In the final days of World War II, a young Japanese pilot tucked a tiny handmade doll into the back of his flight suit—his sister’s gift, a piece of home.
He was about to fly into death, yet what filled his heart was not hate or glory, but love.
This is not a story about war.
It is a letter from one human soul to another—across time, across nations.
A quiet voice from the past, whispering:
❖ Introduction: Why I Chose to Share This Story
War is a heavy subject.
It’s something that often makes us hesitate to speak, or even to listen.
But still, I feel compelled to share this story.
This is not a tale about war or kamikaze missions in the abstract.
It is the story of one young man’s life, and the way he carried his heart—even in the face of death.
And in that, I believe there is something deeply meaningful for us who live in peace today.
When I first shared this story on my Japanese blog, some readers dismissed it.
They said, “There was no such person,” or “It’s just fiction.”
But to me, that isn’t the point.
Whether every detail is historically verifiable matters less than what we can learn from the message it carries.
Even in the depths of war, there were people who loved, who cared, and who tried to protect one another.
There was beauty in their humanity.
I believe that kind of story can transcend time and borders.
If you read it with your heart, I think you’ll feel that too.
🌿 【Chapter 1: The Osaka Air Raid and a City in Ashes】
❖ Commentary from the Author
A man wandering through the ruins of his hometown, searching for his family—
Even amidst the inhumanity of war, this is perhaps the most deeply human image of all.
On the night of March 13, 1945, into the early hours of March 14, 274 B-29 bombers took off from Guam and descended upon Osaka.
This was the infamous Osaka Air Raid.
The bombers flew at low altitudes in the dark, targeting civilian homes directly.
The city was engulfed in flames, turning night into a hellish red dawn.
By the time the fires had burned out, 3,987 civilians were dead, and 678 were missing.
Corporal Kiyoshi Oishi, stationed in Kyushu, heard the news and immediately applied for special leave.
He spent an entire day and night traveling, and finally arrived at Osaka Station.
What he saw left him speechless.
The city was flattened, as if sheets of scorched tin had been thrown across the land.
Rubble stretched as far as the eye could see.
And strewn among it were hundreds of charred bodies—so burned that you could no longer tell if they were men or women.
Stepping over collapsed power lines and crumbled walls, Oishi began walking, using the ruins of the old Matsuzakaya department store as his landmark.
In his heart, one prayer repeated over and over:
“Please be alive…
Father, Mother… Shizue…”
Shizue—his little sister, whom he always called Shii-chan.
❖ Closing Words from the Author
Back then, family was more than blood ties.
It was home.
It was where your soul returned.
And as Oishi searched through the ruins, I feel he was searching not only for his family—but for the very reason to keep walking.
🌿 【Chapter 2: News of Family and the Death of His Father】
❖ Commentary from the Author
Hope and despair often arrive hand in hand.
But still, we reach toward hope.
I believe Corporal Oishi did just that.
Having searched in vain for his family, Oishi spent the night in a neighborhood bomb shelter.
No familiar faces, no signs of life—only silence and ruin.
And so, in quiet defeat, he returned to his post the next day.
Then, on March 25, 1945, eleven days later, a letter arrived.
It was from his uncle in Shingu, Wakayama Prefecture—his mother’s side of the family.
In it, Oishi learned that his mother and sister were alive.
The night before the air raid, his father had insisted they evacuate.
They took a train from Tennoji and safely reached the family home in Shingu.
It was nothing short of a miracle.
But joy turned quickly to sorrow.
The letter went on to say that his father had not survived.
He had been a teacher at a local elementary school.
That night, he had been on overnight duty at the school.
He died in the flames while protecting his post.
That same day, Oishi wrote in his journal:
“Ah, the noble death of my father, who fulfilled his duty as a teacher.
When I think of the warmth in his face,
emotion wells up, and I cannot hold back the tears.”
❖ Closing Words from the Author
To learn that someone you love is still alive.
To learn that someone you love is gone forever.
Both bring tears—of joy, of grief.
This is the reality of life during war.
🌿 【Chapter 3: Orders to Depart – and the Kindness of Comrades】
❖ Commentary from the Author
No matter how harsh the conditions, as long as we remain human,
there will always be kindness.
Perhaps that was part of the spirit that defined the Japanese people of that era.
On March 28, 1945, American forces began their land invasion of Okinawa.
From Oishi’s unit, the Shimbu Special Attack Corps was also dispatched that very day.
The next day, Corporal Oishi himself received his official assignment:
he was to become a member of a special attack squadron—a tokkōtai pilot.
He accepted the order quietly.
And in his journal, he wrote words that revealed his sorrow:
“My mother, bedridden after the loss of my father.
My little sister, still a child.
My thoughts are heavy and dark.
I weep on the train.”
That same period, he received a telegram from his uncle in Wakayama.
His mother had collapsed.
The shock of her husband’s death, along with the fatigue of evacuation, had taken its toll.
Oishi told his superior, Sergeant Kamamoto, about the situation.
The sergeant took immediate action—he appealed to their commanding officer and secured leave for Oishi to visit his family once more.
Before departure, Sergeant Kamamoto handed him an envelope.
“It’s from all of us,”
he said, simply.
It was a collection of money from his comrades.
What Oishi didn’t know at the time was that Sergeant Kamamoto had also written a formal letter to Sixth Air Army Headquarters, requesting support for Oishi’s surviving family:
“Corporal Kiyoshi Oishi’s father,
a national school teacher, recently died in service (age 44).
