Takayama suddenly opened his mouth. “Why are you unwilling to talk about the kamikazes, sir?” Takeda turned towards him. “I’m very interested in the fact that you were a kamikaze pilot yourself, Takeda-san.”
“I was not a kamikaze pilot. I received flight training and was merely put in that standby pool. Kamikaze pilots were those who were selected to actually sortie in a special attack unit.”
“This may be audacious of me, but I think it would be incredibly valuable for someone like you to talk about your kamikaze experience.”
“I do not want to discuss such things, especially with the likes of you.”
“Why not?”
Takeda heaved a deep sigh, then looked Takayama squarely in the eye. “Because I don’t trust your newspaper.”
Takayama’s expression stiffened.
“After the war, your newspaper changed your tune to gain popularity. You denied everything prewar to pander to the masses. You robbed the people of patriotism.”
“We examined prewar excesses and repudiated war and armies. We corrected people’s crooked patriotism. For the sake of peace.”
“I’ll thank you to not throw around the word ‘peace’ so flippantly.”
Takayama’s expression shifted at Takeda’s words. After a heavy silence, Takayama said, “Then, please allow me to ask one question. Were the kamikaze pilots selected from a pool of special attack personnel?”
“Yes.”
“And was the pool comprised of volunteers?”
“That’s how it was, yes.”
“Which means that you volunteered. Correct?”
Takeda didn’t reply and took a sip of his tea.
“So doesn’t that mean that there was a time when you yourself were an ardent patriot?”
Takeda’s hand froze as it held the teacup.
Takayama plowed ahead. “After the war, you became a great corporate warrior. But even you were once a patriot, and I can’t help but be terribly interested in that. Back then, the whole populace, even people like you, were utterly brainwashed.”
Takeda put his cup back on the saucer, striking the spoon with a loud clatter as he did. “I was a patriot, but I hadn’t been brainwashed. Nor were my comrades who died.”
“I think the kamikaze pilots were all brainwashed, at least temporarily. That’s not their fault, of course. The blame lies with the era and the military establishment. And I think that after the war, people were deprogrammed, which is why Japan became a democracy and was able to achieve such an impressive recovery.”
“Give me a break,” Takeda muttered.
Takayama didn’t relent. “I think the use of special attack units was an act of terrorism. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that the kamikaze pilots themselves were terrorists of a sort. You can conclude as much from what they wrote in the wills they left behind. They weren’t lamenting the fact that they had to throw away their lives for their country. Actually, they were proud to do it. Proud to serve their country, proud to die a noble death for their country. You even get a whiff of heroism.”
“Shut up!” Takeda yelled. The waiter spun around, alarmed. “Stop talking like you know everything! We weren’t brainwashed. Nothing of the sort.”
“But I think it’s evident from reading the wills of the kamikaze pilots that they had the mindset of martyrs.”
“You jackass! You really think that the kamikaze pilots were expressing their true feelings in those wills?” Takeda shouted, his face turning bright crimson. Other patrons in the lounge turned to stare, but he was totally oblivious. “Back then, our written correspondence was subject to inspection by superior officers before it could be sent out. Not infrequently, even our diaries and wills were read. Criticism of the war or the military was absolutely not permitted, as was even any hint of weakness unbecoming of a military man. Under such strict constraints, the kamikaze pilots had no choice but to express their feelings in between the lines. If you wanted to, you could glean them. Don’t be deceived by phrases like ‘serving the nation’ or ‘loyalty.’ You really think they were happy to die just because they wrote as much? And you call yourself a reporter. Don’t you have any imagination at all? Hell, do you even have a human heart?”
Takeda’s voice was trembling with anger. His wife gently placed a hand on his arm.
Takayama defiantly leaned forward. “Then, if they weren’t happy to be going off to their deaths, why did they bother to write that they were?”
“Do you really expect them to have written things like ‘I don’t want to die! And I’m so sad about it!’ in the last letters to the poor families they were leaving behind? Can’t you even imagine how much their parents would have suffered if they did? How painful it would have been to learn that the sons that they had raised with such loving care had died tormented? Can’t you understand that when faced with their deaths, they at least wanted their parents to think that they’d gone to their deaths with clear hearts and minds?”
Takeda hollered, “Even if they couldn’t be honest and say that they didn’t want to die, their loving families could tell. How? Because most of those wills express boundless appreciation for loved ones. How could anyone who was actually happy to go off and die write such letters brimming with love?”
Takeda was in tears. Even the waiter had been staring at him for some time.
“You call yourself a reporter? Yet you’re incapable of reading between the lines written by men doing their damnedest to suppress the chaos in their hearts, in the precious few hours they had left, to say something to their families?”
In response to Takeda’s tearful speech, a cool smile crept up Takayama’s face. “I take sentences at face value. That’s how the written word works. On the day of their sortie, some pilots wrote that ‘Today is a day of tremendous joy.’ Some expressed delight at the prospect of sacrificing their lives for the sake of the Emperor. Many, many kamikazes wrote very similar things. Their sentiments are the same as those terrorists who style themselves martyrs.”
