Reconciliation
Lawrence F. Farrar
Bradford Hughes was puzzled. A twenty-eight-year-old graduate student living in Kamakura, Japan, Brad had just received a letter from his uncle, Frank Hughes, back in Middleton, Wisconsin. Why this letter from his uncle after a gap of six months?
Legs folded beneath him on the tatami-matted floor of his seaside rental, Brad scrutinized the envelope, plastered with stamps. His dark hair disheveled and his clothing rumpled, Brad was a sober person, sincere, and pretty much someone people liked.
Brad tore open the envelope and set about deciphering his uncle’s scrawled hand. The task seemed every bit as challenging as had been his early encounters with Japanese calligraphy.
March 15, 1966
Dear Brad,
Hope all is going well with you over in Japan. Never thought one of our family members would end up there, especially after what some of us went through during the war. But times change, and that is part of why I am writing to you.
It’s been more than twenty years since the war ended. I guess for some folks, attitudes toward our old enemies have softened, or at least maybe they ought to have. Anyway, we are planning another reunion of former shipmates later this summer, and one of the guys suggested we invite that Japanese pilot we pulled out of the ocean during those kamikaze attacks off Okinawa. You know, reconciliation and all that. Not everybody went for the idea, but we finally agreed to send him an invitation and offer to pay all his expenses to come to our August get-together in San Francisco. (We could even pay for an interpreter.)
That’s where you come in, Brad. We need help in tracking that pilot down. And since you are in Japan, I said you might be able to help out. That rescue was on May 6, 1945 and the pilot’s name was Ichiro Yamashita. At least that’s how it appeared in the ship’s log. We don’t think he was a suicide pilot himself. They had escort pilots who went along to report on the effectiveness of the attacks. He might have been connected to one of those ohka outfits. We called them baka bombs. Last we heard, he was sent off a day or two after we retrieved him for interrogation with some other POWs in Okinawa.
Not even sure if he’s alive or how you might find him. Probably hard. And we will understand if you don’t want to take this on. But maybe they have some Japanese vets’ organization or government office that can help out.
Your Aunt Margaret says hello. Says she wants to send you some cookies but worries you’d have to pay duty or something.
Anyway, let me know what you think.
Uncle Frank
Brad’s first reaction was that the task would prove to be impossible. With such meager information, how did his uncle think he could track down the Japanese survivor after more than twenty years, assuming he was still alive? And would this man even want to be found by an American? Nonetheless, the challenge intrigued him. Brad sent off a quick note saying he would see what he could do.
Brad’s uncle, a Wisconsin lumber dealer, had been reluctant to discuss his participation in the war. But he had sometimes shared the rescue story with close friends and family members. A Navy Corpsman, he’d mostly served in the USS Walton, a battle-tested destroyer escort. As a boy, Brad had listened to two or three variations of the rescue tale. And, hoping to find mention of the Walton, he’d pored over accounts of the Okinawa campaign while in college. There had even been an article describing the event in the Middleton Journal on the tenth anniversary of the war’s end.
Brad recognized there had been many meetings between veterans and former enemies. But he had doubts about the prospects for genuine reconciliation. The war in the Pacific, including the war at sea, had been a hellish one, with little mercy displayed by either side. For many of those who took part, the conflict had obliterated their humanity. And the suffering and death inflicted on the American fleet and its men by Japanese kamikaze attacks in 1944 and 1945 could only be described as horrendous.
Day after day, in one annihilative attack after another, like avatars of imperial wrath, young Japanese men smashed their explosives-laden aircraft into American ships. Some ships sank in minutes with crew members trapped below decks, some ships exploded into blazing pyres, and some ships survived, their decks awash in blood. Burns, amputations, and painful deaths horrified the most hardened fighting men. Over and over, sailors ceremoniously committed the flag-wrapped bodies of shipmates to the sea. And, as anti-aircraft fire stitched the sky, more attacks followed.
So, it had been remarkable, on that May day in 1945 when Frank’s shipmates jerked the injured Japanese aviator from the water, they had permitted him to live. Indeed, Frank recalled, that, as he tended the man’s injuries, American sailors shouted, Kill him. Throw him back. Kill him. Gasping for air, like an endurance runner at the end of a race, the pilot had looked about in confusion, apparently bewildered at having been rescued and not executed. Not a speck of gratitude. At least that is how one of Frank’s former shipmates had once described the Japanese survivor to Brad.
Brad believed his uncle now acted from a good heart, just as he had that long-ago day in the Pacific. Brad felt less certain about Frank’s old shipmates. Perhaps the passage of time had provided a nostrum for curing long-festering hostility. Perhaps.
~ ~ ~
The morning after the letter arrived, Brad boarded one of the yellow and blue coaches of the Yokosuka Line for his daily commute to Yokohama. At Yokohama Station, he clambered onto a bus that transported him to a bluff overlooking the city and its harbor. It was there Brad interned as a teaching assistant at the Yokohama College of Foreign Studies, a private institution preparing students for business careers. Three low brick buildings accommodated two hundred students.
Soon after his arrival, Brad reported as usual to the office of Professor Teisaburo Morita, his faculty advisor. The gray-haired professor, eyes half shut, leaned back behind his desk. Morita was a slim man of fifty-five, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. Brad detected the hint of a mustache that never seemed to prosper.
Professor Morita held degrees from both British and American universities, and Brad held him in high regard. The academic dressed well, his suits products of London’s Savile Row. He smoked Players Cigarettes, and there always seemed to be a copy of the Times on his desk. English language books crowded his shelves, many reflecting his interest in Japan’s response to Western influences. Yet, this seeming Anglophile also displayed the character of a staunch Japanese nationalist.
Windows flanked Morita’s desk, and, in the garden beyond, Brad made out early blooms of the cherry blossom surge making its way up the Japanese archipelago.
After a discussion of classroom assignments, Brad brought up his uncle’s letter. Brad spoke adequate Japanese, but he and Morita communicated more easily in English.
