badly damaged bomber near one of the hangars watching the repair work still underway along parts of the air field. Eventually, he turned and eyed me searchingly. “Maybe it will be the way we always hoped, Yasuo. It seems too good to be true, and yet. . . .” He hesitated, frowning. I watched him, sensing that he was about to say something I didn’t want to hear. “Well, I never expected things were going to be like this.”

“Like what?” I asked, feeling a bit angry for some reason.

He shrugged. “I don’t know, but if we’re really going to win? When do we start? The attacks are getting worse all the time. And if we can’t stop them now, how can we expect to stop them a month from now, or a half year from now? What’s the secret? What are we waiting for?” Tatsuno’s voice was quiet and strained.

“Things usually get bad for both sides before a war is over,” I said. “Yes, but what are we doing? Are we really hurting the Americans? Are we bombing California, New York, and Washington?”

“Those places are too far away right now,” I countered.

“Of course,” Tatsuno said, “and we’re too close. That’s the whole problem. They’re too far and we’re too close; they’re too big, and we’re too small! Do you realize that California alone—just one of their forty – eight states—is the size of our entire country?”

“Aw, that can’t be right,” I mumbled..

“It is right!” he insisted. “Don’t you remember our geography class? California is as big as our four main islands combined.”

“Maybe,” I admitted, “but it’s not just size that wins wars. It’s the spirit. It’s determination and courage.”

Tatsuno angled me a glance that seemed a bit scornful. “So aren’t

they determined and courageous too? They’ve got to be to have us tak­ing it on the chin like this. When are we going to strike back and make the Americans retreat? Once they’ve dumped their bombs on every city in Japan and taken over the Emperor’s Palace?”

I offered no answer. There was none. Eventually, I arose. “I’d better get back to the barracks,” I said.

“Already?” He looked rather sorrowful. “You’ve only been here a few minutes.”

“I know “ I replied uncertainly, and began to walk away. “But I’ve got a lot to do. I haven’t finished studying for my test on navigation.” Once I glanced back. Tatsuno was still sitting there, leaning forward on his knees, gazing out across the runway. I waved, but he barely lifted his hand.

That afternoon I was in the air again—five of us flying above the Inland Sea at twelve thousand feet somewhere between Kure and Iwakuni. Clouds were forming rapidly below us, literally before our eyes, and falling steadily behind like shredding cotton. Far off, beyond the mountains, a spectral moon hung faint and gray, and occasionally I glanced downward at the sea, its endless, undulating surface, wrinkled, patched with shadow and alternating expanses that dazzled the eye.

At the moment it again seemed very strange to think that throughout the world men were caught up in a cataclysmic struggle of death and hatred. Slightly ahead and above me was Lieutenant Shimada, a veteran combat fighter whom we all greatly respected. Shimada had fought in many a battle going back to the early days when our planes had so badly outclassed the American P-39’s and P-40’s. He had known the taste of victory, and more than one enemy had fallen victim to his guns.

Sunlight gleamed on his cockpit, revealing at times the man within. I could see his leather helmet, the goggles resting upon his forehead, and my heart brimmed with admiration. Slender and unassuming, he spoke very little, but he fought with great talent and valor. Occasionally Shimada’s head tilted slightly from side to side as he surveyed the wait­ing sky. But even those motions, the very line of his shoulders, conveyed precision and vigilance.

The vast reaches of the sky, the water and receding landscape and the waning moon all imparted serenity. I shifted in my seat, glancing back and downward over my left wing at the ocean. Winter would soon be upon us, and once more, gazing toward the distant shores of Honshu, I recalled my walks with Tomika, the fishermen at their nets—bare toes in the sand and the sense of its fading warmth, the sound of their voices and occasional laughter. The laughter of fishermen and their wives was not that of the bars or the crowded streets. It was a part of nature itself, mingling with the sigh and rush of the waves and the cries of sea birds.

