The Kamikaze Devotion or Insanity? An objective examination of the psyche of Japan¹s most infamous war tactic ³My greatest regret in this life is the failure to call you Œchichiue¹ (revered father). I regret not having given any demonstration of the true respect which I have always had for you. During my final plunge, though you will no hear it, you may be sure I will be saying Œchichiue¹ to you and thinking of all you have done for me.² -Letter written by a Kamikaze pilot before embarking on his fatal mission (Evans 35). Introduction In 1281, Kublai Khan organized a mighty Mongolian armada to invade and conquer the islands of Japan. The success of this venture was all but assured when a great typhoon off the Japanese coast destroyed or dispersed the Mongol ships. The Japanese people considered this fortuitous storm evidence of heavenly protection and have ever since credited the salvation of the Empire to Kamikaze--the Divine Wind (Pineau 27). There has always been an almost hypnotic fascination with any ideology that could drive a person to willingly end his own life in the process of defending that which he/she truly believed in. Often we may look at these instances with relative disdain, regarding the ensuing actions as those of an ignorant follower in a world prone to insecurities. Yet there are also those few instances when a reverence of such tantamount proportion can not be easily categorized as childish submissiveness. There are those matchless dignities in which there is a process far exceeding the petty qualms of a questionable character. If we are to understand this process in terms of the historical significance of the Kamikaze pilot we must first understand what drove these young men to their position. We must penetrate the root of a conviction that is essentially unseen in any other facet of humanity. In a recent A&E documentary on the Japanese-American War, Roger Stands, Vice Admiral of the U.S. Navy during World War II, noted: ³It was certainly not that the enemy was more courageous than [the U.S.]. One of the earliest lessons one learns in battle is that courage is a very common human quality. Mute evidence is the story of our own Torpedo Squadron Eight at Midway, and the unforgettable picture I once observed on board the Essex when I watched the 20-millimeter gun crews stand unflinchingly to their guns until enveloped in flames, in an effort to beat off the Kamikaze.² There was, however, always a fundamental difference in the heroism of the Japanese warriors. The Japanese took one final action which the American never did: purposely closing any chance of hope and escape. In the Western mind we are in dire need of a fleeting hope, at least a slim prospect of survival. I refer to this belief as the ³Lottery Theory,² or reliance on the feeling that, though a lot of other people may die, you yourself somehow are going to make it. Kamikaze attacks, however, shocked the world primarily because of their CERTAIN DEATH aspect. History provides many cases of individual soldiers who fought under certain-death circumstances, but never before was such a program carried out so systematically and over such a long period of time (Evans 499-515). The Kamikaze attacks could be carried out ONLY by killing oneself. The attack and death were one and the same. It is paradoxical that the Pacific War, which ushered in the atomic age, should have seen a resort to aerial suicide attacks. Indeed, it may seem ridiculous that these should ever have been considered, let alone put into use, to combat the scientific weapons and tactics of modern warfare. It is understandable that many people should regard such attacks as an example of barbarity, if not insanity, and prefer to forget that they ever occurred. However, the remarkable progress in destructive weapons has forced men--military and civilian alike--to realize that war gives rise to desperation. Since war and its weapons are a product of the human mind it is logical to look into that mind. Further, since the desire to live is so basic to the human mind, it is of interest to study the Kamikaze pilots who had to surmount that desire in order to perform their duty. No one, as I see it, has yet successfully explained to the Western mind the Japanese phenomenon of the Kamikaze. Perhaps it is not given to the Westerner to understand it. It is because of this predisposition on my part that I invested the majority of my time in the research for this report by examining the Kamikaze from its native perspective. Although it is understandably difficult to objectively dissect such a distinctly different culture from my own, I wanted to gain at least a partial grasp of what it really meant to be a Japanese soldier in World War II. What does it mean to be a Kamikaze? The wartime propaganda efforts of the United States distorted the picture of the Japanese pilot into an unrecognizable caricature of a man who stumbles through the air, who has poor eyesight, and who remains aloft only by the grace of God. This attitude was on too many occasions a fatal one. The Japanese carrier attack upon the unsuspecting U.S. Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor altered the way men fought at sea ³more decisively and more swiftly than any action in history² (Spurr 3). In the course of World War II the Japanese Navy lost practically all of its ships and planes. It lost as well two supreme commanders, Admirals Yamamoto and Koga, who died in battle within one year¹s time Word War II is sharply distinguished from Japan¹s earlier wars with Russia and with China because this was a total war, and, although predominantly a naval-based conflict, air forces were deeply involved (Evans xi-xxi). Considering these two points, we can see that numbers and quality of fighting men were decisive factors. Japan¹s air forces and naval forces were both inferior to those of the United States. Extreme measures were consequently called for. The Kamikaze fought as the throne commanded. As the war progressed, they felt the bitterness of defeat, but were determined to undergo any hardships in fulfillment of their obligation to the Emperor and their homeland. ³We die for the great cause of our country² (Evans 422)--this was the Kamikaze pilots¹ watchword and their faith. It signified a constant and deeply grounded belief in their country and their Emperor, and a willingness to die for that belief. Lacking that, the Kamikaze attacks would never have been made at all. Although the term ³Kamikaze² was later applied to other self-destructive corps, such as suicide glide bombs and small suicide boats, strictly speaking the only real Kamikazes were the aerial attack groups under Vice Admiral Ohnishi. The success of his organization is attributable to the bond of feeling and purpose which existed between the Admiral and his men. This unity was of utmost importance. Without it the attacks could never have been continued over so long a period, no matter how brave the men or how able their leader (Evans 420-426). Admiral Ohnishi¹s pilots never questioned the responsibility of their commander. But then they never considered that they were going to do anything extraordinary. Their greatest concern seems always to have been to make sure that they would hit the target. By comparison, their death was to them a matter of very minor importance (Evans 422-425). But this is not sufficient explanation for their meeting death with such composure. Subconsciously, they must have had a firm belief in ³life through death.² This attitude is one that comes through the long tradition and history of the people of Japan. The Psychological Basis The Japanese have a deeply mystical frame of mind that is both a source and a product of their ancient Shinto religion. Shintoism has two basic precepts: veneration of the emperor and his authority because of his divine essence, and cultivation of great moral values and lofty virtues through ancestor worship (Saltzman 1995). According to Shintoism, the Japanese people had a divine origin going back to the sun goddess Amaterasu, mother of the first emperor, Jimmu Tenno, whose reign began in 660 B.C. From then on, the link between the imperial dynasty and its divine founder was never broken. Emperor Hirohito, who reigned during World War II, was the 124th direct descendant of the goddess Amaterasu (Iriye 127). The Japanese were also strongly influenced by the Chinese doctrine of Confucianism, but they were perhaps even more receptive to Buddhism, in its Chinese interpretation. It gave their religious thought its final coloration and, above all, its depth. Buddhist teachings such as the liberation of man from all earthly ties, the attainment of truth through insensitivity to suffering, renunciation of attachment to physical things, and an impassive attitude toward death became important elements of Japanese spirituality (Saltzman 1995). Since their whole history had been marred by constant local wars, with shoguns and daimyos fighting amongst themselves, each with his samurai and personal troops, the Japanese had always lived in a martial atmosphere. They tended to identify civic virtues with the qualities required of a good warrior (Zaisser 1993). ³Religion and militarism were inseparable notions² (1993). The Japanese gradually developed a special reverence for the noblest of their warrior heroes and many strove to imitate them, knowing that by heroic actions they could win a respect that would follow them after death