"My point exactly," snaps the CO. "Oh, they're fine as foot soldiers—they can slog through the mud as well as anyone. But for something like this? Can you imagine any Korean brave enough?"
He's calling us cowards! But not to our faces. He just assumes we're not brave enough for—for whatever it is—without even asking.
The rest of that evening, the whole night, his words rub against my mind like a blister getting sorer and sorer. I hardly sleep. By morning I know I have to do something.
Morning roll call. Sure enough, it's something special. All the officers are there, not just the sergeant.
The sergeant announces an extraordinary assignment. So demanding, requiring such bravery, that no one will be ordered to accept it. Volunteers only. And no guarantee that a volunteer will qualify. The assignment is that tough.
I don't think anymore. I click my heels and snap off a salute. "Sir!" I almost shout. I'm looking straight ahead in perfect position. I can't see anyone's face. But later when the other soldiers talk about it, they tell me the officers' mouths all dropped clean open.
The sergeant says, "Kaneyama! Are you volunteering? Do you understand that this mission may require the ultimate sacrifice from you?"
"Yes, sir. This soldier is brave enough, sir. For any job or mission. Sir!"
I stand there at attention. I can feel the surprise in the air, even though no one says anything. I can tell by the way they're shifting about.
After I say that, three others volunteer. The sergeant dismisses everyone but us. "Report to the CO's office," he says. "Briefing on your new assignment. You'll be shipping out to Japan in two days."
Two days! So soon?
The four of us salute, then march together to our briefing.
27. Sun-hee
The cherry trees blossomed all over town. A few days later the ground looked as if it were covered with pale pink snow as the petals fell and were carried by the wind everywhere. Our rose of Sharon tree grew new leaves, too. There were only a few shoots. But it had survived another winter, and Omoni and I were delighted.
In May we got Tae-yul's second letter—weeks after he'd written it. Abuji said we were lucky to receive it; the war had all but stopped regular mail service.
Dear family,
I am sure it will be a surprise to you to hear that after only a few weeks of training, I am being sent to Japan. I can assure you it was just as big a surprise to me! A few of us have been recruited for a special assignment, by order of the Emperor. I was chosen because of my previous commitment to the Youth Air Corps. We are to be transported to a new base in Japan. You must understand that I cannot tell you the exact location. We will have further training for our new positions. Please do not worry about me. As always, I will do my utmost to make the whole family proud of me.
Your son and brother
Once again, Omoni was happy to hear that Tae-yul was still in training. For my part, I wondered why the letter was so short. It seemed quite straightforward, without any hidden meaning. Probably he had written it in a hurry and hadn't had time to put in a message for me to figure out.
One evening a few days later I couldn't write in my diary because my pencil had worn down to nothing but a stub. Abuji would have to bring me another one from his school. It annoyed me to miss a day in my diary.
I was in Uncle and Tae-yul's room. I'd taken to using it as kind of a study; I didn't want them to come home to a room with the stale, musty feel of having been empty for a long time.
I put my diary back on the shelf and took both of Tae-yul's letters from the box where I kept them. I loved reading them over and over. I loved knowing that my brother had touched the sheets of paper I was holding.
For the hundredth time I wished we'd gotten more letters. Abuji had said they'd probably allow him to write us before he was shipped out for combat, and Omoni held on tightly to that idea. It was good not to get a letter from him, she said, because that meant he was safe. Another way the war turned everything inside out.
I refolded the first letter, put it carefully back in the box, and studied the second letter yet again. I was curious about Tae-yul's new assignment. There didn't seem to be any clues, but maybe I'd missed something....
"A few of us have been recruited for a special assignment, by order of the Emperor. I was chosen because of my previous commitment to the Youth Air Corps."
"By order of the Emperor"? It seemed strange that he'd write this phrase in a letter. It made him sound like the announcer on Radio Tokyo or the block leader at a neighborhood accounting. Did he mean to sound like that? Why? To remind me of something? What?