Had the war changed all this? Erased it forever? Suddenly I wanted desperately to turn toward Onomichi. I would land on some empty stretch of shore, taking comfort in my very aloneness. The fish shacks would be vacant now, even the nets gone, but I would pause and listen, listen for the last faint strains of haunting laughter.

My earphones crackled, snapping me back to reality. “Enemy, two o’clock low!” I peered anxiously, saw nothing, then shot a glance at our leader. He nodded, pointing downward at an angle with his finger, and my eyes followed. This time I saw them—formation after formation—a tremendous swarm of Grumman Hellcats, and they were headed di­rectly for Hiro!

For a moment I lost my breath. No, this could not be happening; it was an optical allusion, a fantasy. I checked my oxygen mask nervously, and all was in order. But the enemy was still there. Still afar off, though increasingly substantial—an immense swarm, too numerous to count.

Of course, I told myself, we wouldn’t attack, not with only five air­craft. No, that would be sheer lunacy, and fortunately they were appar­ently unaware of us. It would be better, regardless, to perfect our flying skills. Air fights? Later, when we were more experienced. I glanced back off my right wing at Shiro Hashimoto, a recently acquired comrade, caught his eye, and pointed toward the enemy below. Then I opened and closed my hand rapidly. Hashimoto nodded, actually grinned.

And now, to my surprise, Shimada was turning, angling toward them. Automatically, the rest of us responded, following close behind. He was definitely tracking the Hellcats. Could this be possible? Attack? No, I told myself. We were merely observing to determine their intentions.

Nevertheless, I checked my guns. It was always good to check, because one of these days when the odds were better, we’d be using them.

My ears buzzed, and I flinched. Incredible! We were going to attack! What should I do? Already I was forgetting everything I had learned. My mind had gone blank. I was on the verge of panic! Release auxiliary gas tank! Yes, that came first. Otherwise a single bullet could blow me into the next world. Tanks from our four other planes were already tumbling downward, and we were closing fast. Again I adjusted my mask. Again I checked my guns.

What now? Just follow Shimada—no other choice. Yes, just follow Shimada. Do everything he does and it will be all right. Remember how you followed The Mantis? Follow Shimada, only not so close, not so close! Don’t tense up! Don’t freeze. Relax, Kuwahara, relax. Your back is like a gate post. All right. . . better now. Breathe calmly. You can’t fight the enemy if you’re fighting yourself. Shimada’s beginning his dive, so follow. Over you go, Kuwahara, over you go.

Shimada has peeled off, seeming to lift slightly, balancing it seems for a full second on his wing tip, then dropping away with increasing speed, his nose angling toward the enemy. I am following his swiftly vanishing tail, and the Hellcats are in full view, growing larger at every second. At first, just minutes earlier, only toy planes, but now they are actual aircraft, formidable looking fighters, with men inside. Americans!

It is absolutely clear now. We will strike at their rear then fan off rap­idly, hit and run. Too many for anything else. The enemy is still unaware of us. Should I begin firing? No, wait for our leader. Do everything he does. But why doesn’t he shoot? We can shoot now, spray them en masse and drop a dozen or more. Yes, yes! I’m sure we can Nearer. . . nearer. . . rapidly closing. Shimada is opening up! Ripping off short, deadly bursts. . . swift red trails from the tracers, fleeting away with diabolical speed, seeming to arch and curve, heading for the enemy.

The Hellcats are aware of us now. Rolling off, no doubt in their minds. Fire, Kuwahara— fire! I haven’t even squeezed the trigger. Wildly I blaze away. Compulsive, attenuated blasts. . . all consumed by the sky. Then a Hellcat flips crazily, rotating belly up, veering off, angling downward. A remarkable maneuver, but no—he’s hit. I hit him. . . got him!

No, no. . . Shimada has done it. My own tracers are swallowed again and again into an endless void of deepening blue. We flash on past the stricken aircraft, banking and climbing, eager for altitude.

