Flags of Our Fathers by James Bradley, Ron Powers Page B
Authors: James Bradley, Ron Powers
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manner the Marines judged fanatical.
But this ideal was not the real thing. Rather, it was a corruption of Bushido.
In the past the Bushido code had been as specialized and isolated as the Hippocratic oath. The samurai had always been a small elite within the larger society. For them, Bushido defined a life of honor and duty. But in the early 1900’s the Japanese military set forth an updated version of Bushido. Its aim was to make warriors of the entire male populace. Death in battle was portrayed as an honor to the family and a transcendent act on the part of the individual. Surrender was a disgrace to the soldier and his family.
This vulgarized version of the Warrior’s Way would have surprised samurai of an earlier era. Those professional warriors had never advocated a willingness to sacrifice themselves for anyone. A true samurai would slice his belly open over an issue of honor. But he didn’t believe mass suicide in hopeless situations was sound strategy. As the American General George Patton phrased it: “No one ever won a war by dying for their country. They won by making the other son-of-a-bitch die for his.”
But the twentieth-century Japanese military wasn’t being run by samurai. The new leaders taught a cult of death, that sacrificing your life is the ultimate beautiful goal. A corruption of Bushido.
The young men the Japanese military drew into its ranks were never aware of this corruption. They had no outside information on which to build critical judgments. They were, in effect, brainwashed to believe that by laying down their lives they were walking in the footsteps of heroic samurai.
Not surprisingly, the military hierarchy had little respect for the products of the system they had designed. They referred to army draftees as “issen gorin.” “Issen gorin” meant “one yen, five rin,” the cost of mailing a draft-notice postcard—less than a penny.
“They were expendable; there was an unlimited supply for the price of the postcards. Weapons and horses were treated with solicitous care, but no second-class private was as valuable as an animal. After all, a horse cost real money. Privates were only worth issen gorin .”
Later in the Pacific campaign, a captured Japanese officer observed American doctors tending to the broken bodies of wounded Japanese soldiers. He expressed surprise at the resources being expended upon these men, who were too badly injured to fight again. “What would you do with these men?” a Marine officer asked. “We’d give each a grenade,” was his answer. “And if they didn’t use it, we’d cut their jugular vein.”
To the Japanese fighting man, surrender meant humiliation. His family would be dishonored, his name would be stricken from the village rolls, he would cease to exist, and his superiors would kill him if they got their hands on him. All in the name of a version of Bushido cynically devised to make young Japanese men fodder for the military’s adventures.
Unable to surrender, forced to fight to the death, the young Japanese soldier had no respect for Americans who didn’t do the same. So a tragedy occurred in the Pacific. A tragedy brought about by the Japanese military leaders who forced their brutalized young men to be brutal themselves.
Back in America, the dramatic island victory on Guadalcanal and its heroes galvanized a new wave of American boys. The Marines, a volunteer force, had suddenly become the branch of choice, especially among boys who, like Jesse Boatwright, were looking for the biggest challenges: “We felt they sent the Marines to the toughest places, and if it wasn’t tough, the Army went in.”
Young kids were faking birth certificates and urine samples—not to get out, but to get in. Pee Wee Griffiths made it into boot camp by stuffing himself with bananas. At one hundred eight pounds, the Ohio boy was rejected on his first enlistment try; he was four pounds under the Marine minimum. “They told me to eat as
But this ideal was not the real thing. Rather, it was a corruption of Bushido.
In the past the Bushido code had been as specialized and isolated as the Hippocratic oath. The samurai had always been a small elite within the larger society. For them, Bushido defined a life of honor and duty. But in the early 1900’s the Japanese military set forth an updated version of Bushido. Its aim was to make warriors of the entire male populace. Death in battle was portrayed as an honor to the family and a transcendent act on the part of the individual. Surrender was a disgrace to the soldier and his family.
This vulgarized version of the Warrior’s Way would have surprised samurai of an earlier era. Those professional warriors had never advocated a willingness to sacrifice themselves for anyone. A true samurai would slice his belly open over an issue of honor. But he didn’t believe mass suicide in hopeless situations was sound strategy. As the American General George Patton phrased it: “No one ever won a war by dying for their country. They won by making the other son-of-a-bitch die for his.”
But the twentieth-century Japanese military wasn’t being run by samurai. The new leaders taught a cult of death, that sacrificing your life is the ultimate beautiful goal. A corruption of Bushido.
The young men the Japanese military drew into its ranks were never aware of this corruption. They had no outside information on which to build critical judgments. They were, in effect, brainwashed to believe that by laying down their lives they were walking in the footsteps of heroic samurai.
Not surprisingly, the military hierarchy had little respect for the products of the system they had designed. They referred to army draftees as “issen gorin.” “Issen gorin” meant “one yen, five rin,” the cost of mailing a draft-notice postcard—less than a penny.
“They were expendable; there was an unlimited supply for the price of the postcards. Weapons and horses were treated with solicitous care, but no second-class private was as valuable as an animal. After all, a horse cost real money. Privates were only worth issen gorin .”
Later in the Pacific campaign, a captured Japanese officer observed American doctors tending to the broken bodies of wounded Japanese soldiers. He expressed surprise at the resources being expended upon these men, who were too badly injured to fight again. “What would you do with these men?” a Marine officer asked. “We’d give each a grenade,” was his answer. “And if they didn’t use it, we’d cut their jugular vein.”
To the Japanese fighting man, surrender meant humiliation. His family would be dishonored, his name would be stricken from the village rolls, he would cease to exist, and his superiors would kill him if they got their hands on him. All in the name of a version of Bushido cynically devised to make young Japanese men fodder for the military’s adventures.
Unable to surrender, forced to fight to the death, the young Japanese soldier had no respect for Americans who didn’t do the same. So a tragedy occurred in the Pacific. A tragedy brought about by the Japanese military leaders who forced their brutalized young men to be brutal themselves.
Back in America, the dramatic island victory on Guadalcanal and its heroes galvanized a new wave of American boys. The Marines, a volunteer force, had suddenly become the branch of choice, especially among boys who, like Jesse Boatwright, were looking for the biggest challenges: “We felt they sent the Marines to the toughest places, and if it wasn’t tough, the Army went in.”
Young kids were faking birth certificates and urine samples—not to get out, but to get in. Pee Wee Griffiths made it into boot camp by stuffing himself with bananas. At one hundred eight pounds, the Ohio boy was rejected on his first enlistment try; he was four pounds under the Marine minimum. “They told me to eat as
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