"...my previous commitment to the Youth Air Corps." I thought back to those days—not really so long ago, but it felt like years. What had he done when he was in the Youth Air Corps?
The airstrip. Digging with spades all day long.
Perhaps he was being assigned to dig trenches. I didn't know much about war, and hardly anything about battles, but I guessed that trenches would probably be dug quite near the front line. I hoped that wasn't Tae-yul's new assignment. Then again, digging trenches was surely better than being sent to the front line itself?
By order of the Emperor. The Youth Air Corps.
Emperor ... Air...
Tae-yul was going to be a kamikaze.
He was going to fly an airplane for that unit—the Special Attack Unit. How often I'd heard him use those words! That was the reason for the extra training. Surely, pilots needed a lot of training.
And after the training—a mission.
A suicide mission.
I was so frightened by this idea that I could no longer sit still. I stood and paced around the room.
It was crazy. I was crazy. I had to be wrong. I was imagining things—those words might mean something completely different.
No—I was right. It was so like Tae-yul to want to fly an airplane. Maybe he thought that if he was going to die anyway, it might as well happen when he was doing something he wanted to do.
But maybe I was wrong. Remember Tomo—remember Uncle. I'd been so sure, and had made a terrible mistake. Don't make a mistake this time.
I slipped into the other bedroom and got into bed without either of my parents noticing. If they'd seen me or talked to me, they'd have known something was wrong. I didn't even have to look in the mirror to know that my face was pale and strained.
In bed I lay flat on my back, forcing myself to think. The war is going badly for the Japanese. Tae-yul said so—there are rumors in the street ... and the lessons at school—no news of victories anywhere, not for a long time now. If he's going to be a kamikaze, he'll need a lot of training. The war is almost over—how much longer? Maybe it will end before he gets to fly a mission....
That was it. That was the answer. If somehow Tae-yul could be stopped, or at least delayed, for a month perhaps—even a week or two might be long enough.
But how?
The next day at school we had bayonet practice and bomb drills, but I was so inattentive and listless that the teacher thought I was ill. She sent me home early in the afternoon.
When I walked into the courtyard, Omoni dropped the wet laundry she was holding and rushed over to me. "Sun-hee! What's the matter—are you all right? Has something happened?"
I shook my head. "I'm fine, Omoni. Just tired. But the teacher thought I shouldn't work anymore."
She put her hand on my cheek and made me open my mouth so she could look at my throat. "Go to bed," she said. "I'll bring you some soup."
I felt a little guilty going to bed; after all, I wasn't really sick. I should have helped Omoni with the laundry. But I needed the quiet time alone, to think.
After I'd drunk the soup Omoni brought me—it wasn't really soup, just the water the vegetables had been boiled in, but we always called it soup—I lay quietly on my mat and waited. When it was nearly time for Abuji to come home, I got up, rolled my sleeping mat, and put it away. Then I combed my hair. I arranged two cushions on the floor. Fi
nally, I went to Tae-yul's room and fetched both letters.
I sat down on one of the cushions and waited. After a few minutes I heard Abuji come into the house. I heard him speak briefly with Omoni. Then he came into the bedroom. "Sun-hee—you are not in bed?" he said. "I hope this means you are feeling better."
"Yes, Abuji. I'm fine, thank you. Would you sit with me for a few minutes? I have something I would like to talk to you about."
He slid the door shut and sat down on the other cushion. "Please go ahead," he said.
I hesitated for a moment. Tae-yul might not approve of what I was about to do. But he'd never said not to tell anyone what I discovered in his letters. Maybe, in a way, he wanted us to know, all of us.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The last of my uncertainty was blown away with that breath.
"Abuji, before he left, Tae-yul told me he wouldn't be able to write his true thoughts in his letters—because they'd be censored. He asked me to read his words carefully, so I would be able to figure out what he really meant."