The entire tail of the Hellcat formation has scattered, the rest far ahead. Half a mile or so below, Shimada’s victim is spiraling downward in its death throes, vomiting black smoke, smoke as black as tar. Flames lapping savagely with a kind of awful glee all along the fuselage.

Fascinated, I watched its waning death plunge, gripped simultane­ously by exultation and frustration. I had never known it would be so gratifying to see an enemy destroyed. But why couldn’t I have been the one to do it? Just that one Hellcat when the chance was so perfect. But perfect opportunities, I soon discovered, are rare and very brief, usually only seconds, even for the most skilled. At the time, though, I didn’t even remember having him in my sights. I had just fired away compulsively hoping to score a hit by spraying enough sky.

By now we were fleeing for home, and I caught a gleam of silver from the corner of my eye, above and off my right wing tip about four hundred yards away. Then another and another, flashing and vanish­ing, flashing and vanishing, among the wisps of cloud. Once I glanced down and caught my breath. A short distance below and to my right three Hellcats were keeping pace. I had always supposed that the Haya- busa 2 could outdistance most other aircraft including the enemy’s, but the American fighters were keeping up, and we were going all out, full throttle. Maybe, I thought, they have better fuel, higher octane.

No time then for further reflection. Three more Hellcats—apparent­ly the glints of silver I spotted seconds earlier—had materialized, diving at us head on from a thousand yards above, descending with terrifying speed. Strange ripping sounds within the top of my cockpit, but I failed to comprehend the cause. Holes appearing strangely along the trailing edge of my right wing. Instinctively I glanced to the rear and glimpsed a single enemy plane, closing at three hundred yards—sporadic red lines, tracing the space that separated us, and fleeting past my cockpit.

“Cut right, cut right!” The voice of Shimada just ahead, as he performed a tight, rolling bank. The rest of us followed, and shortly thereafter I was on the tail of an enemy. Another chance, and this time I wouldn’t betray it. I had him in my range finder now and fired off a calculated burst. A bit too high. Two more. . . lengthier but more precise.

The bullets were going home!

It all had a dream-like quality. . . the roaring of my motor, the fierce, staccato thumping of my guns, the whitening sky. . . . But the Grumman was wounded, trailing wisps of smoke. Ramming my plane into a steep climb, I glanced down, following its path, saw the pilot bail out. The chute trailed him, and for an instant I thought it had malfunctioned. Then it popped open, bringing with it recollections of the Mantis that day over the mountains of Fukugawa.

Suddenly I realized that I was no longer with our leader. There was nothing left of our formation, nothing but Americans and a few badly outnumbered Japanese scrambled throughout the clouds. Then, without the slightest warning, I heard the voice of Lieutenant Shimada. “I’m wounded. . . burning. . . going to crash. Save yourselves! Return and report!” Simultaneously, I spotted his plane. It curved across my line of vision just ahead, caught in flame, a virtual fire ball. Then a wild explo­sion as he struck the American Hellcat broadside, and the two planes were plummeting downward in flame and smoke, disintegrating.

Now my own craft was vibrating strangely, coughing and trembling, the prop roar becoming hoarse and gravelly. My head felt light. I was not getting enough oxygen. Tearing off my mask, I dived steeply, saw the ocean’s approach, and glanced at my air speed indicator. It didn’t register, and the wind was screeching through my new bullet holes. I stared at the fuel gauge, and my fears were confirmed. Little left. I’d never make it to Hiro.

For now, however, there was no sign of the enemy. It was as if the destruction had spawned a wind to sweep the heavens clean. Gradu­ally, nervously alert, I gained my bearings and limped onward toward Kyushu. The enemy’s 50-caliber machine guns had created more havoc than I’d realized earlier. Even my compass was gone, but it was impossible to miss Kyushu, one of our four main islands there below the southwestern tip of Honshu.