and place them among the venerated ancestors (O¹Neill 11-12). the collection of principles that governed a samurai¹s conduct was known as the Bushido code. It taught honor, courage, loyalty, the ability to endure pain in silence, self-sacrifice, reverence for the emperor, and contempt for death. For centuries it was a code followed only by the samurai, but when Japan was opened to Western influence it was natural to make the ancient code part of the regulations of the modern army. It was also adopted by other social classes. Many Japanese commoners took pride in living by the noble principles of the samurai, who had by now become legendary heroes (11-12). This certainly gave rise to the elevation of Japanese morality. It also strengthened obedience to authority and enabled the ruling classes to count on the total submission of a large part of the population. The principles of the Bushido code were given a more political interpretation and made an integral part of the national ideology (O¹Neill 13-14). The Japanese moral code held that voluntary death was better than living in shame. Suicide was regarded as an honorable act (unlike in Western countries). Reasons for it could vary from the deepest personal tragedy to humiliations whose seriousness would strike most Western minds as highly questionable (O¹Neill 11-14). Soon after the beginning of her rapid industrialization, Japan set about developing an effective army and navy. But while the organization and equipment of her new armed forces were modern, their spirit and discipline continued to reflect ancient traditions. The result was a brutal, rigid, totalitarian system which demanded a degree of courage, devotion, and obedience that went far beyond what was generally expected of soldiers in other countries (O¹Neill 13-15). In view of all this, it is easy to imagine the ferocity and fanaticism with which the Japanese fought in all the wars of their history, and particularly during World War II, when for the first time their homeland was seriously threatened! The First Step As Japan has never been adequately endowed with natural resources, her war effort depended greatly on obtaining petroleum and raw materials from conquered territories. Early in 1942, a steady stream of tankers and freighters began bringing these products to the home islands and delivering fuel and manufactured articles on their return voyages. The United States realized the importance of the sea lanes between Japan and the Dutch East Indies, and soon began a submarine war of extermination (Iriye 28-30). Japanese pilots soon began stiffening their determination to maintain the prosperity of the economic seaways to and from the Philippines, as was shown by the many proposals for rampant counter-attacks that they made to their superiors. In these proposals, the survival of the pilots involved was always problematic and was sometimes disregarded altogether (77-79). The primary concern was to inflict maximum destruction on the enemy and mattered little whether the pilots had to be sacrificed or not. This new outlook was extremely widespread. It was inspired, as I previously noted, by the proud Japanese heritage, and by the example of the increasingly numerous pilots who crash-dived against enemy targets (Spurr 15). The conditions for these ³dives² were simple: Take everything with you...and everything will be yours for eternity. The Dynamics of Kamikaze Flight But this paper was not meant to provide a history lesson. There are countless documentations of this particular time, and an addition to this seemingly never-ending stream of facts (all be them interesting!) would do little more than provide a larger warehouse of recycled knowledge. I would hope that the reader understands that the combination of a ³religious² attitude towards war, coupled with an insufficient supply of natural resources to combat a gargantuan enemy, led to inevitable action. Perhaps the reader might even open his mind to further research into the justification of such actions, coming to a conclusion based on his own reasoning. But justification is not my purpose with this paper. If anything, I chose to forever remain completely objective (and utterly neutral) on the morality issue surrounding the Kamikaze epic. It would not be logical to go any further with this preliminary discussion if it continues along the path it initially seemed to preclude. Instead, with respect to the guidelines of this research paper, I would like use the platform of general information I have laid out to present a concluding dialectic of the processes involved in a Kamikaze passage to the unknown. Admittedly, I have occasionally strayed to the more intangible aspects of this methodology, but the intent