Abuji looked thoughtful. "So you believe his letters have messages of importance beyond the actual words?" he asked.
I smiled a little inside. Abuji was making things easier for me. "Yes. The second one especially. I do not know if it's a message he intended to put in, or if it was almost ... accidental on his part. But last night I understood the letter in a different way."
It took me a while to explain everything. I had to go back in time, to talk about how fascinated Tae-yul had always been by the kamikaze. Then I showed Abuji the first letter, and pointed out the places where I'd uncovered Tae-yul's true thoughts.
Finally, I unfolded the second letter and held it out to him. I no longer needed to look at it myself; I'd memorized the whole thing. After he read through it quickly, I revealed my true fear: That Tae-yul's new assignment was kamikaze training.
Abuji never once interrupted me. He listened intently to every word. He didn't shake his head or act like I was crazy. I was grateful for that.
When I finished, we sat in silence for a few moments. Abuji drew in a long breath and let it out slowly, just as I had before I started talking. Then he said, "Is it your wish that I act on what you have told me? That I do something to prevent your brother from taking part in a mission?"
"Abuji, the war may end soon. I thought that if Tae-yul could be delayed—even for a little while—perhaps there would be no need for him to fly a mission at all."
Abuji nodded thoughtfully. "Let us say, for the moment, that you are correct about your brother," he said evenly. "Suppose I went to the military authorities. What could I say to them that might have the desired result?"
I was ready with an answer to that; it was what I'd been thinking about all day. Still, I spoke slowly, looking down at my hands. "At first I thought perhaps you could say that he had some illness—some kind of medical condition that would be bad for a pilot. But I don't think that would work. He has already been training for so long—they would know by now that there is nothing wrong with him." I paused.
Abuji nodded again, so I went on. "But what if—what if you were to tell them something like the truth? Tell them that Uncle is a resistance worker—they know that already, right? And that Tae-yul admired Uncle greatly. And therefore you think Tae-yul should not be trusted on a mission of such importance. He should be stopped from flying."
I'd turned this plan over in my mind a hundred times. It would not be betraying Uncle. I was not asking Abuji to tell a bald-faced lie. And it might save Tae-yul's life.
Abuji was quiet for what seemed like a long time. As I waited for him to speak, I suddenly felt exhausted. The sleepless night and restless day of thinking so hard and now telling my thoughts had left my body limp. At that moment I didn't think I could even lift my hand.
At last Abuji spoke in his usual calm, even voice. "Well, then. I could tell the authorities I believe Tae-yul is not to be trusted. What do you think they would do?"
Something in his face made my stomach feel a little queasy. "They wouldn't want someone like that flying one of their planes, so they—they would stop him. Wouldn't they, Abuji?"
Abuji nodded. "And then what?"
I stared at him with my mouth open. It wasn't very polite of me, but I was too surprised to control my expression. How could I not have thought of this myself?
Abuji answered his own question. "They would arrest him. If he were lucky, he would be imprisoned. Otherwise..."
He didn't need to finish the sentence. I closed my eyes as a terrible fear rose in me.
Otherwise, the Japanese would execute him as a traitor.
If Tae-yul were not stopped, he would crash his plane and die. If he were stopped, he might die before a firing squad.
Abuji raised his hands and rubbed his eyes as if he, too, were very tired. He spoke with his hands still covering his face. "Sun-hee, I am deeply grateful to you for speaking to me about this. I must think about it for a while. I will tell you when I make a decision."
He lowered his hands. "Now, if you are feeling well enough, perhaps you could help your mother with dinner."
I rose from my seat and went to the door. Before I stepped out I looked back at him. He was sitting with his hands in his lap, head bowed, shoulders slumped.
I closed the door behind me and stood there for a moment, trembling.
I had never before seen Abuji look afraid.
