Category KAMIKAZE

n New Year’s day 1945, fighter pilots from Hiro’s Fourth Squadron held a testimonial ceremony for those of our number who had died. Captain Yoshiro Tusbaki, the squadron commander, de­livered an impassioned speech declaring our moral obligation to avenge those deaths. And later we visited Hiro’s military shrine. Not many had died yet from Hiro. In fact, all my close friends were still with me. There was one name, however, that I will never forget, that of Lieutenant Jiro Shimada who had died and taken an enemy with him in my first air battle. For a long time I gazed at his name plate there on the base of the shrine. One of the fallen valiant.

Again I saw his plane like a flaming meteor, the crashing and bil­lowing explosion. . . the two aircraft, fused as one then decimated. . . the blackened, smoking fragments dropping toward the water. Japanese and American, united even in the midst of their disintegration. Falling, falling, falling down and away. “No more New Years for you, Lieuten­ant Shimada.” The words were not spoken, mere pulsations in my mind. “You have fulfilled your obligation to the Emperor.” Then, very slowly, I turned and walked away.

What sad attempts we made, our words of “Happy New Year” fall­ing like frozen clods to the earth. No doubt all of us were thinking of New Year’s Day at home somewhere in the dreamscape of the past. I recalled with a sudden twinge of nostalgia how Tomika and I had run through out home on that same day years before, jubilantly scattering beans about to drive out the evil spirits.

The spirit that entered Hiro that New Years afternoon in 1945, however, could not be driven out by scattering beans, even by the shed­ding of blood. It was then that Captain Tusbaki called a meeting unlike anything I had experienced before or since.

It was then that Hiro’s first Kamikaze were appointed. “Those of you unwilling to lay down your lives as divine sons of the great Nippon Empire will not be required to do so.” Such had been his words, his promise. Then. . . the ultimate, dramatic pause. His eyes like burning cinders. “Those incapable of accepting this honor will raise their hands now!”

Ah yes, to be a suicide pilot, a Kamikaze. That would be the honor of honors. Had not everyone said so? But six men had raised their hands during that meeting in response to the Captain’s promise of exemption, men I knew well. Afraid enough, or perhaps brave enough, to admit what most of us secretly felt.

They had chosen life and been given death, a dubious honor.

A few months earlier, men at other bases had volunteered with ap­parent alacrity. Now, it would seem, many had to be compelled, even tricked! Stern evidence that Kamikaze was already considered a failure, a futile death, by ever-growing numbers. Daily the Allies were becoming stronger. There was no denying it now. Moving ever closer, with more men, more ships, more aircraft. The B-29 Superfortresses, ominous grumbling monstrosities that they were, had begun to clot the heavens, leaving swaths of fire and destruction. The American naval forces were closing in a terrible juggernaut.

How I hated to admit it, fought against the very idea, but it would not be denied. Japan was losing fast. How long, I wondered, would our people be able to hide behind a crumbling facade of propaganda? How much longer could anyone remain in denial? Six at Hiro had refused to, and now, ironically, would forfeit their lives in consequence. Early in January, only days after our meeting, they left Hiro for suicide training.

Periodically from then on, men were selected from my squadron and trans­ferred to Kyushu for their final preparations, never to be heard of again.

For nearly a year now we had been carefully conditioned to accept the inevitability and glory of death in battle. For thousands, actually; it was a part of our historic philosophy. But now, suddenly, the tentacles were reaching out, relentlessly taking and taking. With each departure our sense of doom expanded. Sometimes it was a leaden feeling in the gut, sometimes a clotting in the throat. Increasingly it was both, often accompanied by waves of sadness, nascent tears and a kind of crying of the heart.

On the other hand, I had come through several air battles now with a second enemy plane to my credit, and that had at least increased my confidence as a fighter pilot. Flying over the inlet between Kure and Tokuyama, six of us had jumped two American fighters, and it had been surprisingly easy. Approximately one thousand feet above them, we veered off, diving at terrific speed and struck from the rear, almost before they were aware of our existence. All six of us opening up simul­taneously with cannons and machine guns.

The nearest American virtually disintegrated under our combined onslaught and went down in a sheet of flame. The second attempted to escape, performing a sharp bank to throw us off, but two of us had anticipated the move, and within seconds I had him in my range finder. It was almost that simple. Three or four fierce bursts, and he folded, plummeting downward in a smoking tail spin. How different from my first encounter with the enemy. I almost felt cheated.

So, I was becoming a capable pilot rather quickly, as also was Na­kamura with one plane to his own credit. Yet no matter how skilled we might be, no matter how many adversaries we might vanquish, the sup­ply seemed unlimited. Indeed, relentlessly, growing, almost fiendishly. Doom was omnipresent like an oncoming tidal wave. Only one hope for survival now, a tenuous wisp which I scarcely dared contemplate. The merest acknowledgement, in fact, spelled disloyalty if not cowardice. It was February 1945, and the enemy was attacking Iwo Jima, just over 650 miles from our capital, so perhaps the war would end before long. Most of us, I suspect, prayed for this. N ot directly, perhaps, for the defeat of our country but rather for a cessation to hostilities. Truly a strange

and paradoxical form of denial. Many of our civilians still had faith that Japan would prevail, but we who lived within the inferno had to be either naive, fanatical, or both to expect triumph now.

Within only a few weeks my conviction regarding Japan’s impend­ing fate had become a kind of groundswell. And gradually, my fears of compromising myself began to evaporate. Now that surrender was only a matter of time, irrevocable, I was praying for it with increasing fervor and frequency. It had become the classic race against the calendar, perhaps even the clock, and ironically only the enemy could save us.

Some of us at least had greater hope than others. Most of our fliers at Hiro were inexperienced, and already I was among those ranked as top pilots. Such men would be preserved as long as possible to provide base protection and fighter escort for suicide missions into the Pacific. We would return and report in detail upon their success.