“I was hoping, Morita Sensei, you might give me some advice. Is finding this man something I should even attempt to do?”
“You are correct, Bradford, to ask such a question,” Professor Morita said. “There have, of course, been a number of meetings of war survivors, but I suspect they have been rather awkward. The task of locating this person is likely to be difficult. And, the man himself, Yamashita, might not want to have contact with his American benefactors.”
Brad had anticipated such reservations. Still, he said, “I’m sure the American veterans feel they are doing something good, something honorable. Time to let by-gones be by-gones. And I expect they think the man must appreciate their having saved him.”
“I understand,” Morita said. His voice carried an indulgent tone. “But you must remember we are a different people, motivated by different thoughts and feelings, and resurrecting his Okinawa experience might re-open old psychological wounds for pilot Yamashita. We do not know what sorts of distress this man has undergone.”
“I’m not even certain where to begin,” Brad said.
“There might be government records that could be helpful. I suspect, however, you would likely be denied access.”
“So, do you recommend I pursue this no further?” Brad asked.
Morita lighted a cigarette with the flick of a silver lighter he extracted from a vest pocket. He took a satisfied drag and launched a column of smoke rings wafting toward the ceiling.
“No. I did not say that. There are some interesting cross-cultural aspects here. Let us consider a more informal approach. I will consult my school classmate, Suzuki. He is active with one of the veterans’ groups which maintain memorials and conduct commemorative events honoring the young men who died as kamikaze pilots in the late days of the war. I thought of him because I believe he is associated with a group supporting an ohka-related memorial.”
“I wasn’t really aware that . . .”
“There are many such memorials, often on the grounds of a temple or shrine. Sometimes a simple stone, in other places a statue. The supporters very much hope today’s young people will remember those who, with pure hearts, sacrificed themselves for the nation.”
“Thank you, Sensei. I will wait for your further guidance.”
Brad bowed and left Morita’s office. Did people really still say things like that? Those with pure hearts who sacrificed themselves wasn’t how the vets at the Middleton Legion Hall remembered them. Brad recalled that, unlike his uncle, many Pacific veterans thought the kamikaze pilots must have been crazy, probably on drugs. I guess it depends on where you’re coming from, he thought. Brad remembered a movie, Captain of the Clouds, in which Jimmy Cagney rammed his fighter into a German bomber. And in another film, Flying Tigers, the American pilot dove his plane into a bridge loaded with Japanese military vehicles. Our guys are heroes; their guys are nuts.
Later in the week, Morita summoned Brad to his office.
“It was quite fortunate. I was able to contact Suzuki today,” Morita said. “He was reluctant, but I believe I convinced him your motives were good and that you would be discreet.”
“Do you think he can he help me locate Yamashita?”
“Bradford, I know you are familiar with the term nemawashi. ‘Digging around the roots.’ I suppose it is best translated as laying the groundwork.”
“Yes, I know the term.”
“In any case, Suzuki would like to meet you in person before proceeding further. He suggests this coming Saturday at the Kenchoji Zen Temple in Kamakura. At two o’clock.”
“Of course. I know the place. Thank you for your help.”
“I will let him know.”
Why, Brad wondered, would Suzuki want to meet me at a Buddhist temple?
~ ~ ~
Brad passed through the temple’s Main Gate after an uphill climb. The gray spring skies had cleared, and the brisk air felt clean and invigorating. He’d been there before, and the place was as he remembered it, a complex of tile-roofed, elaborately decorated dark-wood buildings including, among others, a Buddha Hall, sub-temples, a monastery, living quarters, and a Dharma Hall. The temple bell, cast in 1255, (and a National Treasure) stood on prominent display. The bell was old. The temple was old. The grounds even included a grove of centuries old Juniper trees. A Zen Garden provided a sanctuary of stillness and serenity, a place, it seemed, far-removed from the ravages of the Pacific War.
On that late March afternoon, cherry trees, blooming in profusion dominated the landscape adjacent to the paths and walkways. Unsurprisingly, the temple compound was busy with visitors come to enjoy the collective brilliance of the short-lived blossoms. No sooner would the blossoms reach the height of their efflorescence, than they would fall away, scattered by a sudden breeze or shower. Brad considered the notion cliched, but he recognized the symbolism of the blossoms’ sad fate that captured Japanese hearts.
Ahead to one side of the walkway, a man rose from a bench and approached him. Speaking Japanese, the man said, “I am Suzuki.”
“And I am Hughes. Thank you for meeting me.”
They exchanged name cards. Brad noted Suzuki’s card identified him as the president of a Yokohama taxi company.
A portly man clad in gray trousers, a white shirt, and an open jacket that somehow had a military character to it, Suzuki slicked back his hair with camellia oil pomade. He had crooked teeth, goldfish eyes, and a battered face. Suzuki struck Brad as the sort of person you might encounter late at night in a disreputable bar. Not the sort of person he could imagine associating with Professor Morita.
They followed a walkway through the grounds, discussing the buildings and the temple’s history. Acting as a self-designated guide, Suzuki seemed to relish the role. He lauded the use of wood in the construction of the temple structures. Wood, he said, withstood earthquakes because of its toughness, flexibility, and resilience. And he declared it to be endowed with the inherent spirit of the tree, a living thing. Suzuki expressed admiration for Brad’s knowledge of Kamakura history and his language fluency. Brad, in turn, declared his inadequacy in both. Where was this all leading? Eager to ask about Yamashita, but familiar with Japanese protocol, Brad recognized it would be bad form to do so too quickly.
“Please follow me,” Suzuki said, as they neared the rear of the compound. “I have something to show you.”
They turned up a meandering path and, into a secluded area, where Suzuki gestured toward an excavated hillside opening. It was the site, he explained, of a monument dedicated to men who had died in suicide attacks piloting ohka. Brad recalled his uncle’s letter. He knew ohka had been piloted glider bombs carried beneath a Betty Bomber and launched as they approached a target ship. An engraved metal plaque at the back of the cave listed the names of ohka pilots and crew members of the mother planes who died in suicide attacks on American ships. They were the names of men almost all of whom in their early twenties. A second plaque provided a narrative account of the ohka attack missions.