The next day after school, I waited outside the house for Abuji to come home. I wanted to talk to him before he came inside, because I didn't know whether he'd told Omoni anything and I had a million questions to ask. Had he gone to the authorities? What had he said to them? What did they say in response? Would Tae-yul be coming home soon?
But when he came home, all the questions died in my throat. He looked at me and nodded, his face tired and gentle. Then he shook his head and took me by the hand, so we went inside together.
Without a word he'd told me what I needed to know. He had given them the information. But he had no idea what they'd do next.
We could only wait.
28. Tae-yul
The last night before I leave for Japan. I'm wide awake on my bunk. Somewhere in the middle of the darkness it finally sinks in.
I've volunteered for the Special Attack Unit—the kamikaze.
That's the new assignment. Mine and two other soldiers'. They've chosen three of us, dismissed the fourth with no explanation.
All through the briefing, the CO droning on and on about duty and honor and courage, and I hardly heard him. There was only one thought in my head.
I'm going to fly an airplane!
That was the only thing I'd thought about. Until now.
Now the whole truth looms over me. I'm going to fly an airplane—and crash it. Into an American ship. It grabs me by the shoulders and sits me straight up in bed, that's how strong it is. Impossible! How can anyone do something like that?
I joined the army to save Uncle. Not for any other reason. Not to kill Americans. And certainly not to help the Japanese.
But that's what the Imperial forces do—the Special Attack Unit most of all. It's not just the damage they do to American ships. It's the power they have to boost the whole army. They make everyone, even lowly guards like Spade-face, believe in the Japanese cause. He said it himself: As long as there are those willing to become kamikaze, there's no way Japan can lose.
How did I get here? How can I be part of that?
A sudden sound in my head—a grinding noise. It takes me a second to realize it's me, grinding my teeth. My hands are clenched in fists, too—I want to hit something.
I've given my word. If I back out now, they'll think they were right, that Koreans are cowards. I'd lose face completely and never get it back.
And besides—it sounds stupid, selfish, but I want to fly an airplane.
There has to be a way. To fly, but not to help them.
My jaw relaxes a little. I lie back on my bunk, staring at th
e ceiling. I spend the rest of the night digging through my mind for everything I've ever heard about the kamikaze.
Gray light at the window. And I have a plan.
Now everything is happening in such a rush. There's no time to think. Packing, saying goodbye to the fellows in my unit. We got to be friends really fast here. The guy in the next bunk, Han-joo—Kentaro is his Japanese name—salutes me. Everyone laughs, but it still makes me feel funny. We're the same rank. But he knows—we all know—as soon as you become a pilot, you're automatically made an officer.
Leaving Korea, going to Japan. My first time on the open sea.
A lot of the other guys on the boat get sick. I don't, even though my stomach feels awful the whole time. Flying in a plane probably won't feel like being on a boat. But maybe a plane rides up and down on the air, like the boat on the waves. I practice breathing deep, trying to control the sloshing in my stomach. Just in case it feels the same.
My new camp is not far from Tokyo, at a base called Kagohara. The barracks are a lot nicer. There's a platform for sleeping on, with mattresses, not straw mats. And only six men to a room. New uniforms, too.
But the same morning routine. Lessons on the Emperor's words, reciting the Rescript. Pages and pages to memorize. What does any of it have to do with flying?
We get other lessons on the workings of airplanes. We don't have to prepare them for flight, or fix them if they break down—mechanics do that. But a pilot has to know his plane as well as he knows his own body. Better, even. If anything goes wrong in the air, there are things a pilot can do to compensate. But only if he knows exactly what's wrong.
I love these classes, learning about the engines. It's funny when I think about it, my education in machines. From bicycle right to airplane, nothing in between. Well, maybe one thing—Uncle's printing press.
When we go out to the hangars to see the engines for ourselves, I notice that the pilots ignore the mechanics. They're considered a lower class, not just by military rank. I feel bad for them. I wouldn't mind being a mechanic myself, getting to work with engines all the time. And I'm impressed by how well they know the planes.