Consequently, our poorest pilots died first, causing the enemy to conclude, initially at least, that there were no skillful Kamikaze. In the words of American Admiral Marc Mitscher: “One thing is certain: there are no experienced Kamikaze pilots.”

Regularly at this point, orders from the Daihonei in Tokyo were sent to key air installations throughout the four main islands, specifying how many pilots each base would contribute at any given time. These larger installations, in turn, drew men from bases within their jurisdic­tion. The one at Hiroshima, for example, drew from nearby Hiro, our own base, also from Kure, and Yokoshima—all on the main Island of Honshu. Men were then committed to special suicide bases including Kagoshima, the largest, on the southern inlet of Kyushu.

In general Kamikaze attacks were mounted in waves of fifteen or twenty planes at thirty-minute intervals. Some of those pilots were al­legedly sealed or locked into their cockpits, but I never witnessed such things. Nor, in my opinion, was there any reason for it. Once it all began, there was no turning back except for a rare few who returned, having been unable to find the enemy. Frequently, in fact, our Kamikaze actually opened their cockpits and signaled with flags or scarves upon sighting the first American ships—a final show of bravado, a last gesture to boost one’s courage before the plunge into oblivion.

No one living will ever comprehend the feelings of those men who covenanted with death. Not even condemned murders, not fully. The murderer is atoning for the ultimate crime against god and humanity; justice is meted out. Of course, men throughout the world have died for their countries, sometimes knowing in advance that death was inevi­table. But where, before or since, has there ever been such massive and premeditated self destruction as occurred with the Kamikaze? Where have thousands of men diligently set about their own annihilation, training methodically, relentlessly, mulling over all the details for weeks, sometimes months?

Neither the Shintoistic concept of a post-mortal existence as a guard­ian warrior in the spirit realms nor the Buddhistic doctrine of nirvana has always provided solace. The “mad, fanatic Jap” was often a mere school boy, snared in the great skein of fate, not above weeping for the arms of his mother in many cases.

Not that there weren’t fanatical Japanese fighters. Some wanted nothing but to die gloriously, to honor the Emperor, to gain revenge. Even the subdued, bespectacled student, browsing through some Tokyo library, might be molded by circumstances into a flaming soul dedicated to death. And there were some who seemed to approach the end as though it were only a morning stroll.

In general, however, we pilots moved along two broad paths. The Kichigai (madmen) were fierce in their hatred, seeking honor and im­mortality, living for only one purpose—to die. Many of these came from the navy air force which contributed a far greater number of Kamikaze.

As time passed, I personally allied myself more closely with a sec­ond group whose sentiments were basically the opposite though rarely expressed openly. These men, mainly the better educated, were referred to as Sukebei (libertines) by the Kichigai. I should stress, however, that the Sukebei were not unpatriotic, not, at least, in their own view. I would die for my country today if necessary, as I would have died then. But life was decidedly dearer to us. We saw no purpose in death for death’s sake alone, and at times now our country’s fate welled ominously like the seething crater of a volcano as viewed through endlessly shifting vapors.

Certainly, also, there was a middle ground, and each man’s at­titude fluctuated to some extent from hour to hour. There were times when I longed for revenge. Or when I considered that by destroying an

American ship I might save many of my people. . . then my own life seemed insignificant.

How often I had struggled for a certain attitude toward death—a special, indescribable feeling of acceptance. What was it that made men unafraid? Was it courage? What was courage? “We are expendable!” That was the cry. “Be resolved that honor is heavier than the mountains and death lighter than a feather.” Countless times I had repeated those words, repeated them obsessively. With some men that conviction seems to have been innate. With me it was ephemeral; I was always fighting to re-kindle the flame.

All of my friends were still with me, Tatsuno now a fighter pilot. Ah, to be a fighter pilot, to be with my friends against the enemy. That had always been my dream. But it was a tattered and fading dream already. Some of us were bound to make our final, one-way trip soon, no matter how good we were. Who would be first?

Daily I went through our routine suicide practice. Methodically I performed each dive— with absolute precision now, near perfection, but little satisfaction. Mechanically I performed the exercise, begin­ning with a leaden feeling in the stomach that swelled throughout my throat, expanding into dread. More than once the words came: “Go on, go on! Don’t stop! Crash! It will all be over in an instant. No more fear, no more waiting, no more sorrow.” And always I would pull out, calling myself a coward.

In addition, there were the occasional air battles, most of them only quick scraps or sorties, in which we struck swiftly and fled. Invariably, the enemy outnumbered us, and our lives were now dedicated to some­thing more vital than a mere air skirmish. Japan was like a man dying in the desert with little water left. The remaining drops had to be used sparingly, saved for the hours when the sun would burn its fiercest.

As the months faded, Japan began to reel, losing her grip on eastern China. The heart of Tokyo had been demolished, and our entire home­land was being ravaged. Millions of tons of our merchant shipping had been sunk, and by the Emperor’s birthday in April of 1945, the enemy was assaulting Okinawa, Japan’s very doorway.

It was a crucial time. Premier Suzuki had told the Japanese cabinet, “Our hopes to win the war are anchored solely in the fighting on Oki­nawa. The fate of the nation and its people depends on the outcome.” Okinawa fell. Eighty-one days of violent battle.

The months squirmed by, and one day in May it happened—Oka and Yamamoto. I had returned from a flight over Shikoku and heard the news. I hadn’t seen either of them for two or three days because we had been flying different shifts on reconnaissance. And now it had come, what I had been fearing all along but never fully accepted. The orders had been issued suddenly, and my friends and been transferred within the hour to Kagoshima. Oka and Yamamoto, gone! I could not believe it and rushed to their barracks. Surely they could not have been swept away so quickly!