“Perhaps, you would like to look at this English translation,” Suzuki said. He handed Brad a printed brochure.
Brad scanned the entry. It described Japan’s changing fortunes in the Pacific War, America’s growing advantages and how, at the bitter end, the decision was taken to employ suicide weapons it was hoped would permit one man to destroy one ship. This unit formed to conduct such attacks and memorialized here carried the designation Jinrin Butai (Thunder Gods Corps). The heroic tactics of its members, the brochure said, caused great fear among the Americans. Erected in 1965, the memorial honored those pure and fine young men, who, with no regard for their own lives, bravely died for their nation and fellow citizens. The memorial had been dedicated by the Navy Jinrin Butai Comrade-in-Arms association.
“This is a special place,” Suzuki said. “Our feelings are intense, especially as we have viewed the blossoms today. Sadly, the blossoms fall quickly, making us think of those whose lives have been cut short.”
“Yes. I’ve heard that comparison to cherry blossoms for samurai; and kamikaze pilots,” Brad said.
“Don’t you agree, Mr. Hughes? What is beautiful in life rarely lasts. Recalling what has fallen in full glory is most beautiful.”
Brad expressed his agreement. But, unsolicited, a different image passed through his mind. It was one of futility, of the fallen, brown-stained decaying blossoms soon littering the ground. Maybe, the American sailors had been right to refer to the ohka aircraft as baka bombs (idiot bombs).
Suzuki paused. “I can inform you Yamashita is alive,” he said. “This was his unit. We located him when we were planning the memorial.”
Brad sought to read the man’s expression. But he could discern nothing.
Suzuki went on. “Yamashita knows of this memorial. And he knows the names of his former comrades are inscribed here. He chose not to attend our dedication ceremony.”
“But the war is long over. Surely . . .”
“Mr. Hughes, you know a great deal about my country. But you are an outsider. You cannot fully appreciate the burden of shame this man and others like him carry. I am confident he wishes that his name, too, appeared on the plaque.”
“You can’t hold it against him because his plane crashed, and he was pulled from the water.”
“As I said, as a foreigner, you are unable to enter the mind or share the spirit of men like Yamashita who believe they failed in their duty to the Emperor, the nation, and their families.”
“But our veterans are seeking reconciliation. Perhaps they will better understand the feelings of people like Yamashita, if only they meet.”
“Perhaps. In any case I wanted you to see this place. I hope you can better understand what it is you are asking.”
“I think I do. But, if possible, I still would like to contact Mr. Yamashita, hear his story in his own words, and invite him to the August reunion in San Francisco.”
After a sucking intake of air through his teeth, Suzuki said, “Because Professor Morita has requested my help and because you have shown proper respect to our fallen heroes, I will contact Yamashita. I can make no promises.”
Brad and Suzuki each went their own way, Suzuki to a chauffeured Mercedes; Brad to the rack where he’d parked his non-descript bike.
~ ~ ~
One day yielded to another and then one week to another. The rainy season began in June. Everything seemed dank, saturated, wet-to-the-touch. The sky seemed eternally leaden and the source, not so much of rain, as of a heavy, omnipresent mist.
Brad heard nothing. The enterprise even more difficult than he’d imagined, it appeared his efforts had been for naught. He’d sent Frank interim reports on his progress or, more accurately, lack of progress. But the time had come to inform his uncle there would be no Japanese survivor at the San Francisco reunion.
And then, one dreary afternoon, Professor Morita summoned him to his office. White water pouring down streaked the windows behind his desk. He gestured for Brad to be seated on an adjacent chair.
“I have been contacted by Suzuki. He says Yamashita has agreed to meet you.”
“That’s good news. I was beginning to think . . . .”
“He has agreed to a meeting; nothing else.”
“I hoped for more. But that is promising, isn’t it?”
“Suzuki has spoken with Yamashita’s brother in Chiba,” Professor Morita said. “The brother, who operates a dry goods store, has provided some information. Bits and pieces, I must say. But Suzuki believed you should have a fuller background.”
“My uncle will be eager to learn all he can.”
“This much I have gleaned. On the day in question, pilot Yamashita was flying as an escort for the attacking Japanese bombers. His Zero riddled by anti-aircraft fire, he crash-landed in the sea. He had already undergone training at a Kyushu base and been selected himself to fly a suicide mission in the days just ahead. He saved himself from drowning, his brother said, in hopes of somehow returning to base to carry out that mission.”
“With all respect, Morita Sensei, that doesn’t make sense. It simply seems to me his human instinct for survival kicked in.”
“That is his story, and it has provided an explanation for his survival and capture. However, I gather his survival is something he quickly came to regret. For a time, his explanation served as a kind of cover story. In fact, he was filled with shame; shame that he survived when so many of his compatriots died.”
“Sir, I understand the notion of sacrifice for the nation that Japanese military personnel believed in. But more than twenty years have passed and . . .”
Morita got to his feet and went to a window and stared out into the rain. For a moment he said nothing. Then he resumed his narrative. “The pilot felt shame at his failure to complete his mission. And he felt shame about saving himself. And, as I said, he felt shame at living when others died. In any case, the war ended. After several months as a prisoner in Okinawa, he returned to the mainland. His family heard nothing from him and assumed him to be dead. For a long time, he survived as a day laborer in Tokyo, as a derelict in the Sanya slum. He tried to hide his military service, fearful that those who believed in sacrifice for the nation would scorn him.”
“But did people really care that much?”
“A good question, Bradford. Many people, perhaps most people, were disillusioned by the leaders who took them into the war. What had it achieved? No doubt, he heard people in their despair say that the kamikaze pilots, indeed all military men, had died a dog’s death (inujini).
“A dog’s death?”
“It is a Japanese expression. It means to die in vain, to die for nothing.”