Twenty minutes or so later, my motor still sputtering at times, gas tank nearly empty, I was nearing the air base at Oita. Still no sign of my companions, and it was impossible to believe that Shimada was gone. I had observed his fiery death close hand, perhaps the only living witness, yet I could not make it register. My mind was numb.

Now the landing strip was in sight, rapidly growing, and I circled, calling in for authorization to land. Moments later, as I made my ap­proach, a warning sounded from below. “This is the control tower: Do not land—your landing gear is not down!” My pulse rate surged. “Repeat—do not land! Your landing gear is not down!

Pulling back on the stick, I began my ascent, circling, I pushed the button again and again. “Your landing gear is not down!” Frantically I searched my instrument panel, knowing that only minutes remained, if that long, until my fuel was gone. Then, groping about beneath the panel, I discovered that the landing gear connecting wires had become separated, perhaps severed by a bullet. Fortunately, it was a simple mat­ter to rejoin the ends, and this time as I pushed the button, my wheels lowered into position.

Within a few seconds I was again making my approach, landing with a slight jolt and screech of rubber, taxiing slowly toward the main hangar. My first air battle was over.

t is New Year’s Day 1945 at Hiro Air Base in western Honshu, and Captain Yoshiro Tsubaki, Commander of the Fourth Fighter Squadron, has just called a special meeting. We have assembled in a mood of intense expectation. . . somberly, even furtively. Silence settles profoundly, accentuated by sporadic gusts of rain against the roof and windows.

We are called to swift, rigid attention as the Captain enters and commands us to be seated. For several seconds he stands before us, arms folded, eyes dark and glittering—unblinking, spearing each man to the heart. Then he speaks, sonorously: “The time, young airmen, has at last arrived. We are faced with a momentous decision.”

Again he pauses, but I feel it coming—the fear, beyond anything I have yet known. Momentarily the rain subsides, then returns with in­creased intensity as he continues. Death is there with us, gray tentacles, sinuous and inexorable, clasping at our throats. “Any of you unwilling to offer your lives as divine sons of the glorious Nippon Empire will not be required to do so.” I hold my breath, feeling my temples throb. “Those incapable of accepting this great honor will raise their hands.”

Once more, the silence is palpable, but the tentacles relax slightly. The rain subsides in a soft drizzle. Then, hesitantly, timorously, a hand goes up. Then another and another. . . five, six in all. Six members of

the Fourth Fighter Squadron have chosen to live. Our captain waits, one eyebrow arched eloquently. The decision is mine: I can choose to live or to die. Has not our captain just said so? Yet somehow. . . of course, of course, I want to live! But my hands remain at my sides trembling. I want to raise them, desperately want to raise them. Even my soul would have me do so, yet they remain at my sides.

“Ah so desu ka1” Captain Tsubaki transfixes those who have responded in his stare. “Most enlightening.” His eyes are devouring. “It is good to know in advance exactly where we stand.” He glances at the floor, nods, purses his lips. Slowly his gaze ascends as though evaluating the structure of the ceiling then returns to the gathering before him. Never, perhaps anywhere, has there been a more attentive audience. “Here, gentlemen,” he continues, appraising those who have responded, “are six men who have openly admitted their disloyalty.” Their faces blanch, turning ashen. For an instant his tone is ironically complacent. “Since they are completely devoid of courage and honor. . . .” He even shrugs but suddenly becomes menacing. “Since they are completely devoid of courage and honor. . . . it becomes my obligation to provide them with some. These men shall become Hiro’s first attack group!”

The breath, held so long within me, escapes almost audibly. I want to inhale, expel more air, obtain relief. But my innards clench, and something sears the inside of my chest like a hot, electric wire. Six of my friends have just been selected as Hiro’s first human bombs.

pon returning to Hiro, I learned that two others of our group had made it to safety. My friend Shiro Hashimoto had been shot down but had survived with a badly shattered leg, A few days later, Oka, Yamamoto, Nakamura, and I visited him at a hospital in Hiroshima and were depressed at what we found. Hashimoto’s leg had been amputated and he had attempted suicide.