The door creaked as I entered, and I gazed down the long line of cots. The bedding was gone from two of them, the thin, worn mattresses rolled, leaving only the barren springs. There was something ghastly about those beds; the naked springs cried out. I opened their empty lockers and heard their hollow clang, a death knell.

Dazed, I slumped down on one of the empty cots, feeling it sag. It was as if Oka and Yamamoto had been carried off by a sudden gale. How could such a thing have happened? No time, no notice, but of course it was probably best that way. I sat there alone, and for a while there was nothing but silence, not even the sound of motors. For several minutes I stared at the floor, on through it. Saw nothing, felt nothing. It was too much to comprehend. The place was a void.

No telling how long I sat there, insensible. Eventually I actually dozed for a moment then startled awake as a hand rested on my shoul­der. Nakamura. I hadn’t even heard him enter. Without speaking, we looked at each other. Someone was with him. Tatsuno. I extended my own hand uncertainly, and he gripped it.

“You know,” I managed at last, my throat parched. “I had the strangest feeling sitting here. It was as if. . .” My voice cracked. “It was just as if everybody had left. This whole base empty—nobody, nobody anywhere. It was crazy! Have you ever had that kind of feeling?”

“They said to tell you sayonara, Yasbei,” Nakamura said. (My friends were often calling me after the samurai now.) “Still joking, even when they got into the truck.” Nakamura gave a strange laugh. “You know

what Oka said—his last words? He said, ‘You and Yasbei take good care of all our girls in Hiro!’”

I also laughed if only because of the release it provided. Neither of us, or Tatsuno for that matter, ever went to Hiro or the nearby cities. We rarely drank and knew little of the city women with whom our ex – trovertish friends had consorted.

For an instant I recalled my times with our two departed, remem­bering how we became well acquainted that winter night so long ago when I’d found the warm shower. They had been joking then and never stopped. Even in combat they joked, two of a kind, always together. Ironically they would die together, perhaps already had.

“But why did they go so soon? Good pilots, both of them!” I asked.

“Yes, pretty good,” Nakamura replied, “but lone wolves, maybe a little erratic. The days of the lone wolves are gone.”

“I know, Nakamura,” I said, “but look at some of the other pilots in this squadron—not half as good, not half as good!”

“Maybe they’re putting the names in a hat now,” Tatsuno suggested. “That way it’s more entertaining. That way, you don’t know whether it will come in five minutes or five months.”

“Let’s get out of here,” I said. “Take a walk—anything.”

pon my return there was much festivity at the Onomichi Train Station. Teachers, students, close friends—all were there to congratulate the new champion. In addition, my family held a celebration and sumptuous dinner in my honor.

A few days later, however, my achievement was almost forgotten. Glider training continued, but for the first time in many months life had lost its vitality. I drifted rudderless upon aimless waters, steadily growing more restless.

In the evenings after training I wandered home with my friends, watching the sun settle beyond the mountains, a red cauldron turning the ocean westward to molten steel. Sunset was a special time—a time to have finished the hot bath, to have donned theyukata, a light-weight, casual kimono, to slide the windows open and gaze meditatively, or to sit in one’s garden contemplating the filigreed silhouette of a mulberry tree against the horizon, to savor introspection in the steam rising from a cup of ocha.

Such traditions afforded a tentative kind of relaxation and comfort, but they did not relieve my lethargy. Nor did they assuage our growing

uneasiness regarding the war. By now Guadalcanal had been lost to the Americans, and doubts had begun to form. Very subtly at first like early winter mists among the pines on our hillside, but gradually they swirled and swelled till even the rising sun could not dispel them.

We who were young spoke of the war more enthusiastically than many of our elders. My friend Tatsuno’s brother in the Navy Air Force had shot down an American plane, and many evenings such matters dominated our conversation as we strolled the road from school.

Young though he was, small and almost frail, Tatsuno Uchida re­flected a special intensity in the way he observed the sky and spoke of his brother. At times, when planes passed over, he shook his head saying, fervently, “I know Kenji will become an ace. He will bring honor to our country and to the Emperor.” And of course, I always agreed. It was comforting to realize that our pilots were innately superior to the enemy, more courageous, bearers of a proud tradition, that they flew better aircraft. Did not our teachers and parents, our radios and newspapers assure us of these facts each day?

One of those evenings shortly after my return from school, a stranger appeared at our front door, and I heard his introduction clearly: “I am Captain Hiroyoshi Mikami of the Imperial Army Air Force.” Moments later he had removed his shoes and crossed our threshold. Having es­corted him to our western-style reception room, our maid Reiko padded quickly off to inform my father.

My father, a well-known contractor and most affluent man in On- omichi, continued his leisurely bath and directed my mother to entertain our new visitor. Later he emerged to extend the formalities of introduc­tion while mother retired to supervise the maid’s preparation of ban no

shokuji, our evening meal.

Meanwhile, I hovered furtively outside the guest room, certain that the visit signalled something highly portentous, listening nervously while my father and the captain exchanged the customary pleasantries, politely discussing the irrelevant, punctuating their sentences with a soft and courteous sibilance.

“Winter is at last upon us,” the captain observed.

“Indeed, that is so,” my father replied and slurped his ocha in a well bred manner.

After they had conversed at length on matters of little significance, it was time for our meal. Mother had planned sukiyaki, and the captain had, of course, been invited to dine with us.

As we sat upon our cushions surrounding the low, circular dinner table, the maid bustled attentively back and forth while Tomika, my sister, probed at the glowing coals with a slender pair of prongs. Mother, arranging and sugaring the beef slices with great care, half whispered, “Where is the shoyu” and Reiko hastened to the kitchen conveying much humility and murmuring plaintive, little apologies for her dereliction.

At times I peered at Captain Mikami, very covertly, always avert­ing my gaze whenever his eyes fell upon me, eyes that reminded me of chipped obsidian. Penetrating, unnerving.

