A Japanese military officer tells his story of shame and regrets for his war atrocities.
By Fr. Eamonn Horgan

A common stereotype of Japan is its people’s supposed inability to entertain real guilt for sins, either private or public. Instead, shame is thought to be the sole reaction to a sin—and only when the sin becomes public. An increasingly frequent sight in Japanese society is government and business officials apologizing profusely, often tearfully, on television for deceptions, offenses or failures by themselves or underlings.

The wording is almost always the same. The official admits and regrets betrayal of public trust, which he promises to make every effort to restore.

Invariably, such expressions of apology are forthcoming only when the offense has come to light through no effort on the offending party. No attempt is made to conceal confusion or embarrassment. Tears are genuine. In extreme and tragic instances, suicide follows.

“Shame” is the nearest English equivalent to haji, the Japanese word that describes this form of personal debasement.

A Gripping Speech
But despite this stereotype, any missionary who has lived and worked among the Japanese can cite numerous examples of personal contrition and real desire for forgiveness and reconciliation. One story from my own experience was particularly moving.

I was pastor of Hitoyoshi Catholic Church in Kyushu, Japan, when I was invited to join the local Rotary International club. Mindful of Vatican reservations about such organizations, I hesitated. But knowing the caliber of the Hitoyoshi members, I decided that a group made up of such men of integrity should pose no threat to me or the Church.

Those familiar with Rotary procedures know that one activity is a weekly meeting that includes discussion of business and a lunch. During lunch one member delivers a table speech on a requested subject or on a subject he chooses.

One time during one such luncheon, the speaker was a sprightly octogenarian, the senior member of the club by many years, who had served with the Japanese Imperial Army in China during the 1930s. Here is his story as he told it:

“I was an officer in charge of a brigade of special soldiers, storm troopers really, whose job was to lead the assault on any position we came up against. We had gone through savage training and were warned again and again about entertaining any human feelings for the enemy, military or civilian. Furthermore we were to regard ourselves as expendable ammunition with no concern for our own safety. Our duty was to die.

“As the leader of the group I was the one who was supposed to keep reminding the troops of those two commandments. Sadly, the soldiers obeyed both, to the letter and beyond. As we swept through China, we left an unimaginable trail of death and destruction and extermination. Men, in or out of uniform, women with infants in arms, frightened children roaming the streets, even dumb animals, we mowed down without remorse.

“To eliminate whatever military resistance we encountered, I deliberately sent dozens of my own men to certain death. During occupation of an area, we hunted down and executed anybody even remotely suspected of even contemplating resistance. Dozens were beheaded before my eyes.

“Eventually and inevitably, defeat came. By some miracle I survived, though most of my brigade had died, either by enemy action or succumbing to one of the many diseases and plagues we encountered.

“Back in Japan I found very little welcome or support for defeated soldiers who were supposed to die rather than surrender. Those disabled in combat were allowed the pitiful privilege of wearing distinctive white clothes and a military cap to beg in the streets. Even my surviving family members had enough to do to eke out a living without the added burden of supporting a member whom they hadn’t seen in 12 years and whose duty it had been to be dead.

“I managed to find a scavenging job near an American military base. The meager pennies it paid kept me alive. Gradually I started to re-establish contact with former surviving colleagues from my army days, and we pooled as much as we could of our tiny savings to purchase a couple of used bicycles and ‘rear-cars’ (a sort of trailer that hitches to a bicycle). We started a delivery business, mainly to American families living in off-base private rentals among the Japanese community. Thanks to our efforts and sacrifices, the business prospered, and I was able to retire comfortably some years back, leaving my share of the firm to my sons who still operate it.

“But since the dark days after the war’s end, something kept gnawing at me. Try as I might, I could not banish the images that kept coming before me, asleep or awake, of the faces of innocents in whose slaughter I had been an eager participant. I also saw the images of my own soldiers, comrades who had killed and died in obedience to my orders.

“Prosperity did not bring relief. Rather, as time passed, remorse kept eating deeper and deeper into my heart. I wondered if surviving colleagues felt as I did. During one reunion of former comrades-in-arms, I eventually plucked up enough courage to broach the subject in the form of a question, ‘Do any of you ever feel any sort of compunction for the awful things we did and witnessed during the war years?’

“It was like the bursting of a dam. One after the other, many shedding tears, all unashamedly admitted that they had been tortured ever since by their memories and wished there was something they could do. The discussion centered mainly on what we could do to atone, even to a small degree, for the horrors we had perpetrated or approved.

“Eventually it was decided that we, all 13 of us, should make a monthly pilgrimage to Fujisaki-gu, the huge Shinto Shrine in Kumamoto City, to apologize to and beg forgiveness of the spirits of our victims and our own soldiers whom we had enthusiastically sent to their deaths.

“That was 12 years ago, and most of my surviving colleagues and I have never missed a visit. Our hope is that those spirits have been hearing our prayers and that they have at least tried to forgive us. Any of us would be willing now to offer his own life if he thought it would bring back even one of them.”

The hush that followed the old veteran’s speech lasted many seconds. Then gradually the applause began. It lasted minutes.

Joy In Heaven
I had studied the faces of the members as they listened to the veteran’s tale. Not a muscle had moved. None of them were old enough to have been involved in overseas war, and the past had little relevance to them.

For some, this possibly was the first time they had heard a first-person account of the true horrors that had been perpetrated by their nation. Official Japan would have liked to bury this chapter of the country’s history. No official apology had yet been made by their government acknowledging guilt or remorse for these past atrocities.

But here was one man who had been there, who had been an active participant. And here he was in contrite tears for what he had done. Here again was an illustration of what the Catholic Church has always maintained to be Jesus Christ’s central message—the human necessity for contrition and atonement.

For a moment I wondered if I should make a comment about the joy in Heaven over the sinner who repents. But then I realized: there was no need.