Brad simply nodded. The idea resonated. Brad had limited appreciation for meaningless heroics and lost causes. But he also knew many Japanese perceived a nobility in failure, in making a sacrifice for a noble purpose against all odds.
“At last, awash in hopelessness and concerned about his aging mother, he contacted his family. Despite his assertion he would be an embarrassment, they welcomed him. At first, his spirits brightened. For a time, he worked as a kind of apprentice in his brother’s shop. But his brother soon began to notice troublesome behaviors. Yamashita could not stop thinking about his wartime experiences and about the comrades who had gone to their deaths. He refused to accept the view they had died for nothing. He sank into a pool of self-vilification. He seemed anxious and spent much of his time sleeping in a small room. He had no contact with anyone outside the family and sometimes he engaged in outbursts of anger over minor issues. At other times, he barely spoke. He experienced nightmares in which Americans tortured him and prepared to execute him.”
“I guess I’ve heard of responses like this by former service members,” Brad said. “But I’ve also heard many people trained as kamikaze pilots showed only gratitude at being spared. People who got on with their lives.”
Morita returned to his desk. “Possibly,” he said. “In Yamashita’s case, even if he sought to suppress it, his survival remained a source of embarrassment and shame. Still, his brother says, Yamashita gradually came to lead a more peaceful, if anonymous, life.”
“Then, perhaps there is still a chance he will . . .”
“When he learned of the ohka memorial dedication, his mood worsened. All the manifestations returned. He talked of ending his life. And now he has learned of your inquiry. It is even more troubling.”
“But the American veterans are well-meaning.”
“Unfortunately, Bradford, good motives do not necessarily negate bad effects.”
“Then why is he willing . . .”
“I am not certain. Suzuki recommended against it. But Yamashita and his brother said they wanted to see you, the relative of the Navy man, in person.”
~ ~ ~
Five minutes from Yokohama Station, Brad entered the Willow Garden Coffee Shop, an unpretentious place, little more than a hole-in-the-wall. It had been pouring all morning when Brad arrived. A half dozen customers, college students from the look of them, occupied three of the half dozen tables. There was no sign of Yamashita and his brother. Outside, a legion of umbrellas slurred by the rain-streaked windows. Sonny and Cher emoted on I Got You Babe. Brad took a seat at a corner table. He considered the young people at their tables. Smiling, laughing, how distant their lives, he thought, from the vicious death-dealing battles of twenty years before.
The Yamashita brothers arrived ten minutes late. Savoring the thick black coffee the place offered, Brad had begun to think they would not show up. Now, here they were. He got to his feet and nodded. Worried his Japanese would not pass muster, Brad felt relieved when one of the men, in broken but passable English, said, “I am Yamashita Jiro. This is my older brother, brother, Ichiro. The man you wish to see.”
“Thank you for coming,” Brad said. He gestured for them to join him at the table. The conversation alternated between Japanese and broken English. Brad failed to grasp all the specifics, but he understood the main points. He hoped they would recognize the friendliness in his voice.
Ichiro, the one-time warrior pilot, was now a gaunt, frail looking, man. Little more than forty, he had rheumy eyes, thin lips which he moistened with his tongue, close-cropped gray hair, and gray stubble covering his chin and cheeks. When Brad spoke to him, he nodded and looked down at the table. Without lifting his eyes, he mumbled something in Japanese that Brad could not understand. He appeared to be a prisoner of his thoughts.
In contrast, Jiro was a more-engaged, red-faced, well-fed man. He acted as the de facto spokesman for his brother. Like a bunraku puppet master, except he was the visible one and the one-time flyer nearly invisible.
Again, Brad sought to avoid seeming too direct at the outset of their meeting. He referred to the weather; sorry if they were inconvenienced. He inquired if they liked American music. Sonny and Cher had yielded place to Barry McGuire and Eve of Destruction. Jiro smiled and nodded. Ichiro remained as stone-faced as the Zen temple’s statue of the Fasting Buddha.
An uncomfortable silence ensued. Finally, Brad said, “Mr. Yamashita, my uncle remembers you well from that day off Okinawa when you came on board his ship.” In fact, Brad’s uncle had said no such thing. After further explanation by his brother, Yamashita seemed perplexed. The look of pain in his eyes signaled that the passage of time had spread no softening patina over memories of that May day in 1945. He made no reply.
Brad pushed on. “I am certain Mr. Suzuki told you I would like to communicate an invitation in behalf of my uncle and his former shipmates for you to attend their gathering later this summer in San Francisco. They would be honored if you could come, and they would be happy to facilitate your travel and hotel accommodation.”
A single look at the former pilot told Brad it was, in fact, a meaningless offer. His coffee untouched, his hands trembling, Yamashita appeared to be struggling with a ravaging case of nerves. Hardly a likely interlocutor for a room full of Frank’s well-lubricated old pals.
“Mr. Hughes, my brother wishes to thank your uncle and his friends for their invitations,” Jiro said. Unfortunately, his experiences in the ocean that day and since have not been good. He sees things through different eyes than the Americans. He believes he would dishonor his deceased comrades by accepting such an invitation.”
“Why, then, has he come today?” Brad asked, his voice laced with resignation.
“It is quite simple, Mr. Hughes. My brother recognizes that petty officer Hughes acted at some hazard to himself. He extended a favor. His purpose was good. Despite all else that has happened, Ichiro feels a sense of obligation for the favor he received. He came only to extend his thanks. It is the Japanese way. I think you understand.”
“I do understand. I will inform my uncle. Before you leave, may I take a picture to share with him?” The photo taken, the Japanese men stood up, bowed, and went out the door. Their conversation had lasted little more than fifteen minutes.
Brad realized even this much had been difficult for the former pilot. He thought of the names inscribed on the plaque in Kamakura. His pursuit of a meeting and his effort to extend the invitation had reopened a never-healed laceration. It had likely been a non-starter from the outset. But, at least, he had tried.
A mealy sun shone as Brad stepped into the wet street and headed for the station. That was it. The last chapter.