of my ambiguity was to produce for the reader a small window into an endless hall of mystery. Looking through that window, let us depart company, and watch a young pilot leave the ground for the last time, carrying with him the strongest force of nature: DEVOTION! The Final Flight1 The wind was a crux of dignity that encircled the trees in quaffs like invisible smoke. A distinctive aura perfumed the oil-stained grasses that lay tired beside a sea of wet concrete and withering granite. Hiroshi Takeuchi stared out, his passionate eyes surveying the Zero (Mitsubishi 00) fighters posted in tight groups across grounds. These planes were almost entirely new to the young pilot. His basic training had involved primarily the use of Type 96 Claudes, an opened cockpit airship with little power and even less maneuverability. These Zero¹s were as different from Claudes as night and day. They were sleek and modern, with enclosed cockpits, a powerful engine, and retractable landing gear. Instead of only two light machine guns, these works of art had a 20-mm. cannon as well (O¹Neill 139). The Zero excited Hiroshi like nothing else he had ever seen before. It had almost twice the speed and range of the Claude and it was a dream to fly (139). The airplane was the most sensitive he had ever flown, and even a slight finger pressure brought instant response. He could hardly wait to meet the enemy planes in this remarkable new aircraft. The fighter had been first tested in the occupation of French Indochina, flying top cover for army troops which occupied key ground positions (Evans 76-77). This meant a nonstop flight of 800 miles from Kaoshing to Hainan Island (Hammond 71). This was an incredible distance for a fighter plane, especially with much of the flight over the ocean. It had been carried out without a hitch (Evans 77)--sheer wonder for Hiroshi, who was accustomed to the short-ranging Claudes. There had been no opposition, however, as the Zero¹s patrolled over the occupation forces moving into Indochina. Except for some minor border skirmishes caused by uninformed regional French troops, Japanese forces had moved in quietly and without trouble (Evans 76-77, 88). Hiroshi had been there! He had held the throttle between his hands, reeling in the power of an almost human divinity. As the massive flight troop circled the skies around him, a small tear flushed itself from his eyes. We shall become a legacy! We shall never be forgotten! The Zero¹s combat trials were postponed until May of 1941. Back in the China theater, Hiroshi and his squadron had discovered that the enemy pilots had lost heart for fighting. No longer were they aggressive and quick to attack. The enemy pilots were eluding the Zero force at almost every opportunity, and would engage only when they had the advantage of plunging out of the sun in a surprise attack. Their timidity had forced Japan to invade deeper and deeper inland to force them to do battle (O¹Neill 138-140). On August 11, 1941, Hiroshi was assigned to one such mission, with the express purpose of forcing the enemy into a fight. It was an 800-mile nonstop flight, from Ichang to Chengtu (Evans 76). This was familiar territory; it was over Ichang, then enemy held, that Hiroshi had challenged 12 Russian bombers. On a penetration flight, Hiroshi and his squadron had escorted seven twin-engined Mitsubishi Type I bombers, better known during World War II as ³Bettys (O¹Neill 284).² The bombers had taken off from Hankow shortly after midnight, and the squadron had picked them up over Ichang (O¹Neill 191). The night had been pitch black, and their only landmark was the whitish Yangtze Valley winding its way across the dark country. They arrived at Wenkiang airstrip before dawn, circling slowly until daybreak. Finally the sky had lightened. No enemy fighter had appeared. Hiroshi and his squadron had watched the flight leader bank his Zero and dive. That was the signal to Strafe. One after the other they plummeted from the sky toward the airfield, where Hiroshi saw Russian fighters already moving along the runways on their take-off runs. Their ground crews were running frantically over the field, heading for the trenches. Hiroshi had pulled out at low altitude, coming up behind one E-16 fighter as it rolled down the field. It had been a perfect target, and a short cannon burst exploded the fighter into flames. Hiroshi had then flashed across the field and spiraled sharply to the right, climbing steeply to come around for another run. Tracers and flak were to the left and right of him, but the Zero¹s unexpected speed had thrown the enemy gunners off (O¹Neill 160-162). Other Zero fighters dove and made strafing passe over the runways. Several of the Russian fighters