Throughout our meal only the two men conversed, the rest of us merely conveying our existence by faint, careful smiles and slight, courteous head bows whenever their remarks drifted our direction. In addition, however, I sensed an unusual atmosphere of restraint, of ap­prehension—especially on the part of my mother and sister Tomika. All of which only magnified my own.

Father and the captain spoke tediously about many things, and little of what was said held my attention excepting their comments upon the war, especially regarding the condition of Iwo Jima, Okinawa, and other key islands. Speaking of Guadalcanal. My father reiterated the firmly entrenched conviction of many others at the time: that the departure of our troops from that area had not been a retreat but rather a “strategic withdrawal.” Most assuredly, it was not an enemy triumph!

Mikami strongly confirmed this view, discussing the great valor of our military men and their leaders at some length. As for the increased bombing of our homeland, he emphasized another common belief: our noble militarists had actually known from the onset that this would hap­pen. Consequently, there was no need for dismay. Such an eventuality had been taken into account long before our assault on Pearl Harbor. Inevitable, yes, but we were prepared materially, in mind and spirit as well, for any form of retaliation to which the enemy might resort. Ulti­mately, unquestionably, our divinely ordained empire would triumph. The only alternative was unthinkable.

At last our dinner was over and I was invited to join the two men in our guest room. There, at last, our visitor’s courteous evasion yielded to military directness. For a moment his dark eyes searched mine. Then, turning to my father, he said, “Kuwahara-san, you have an honorable son.” I felt a sudden surge of pride. “Your son has already gained acclaim that few people his age, if any, have ever achieved.”

Father bowed slightly in humility and assent. “Domo arigato.”

“He is one of whom his esteemed father and our noble empire can be proud.” Again, I received his glance. “Indeed, he can bring great honor to the family of Kuwahara.” Something began to ferment inside me, a sensation much like that which I had felt at the onset of my national glider competition. I gazed at the tatami in great humility.

“So desu ka,” my father replied, attenuating the first word gutturally, feigning profound wonderment and modesty. Again the bow, one more pronounced than the first. “Domo arigato gozai mashita” he added quietly, expressing his thanks and acknowledgement in the fullest, most formal fashion.

“Our gracious and esteemed Emperor and our honorable leaders at the Daihonei,” Captain Mikami continued, referring to the Imperial Military Headquarters in Tokyo, “are seeking such young men, as you must know, young men with allegiance to His Imperial Majesty, with talent and devotion to their country. . . men who will fly like avenging eagles against the enemy.”

For an instant my glance flicked from the straw tatami at my feet to my father. His eyes contained a gleam I had never seen before, and he nodded. “Indeed that is so. It is good that we have such men, and the time has arrived for us to strike with our might—with great power like the winds from heaven.”

“Hai!” The captain concurred with marked force and abruptness then paused solemnly. “As you may have supposed, I am here at your most gracious and hospitable domicile as a special representative of The Imperial Army Air Force.”

Beaming once more with carefully calculated surprise, my father again replied, “Ah so desu ka!”

Throughout the conversation, Captain Mikami directed very few remarks at me personally, but I felt my insides begin to burn as he spoke of enlistment requirements for the Air Force and the various schools available depending upon one’s performance and qualifications.

During those moments, it was impossible to assess my own feelings. Ever since the war’s onset I had contemplated joining the Air Force. How many hours, days and nights, had I dreamed of becoming a fighter pilot, one of consummate skill and daring who knew no equal! How often had I envisioned myself plummeting from a golden sky to destroy and demoralize our hated American enemies! How many heroic air battles had Tatsuno and I conjured up together, battles wherein we inevitably sent our adversaries to a fiery death in the ocean! The sky, the water, the land—all waiting beneficently to help assure triumph.

But here now was reality, and in its abruptness my heart faltered. I had sensed my mother’s growing uneasiness all during our dinner, Tomika’s as well, and now I felt a great foreboding. It flowed over me like an icy wind.

Suddenly I realized that the captain was addressing me personally. My heart jolted. “So now, what are your feelings regarding this mat­ter?” He waited, and I struggled to speak, faltered. . . and failed. For a moment I nearly gagged. Both men watched me intently, but I could not force out a single word.

“Take a few minutes to consider” Captain Mikami said at last. “I will wait.” His tone was stern.

A few minutes! Suddenly I felt ill. Running my hands over my face and hair, I felt the sweat on my palms, felt more strongly my father’s vexation and humiliation. The room had become stifling. Smiling wanly, I mumbled, “Please excuse me. I will go get a drink of water.” It was a feeble response, and my face was burning as I left the room. A part of me had wanted to assure the captain that I needed no time to consider such a request. No real man would waver, feel his throat freeze and experience such coldness of soul. In the tradition of bushido, the samurai code of valor and chivalry, he would celebrate the glory of death, say­ing, “I rejoice in the opportunity to die for my country. It fills me with intense humility to have been so honored by my Emperor.” But I was more boy than man. I wanted my mother.

Swiftly I went to her room only to find it empty. Softly I called her name but received no answer. Thinking that perhaps she was sitting out­side in the cold by our garden, I slipped into the night and called again. A full moon was rising above the bearded hillside, its light flooding over the top of our garden wall in a silvery glow. Beyond, through the trellised gateway, the road was still in shadow, stretching away in darkness and mystery, flecked by the distant orange glow of a lantern. The night was cold and expectant as though awaiting snow, utterly silent.

Glancing upward, I saw a light in an upstairs window and quickly entered the house, ascending the steep stairway. There in my room, seated cross-legged on the futon, was Tomika. My photo album was opened in her lap, and she was examining it with marked intensity. “Where is Mother?” I asked.

She glanced up, eyes glistening. “Mother has gone out,” she replied, “for a walk.”

