Kamikaze survivors paid a price for all Americans

Larry Simoneaux

There was a gathering of veterans this past week at a hotel in Everett. It was a reunion of the kamikaze survivors — the men who’d fought the sea battle of Okinawa in April, 1945. It was open to the public. My neighbor, Bryson Chambers, told me about it. I’d somehow missed the announcement in the paper.

I skipped lunch on Wednesday in order to spend an hour standing in a corner of the meeting room. Most of the attendees I saw were in their late 70s or early 80s. Their gaits were slower than in 1945. Many used walkers or canes. Glasses and hearing aids were common. Voices occasionally wavered. Still, they’d come to see friends and remember shipmates. To hear stories of courage and fear. To hear stories of tragedies and miracles. To hear stories of survival.

Most of these men had served on the "picket line" — a group of destroyers and smaller ships stationed far from the main fleet. Their job was to give the fleet early warning of any approaching aircraft. They suffered on that lonely station. During the battle for Okinawa, over 1900 suicide attacks were launched against our ships. On April 16, 1945, the destroyer, USS Laffey, underwent what was probably the most concentrated aerial attack ever endured by a single ship.

In his description of the battle, Samuel Elliott Morrison stated, "From first light she had bogeys on her screen, and at one time her radar operator counted 50 planes closing from the northern quadrant…During a period of 80 minutes, in 22 separate attacks plotted by the Laffey’s officers, she was hit by six kamikazes, by four bombs and by strafing as well as being missed by a bomb and by a seventh kamikaze." The Laffey had 31 men killed and 72 wounded that one day.

Many of the men in the meeting room told similar stories. They told them as best they could. They often had to stop to compose themselves. I’ve noticed this is common among men who’ve experienced battle. The memories and emotions that have been buried for years break through. The tears come unbidden and often.

The meeting’s timing was appropriate. Memorial Day was coming up. Roughly two centuries ago, a group of rebel leaders sat down and drew up a list of particulars regarding the way this country was being treated by its rulers. The rebels spoke of things like freedom and liberty. They spoke of a radical notion that government derives its power only from the consent of the governed. They wrote of things like justice being administered impartially and the rights of the individual being paramount.

The country’s rulers at that time did not listen kindly to these ideas. They were incensed when the rebels declared independence and said they were starting up their own nation — thank you very much.

Declaring that independence, however, carried a price. The first payment came due at a place called Lexington. Shortly thereafter, our armed forces — what there were of them — found themselves pitted against the most formidable fighting force of the time. It took years, but this rag-tag army eventually beat the best the world had to offer.

That wasn’t the end of it, though. Over the next 200 years, the ongoing bill for the things we believe was presented with frightening regularity. It came due in places like Concord, Yorktown and Bunker Hill. It came due in places like Antietam, Chancellorsville and Manassas. It came due in places like Belleau Wood and Chateau-Thierry. It came due in places like Guadalcanal, Aachen and St. Lo. It came due in places like Yudam-ni, Chosin Reservoir and Hungnam. It came due in places like An Loc, Dong Ha and Khe San.

Eight months ago, yet another group of fanatics with chips on their shoulder, a world view that’s downright scary, and notions on human rights that stagnated somewhere around the first millennium, presented us with yet another bill for freedom. Once again, our troops were sent to pay it.

I think it’s a good thing to remember the men and women who’ve gone to these places, to remember those who’ve gone to a hundred other pieces of hell on earth with names not enough of us have ever heard of, to remember those who stood in front of our enemies and said, "Not on my watch. Not through my sector. Not now. Not ever."

The men I saw at the Kamikaze Survivors reunion were presented with the bill for freedom in April of 1945. They paid it — some of their mates with their lives. They’re older now. Their eyes may not be as clear — their voices not as strong. They are nearing the "going down of the sun," but they were once magnificent in our defense.

We should remember them.

We should remember all who’ve served.

We owe them our freedom.

One day of the year seems a small compensation.

Larry Simoneaux is an Edmonds writer.