Lawrence F. Farrar
Bradford Hughes was puzzled. A twenty-eight-year-old graduate student living in Kamakura, Japan, Brad had just received a letter from his uncle, Frank Hughes, back in Middleton, Wisconsin. Why this letter from his uncle after a gap of six months?
Legs folded beneath him on the tatami-matted floor of his seaside rental, Brad scrutinized the envelope, plastered with stamps. His dark hair disheveled and his clothing rumpled, Brad was a sober person, sincere, and pretty much someone people liked.
Brad tore open the envelope and set about deciphering his uncle’s scrawled hand. The task seemed every bit as challenging as had been his early encounters with Japanese calligraphy.
March 15, 1966
Dear Brad,
Hope all is going well with you over in Japan. Never thought one of our family members would end up there, especially after what some of us went through during the war. But times change, and that is part of why I am writing to you.
It’s been more than twenty years since the war ended. I guess for some folks, attitudes toward our old enemies have softened, or at least maybe they ought to have. Anyway, we are planning another reunion of former shipmates later this summer, and one of the guys suggested we invite that Japanese pilot we pulled out of the ocean during those kamikaze attacks off Okinawa. You know, reconciliation and all that. Not everybody went for the idea, but we finally agreed to send him an invitation and offer to pay all his expenses to come to our August get-together in San Francisco. (We could even pay for an interpreter.)
That’s where you come in, Brad. We need help in tracking that pilot down. And since you are in Japan, I said you might be able to help out. That rescue was on May 6, 1945 and the pilot’s name was Ichiro Yamashita. At least that’s how it appeared in the ship’s log. We don’t think he was a suicide pilot himself. They had escort pilots who went along to report on the effectiveness of the attacks. He might have been connected to one of those ohka outfits. We called them baka bombs. Last we heard, he was sent off a day or two after we retrieved him for interrogation with some other POWs in Okinawa.
Not even sure if he’s alive or how you might find him. Probably hard. And we will understand if you don’t want to take this on. But maybe they have some Japanese vets’ organization or government office that can help out.
Your Aunt Margaret says hello. Says she wants to send you some cookies but worries you’d have to pay duty or something.
Anyway, let me know what you think.
Uncle Frank
Brad’s first reaction was that the task would prove to be impossible. With such meager information, how did his uncle think he could track down the Japanese survivor after more than twenty years, assuming he was still alive? And would this man even want to be found by an American? Nonetheless, the challenge intrigued him. Brad sent off a quick note saying he would see what he could do.
Brad’s uncle, a Wisconsin lumber dealer, had been reluctant to discuss his participation in the war. But he had sometimes shared the rescue story with close friends and family members. A Navy Corpsman, he’d mostly served in the USS Walton, a battle-tested destroyer escort. As a boy, Brad had listened to two or three variations of the rescue tale. And, hoping to find mention of the Walton, he’d pored over accounts of the Okinawa campaign while in college. There had even been an article describing the event in the Middleton Journal on the tenth anniversary of the war’s end.
Brad recognized there had been many meetings between veterans and former enemies. But he had doubts about the prospects for genuine reconciliation. The war in the Pacific, including the war at sea, had been a hellish one, with little mercy displayed by either side. For many of those who took part, the conflict had obliterated their humanity. And the suffering and death inflicted on the American fleet and its men by Japanese kamikaze attacks in 1944 and 1945 could only be described as horrendous.
Day after day, in one annihilative attack after another, like avatars of imperial wrath, young Japanese men smashed their explosives-laden aircraft into American ships. Some ships sank in minutes with crew members trapped below decks, some ships exploded into blazing pyres, and some ships survived, their decks awash in blood. Burns, amputations, and painful deaths horrified the most hardened fighting men. Over and over, sailors ceremoniously committed the flag-wrapped bodies of shipmates to the sea. And, as anti-aircraft fire stitched the sky, more attacks followed.
So, it had been remarkable, on that May day in 1945 when Frank’s shipmates jerked the injured Japanese aviator from the water, they had permitted him to live. Indeed, Frank recalled, that, as he tended the man’s injuries, American sailors shouted, Kill him. Throw him back. Kill him. Gasping for air, like an endurance runner at the end of a race, the pilot had looked about in confusion, apparently bewildered at having been rescued and not executed. Not a speck of gratitude. At least that is how one of Frank’s former shipmates had once described the Japanese survivor to Brad.
Brad believed his uncle now acted from a good heart, just as he had that long-ago day in the Pacific. Brad felt less certain about Frank’s old shipmates. Perhaps the passage of time had provided a nostrum for curing long-festering hostility. Perhaps.
~ ~ ~
The morning after the letter arrived, Brad boarded one of the yellow and blue coaches of the Yokosuka Line for his daily commute to Yokohama. At Yokohama Station, he clambered onto a bus that transported him to a bluff overlooking the city and its harbor. It was there Brad interned as a teaching assistant at the Yokohama College of Foreign Studies, a private institution preparing students for business careers. Three low brick buildings accommodated two hundred students.
Soon after his arrival, Brad reported as usual to the office of Professor Teisaburo Morita, his faculty advisor. The gray-haired professor, eyes half shut, leaned back behind his desk. Morita was a slim man of fifty-five, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. Brad detected the hint of a mustache that never seemed to prosper.
Professor Morita held degrees from both British and American universities, and Brad held him in high regard. The academic dressed well, his suits products of London’s Savile Row. He smoked Players Cigarettes, and there always seemed to be a copy of the Times on his desk. English language books crowded his shelves, many reflecting his interest in Japan’s response to Western influences. Yet, this seeming Anglophile also displayed the character of a staunch Japanese nationalist.
Windows flanked Morita’s desk, and, in the garden beyond, Brad made out early blooms of the cherry blossom surge making its way up the Japanese archipelago.
After a discussion of classroom assignments, Brad brought up his uncle’s letter. Brad spoke adequate Japanese, but he and Morita communicated more easily in English.