were burning or had crashed. Hiroshi pulled out of a dive to catch another plane in his sights. A second short cannon burst and there was a mushrooming ball of fire. That had made two, and Hiroshi¹s first with the Zero. There had been nothing left to strafe! Their attack had cleared the field of enemy planes, and not a single Russian aircraft had been left able to fly. The majority were seen burning or had exploded (Spurr 201). Back at 7,000 feet, Hiroshi had noticed the hangars and other shops burning fiercely from the regular bombing attack. It was a thorough job, although the young pilot had been disappointed in the lack of air opposition, and, perhaps symbolizing a collective frustration, the entire squadron had continued circling, hoping the towering smoke would draw the enemy planes. It didn¹t.. During several weeks of air patrol, they had failed to encounter any enemy aircraft (O¹Neill 184). Early in September, Hiroshi and all other naval pilots were returned to Hankow where they had been quite surprised by the appearance of Vice-Admiral Eikichi Katagiri, the Naval Air Force Commander in China (Zaisser 1993). The admiral told them that they were to be transferred to Formosa, where they would ³fulfill a most important mission.² The admiral had not elaborated, but it was obvious to Hiroshi and his peers that open war with the great Western powers seemed imminent (Zaisser). Later the same month a total of 150 fighter pilots and an equal number of bomber crewmen had moved from the Kaohsiung air base to Tainan, where they had then been quickly organized into the new Tainan Flotilla (Inoguchi 90, 122). The entire Pacific was about to explode. The Dignity of War! It was early in November, and a glorious past was fading to a harsh future. Everywhere Japanese forces were forced to fall back, to retreat. Hiroshi¹s own air units were being slashed to ribbons, their planes falling in droves, the pilots not dying singly or by twos or threes, but by the dozens. Any hope of defending the Philippines had vanished. Literally every Japanese warplane in the islands was gone--either shot out of the air by the American fighters it engaged, or expended in the Kamikaze attacks, which continued until no lanes were left (Spurr 15, 19). Hiroshi remembered the months before and his heart sank. He remembered the loudspeaker and its abrupt crackle: ³Attention! Here is an important announcement! At 0600 this morning a Japanese task force succeeded in carrying out a devastating surprise attack against the American forces in the Hawaiian Islands.² A wild, surging roar had gone up in the darkness. Pilots danced and slapped their friends on the back (O¹Neill 40-47). Hiroshi clutched his flight goggles tightly and stared, beaming, into the sky. But so much time had passed since that glorious day in December. The Americans had quickly regained their composure, retaliating in tremendous bursts of unbelievable power! B-29 bombers circled over Hiroshi¹s homeland, devastating cities with rapid drops, before disappearing above the clouds (Pineau 112). Officials in the Japanese army seethed with rage. ³One plane!² they shouted. ³One plane and we can do nothing!² But they didn¹t understand. At a normal cruising height of 30,000 feet it would have taken even the most advanced Zero¹s several minutes to retaliate, and by then the infamous bombers were gone (O¹Neill 120, 138-143). Hiroshi assured himself that this was not a sign of weakness, repeating over and over that is was his county¹s mere fate that it lacked the resources necessary to construct such awesome fighting machines. But it still hurt him inside, and his beloved country lay in shambles before him. But this was no time for insecurities, and Hiroshi forced himself to concentrate on successes rather than failures. As a fighter pilot, Hiroshi had never been inclined to approve of suicide missions, but there was no denying their necessity, nor their efficiency, in battling the enemy forces. In late October, the Shikishima Unit of the Kamikaze Special Attack Corps had succeeded in a surprise attack against the enemy task force outside of Suluan, Philippine Islands. Two warships had been sunk by Kamikaze efforts (Pineau 111). The Kamikazes were what gave Hiroshi his greatest strength. They ripped aircraft carriers from stern to stern. They split open cruiser and destroyers, and exacted a terrible toll (Zaisser 1993). Hiroshi¹s squadron talked long and hard of these efforts, and none could wait for their time to come to do their part. ³The American will never understand!² Hiroshi yelled during a squadron meeting one night. ³Our men do not consider that they are throwing their lives away! Look at how many have volunteered for these one-way missions! Look at the devotion we have or our cause!