ABSTRACT
It is time here to relate a personal encounter that took place early in the formation of this story. It involves the moment I met the kamikaze boy who spoke to me, and who impacted the direction of this story in a way I never expected, or desired. Frankly, we were not interested in the kamikaze story. So many tales, so many poems, so many deaths and so many memories had been recounted, so this was not the story to tell. It took place during a visit to a museum in Usa, where a temporary World War II retrospective organized by a local historical association filled the top floor. I had gone to Usa for one of my first interviews, but my host insisted that I first see the display. That would, of course, be helpful in telling this story, so I accompanied him to the display. There were photos of American B-29 attacks on Usa, of Japanese airplanes and shell casings from unexploded bombs. There were pictures of schoolchildren during the war. As we walked around the display I learned that Usa was an active training base and departure site for Special Attack Squadrons, called Tokkotai in Japan but better known in the West as kamikaze. Surprised, but not terribly interested, we then drifted toward a display filled with photos – photos of children dressed in flight gear. These, I was told, were the kamikaze pilots. I could not move from that spot, as I studied the faces of these pilots. How could this be, these were only children? My eyes drifted from one face to another. They stopped when one of the boys stared back at me. He would not take his gaze away, nor could I. He looked younger than freshmen students at my university just a few miles away. He had a smile, a confident face that I see on my students’ faces when they are relaxed, when they are content with their lives, when they show pride in their achievements. He could have been my student, or even more disturbing, my son. I thought of my three boys as I watched this boy, remembering their carefree, optimistic teenage years. I looked around to other photos, and they were all the same; these children of seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen years old, about to fly off to certain death within hours or days of the photo. I returned my gaze to the one young man, drawn softly but magnetically to him, to his face and to his voice. Quietly, with the beauty and innocence of youth, he spoke. He asked me not to forget him and his friends when I told this story. I felt the chill of a special moment and could not move. And I told him not to worry, that he and his young comrades would not be left out. That would be impossible now. Leaving the museum that day on the way to the interview, I knew there would be more to the story of the war in this small part of Japan than I ever imagined, for all the stories are connected in ways that unfold only as you spend time with those still here and those gone. While some young students from surrounding high schools labored to repair the landing strips again and again, other young people from towns scattered around Oita Prefecture prepared to die attacking American ships around Okinawa as proud members of the Special Attack Force, or kamikaze. So some of their stories must be told.
