Blossoms in the Wind: Human Legacies of the Kamikaze (9 page)

Not all that long ago, Lieutenant Seki had been a proud mother’s fine little son. Mrs. Seki had wept with joy at her son’s first tottering steps, played with the golden peach fuzz on the back of his sunbrowned neck in the family’s wooden bathtub, tickling the whorl of hair on the back of his scalp while his laughter rang high and sweet as an angel’s chorus. She was the one who had dealt with all the diapers, dishes, laundry and scraped knees, scrimping and saving to buy her boy a tricycle he wanted, or to get him some nice clothes for his formal elementary school photo. She was the one who had gotten a rash of goosebumps the first time she heard her twelve-year-old’s voice crack and sound like a man’s for a fleeting instant and fretted over the late hours he kept studying for his entrance exams. And finally, she was the one left standing alone on a gray, windswept railway platform watching with a mixture of sadness and pride as her uniformed young man, the object of all of her years of love, tears and affection
, her only child, the last vestige of her flesh and blood on the planet and the last surviving male of the proud House of Seki, was whisked off into the big, cold world to do great and wondrous things for his country.

And now Ōnishi was about to sign orde
rs that, in destroying this innocent woman’s world by taking away everything she loved, would murder her just as surely as if he put his Nambu service pistol to her head and pulled the trigger.

Of course, people would say that only a man who had never known a parent’s love for a child could do such a thing. Such talk would burn, but it would have to be endured for the sake of duty. For the sake of the country.

But then again, maybe such criticisms would be true. Maybe he deserved a little time twisting in the breeze, or tied to the roasting stake. The admiral himself could add readily to the list of charges against him in the murder trial his reputation would someday become; maybe he really was just an unhappily married, burned out fiftysomething with volcanic guts and chronic insomnia – a spiritually desolate old man who had not known any love since his mother’s death over thirty years before. Childless, hopeless, unloved and unloving – it seemed a likely profile for the kind of man who could order tens, hundreds, thousands of young men to commit suicide on the pretext of duty, honor, country. “The only practical way I see of our accomplishing our mission will be to use Special Attack techniques…” Who was he trying to fool? Himself, first of all. Wasn’t this really all just a big charade, part tantrum for blowing a war that had started out so well (or that should never have been fought in the first place), part morbid massacre fantasy, part power trip because it…because it…well, because it could be done? Affirmative to all the above. Damning evidence that the only convincing explanation for his decision was that he was a heartless monster. After all, how could a human being capable of love also be capable of giving orders like this?

Well, maybe that all depended on how you defined the term “love.”

The admiral considered himself to be full of love, just as much as the next man, maybe even more. But the love that burned in his heart was not the kind that a male felt for a female, or that existed naturally between a parent and a child. No, his was a love that only a Japanese man could experience. Love of Emperor, of homeland, of culture, of blood.

Now
those
were things worth dying for.

For a Japanese man of honor, there was no possible counterargument to these moral absolutes. Seki and his comrades had the opportunity to die glorious deaths while striking a grievous blow at the enemy, gaining immortality in the pages of history and avenging the deaths of comrades and loved ones in the process. They would never
have to know the bitterness of defeat, never see their wives, sweethearts and sisters defiled by an occupying army of barbarians. The issuing of tokkō orders under such circumstances was an act of the most profoundly heartfelt love, faith and mercy. While the admiral would never stop grieving for the young men he sent off to die, he would also never doubt the integrity and necessity of his decision or the righteousness of his cause.

Ōnishi handed Seki’s dossier back to Tamai, pulled on his boots and went d
ownstairs to join his adjutants and the 201
st
staff at the map table on the first floor.

D
awn found the admiral and the other officers still bent over their maps. Mabalacat was socked in under a blanket of dripping humidity from a heavily overcast, ill-tempered monsoon season sky. Although the weather was terrible – even dangerous – for flying, the 201
st
had put search planes up several hours earlier. Not surprisingly, no one had been able to get a fix on the Seventh Fleet’s escort carriers, although they were believed to be operating somewhere off Samar Island, perhaps headed south for Leyte. Based on the premise that numbers would improve the chance of finding something, there was some merit to the idea of just sending up a reconnaissance in force, with the Zeros rigged for tokkō and ready to attack at first sight of the enemy. But what if they got lost in the bad weather, ran out of fuel, and had to ditch in choppy seas? What if, milling around the general area of operations with their eyes glued to the water looking for American flattops, they were jumped and mauled by Hellcats? An ignominious official debut for the tokkō tactics would be utterly disastrous both in terms of morale and the future conduct of the war. News of a flopped operation here would go all the way to the top. Perhaps all the way to the Emperor himself.

Ōnishi’s decision was firm. No tokkō planes would take off from Mabalacat unless there were clearly identified targe
ts. In the meantime, the recon planes would stay up and continue to search.

However concerned he was with getting results, the admiral was almost as worried about the effect of an interminable, excruciatingly boring morning on the morale of the flyers, which would be the ultimate anti-climax after all of last night’s drama and passionate exhortations, brave hands of the NCO aviators thrust in the air under blackout lamps, what must have been young Seki’s soul-searching, sleepless journey through the longest night of his life, no doubt tortured with imagery of his poor mother and young wife. Damaged morale, too, was to be avoided, but unlike bad weather or elusive American carriers, the admiral could do something about the danger of flagging spirits.

“Tamai,” he said suddenly, “I want to speak to the Shinpū boys this morning. And the ground crews. Everyone involved with the program. Call a formation for ten hundred hours.”