“I was hoping, Morita Sensei, you might give me some advice. Is finding this man something I should even attempt to do?”
“You are correct, Bradford, to ask such a question,” Professor Morita said. “There have, of course, been a number of meetings of war survivors, but I suspect they have been rather awkward. The task of locating this person is likely to be difficult. And, the man himself, Yamashita, might not want to have contact with his American benefactors.”
Brad had anticipated such reservations. Still, he said, “I’m sure the American veterans feel they are doing something good, something honorable. Time to let by-gones be by-gones. And I expect they think the man must appreciate their having saved him.”
“I understand,” Morita said. His voice carried an indulgent tone. “But you must remember we are a different people, motivated by different thoughts and feelings, and resurrecting his Okinawa experience might re-open old psychological wounds for pilot Yamashita. We do not know what sorts of distress this man has undergone.”
“I’m not even certain where to begin,” Brad said.
“There might be government records that could be helpful. I suspect, however, you would likely be denied access.”
“So, do you recommend I pursue this no further?” Brad asked.
Morita lighted a cigarette with the flick of a silver lighter he extracted from a vest pocket. He took a satisfied drag and launched a column of smoke rings wafting toward the ceiling.
“No. I did not say that. There are some interesting cross-cultural aspects here. Let us consider a more informal approach. I will consult my school classmate, Suzuki. He is active with one of the veterans’ groups which maintain memorials and conduct commemorative events honoring the young men who died as kamikaze pilots in the late days of the war. I thought of him because I believe he is associated with a group supporting an ohka-related memorial.”
“I wasn’t really aware that . . .”
“There are many such memorials, often on the grounds of a temple or shrine. Sometimes a simple stone, in other places a statue. The supporters very much hope today’s young people will remember those who, with pure hearts, sacrificed themselves for the nation.”
“Thank you, Sensei. I will wait for your further guidance.”
Brad bowed and left Morita’s office. Did people really still say things like that? Those with pure hearts who sacrificed themselves wasn’t how the vets at the Middleton Legion Hall remembered them. Brad recalled that, unlike his uncle, many Pacific veterans thought the kamikaze pilots must have been crazy, probably on drugs. I guess it depends on where you’re coming from, he thought. Brad remembered a movie, Captain of the Clouds, in which Jimmy Cagney rammed his fighter into a German bomber. And in another film, Flying Tigers, the American pilot dove his plane into a bridge loaded with Japanese military vehicles. Our guys are heroes; their guys are nuts.
Later in the week, Morita summoned Brad to his office.
“It was quite fortunate. I was able to contact Suzuki today,” Morita said. “He was reluctant, but I believe I convinced him your motives were good and that you would be discreet.”
“Do you think he can he help me locate Yamashita?”
“Bradford, I know you are familiar with the term nemawashi. ‘Digging around the roots.’ I suppose it is best translated as laying the groundwork.”
“Yes, I know the term.”
“In any case, Suzuki would like to meet you in person before proceeding further. He suggests this coming Saturday at the Kenchoji Zen Temple in Kamakura. At two o’clock.”
“Of course. I know the place. Thank you for your help.”
“I will let him know.”
Why, Brad wondered, would Suzuki want to meet me at a Buddhist temple?
~ ~ ~
Brad passed through the temple’s Main Gate after an uphill climb. The gray spring skies had cleared, and the brisk air felt clean and invigorating. He’d been there before, and the place was as he remembered it, a complex of tile-roofed, elaborately decorated dark-wood buildings including, among others, a Buddha Hall, sub-temples, a monastery, living quarters, and a Dharma Hall. The temple bell, cast in 1255, (and a National Treasure) stood on prominent display. The bell was old. The temple was old. The grounds even included a grove of centuries old Juniper trees. A Zen Garden provided a sanctuary of stillness and serenity, a place, it seemed, far-removed from the ravages of the Pacific War.
On that late March afternoon, cherry trees, blooming in profusion dominated the landscape adjacent to the paths and walkways. Unsurprisingly, the temple compound was busy with visitors come to enjoy the collective brilliance of the short-lived blossoms. No sooner would the blossoms reach the height of their efflorescence, than they would fall away, scattered by a sudden breeze or shower. Brad considered the notion cliched, but he recognized the symbolism of the blossoms’ sad fate that captured Japanese hearts.
Ahead to one side of the walkway, a man rose from a bench and approached him. Speaking Japanese, the man said, “I am Suzuki.”
“And I am Hughes. Thank you for meeting me.”
They exchanged name cards. Brad noted Suzuki’s card identified him as the president of a Yokohama taxi company.
A portly man clad in gray trousers, a white shirt, and an open jacket that somehow had a military character to it, Suzuki slicked back his hair with camellia oil pomade. He had crooked teeth, goldfish eyes, and a battered face. Suzuki struck Brad as the sort of person you might encounter late at night in a disreputable bar. Not the sort of person he could imagine associating with Professor Morita.
They followed a walkway through the grounds, discussing the buildings and the temple’s history. Acting as a self-designated guide, Suzuki seemed to relish the role. He lauded the use of wood in the construction of the temple structures. Wood, he said, withstood earthquakes because of its toughness, flexibility, and resilience. And he declared it to be endowed with the inherent spirit of the tree, a living thing. Suzuki expressed admiration for Brad’s knowledge of Kamakura history and his language fluency. Brad, in turn, declared his inadequacy in both. Where was this all leading? Eager to ask about Yamashita, but familiar with Japanese protocol, Brad recognized it would be bad form to do so too quickly.
“Please follow me,” Suzuki said, as they neared the rear of the compound. “I have something to show you.”
They turned up a meandering path and, into a secluded area, where Suzuki gestured toward an excavated hillside opening. It was the site, he explained, of a monument dedicated to men who had died in suicide attacks piloting ohka. Brad recalled his uncle’s letter. He knew ohka had been piloted glider bombs carried beneath a Betty Bomber and launched as they approached a target ship. An engraved metal plaque at the back of the cave listed the names of ohka pilots and crew members of the mother planes who died in suicide attacks on American ships. They were the names of men almost all of whom in their early twenties. A second plaque provided a narrative account of the ohka attack missions.