Curiously I gazed at her, momentarily forgetting the urgency of my situation. “Tomika, what’s the matter?” Gently I reached down and touched her lustrous, black hair. “Is something wrong?” Simultaneously I realized that she had opened my album to the photo taken when I won the glider championship—my own face warmed in a smile of triumph. Then a tiny tear drop spattered directly across that smile.

Whenever my sister cried, her round, rather moon-like countenance was transformed into something ethereal. “Tomika,” I half whispered. “What’s the matter? Why are you crying?” I sat down beside her, awk­wardly placing my arm around her shoulders.

“Tomika?”

Thrusting the album aside, she seized my free hand, squeezing it almost painfully. Her gaze gradually lifted to meet my own, and she began shaking her head. “My little brother. . . my little brother.”

Something in my throat pained sharply, becoming very dry and large. It was as if a thumb were pressing against my windpipe. “Tomika,” I choked, “what can I do?” Suddenly I clapped my hands over my face, inhaling deeply. That way the tears wouldn’t come so easily.

Then her arms were around me, her cheek against mine. “No, no, no,” she repeated. “Not my little brother. They can’t have you—you’re only a baby!”

The final words jolted me, and I thought of my friends, especially Tatsuno. What would they think of me? Such a craven, maudlin dis­play! Worse still, I thought of the captain and my father downstairs, waiting—most impatiently, my father suffering much loss of face. Both doubtless convinced by now that I was a sniveling coward.

“I’m hardly a baby Tomika” I replied angrily.

She sought to pull me closer, but I thrust myself free. A baby! For an instant I hated her. “I’m not a baby, Tomika—I’m a man! I’m fifteen years old! How can you call me a baby when I am the greatest glider pilot in Japan?”

“I. . . I didn’t mean it that way,” she murmured.

“Don’t you realize, Tomika, that tonight I am being greatly hon­ored—by the Emperor himself?”

“Yes,” she replied softly, “I know that very well. You will even die for the Emperor.” Then we were weeping together.

Moments later I broke free, totally demoralized. Scarcely realizing what I was doing, I stumbled downstairs to the bathroom sink and began dousing my face and neck in cold water. When I looked at my eyes in the mirror they were bloodshot, my entire countenance weak and distressed. Horrified, I doused my face again, then gently patted it dry with a towel.

In a near agony of embarrassment, I returned to my father and the captain. As I entered the room, their gazes seemed to combine, apprais­ing me sternly, fixedly, in utter silence. I forced a frozen smile, struggling to speak. Captain Mikami’s stare was unwavering.

Again, I struggled, faltering. It was as if I were on the brink of an abyss, hemmed in by countless enemies, knowing that there was no alternative but to jump or be hurled head-long.

“Well, my son?” Father said.

Bowing to the captain, I stammered. “I must apologize for. . . for such extreme inconvenience. I wanted to inform my mother of this extraordinary honor.” I groped for the words. “But, apparently she has gone somewhere.” No response from either of them, merely their combined, unrelenting stare.

“Please forgive me for this extreme inconvenience. . .” I struggled onward, ashamed that I was repeating myself, but finally the words came with more fluency and conviction. “I am greatly honored to accept your splendid and generous offer in behalf of our glorious Emperor.”

A muscle to one side of my father’s mouth twitched slightly, but I could see the relief in his eyes, in the very expansion and coloration of his pupils.

The captain gave a quick nod, face still expressionless. “That is good,” he said.

Immediately I felt a profound sense of relief. I had not betrayed my fa­ther, after all. Nor had I betrayed my country. Without further comment, Captain Mikami opened a leather case, producing the enlistment forms. “Please read these,” he said and laid them before us on the table.

“Hai!” Father spoke quietly, expelling the word in an abrupt little explosion, and began to scrutinize the document with great care. I tried to do so as well, but for some reason the words would not focus.

At length Father glanced up. “Do you find the terms satisfactory?” the captain inquired.

“Hai!” Father nodded.

“Very good,” the captain said. “So you will kindly sign here.” He pointed with a slender, tan finger. “Your son will sign there.” Father arose to obtain his personal, wooden stamp, returned and pressed it against his ink pad, then firmly in the spot designated, an indelible, orange oval with its special markings against the stark white of the document: “Kuwahara, Zenji.” Then I signed my own beneath it: Kuwahara, Ya – suo. And there they were—our signatures—indelible and irrevocable. The formalities were over, and there was no turning back, nor in reality had there been from the moment Captain Mikami appeared some two hours earlier.

“Hiro Air Base—desu ka?” Father noted.

Captain Mikami gave a single downward nod. “Hiro, yes.” For an instant he actually smiled. “He will be close to home—only fifty miles away. He will enjoy his days at Hiro immensely and receive a splendid education.” I had not even comprehended enough of the document to note my place of assignment, but it was comforting to realize that throughout my training I would be close to my family.

Now, however, it was time for the Captain to leave. “You have made a wise decision,” he said as we accompanied him to the door. Seconds later

we were bowing, exchanging sayonara, and he vanished into the night.

For some time afterward my father and I sat together, gazing out our window at the surrounding hills and moon-washed sky. Father had been a lieutenant in the army years before and related some experiences from his days in China that I had never heard before.

Shigeru, one of my older brothers, was with the Army Counter Intel­ligence in Java, while the other, Toshifumi, was a dentist in Tokyo and had not yet been inducted. “It is very good to have worthy sons in the service of their nation and family,” Father told me. “And you, Yasuo, will bring the greatest honor of all.”

“Domo arigato,” I replied, feeling very humble and surprised. A trans­port plane was crossing the sky, lights blinking from its wing tips, the alternations of red and green making it appear to move strangely along its course in immense skating motions. We continued to watch, listening, as its light and sound gradually faded into the distance. “A few months from now you will undoubtedly be flying a plane of your own,” my father observed and actually placed his hand on my shoulder.

