Wind Among the Lanterns

A

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.