“Perhaps, you would like to look at this English translation,” Suzuki said. He handed Brad a printed brochure.
Brad scanned the entry. It described Japan’s changing fortunes in the Pacific War, America’s growing advantages and how, at the bitter end, the decision was taken to employ suicide weapons it was hoped would permit one man to destroy one ship. This unit formed to conduct such attacks and memorialized here carried the designation Jinrin Butai (Thunder Gods Corps). The heroic tactics of its members, the brochure said, caused great fear among the Americans. Erected in 1965, the memorial honored those pure and fine young men, who, with no regard for their own lives, bravely died for their nation and fellow citizens. The memorial had been dedicated by the Navy Jinrin Butai Comrade-in-Arms association.
“This is a special place,” Suzuki said. “Our feelings are intense, especially as we have viewed the blossoms today. Sadly, the blossoms fall quickly, making us think of those whose lives have been cut short.”
“Yes. I’ve heard that comparison to cherry blossoms for samurai; and kamikaze pilots,” Brad said.
“Don’t you agree, Mr. Hughes? What is beautiful in life rarely lasts. Recalling what has fallen in full glory is most beautiful.”
Brad expressed his agreement. But, unsolicited, a different image passed through his mind. It was one of futility, of the fallen, brown-stained decaying blossoms soon littering the ground. Maybe, the American sailors had been right to refer to the ohka aircraft as baka bombs (idiot bombs).
Suzuki paused. “I can inform you Yamashita is alive,” he said. “This was his unit. We located him when we were planning the memorial.”
Brad sought to read the man’s expression. But he could discern nothing.
Suzuki went on. “Yamashita knows of this memorial. And he knows the names of his former comrades are inscribed here. He chose not to attend our dedication ceremony.”
“But the war is long over. Surely . . .”
“Mr. Hughes, you know a great deal about my country. But you are an outsider. You cannot fully appreciate the burden of shame this man and others like him carry. I am confident he wishes that his name, too, appeared on the plaque.”
“You can’t hold it against him because his plane crashed, and he was pulled from the water.”
“As I said, as a foreigner, you are unable to enter the mind or share the spirit of men like Yamashita who believe they failed in their duty to the Emperor, the nation, and their families.”
“But our veterans are seeking reconciliation. Perhaps they will better understand the feelings of people like Yamashita, if only they meet.”
“Perhaps. In any case I wanted you to see this place. I hope you can better understand what it is you are asking.”
“I think I do. But, if possible, I still would like to contact Mr. Yamashita, hear his story in his own words, and invite him to the August reunion in San Francisco.”
After a sucking intake of air through his teeth, Suzuki said, “Because Professor Morita has requested my help and because you have shown proper respect to our fallen heroes, I will contact Yamashita. I can make no promises.”
Brad and Suzuki each went their own way, Suzuki to a chauffeured Mercedes; Brad to the rack where he’d parked his non-descript bike.
~ ~ ~
One day yielded to another and then one week to another. The rainy season began in June. Everything seemed dank, saturated, wet-to-the-touch. The sky seemed eternally leaden and the source, not so much of rain, as of a heavy, omnipresent mist.
Brad heard nothing. The enterprise even more difficult than he’d imagined, it appeared his efforts had been for naught. He’d sent Frank interim reports on his progress or, more accurately, lack of progress. But the time had come to inform his uncle there would be no Japanese survivor at the San Francisco reunion.
And then, one dreary afternoon, Professor Morita summoned him to his office. White water pouring down streaked the windows behind his desk. He gestured for Brad to be seated on an adjacent chair.
“I have been contacted by Suzuki. He says Yamashita has agreed to meet you.”
“That’s good news. I was beginning to think . . . .”
“He has agreed to a meeting; nothing else.”
“I hoped for more. But that is promising, isn’t it?”
“Suzuki has spoken with Yamashita’s brother in Chiba,” Professor Morita said. “The brother, who operates a dry goods store, has provided some information. Bits and pieces, I must say. But Suzuki believed you should have a fuller background.”
“My uncle will be eager to learn all he can.”
“This much I have gleaned. On the day in question, pilot Yamashita was flying as an escort for the attacking Japanese bombers. His Zero riddled by anti-aircraft fire, he crash-landed in the sea. He had already undergone training at a Kyushu base and been selected himself to fly a suicide mission in the days just ahead. He saved himself from drowning, his brother said, in hopes of somehow returning to base to carry out that mission.”
“With all respect, Morita Sensei, that doesn’t make sense. It simply seems to me his human instinct for survival kicked in.”
“That is his story, and it has provided an explanation for his survival and capture. However, I gather his survival is something he quickly came to regret. For a time, his explanation served as a kind of cover story. In fact, he was filled with shame; shame that he survived when so many of his compatriots died.”
“Sir, I understand the notion of sacrifice for the nation that Japanese military personnel believed in. But more than twenty years have passed and . . .”
Morita got to his feet and went to a window and stared out into the rain. For a moment he said nothing. Then he resumed his narrative. “The pilot felt shame at his failure to complete his mission. And he felt shame about saving himself. And, as I said, he felt shame at living when others died. In any case, the war ended. After several months as a prisoner in Okinawa, he returned to the mainland. His family heard nothing from him and assumed him to be dead. For a long time, he survived as a day laborer in Tokyo, as a derelict in the Sanya slum. He tried to hide his military service, fearful that those who believed in sacrifice for the nation would scorn him.”
“But did people really care that much?”
“A good question, Bradford. Many people, perhaps most people, were disillusioned by the leaders who took them into the war. What had it achieved? No doubt, he heard people in their despair say that the kamikaze pilots, indeed all military men, had died a dog’s death (inujini).
“A dog’s death?”
“It is a Japanese expression. It means to die in vain, to die for nothing.”