Antiseptic odors assailed my nostrils as we entered the room, and I began to wish we had never come. What could we possibly do, even say that would help? Simultaneously, I was strangely fascinated by the scene.

Hashimoto seemed to be a different person, wraith-like there in his white bed. His skin was ashen. Only the burning eyes revealed what was happening inside. The cotton blanket dropped away starkly where his leg should have been. Our greetings were uncertain, trite, somewhat embarrassed. “We brought you some magazines,” I said, humiliated at the triviality of such a gesture.

“Thanks, Kuwahara,” he said,” but I don’t feel like reading anything right now.”

“Well. . .” I replied hesitantly, “maybe we can just leave them for you. . . until you’re feeling better. I mean. . .” I persisted, “I’m sure you’ll be improving in a few days.”

Hashimoto shook his head, gasping a dry laugh. “How do you im­prove when a leg’s been blasted off? Grow a new one?”

I made no reply, and we all simply stood there, wordless and stupid. Yet something had to be said. Why were they leaving it all to me? I was becoming irritated and eventually blundered onward. “We know it’s very hard for you right now,” I said and patted his hand, groping for an intel­ligent thought. “But you have fulfilled your obligation to the Emperor. You are a true samurai, far more than the rest of us. And, from now on you will be able to do as you please, even find a wife and get married.” I knew that last was a mistake even before I said it, but the words had simply tumbled out.

“Oh yes!” Hashimoto rasped. “Wonderful! Maybe I can find a good strong one—one like an ox who can carry a cripple on her back.”

Still, I kept talking. “I know how you feel, but lots of people are be­ing wounded in this great war, and that doesn’t mean they can’t marry. Think of Lieutenant Shimada. He’ll never—”

“Would to God, that I had followed Shimada!” Hashimoto croaked, actually struggling to sit up as if he might attack me. Then he fell back with a moan, closing his eyes, barely breathing, it seemed. “What good am I?” he sighed. I could scarcely hear him. “To anybody?”

Silently cursing myself, I glanced at the others. There was no accu­sation in their own countenances, merely vacuity. Yamamoto shook his head and stared at the floor. Then Oka, with a slight toss of his head, indicated the door. Reluctantly, I started to leave, but turned back for an instant, patting his shoulder. “We’ll see you again soon,” I said, knowing that we might never see him at all. It was too painful.

Just then footsteps sounded in the hallway. A man and a woman entered, obviously Hashimoto’s parents. After we had exchanged intro­ductions, the woman turned to her son without speaking and laid her hand upon his brow. Long delicate fingers, slightly tremulous. “Here,”

Oka volunteered and slid the room’s only chair her way. Thanking him, she sat down and continued to stroke Hashimoto’s forehead.

Again there was silence, and again we were ready to leave, but now the woman was speaking. “Why must people fight? Why must they hate and destroy each other? Why?” Her voice was surprisingly rich and low, filled with incredulity. She was shaking her head now, eyes half closed. “Oh, the senselessness of it all! The stupidity! Why can’t. . . ?” She hesitated, eyes closed for an instant, collecting herself. “Shiro’s father and I did not rear him so that he could lose his leg. Nor did we rear his brother Joji to die in some awful jungle on Guadalcanal.”

Hesitantly I informed her that I had recommended her son for the medal of valor, but that too was a mistake. Obviously the only way to avoid further idiocy was to keep my mouth shut.

For a moment I gazed out the window across Hiroshima. Little did I comprehend how ironic her comments about death and destruction would become in the days ahead and how applicable with respect to that city. At the moment, I devoutly wished that we had never come there, that I could simply vanish.