“I hope so,” I replied.

“But not one like that.” His tone was commanding.

“No, not one like that. I have always wanted to become a fighter pilot.”

Father nodded vigorously. His hand gripped my shoulder. “Most defi­nitely!” He squinted one eye as though sighting in on a star and continued to nod his affirmation. “Yes, a fighter pilot. . . .” he mused at length. “I always wanted to be one myself, even though that form of warfare was very primitive back then. “There is something unique about a fighter pilot. Even the pilots of our fine new bombers—like the Suesei—cannot compare. A fighter pilot is the samurai of modern times. His aircraft is his sword; it ultimately becomes his soul.” The very thought made my scalp tingle.

“The fighter pilot must work with others as part of a team,” Father continued, “but he also has the best chance of becoming an individualist. He can do more for our Emperor than a thousand foot soldiers. With cour­age he can gain great honor, perhaps more than anyone in the military. And you do have courage, Yasuo, my son.” Again his hand gripped my shoulder.

“I hope so,” I replied.

“You do have courage! You have courage!” This time his hand liter­ally hurt. “The family of Kuwahara has always had courage. No one has more noble ancestors!”

“That is so,” I acknowledged, and glanced at his profile from the corner of my eye: a strong chin tilting slightly upward, a nose a bit like the beak of a falcon, eyes that seemed to glow from the moon.

“You will defend your home and country,” he assured me, “and you will see the day when the Western Powers are driven back in great ignominy across the Pacific. In time The Imperial Way will sweep like a mighty tide across that land. They will suffer a resounding defeat, and you will play your part in that defeat.” An inspiring thought, but one that also taxed my faith. I was, after all, only fifteen, a boy who an hour earlier had wept like a girl in the arms of his sister. The thought made me cringe.

“It may take many months,” I said hesitantly. “The West has large armies and navies, many aircraft.”

“That is true,” Father admitted a bit irritably. It will not be accom­plished overnight, but you must always remember, Yasuo, that physical size and material might are secondary. It is the great determination and valor of Yamato damashii, the spirit of the samurai, that will prevail in the end.” I nodded, buoyed up by the power of his conviction.

“Consider, for example, the thousands of Americans we have already taken prisoner,” he persisted. “Thousands of them!” Turning, he stared directly into my eyes. “But how many of our men have surrendered to the Americans?”

How proud I was to have my father converse with me in this man­ner. How honored! Almost as though we were equals. “Very few,” I replied.

“That is correct. A mere handful! You see?” His chin jutted imperi­ously, lips forming a sneer. “The Americans lose a few men and they become terrified, utterly demoralized and surrender. Our prison camps are fairly bursting with cowardly, pitiful Americans.” He shrugged. “Of course, a few of them are brave. It is foolish to underestimate the enemy.” I nodded, attending to his every word, the slightest nuance. “But look at it this way. Suppose for a moment that one hundred American infantry men were pitted against a much larger force of our own men on a small island. How many of those Americans would have to be killed before the rest would surrender?”

“Not more than ten, I would guess.”

Father shook his head reluctantly. “Well, it would probably take more than that in most cases—possibly twenty-five or even thirty.” He paused, squinted, angling a reflective glance at the moon. It had risen considerably, changing from celestial white to a faint yellow. “On the other hand, supposing the situation were reversed. . . . How many of our own men would have to die before the rest surrendered?”

“They would never surrender!” I exclaimed, surprised at my on certitude.

“So you see?” Father replied triumphantly. Our only men ever taken captive are those who have been wounded so severely they cannot defend themselves—or those unconscious from loss of blood. Therefore, as I have explained, it is not merely a matter of physical and material strength. It is a matter of courage, determination, of spiritual strength! It is for this reason thatJapan will prevail, thatJapan will triumph.” Again the pause. Again, his gaze absorbed my own. “Do you understand, my son?”

In response, I nodded, half bowed. “Yes, my father, I understand.”

t times even now the terror of Kamikaze fluctuated, even seemed to fade. After all, we reminded ourselves, there were many ways one could die. The bombs were coming often now, and we were learning what it was like to scramble like rats for our holes. Some­times the enemy would sneak through our radar screens, and the alarms would scream providing little or no warning. Now we knew what it was to feel the ground shudder with explosions, to cower in dust-choked craters, while the slower men were often blown apart. Once I had seen two laborers running, frantically, the bombs dropping directly on top of them. I closed my eyes then opened them. Nothing remained but new craters.

Regularly now our hangars and assembly plant were being strafed and dive-bombed by Hellcats, P-51 Mustangs, and light bombers. Then one fatal day in June an immense flight of B-29’s pulverized Hiro and nearby Kure Navy Port. The warning had sounded thirty minutes be­forehand, and because of their numbers, every available pilot had taken

off to preserve our remaining aircraft. But after that bombing there was virtually nothing left of Hiro, no base to which we could return. Consequently, we had to make the long and sorrowful flight to Oita Air Base in northeastern Kyushu.

It was there that I became a suicide escort. Today very few of us remain—the only ones who can testify to what happened out there with the American ships in the Pacific, who can describe how the doomed pilots acted and probably felt at the final moment.

Life at this base became increasingly grim, yet even so it was fascinat­ing to note individual reactions. The punishment of earlier days was over. Tested and proved, we were among the elite ofNippon’s fighting airmen. As such, we were given extra money and told to enjoy ourselves during off-hours. Men who had rarely touched liquor took to heavy drinking, and many who had never even kissed a woman joined the lines at the prostitute’s door—ten minutes a turn.

Women and drink had long been considered vices as far as fighter pilots were concerned-not exactly immoral as some other cultures might view it, but wrong because pilots had a duty to perform, a monumental obligation which nothing should hinder. The Imperial Rescript itself contained stern warnings about succumbing to creature comforts and self indulgence. In our own case, however, greater license was granted. We were the men with numbered days, and everywhere the sense of finality was growing. People who would have condemned others for such actions now said nothing. Life was short, and the airmen, especially fighter pilots, were highly esteemed, almost idolized by most of the public.