Brad simply nodded. The idea resonated. Brad had limited appreciation for meaningless heroics and lost causes. But he also knew many Japanese perceived a nobility in failure, in making a sacrifice for a noble purpose against all odds.
“At last, awash in hopelessness and concerned about his aging mother, he contacted his family. Despite his assertion he would be an embarrassment, they welcomed him. At first, his spirits brightened. For a time, he worked as a kind of apprentice in his brother’s shop. But his brother soon began to notice troublesome behaviors. Yamashita could not stop thinking about his wartime experiences and about the comrades who had gone to their deaths. He refused to accept the view they had died for nothing. He sank into a pool of self-vilification. He seemed anxious and spent much of his time sleeping in a small room. He had no contact with anyone outside the family and sometimes he engaged in outbursts of anger over minor issues. At other times, he barely spoke. He experienced nightmares in which Americans tortured him and prepared to execute him.”
“I guess I’ve heard of responses like this by former service members,” Brad said. “But I’ve also heard many people trained as kamikaze pilots showed only gratitude at being spared. People who got on with their lives.”
Morita returned to his desk. “Possibly,” he said. “In Yamashita’s case, even if he sought to suppress it, his survival remained a source of embarrassment and shame. Still, his brother says, Yamashita gradually came to lead a more peaceful, if anonymous, life.”
“Then, perhaps there is still a chance he will . . .”
“When he learned of the ohka memorial dedication, his mood worsened. All the manifestations returned. He talked of ending his life. And now he has learned of your inquiry. It is even more troubling.”
“But the American veterans are well-meaning.”
“Unfortunately, Bradford, good motives do not necessarily negate bad effects.”
“Then why is he willing . . .”
“I am not certain. Suzuki recommended against it. But Yamashita and his brother said they wanted to see you, the relative of the Navy man, in person.”
~ ~ ~
Five minutes from Yokohama Station, Brad entered the Willow Garden Coffee Shop, an unpretentious place, little more than a hole-in-the-wall. It had been pouring all morning when Brad arrived. A half dozen customers, college students from the look of them, occupied three of the half dozen tables. There was no sign of Yamashita and his brother. Outside, a legion of umbrellas slurred by the rain-streaked windows. Sonny and Cher emoted on I Got You Babe. Brad took a seat at a corner table. He considered the young people at their tables. Smiling, laughing, how distant their lives, he thought, from the vicious death-dealing battles of twenty years before.
The Yamashita brothers arrived ten minutes late. Savoring the thick black coffee the place offered, Brad had begun to think they would not show up. Now, here they were. He got to his feet and nodded. Worried his Japanese would not pass muster, Brad felt relieved when one of the men, in broken but passable English, said, “I am Yamashita Jiro. This is my older brother, brother, Ichiro. The man you wish to see.”
“Thank you for coming,” Brad said. He gestured for them to join him at the table. The conversation alternated between Japanese and broken English. Brad failed to grasp all the specifics, but he understood the main points. He hoped they would recognize the friendliness in his voice.
Ichiro, the one-time warrior pilot, was now a gaunt, frail looking, man. Little more than forty, he had rheumy eyes, thin lips which he moistened with his tongue, close-cropped gray hair, and gray stubble covering his chin and cheeks. When Brad spoke to him, he nodded and looked down at the table. Without lifting his eyes, he mumbled something in Japanese that Brad could not understand. He appeared to be a prisoner of his thoughts.
In contrast, Jiro was a more-engaged, red-faced, well-fed man. He acted as the de facto spokesman for his brother. Like a bunraku puppet master, except he was the visible one and the one-time flyer nearly invisible.
Again, Brad sought to avoid seeming too direct at the outset of their meeting. He referred to the weather; sorry if they were inconvenienced. He inquired if they liked American music. Sonny and Cher had yielded place to Barry McGuire and Eve of Destruction. Jiro smiled and nodded. Ichiro remained as stone-faced as the Zen temple’s statue of the Fasting Buddha.
An uncomfortable silence ensued. Finally, Brad said, “Mr. Yamashita, my uncle remembers you well from that day off Okinawa when you came on board his ship.” In fact, Brad’s uncle had said no such thing. After further explanation by his brother, Yamashita seemed perplexed. The look of pain in his eyes signaled that the passage of time had spread no softening patina over memories of that May day in 1945. He made no reply.
Brad pushed on. “I am certain Mr. Suzuki told you I would like to communicate an invitation in behalf of my uncle and his former shipmates for you to attend their gathering later this summer in San Francisco. They would be honored if you could come, and they would be happy to facilitate your travel and hotel accommodation.”
A single look at the former pilot told Brad it was, in fact, a meaningless offer. His coffee untouched, his hands trembling, Yamashita appeared to be struggling with a ravaging case of nerves. Hardly a likely interlocutor for a room full of Frank’s well-lubricated old pals.
“Mr. Hughes, my brother wishes to thank your uncle and his friends for their invitations,” Jiro said. Unfortunately, his experiences in the ocean that day and since have not been good. He sees things through different eyes than the Americans. He believes he would dishonor his deceased comrades by accepting such an invitation.”
“Why, then, has he come today?” Brad asked, his voice laced with resignation.
“It is quite simple, Mr. Hughes. My brother recognizes that petty officer Hughes acted at some hazard to himself. He extended a favor. His purpose was good. Despite all else that has happened, Ichiro feels a sense of obligation for the favor he received. He came only to extend his thanks. It is the Japanese way. I think you understand.”
“I do understand. I will inform my uncle. Before you leave, may I take a picture to share with him?” The photo taken, the Japanese men stood up, bowed, and went out the door. Their conversation had lasted little more than fifteen minutes.
Brad realized even this much had been difficult for the former pilot. He thought of the names inscribed on the plaque in Kamakura. His pursuit of a meeting and his effort to extend the invitation had reopened a never-healed laceration. It had likely been a non-starter from the outset. But, at least, he had tried.
A mealy sun shone as Brad stepped into the wet street and headed for the station. That was it. The last chapter.