“I did not mean to hurt your feelings,” she said, “or to appear un­grateful, but there is something I must tell you all before you go. Look at me all of you,” she commanded, and we glanced at her in surprise. “Listen to me carefully, my sons.” Our astonishment increased. Her voice was harsh and dry, almost guttural, yet somehow very appealing, and her eyes possessed a kind of passionate fluidity.

“Your minds are filled with strange ideas,” she continued, “much that is false and malevolent. Ideas about honor and glory, dying with valor. These and many related matters.” Her face was solemn, remark­ably commanding, etched with many lines but also beautiful. Her hair contained a startling streak of white as though it might have been splashed with acid.

“But I advise you to forget such things. Seek only to preserve life— your own and those of others. Life alone is sacred.” Her eyes held us hypnotically. “There is no honor, my sons, in dying for a lost cause.”

I stared at her in disbelief, shot a glance at her husband, expect­ing him to rebuke her. As though reading my thoughts, she eyed him sharply, but he remained silent. “Fathers feel no differently about this than mothers do,” she persisted, “not deep inside.”

Suddenly I recalled with great poignancy how my own father had looked into my eyes months earlier and inquired, “Do you know my heart?”

Shortly afterward we said goodbye, but all the way back to Hiro I kept hearing the words of Hashimoto’s mother: “There is no honor in dying for a lost cause.” A lost cause? An indescribable feeling was set­tling, infusing the very pores of my skin with hopelessness. Throughout the following days those words persisted. The feeling increased, and gradually I became indignant. Who was that woman that she could presume to speak such heresy? A mere woman! And her husband—he must have been a small man. Indeed, a very small man! Obviously, she was in command of that household. She controlled him! Heresy in and of itself.

But my indignation often left me as rapidly as it had come. Always the cold and frightened feeling returned, increasing. I had not seen much of Tatsuno the past few weeks. Both of us, of course, were heavily involved in our military duties, but gradually I came to realize that he made me uncomfortable in much the same way Hashimoto’s mother had. What had he said during our last actual visit? Something about the secret. Yes, what was the secret? What were we waiting for?

I had no answer, none at least that I could accept emotionally. Surely the words of Hashimoto’s mother and Tatsuno did not reflect the attitude of our people in general. And yet. . . I could not deny it. The disillusion­ment was growing, and at last I began to face the facts.

Japan had been driven back three thousand miles across the Pacific. MacArthur had returned to the Philippines, entering Luzon and van­quishing our forces at Leyte Gulf. This I had learned through the winds of military rumor, but the winds had now attained gale force. Although I did not realize it initially, that loss had virtually eliminated Japan as a naval power. Even then, however, I knew that it had exerted a serious impact on troop morale. For many months the Americans had taken very few captives, but now we were surrendering in substantial numbers.

Of course, there was Kamikaze. The suicide attacks had increased on a grand scale, and from all that we could learn they had been highly ef­fective. For a time, in fact, they had fanned the flames of hope, yet still. .

. would Kamikaze actually stop the enemy? If so, it would require far more human bombs. Colonel Okamura’s estimate that three hundred suicide planes could alter the war in our favor was obviously much too small.

Nevertheless, a part of me clung to the fraying branches of hope. If a “Divine Wind” had saved our country once when her plight was just as desperate, why not again? Was not the Imperial Way the right way after all? The best way, ultimately, for the world? Was not Japan divinely destined for leadership? If indeed there were a God—one of truth, reason, and justice—was it not only right, but also eminently logical that he should come to our rescue? Possibly our present trials were the final test, one of our courage and worthiness. So maybe, just when our plight looked the most bleak, as night was closing in, our circumstances would improve.

But how many human bombs would it require? Many of our men were still willing to lay down their lives. To many, in fact, it was no sacrifice. To some, honor and duty were, in very deed, heavier than the mountains, death lighter than a feather.

In any event, the Divine Wind was steadily mounting, and as it increased more and more of us would be drawn into it. Only a matter of time, only a matter of time. The clouds were darkening above Hiro. The first gusts were coming.