“You dumbass!” Takeda slapped his open hand onto the table, rattling the china. The waiter took an instinctive step forward. Everyone sitting nearby had been staring at our table for quite some time. “Terrorists? Stop spewing that garbage. Terrorists massacre ordinary civilians. They target the lives of innocent people. That’s why the attacks on the Twin Towers are considered an act of terrorism. Yes or no?”
“Yes. Those were terrorists.”
“The targets of our kamikaze units were not buildings where innocent civilians lived or worked. We targeted aircraft carriers loaded with bombers and fighters. The American carriers launched aircraft that conducted raids on our mainland, indiscriminately bombing and strafing ordinary citizens. Are you really trying to tell me the American military were just innocent people?”
Takayama was momentarily lost for an answer. Takeda continued, “An aircraft carrier is a terrifying weapon capable of mass murder. We targeted our attacks on those extremely powerful killing machines. Plus, the kamikazes sortied in planes of inferior performance, fitted with heavy ordnance, with only a very minimal fighter escort. They were attacked by several times their number of enemy fighters; and if they somehow managed to evade those attacks, they then faced an intense barrage of anti-aircraft fire. That is in no way the same as flying into those defenseless World Trade Center buildings!”
“But you have to admit that they share a common aspect in that both groups were willing to give up their lives for their bel—”
“Shut up!” Takeda cut him off. “Despite your being totally ignorant of where you stand in the world at large, you act like you’re a champion of justice or something. You know what, I think it was the media that caused that war. After the Russo-Japanese War, when the Portsmouth Peace Talks convened, many newspapers expressed intense anger over the terms. ‘Why should we Japanese swallow such lousy conditions?’ they all argue
d on their pages. Many people were riled up by such articles, and anti-government riots erupted all across the country. They set fire to the Hibiya Public Hall, and Jutaro Komura, who signed the peace treaty with Russia, was subjected to nationwide censure. The only antiwar paper then was Soho Tokutomi’s Kokumin Shinbun, and their offices were set on fire, too.”
“But that was—” Takayama tried to get in a word, but Takeda kept on talking.
“I think that series of events was a watershed moment for Japan. After that, most of the population started to applaud the idea of going to war.
“And then the ‘May 15 Incident’ happened. In objection to the political leadership, which was swerving from the invasion track and heading toward accepting arms control, young military officers assassinated the prime minister. He tried to reason with them, but they answered, ‘Dialogue is useless’ and shot him. If that wasn’t a military coup d’état, then what was it?
“Yet most newspapers heralded those youths as heroes and advocated for reduced sentences. Stirred up by the media, the people became caught up in a movement to extenuate the punishment, sending over 70,000 petitions to the court. Influenced by the public’s opinion, the court handed down extremely light sentences to the perpetrators. It’s said that the abnormal commutation gave rise to the February 26 Incident and the rise of Japanese militarism. Even now, there’s still a tendency in the media to treat the ringleaders of the February 26 Incident as warriors with beautiful hearts full of patriotism. It’s a sign of how powerful the prevailing opinion was at the time. After that, no one dared to oppose the excesses of the military, and I mean every politician and journalist. Japan became entirely militaristic, and by the time people started to realize that it wasn’t such a good idea, it was far too late to do anything about it. And who was responsible for turning the military establishment into such a monster? The newspapers and the populace that the media riled up.”
“To be sure, journalists erred before the war. But that ceased to be the case after the war. We rectified that crazed patriotism,” Takayama said, his pride evident.
Mrs. Takeda once again placed a gentling hand on her husband’s arm. He looked at her and gave a small nod. When he spoke again, his voice was just above a whisper.
“Most of the newspapers after the war argued that the citizenry must cast off their patriotism, even going as far as to suggest that loving one’s country was a crime. While that might appear on first glance to be the exact opposite of what the media supported before the war, their attitude that they knew what was just and that they had to educate the witless masses was the same. And what was the result? No other nation has produced as many sell-out politicians and intellectuals who disdain their own country just to curry favor with our neighbors.”
He faced Takayama head-on and said in a clear voice, “I won’t ask about your political views, but I insist you stop discussing the kamikaze pilots from some inane ideological viewpoint. If you’re incapable of reading between the lines to glean the intended meaning of words written by men who were prepared for death and who did their utmost to express their love for the families and the country they were about to leave behind, then I cannot call you a journalist.”
In response, Takayama crossed his arms and arched back, unfazed. “No matter how much you try and gloss it over, most kamikazes were terrorists.”
Takeda stared fixedly at him. Then he said very quietly, “People like you are just all words and no action. Get out of my sight.”
“Understood. I’ll be taking my leave.” Takayama stood up, a glum look on his face. Keiko looked lost for a moment but immediately got up and followed him.
“Aren’t you going to leave, too?” Takeda asked me.
“My grandfather died a kamikaze, sir.”