To some, religion and the pure life became all the more meaningful, and several of us hiked into the nearby mountains to feel the caress of nature, to escape, to meditate. Occasionally Nakamura, Tatsuno and I went together as comrades, trying to cast aside the grimmer aspects of life as completely as possible. On one occasion, we sat together and reflected upon life rather profoundly for people our age. Tatsuno was the real philosopher, though, always probing deeper into the mysteries of existence than most people do. Despite all he had seen of death and sorrow, Tatsuno believed that life had a purpose, that it was the ultimate school of schools, that even the most terrible physical pain or mental anguish, had a place in the eternal scheme.

Once the three of us sat on a knoll, gazing across the ocean to where the clouds were creating a resplendent sunset of orange, gold, amber, and blazing red like the heart of a blast furnace. Between the clouds stretched the horizon in a narrow, irregular expanse of pale green. Above it all the sky was a royal blue, deepening into purple, and a single star pulsed the color of mercury. “Some day. . . .” Tatsuno mused and paused.

“Some day, what?” Nakamura asked.

Tatsuno waited for a minute or more. “Maybe it will all fall into place.” He shrugged, twisted his head. “Pain and sorrow. Maybe none of that will really matter except in terms of how we met it. Some people come away stronger. . . better. Or death. Some see it, and they are destroyed. Others seem to gain a greater appreciation for all of life, a greater reverence. It’s as if the spirit itself has been polished and refined. Maybe that sounds crazy, but I think that’s the idea.”

Nakamura was frowning. “Yes, but whose idea?”

“Somebody’s” Tatsuno replied at last. “Maybe just mine. Maybe whoever’s in charge.”

On other occasions my walks were solitary. Alone one Sunday morn­ing, I wandered past small, well-tended farms toward the mountains. On either side of me stretched the rice fields, dotted at intervals with farmers, some with yokes over their shoulders carrying buckets of hu­man waste, others irrigating or at work with hoes. Those farmers were artisans, their crops laid out with patience and devotion, with drawing – board precision.

Old women were also scattered throughout some of the fields, pulling weeds. For hours they would bend in the traditional squatting position, nothing visible but their backs and umbrella-like straw hats.

These aged brown obahsan of the earth lived to toil. For them work was more than mere expediency. It was life itself. All had known hard­ship. Many had lost sons in the war. Many had been forced to sell their daughters. But always those weathered faces were ready to form cracked smiles of greeting and welcome. For them, life emanated from the rice where the sun warmed their backs and the mud oozed up between their toes. Another woman nearby sometimes to converse with, and easy laughter. That was life and it was enough. Never before had I envied old women. Respected them, truly, as I did our elderly in general, but never envied them until then.

Walking slowly up the long, dirt road, I passed an ox with a ring in his nose. He was tied to a tree, switching his tail occasionally at the flies. The ox seemed very calm and resigned. That was his life, there beneath the tree and he accepted it. The hole in his nose had formed a scarred lining long ago. The ring did not hurt now. Remove it, and he might wander vaguely, I decided. Probably, though, he would remain where he was, flicking his tail. That was enough. So, in the end, conditions didn’t matter nearly so much as perspective. Acceptance, resignation—that was the important thing.

Near the foot of the mountain, the lane fanned into a broad, grav­eled road, extending a hundred yards to a stone stairway. The steps ascended in tiers, passing beneath several great, wooden torii. Midway, a woman holding a bright yellow parasol was climbing upward with a baby in a carrying cloth upon her back. Even from that distance I knew that the baby would not be dangling limply. It would be hugging her back like some tiny arboreal creature, bright dark eyes incredibly luminous, peering alertly over her shoulder, drinking in the world, the universe. Reflecting them.

Passing beneath the final, upper torii, I emerged in a clearing where temples and shrines lay in a half moon, their walls covered with intri­cately carved designs, their eaves curving upward at the tips. Part of one facade was carved with golden dragons, another with red and green lions possessing strangely human faces. Still another was adorned with flowers, exotic plant life, bending reeds, and low-flying waterfowl.

At the entrance to the clearing an aged man and a young girl, prob­ably his granddaughter, were selling amulets. All alone, those two—just the old man and the little girl. There where sunlight and trees filigreed the land with light and shadow, where a breeze played intermittently along the lattices and the ancient buildings.

Having purchased one of the charms, I strolled ahead toward the buildings. At the entrance to the main temple were many lanterns, the center one—red, black, and gold—about six feet in diameter. I was surprised that so few people were present, but reminded myself that this

was a remote area. It was still early. Once I glimpsed the yellow parasol gliding among some trees before vanishing behind a pagoda.

Climbing the temple steps very slowly, meditatively, I paused at the entrance and gazed into the darkened and hallowed confines. It required a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dimness, but gradually the faintly burnished wooden floors materialized, then the darkened corri­dors, all of it simmering with reverence and quiescence, faintly echoing the ages past. No bombs had fallen here; nor, I devoutly hoped, would they. Here the war did not exist, and everything within seemed expect­ant, gently beckoning.

I removed my shoes and hesitated, caressed suddenly by the cooler temperature. Looming a short distance before me was an immense, rounded statue of Buddha, towering perhaps fifteen feet into the gloom. It was a pale, gray green like oxidized copper, yet it seemed to emanate a steady, subtly expanding glow. Automatically, I knelt, gazing upward into its face. What a countenance! How indescribably benign and im­perturbable! How removed from the petty cares of the world!

The longer I gazed, the lighter it became, and the more it seemed to convey. . . what? Almost a smugness at having so fully transcended the mundane. But no, not smugness, I decided, for it had transcended that too—all such concerns, all triviality, all vanity. It was, instead, the very quintessence of tranquility.