*****

At a few minutes before ten, Ōnishi, Tamai, Adjutant Moji and the Nichiei News Service newsreel cameraman waited on the veranda of the HQ while the admiral’s limousine was brought around for the ride to Mabalacat field. When the limo pulled up the driveway, its passengers were somewhat surprised to see that during the night, some orderly – no doubt following base vehicle camouflage SOP to the letter and not realizing whose car he was decorating – had given the Packard’s shiny roof and hood toupees of thatched palm frond and elephant grass, making the vehicle look like a giant duffer’s divot with wheels. But there was no time to remove the offending foliage. It would have to stay. 

When the entourage reached Mabalacat and the admiral stepped down from his shaggy Packard, all twenty-four tokkō volunteers were already lined up in front of
the flight ops shack, with Seki front and center. Other 201
st
personnel formed up on the side of the clearing. A Rising Sun ensign snapped on the windsock pole, its colors somewhat subdued by the gray sky it fluttered against.

Commander Tamai received Seki’s salute, did an about face, and reported the 201
st
formed. The admiral mounted a wooden crate someone had placed at the head of the formation. He stood at attention while Tamai called out “
Keirei!
” and all present raised their hands to their cap bills in unison. Ōnishi held his salute longer than was customary, his hand trembling slightly as he looked into the eyes of each man lined in front of him. The longest gaze was reserved for Seki.

The admiral, still standing rigidly at attention, dropped the sa
lute and cleared his throat. The air was charged with the unspoken understanding that everyone present was witnessing – and living – a scene destined for immortality in the pantheon of great moments in Japanese history.

“Japan is in grave danger,” the admiral began. “Someone must come to her rescue, but it will not be admirals or generals or politicians, and certainly not senior officers like me. It will be fine, strong young men like you. Think of me standing humbly before you right now as the embodiment, if you will, of all one hundred million of your countrymen, asking for your help. Praying for your success.

“Having taken up this sacred task, you have all become young gods with no earthly desires anymore beyond the perfectly natural desire to know whether or not you have been successful in carrying out your missions and hitting your targets. As you are all about to head off into that long, good sleep, I am sorry to say that there will be no way of your knowing this for sure, and there will be no way for us, the living, to tell you. You may depart on your missions, however, secure in the knowledge that your deeds will be duly reported to a grateful nation. Do your best, boys. Do your best...”
[41]

The admiral began to say something else, but his words caught in his throat. Tears welled in his eyes and he choked back a sob. Sniffles could be heard from the ranks, and the newsreel cameraman present was so moved by the proceedings that he had forgotten to turn on his camera. There was a brief, somewhat tense silence among the men that Tamai ended, after a respectful pause, with a parade ground volume command for another salute.

“
Keirei!
”

Ōnishi returned the salute and stepped off of the crate to shake hands with each of the young aviators. Their handshakes were r
esolute. Some of the boys were stern-faced, while enigmatic smiles flitted across the faces of others, but there was no fear in their eyes – only thousand-yard stares tinged with fire, glossy with emotion from the admiral’s speech and the existential weight of the moment.

For months now, these boys had been in the thick of one-sided combat conditions none of them had expected to survive. With the kill ratios the Americans were racking up of late, it seemed as if Japanese pilots were embarking on suicide mi
ssions every time they climbed into the cockpits of their battered planes, tokkō or not. But now, thanks to the wisdom and beneficence of Vice Admiral Ōnishi and the Combined Fleet General Staff, they were going to be able to go out in a blaze of glory to return, with interest, some of the licks they had been taking for so long. This, more than any fatalistic somberness or stirring patriotism, was the dominant mood of the gathering – a paradoxically resigned eagerness. The unmistakable lure of empowerment was working its seductive magic on these boys. They were proud, fed up with losing, and ready to die.

With the ceremony at an end, Tamai ordered “
Kaisan
” (“dismissed,” or “break ranks”) and the men went off to their respective ready areas, with two flight sections headed off to the eastern edge of Mabalacat Field, while the other two sections followed Seki to the western end.

The officers returned to the HQ building in the admiral’s thatch-roofed limo. Ōnishi had Inoguchi write up official orders for postin
g on the HQ bulletin board and forwarding up the chain of command. The admiral read them over, penciled in some corrections, then handed the sheet over to Tamai. The orders read:

“Item One: In light of the current military situation, it has been determined that there is no alternative but to organize the 201
st
’s twenty-six remaining Zeroes into a
tokkō
unit. Thirteen of the planes will be assigned to actual taiatari missions, while the remaining thirteen will be assigned to escort. This tokkō unit will be divided into four flight sections, whose mission will be the destruction or at least critical disabling of the enemy escort carriers operating in waters to the east of the main area of operations if and when these forces should appear. This should be accomplished before the main elements of our surface forces are committed to the battle. The number of tokkō units will be increased as the combat situation dictates. The official name of the tokkō unit is the Shinpū Special Attack Unit
[42]
.

“Item Two: The full resources of the 201
st
will be devoted to the successful completion of our organized tokkō missions, eliminating the enemy escort carrier targets by October 25
th
at the latest. 

“Item Three: Lieutenant Yukio Seki will assume command of the Shinpū unit, effective immediately.

“Item Four: The four flight sections will be named
Shikishima
,
Yamato
,
Asahi
, and
Yamazakura
[43]
, respectively.”
[44]

So that was it. Tokkō was now official. There would be no turning back.

*****

Ōnishi, Inoguchi, Tamai and the other 201
st
staff officers worked through lunch at the map table, really just marking time, more than anything, waiting until they got promising from the afternoon’s flight of recon planes.