One evening I was strolling along the beach by Kamoi, not far from the signal tower. No one else was around, but I did notice one man approaching. As he neared I could see that he was wearing, as so many men were, military clothing stripped of all signs of rank or service and also a “demilitarized” service cap.

We stopped to exchange a few words. He knew some English. He was reserved and polite as Japanese tended to be. He asked why an American was way out there at the entrance to Tokyo Bay. I pointed to the signal tower where a signalman was busily flashing a message to an outgoing ship.

Since he was wearing an old uniform, I asked if he had been in the service.

“Yes,” he replied, “a navy pilot.”

He then said “kamikaze,” and went on to say that his old airplane’s motor had stopped before he got to a target. He then bowed the required angle, turned and walked back in the direction he had come from. I said the Japanese word for good-bye, “sayonara,” and stood still, watching him walk away.

In recent years I have wondered about his feelings, his sense of duty, his failure to achieve his goal, and his survival. I wondered if, after all, he was not glad to be alive.