The Pacific was beautiful that morning, serene and a stunning blue, and the engine hummed rhythmically as a lone pilot soared across the sky, and if there was any blemish on this splendid day, it was that he was 19 and he was about to die.
He was not blind to this fact. Strapped alongside him was a 500-pound bomb designed to explode the moment he slammed his plane into an American warship.
His name was PO3 Setsuo Ishino, and, earlier that day, April 11, 1945, he and 15 other pilots had climbed into their Zeros and taken off from Kanoya Air Base on Kyushu Island. The battle for Okinawa was in its tenth day, and their target was the American fleet, located northeast of Okinawa.
Nearly all of the 16 pilots were destined to never reach their targets. Fewer than 20 percent of kamikaze attacks were successful. Most pilots and their planes were shredded in flight by a relentless hail of bullets, and their farewell to the world was a momentary waterspout and then oblivion.
Despite the odds, one of the 16 pilots who had taken off that morning had been successful, crashing his plane into the destroyer USS Kidd and killing 38 sailors. Ishino hoped to be the second successful pilot.
At 2:39 p.m., Ishino radioed that he had the enemy fleet in sight. He had three minutes left to live.
AT 2:41, he radioed that he was beginning his attack.
The Missouri’s radar detected Ishino’s aircraft long before he had the ship in sight. At 4,000 yards, a fusillade of bullets was whizzing by Ishino’s plane. Some found their target, and his plane began to smoke and to lose altitude. To those on deck, it appeared he was about to slam into the ocean.
Then, to the astonishment and horror of the sailors on the Missouri, Ishino somehow regained a measure of control. He adjusted his altitude and turned the Zero toward the Missouri’s starboard side, flying through a wall of gunfire about 20-feet above the surface of the water.
On board the Missouri, gun crews remained steadfast at their positions, their barrels red-hot as they fired hundreds of rounds at the approaching plane. Sailors who were not part of the gun crews scrambled hastily for the ship’s port side. A split-second prior to impact, Ishino could be seen slumped over his controls, possibly already dead but with his plane on-target and his mission all but accomplished. Then, as the gun crews braced themselves, Ishino’s plane slammed into the hull of the Missouri.
The left wing struck first, clipping the starboard side of the ship, just inches below the main deck. The plane’s propeller hub crashed into the ship’s railing, leaving a bend in the metal that is still visible today. The right wing sheared off, catapulting through the air and landing by an upper gun mount, where it started a fire. The remainder of the plane disintegrated against the hull, scattering a rain of debris and burning fuel across the deck.
Those sailors who had dared raise their heads to observe the collision witnessed a miraculous sight, one they would not soon forget: The 500-pound bomb had not exploded. For a reason no one will ever know, it slipped over the side and fell harmlessly into the sea. There were no American casualties.
A damage control team quickly extinguished the fires, and another team of sailors was assigned to remove debris from the deck, a task they accomplished by simply blasting everything overboard with jets of water from a fire hose. As the rubble was removed, it revealed a ghastly sight, the torso of the pilot, still clad in his helmet, jacket and scarf.
A crew member called the bridge and requested permission to hose Ishino overboard. He was personally answered by Captain William Callaghan, a Naval Academy graduate and the commanding officer of the battleship. His answer sent a shockwave through the crew:
“No,” he said, “when we secure, take it down to sick bay, and we’ll have a burial for him tomorrow.”
The crew was stunned by this, and many were angered. They knew what had happened to the USS Kidd that very morning, and they knew that had it not been for a 500-pound bomb that had failed to detonate, countless sailors would have been killed, and their ship and all its crew might have been sent plunging to the bottom.
And there was more. A burial at sea requires that the body be covered by a flag, but there were no Japanese flags on board. Captain Callaghan said he wanted one to be made, and he wanted it done by the next morning. In addition, he wanted the ship’s minister to conduct the service, and he wanted a rifle team, a bugler and six pallbearers. The crew wanted none of that. They had no wish to honor an enemy, particularly one who had nearly killed them.
The body of the pilot was taken to sick bay, where it was placed inside a canvas bag weighted down with shell casings. Before Ishino was enclosed in the bag, crew members removed his helmet, jacket and scarf, keeping them as souvenirs.
Captain Callaghan was aware of the crew’s feelings, but he was adamant that a proper service would be held. He explained that the pilot was “a fellow warrior who had displayed courage and devotion, and who had paid the ultimate sacrifice with his life.” It was only fitting that he be honored. Despite those words, resentment festered, and a handful of Marines refused to be part of the rifle team. Other crew members stepped forward, however, and a full complement of riflemen was soon secured. Three bosun mates stayed up most of the night sewing a Japanese battle flag from scavenged scraps of material. {I would not have wanted to hear their conversation as they sewed throughout the wee hours of the night.}
At 0900 the following morning, a six-man burial detail emerged in silence from below deck, respectfully carrying a wooden board on which lay the canvas bag holding Ishino’s remains. Atop the bag was the flag sewn by the bosuns. Then, as the crew looked on in silence, the riflemen turned their weapons to the sky and fired three times; sailors standing at attention snapped crisp salutes; a bugler played “Taps;” the ship’s chaplain committed the body to the sea; and the burial detail removed the flag, tilted the board and let the bag slide into the ocean.
Had Captain Callaghan let the sailors hose Ishino’s remains overboard, he could have been forgiven, as the war had already touched the Callaghan family in the worst of ways. His brother, Rear Admiral Daniel Callaghan, had been killed earlier in the war when a Japanese shell tore into the USS San Francisco during the Battle for Guadalcanal.
But if Captain Callaghan harbored any hatred due to this devastating loss, he hid it well, instead choosing to honor and respect a fellow warrior. At a time when the world was rife with fear and hatred, Captain Callaghan’s gesture was a small glimpse of goodness, and it shone a light of decency and compassion at a dark time in the history of our world.
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Before he climbed into his Zero for his final mission, Ishino had written a short farewell note to his mother. Excerpts follow:
Dear Mother,
At last the day has come when the final flower will bloom.
I will go smiling.
Please say that I did well and smile without crying. I am praying for everyone's good health forever and ever.
Years later, in a poignant ceremony aboard the Missouri, the Japanese flag that was hand-stitched by the bosuns was presented to the Ishino family as a memento of his courage and sacrifice.
Today, visitors to Battleship Missouri can still view the deck railing that was bent by Ishino’s plane 77 years ago. The railing has never been straightened, and it remains a testament to the goodness that existed in one man’s heart during a time when the world was consumed by hatred.
Note: If you enjoyed this article, you might like another short piece I wrote regarding the Utah memorial, which is located on the opposite side of Ford Island. It's called "54 Men and a Baby," and you can find it on the same blog this article is on - https://www.westofthesunset.blog
Have some Kleenex handy.
You can also read another World War II story on the same blog. It's a little-known account of the heroism of a Black sailor during the Battle for Guadalcanal.
You'll find it at "'Just say if I'm goin right.' The story of Charles Jackson French.'"
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