
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.