² The room filled with cheers. ³This is not suicide!² Hiroshi continued. ³These men are not dying in vain! Every plane which thunders into an enemy warship is a blow struck for our land. Every bomb carried by a Kamikaze into the fuel tanks of a giant carrier means that many more of the enemy killed, that many more planes which shall never bomb and strafe over our soil!² The Kamikazes had become a symbol of faith. They represented a belief in Japan, in striking a blow with their lives. It was a cheap price to pay; one man, perhaps, against the lives of hundreds or even thousands. Besides, Japan no longer had the means to base its strength on conventional tactics (O¹Neill 177). It was no longer possessed of such national power. And a man, everyone of those men, who surrendered his mortal soul was not dying. He passed on life to those who remained. But not even the stupendous toll reaped by the Kamikazes could halt the terrible power amassed by the Americans. They were too mighty, too many, too advanced (Pineau 207). Perhaps the men who flew for the last time realized this. It is difficult to believe that many of those who flew Kamikazes did not recognize the hopelessness of Japan¹s position in the war. But they did not flinch, they did not hesitate. They flew their bomb-laden planes, and died for their country. On January 20, the Imperial Navy Organized a new fighter wing--the last of the war--at Matsuyama on Shikoku Island (O¹Neill 178, 275-6). Hiroshi had been assigned to this wing, and he knew that soon his own time would come to give his last and greatest effort for his country. Many a great pilot had since been lost in the war, and Hiroshi felt his entire being quiver with the onslaught of death¹s grip. Before his scheduled flight he wrote a note to his cousin, knowing it would be the last thing he would ever say to her: ³I have been reassigned to combat duty, ³ he wrote. ³From this day on we shall be fighting against what appear to be overwhelming odds. Since the beginning of this battle I have learned that many of my closest friends have died. I feel that if they were to meet such an end...than I am to follow soon. ³This letter will be the last I shall ever write to you, and I cannot wait any longer to tell you what I have wanted to say for so very long. ³Do you recall our days as children together? Those were wonderful times, filled with fun and laughter. You and I lived as sister and brother, and even then our fondness of each other was strong. ³What I have long wished to tell you was that in my heart you have been the dearest person on this earth to me. I know now that I have looked upon you as my only love. Perhaps it is wrong to say so, perhaps it is not the was I would like it to be said, but I believe you were always there in my heart. I did not know it then as I have known it for these last months. ³I have long loved you and loved you deeply. There has been no outward sign from me to you, although this has been the hardest thing in my life...to keep away from you the way I really felt. I have waited so long to tell you I love you. The war has created a barrier between us. I realize that my feelings have never been shown, that this love I have for you has been throttled and kept inside. ³we are, after all, cousins. Perhaps it is best for both of us that marriage lies beyond our grasp. But now I have said what was necessary. I pray for only one thing, my love. May you live long, and may happiness be yours forever.² The following day, Japan¹s final Kamikaze squadron lifted into the air. Hiroshi did not speak except to respond to basic formation calls and relay specific orders. When the giant formation of an American Naval fleet came into view the sky began to explode with life (and death) all around him. Hiroshi stared deep into the ocean, remembering his past, remembering the war. Closing his eyes, he was lifted into an air of peace. None of the new Matsuyama wing ever returned. Conclusion It has been said that war is Hell, and that Heaven is but peace. Perhaps it can now be said that the Kamikazes found peace in Hell. Confidence and determination was their resilience in the war. It gave Japan the strength to fight when objective reasoning revealed only futility. Were Kamikaze attacks an act of desperation? Or were they were an act of emotionally driven cogitation? When logic tells us that our hopes our unyielding we persist none-the-less. Human reasoning is based on our own perspectives, and when it is perceived that our dreams cannot be achieved it is impossible to listen to ³logic.² Kamikaze pilots died for their dreams because it was not worth waking up. That, dear reader, is not insanity. It is totally human.