“Ah, that’s right. You’re Miyabe-san’s grandson.”
“Yes, sir. But I don’t know anything about how he died. He didn’t leave a will or anything. Listening to you, sir, I feel like I get at least some of the suffering that he endured.”
Takeda slowly shook his head. “Only kamikaze pilots really understood their own suffering. There was a world of difference, a massive chasm, between us in the reserve pool and those who were selected.”
Just then, Keiko came back to join us. “Takayama-san has left. Will you allow me to stay and listen to your story, sir?”
“I don’t mind, so long as you intend to actually hear me out with an open mind.”
“Yes, I indeed do, sir,” Keiko replied.
Takeda nodded. “Let’s change the scene,” he said, standing.
A few minutes later we were inside Takeda’s room. It was my first time inside a top-class hotel suite. Mrs. Takeda poured us green tea from a set in the room. It was very good tea. Takeda sipped at his in silence, clearly attempting to calm his agitated heart. We drank ours quietly.
After a while Takeda spoke. “Before I talk about Miyabe-san, there’s something else I need to tell you.”
* * *
—
After the war, kamikaze pilots were both praised and censured. While sometimes they were extolled as heroes who sacrificed their lives for the country, at other times they were reviled as warped, fanatical nationalists.
Neither was accurate. The kamikaze pilots were neither heroes nor madmen. They accepted their inescapable fate, and struggled to turn their all-too-brief lives into something meaningful. I observed them close at hand. They thought of their families, and about their country. They weren’t fools. And they knew the plan to use kamikazes was hopeless in turning the tide of the war.
They weren’t like the fanatical young officers of the February 26 Incident. They weren’t drunk on the heroism of dying a glorious death. Some may have adopted that sort of mindset in order to accept their fate. But even if there had been such pilots, who could blame them? They were faced with the very difficult-to-digest fact that they were about to die. So what if they dressed up in some bravado in an attempt to come to terms with their death and to seek refuge from their fears?
There wasn’t a single pilot, not one, who went to pieces upon learning that he had been selected to become a kamikaze. Of course, none of them cried or made a fuss before they left on their missions, either. In fact, many of them smiled before climbing into the cockpit. They weren’t just putting up a brave front. Their hearts had become free and clear.
I’ve heard that many death-row inmates scream and cry on the day of their execution. Some even can’t stand or walk on their own, and the guards have to practically drag them to the execution chamber. Even though they’re being punished for their own heinous deeds, they’re miserably incapable of accepting their fate.
Among those who stand opposed to the death penalty are some who say that the psychological terror is cruel. That’s probably accurate. I think it’s unimaginably terrifying to be told, “We’re going to kill you,” and then spend the rest of your life wondering when the day will come. That morning, when the door opens and they come for you, you know it’s your time to die. If they don’t come, then you’ve been allowed to see another day, which only prolongs the fear. Until the day comes, the torture continues. It’s the pain of purgatory.
It was similar for those pilots the moment they were selected from the pool of reserves to become kamikazes. If their name was listed on the blackboard in the morning, then their time had come. If their name wasn’t listed, they had been given another day to live. They didn’t know when that day would come. The day their name was listed, their lives were over. They wouldn’t see their loved ones ever again, and they would never be able to do the things they wanted to do with their lives. Their future was to be broken off in just a few hours’ time. How terrifying that must have been for them. No matter how hard I try to imagine it, I’m sure the reality was far more horrible.
And yet they calmly accepted it. I saw off many a friend who gave me a smile before departing. How muc
h internal conflict did they have to overcome to get to such a place? If you can’t imagine it, you aren’t qualified to discuss those men. That’s why I said that the kamikazes and the reserve pool pilots were totally different.
It goes without saying that even those of us in the reserve pool felt like we were going to die. We had resolved to go in a manly way when our names came up. But I think there was a big difference between those actually placed in those circumstances and those yet to be chosen.
There wasn’t a single man among us who wanted to give his life for the Emperor.
After the war, many intellectuals wrote that before the war most Japanese revered the Emperor as a living god. What garbage. No one did. Even the young officers who had seized the reins of the military didn’t believe anything of the sort.
I’m repeating myself here, but the ones responsible for turning Japan into that kind of country were the journalists.
Before the war, the newspapers would simply print verbatim the announcements from Imperial General HQ, writing article after article of propaganda. And after the war when the American GHQ took over the country, the newspapers followed GHQ’s orders and ran articles heralding democracy and decrying prewar Japan as a country of unenlightened fools. They wrote as though the entire population was ignorant and below them. The journalists believed themselves to be the arbiters of justice, and their condescension towards the masses makes me sick to my stomach.
* * *
—
Sorry, I wandered off topic.
It’s useless to complain about such things at this point in time. But listening to that reporter just now reminded me of a typical commissioned officer in the military back then. The type that places blind faith in their organization, never attempting to think for themselves, always believing their actions to be correct, paying absolute loyalty to the organization they serve.
The Eternal Zero Page 29