For perhaps an hour I sat there, my legs tucked beneath me, medi­tating. I did not comprehend all the differences between the religion of Buddha and national Shintoism. Nor did I understand how it was possible for a person to embrace both simultaneously as many in my country actually did, for their doctrines regarding an after life seemed utterly antithetic.

On the one hand lay ultimate transcendency, ultimate liquidation of individual identity and absorption into the grand and universal “soul”, much as a drop of water enters the ocean. On the other, the perpetu­ation of personality and of human relationships. For our fighting men, those who died valiantly in battle, the honor of being guardian warriors in the realms beyond.

As present, however, differences in theology were irrelevant. For the moment I was already in another world. “If death is anything like this,” I thought, “then perhaps it won’t matter much how it comes as Tatsuno says, only in terms of how we face it. A few years one way or another, in reality, for all of us. Then it will come as surely as the setting of the sun, as surely as cherry blossoms fall by the roadside. And, after that? What it was I did not know, yet there had to be something, an outcome that was correct and in keeping with the grand and proper order of things.

Something about that temple impelled me to linger on and on. There in that remote sanctuary I was safe, and the world beyond the mountain was unreal. For a time I actually believed that I had found the solution. I would stay here forever beyond all harm, all strife, all sorrow. Ere long I would become a priest. Yes, that was my answer. Here where antiquity hovered, absorbing the present and the future. Here in this eternal fourth dimension, this place of sweet sadness, and attenuated nostalgia, of kindness. . . of ultimate reconciliation.

How long I remained there, I am uncertain, but the sun had crossed its zenith, and the shadows of afternoon were expanding. At length I arose and left, turning my back upon the great Buddha, feeling the per­sistence of its vibrations, and entered the waiting day. Sitting upon the stairs a short distance below was a man in a white robe, his head shaven bald and faintly gleaming. His hands rested in his lap, and as I drew closer it appeared that he was totally relaxed, remarkably in tune with his surroundings, much like the Buddha itself. His gaze was directed at the distant sky and ocean.

As I passed by, his voice came warmly, with remarkable resonance: “Good afternoon, young airman!”

“Good afternoon,” I replied uncertainly.

“You have come from Oita?”

“Yes, revered sir, from Oita.” I hesitated, angling a furtive glance, fearful that either refusal to look his way at all or a direct stare would be disrespectful. Simultaneously, it occurred to me that his hair was actually very dense, the dark roots sheening through his scalp like an abundance of iron filings.

“Do you have a few moments?” he continued, “or must you now return to your base immediately?”

I hesitated, unaccountably embarrassed. “I must. . .” I began then reversed myself. “I have a few minutes, revered sir.”

“Good,” he said, giving a quick nod. “Come and sit down. We shall enjoy the trees and beautiful vistas together.”

Bowing, I introduced myself and sat beside him as directed. Strange­ly enough, the uneasiness swiftly receded. After all, I reminded myself, the season is late. Why waste it on timidity? It was good now simply to be in this man’s presence, to converse, or remain silent.

Soon, however, he began to ask me questions—where my home was, how long I had been a pilot, how long at Oita, and at last: “What is you present assignment?”

“Fighter pilot,” I said. “In a few days I will be flying escort mis­sions.”

“Ah jo!” The words came quietly, politely, the eyebrows barely elevat­ing, “for the Kamikaze?”

I nodded. “Yes, revered sir.”

For a time, he offered no reply, merely nodded faintly, contemplating the horizon. Eventually he spoke, inquiring thoughtfully and at length regarding my background and family, and all the while I wondered when he was going to speak to me officially, with formality, as a Bud­dhist priest and as my elder. He never did.

Clouds were collecting about the sun, now, enhancing the shadows and the breeze. Its tendrils were playing over us, stirring trees in the valley below. “Wind is a strange phenomenon,” he observed quietly, “is it not?” For an instant I regarded his profile, one a bit like my father’s. “We don’t really know its point of origin, nor can we see it.”

“That is true,” I acknowledged.

“Yet it is always present somewhere, always manifesting itself, al­ways moving. No doubt it is one of those things that will always be.” He paused. “Do you believe that the spirit of man itself might be somewhat similar?”

“Perhaps so,” I said.

“You and I,” he continued slowly. “I mean the essence—that something which makes you and me who we are—I suspect that it will always be, much like the wind. Always somewhere, moving, doing its work, becoming manifest.”

“My friend Tatsuno feels that way,” I told him. “I. . . I greatly want to also.”

“Ah jo!” Again the exclamation with the same subdued politeness, and he regarded me curiously, earnestly. “There is not one thing that ever reduces itself to mere absence,” he said. “Even the human body.” He held out his own hands, strong looking hands with pronounced, widely branch­ing veins. His fingernails were impressively well groomed. “Destroyed most certainly!” The fingers closed, forming fists, “But not annihilated!” I glanced at him. Those last words had come with a kind of passion. His face was fiercely resolute.

Then his manner became more mild once more. “Changed, yes, in remarkable ways, but not obliterated. Matter, energy—they have always ex­isted. They were not woven from an empty loom. They will always be.”

I nodded. “Perhaps so, revered sir.”

“And thus, my friend. . . .” His hand actually settled upon my shoulder for an instant, “although the spirit can depart this frail tabernacle called the body, that should not concern us unduly. It is all a part of the grand cosmic order, and we continue. The wind has left these lanterns now. It is far away, quiescent for the moment perhaps, but the air itself is everywhere.”

Soon it was time to go, and I departed, offering much thanks and several bows of respect.

“I hope that you will return, Airman Kuwahara,” he said.

“I likewise, revered father,” I replied.

Then I left the clearing, descending the long stone stairway beneath the torii.