His household includes a seriously ill mother (44) and a young sister (11).
There is no property, and the family lived on the father’s income.
Is there a way to secure their livelihood?”
Even as Kamamoto faced his own impending sortie,
he found time and heart to think of Oishi’s family—and sought help for them.
That kind of care brings tears to my eyes.
❖ Closing Words from the Author
Perhaps those who are prepared to give their lives
feel compassion more deeply than anyone.
That compassion—quiet, unwavering—was stronger than any weapon,
and more enduring than the war itself.
🌿 【Chapter 4: A Mother’s Death and Gifts of Goodbye】
❖ Commentary from the Author
In our final moments, perhaps the greatest act of love
is to leave behind something small for those we cherish.
A sweet. A scarf. A word.
Even the simplest things can carry the weight of a soul.
With leave granted, Corporal Oishi set out for his mother’s family home in Shingu, Wakayama.
His mother’s health had deteriorated rapidly.
The emotional shock of losing her husband, combined with the fatigue of travel, had taken its toll.
On the train, Oishi wrote in his diary:
“This kindness, I must never forget—even in death.
A mother bedridden after losing her husband.
A little sister, still so young.
My thoughts are dark.
I weep on the train.”
It was as if he already knew she didn’t have much time left.
Along the way, he stopped to prepare gifts.
For his uncle: aviation whiskey and cigarettes.
For his aunt: drops and a scarf made from a parachute.
And for his little sister Shizue—Shii-chan—he brought chocolate and hardtack biscuits.
For Oishi, these were not ordinary gifts.
They were his final parting tokens.
Not long after, their mother passed away.
The remains and mementos of both parents were placed in a quiet cemetery near Tanshaku Castle,
where cherry blossoms bloomed.
During the burial, his uncle spoke:
“You know…
Ever since she was little,
Yoneko (Shii-chan) has always loved the cherry blossoms at this castle.”
Oishi had no words.
He simply bowed his head in silence.
The next morning, at the station,
Shizue wept openly as she said goodbye to her brother.
Their uncle and aunt, too, were unable to hold back their tears.
And in his heart, Oishi carried one simple truth:
he had wanted, more than anything,
to stay by his sister’s side just a little longer.
❖ Closing Words from the Author
There are times when words are powerless in the face of farewell.
But even in a small gift…
even in a quiet “thank you”…
I believe the weight of a life can be felt.
And sometimes, that is enough.
🌿 【Chapter 5: The Reality of the Mission – and the Quiet Resolve】
❖ Commentary from the Author
They knew they wouldn’t return.
Yet they carried on quietly, calmly.
It wasn’t because they didn’t value life.
It was because they held something even more sacred within their hearts.
On the afternoon of April 22, Corporal Oishi and his unit received their final briefing.
They were to fly the Type 97 fighter—a now-outdated aircraft.
With bombs and extra fuel tanks loaded, the plane’s speed dropped to barely 150 km/h.
At that speed, they would need to break through enemy fighter patrols and intense anti-aircraft fire to strike the target fleet directly.
In truth, it was nearly a suicide mission.
But in the command’s view,
not returning was part of the plan from the very beginning.
Oishi didn’t flinch.
Instead, he quietly prepared himself.
He sent a photo to his little sister, and some belongings to his uncle and aunt.
He carefully packed a box, filled with small tokens of farewell.
As he was packing, Sergeant Kamamoto and other comrades came by.
“Put this in too,” they said, offering tobacco, military rations, and other small gifts.
Inside the package, there was also a letter—written collectively by his unit—to encourage his sister.
And there was a group photo: Oishi and his fellow soldiers, smiling together.
It wasn’t just a gift.
It was a memory.
A message.
A legacy.
And then, there was a letter.
A quiet, loving message from an older brother to his little sister.
Letter to My Sister
Dear Shii-chan,
Thank you for your letter.
I read it again and again.
I’m glad the money I sent made you happy.
You don’t have to place it on the family altar or anything—
just use it for whatever you need.
I earn plenty here,
and we don’t really get a chance to spend money in the unit.
I’ll make sure your wallet is never empty.
I’ll send more every month.
Please stay well.
Give my regards to Uncle and Aunt.
From your big brother
❖ Closing Words from the Author
There’s something impossibly gentle in this letter—
as if death had no place in his voice.
Just kindness.
Just care.
And that voice still finds its way to us, across the years and across the silence.
🌿 【Chapter 6: A Comrade’s Death and the Diary of Resolve】
❖ Commentary from the Author
When a person knows death is near,
they begin to ask the ultimate question:
What does my life mean?
That question isn’t born of fear,
but of quiet prayer.
And the words recorded in this chapter are the voice of such a soul.
On May 14, 1945,
Assistant Instructor Fukuda—a former class leader in the training flight squadron and respected teacher of Oishi’s unit—
died in a kamikaze attack against enemy ships over the sea near Okinawa.
His was not just a soldier’s death.
It was a teacher’s final lesson,
delivered through his own example.
His final written words were:
“Shinju for the nation,
to fall and not cease.”
(捨身殉国 斃而後不已)
A sacrifice of the body.
Devotion that did not end, even in death.
From that moment on,
something shifted in the atmosphere.
Everyone knew—
the next turn could be their own.
Then came May 20.
On that day, Oishi wrote what would be his final diary entry:
“The time has come.
I bid farewell to the maintenance crew who shared my days.
Today, I become a man of the skies.
I take off as they see me off.
I dip my wings in the air,
turn the nose of my plane toward Kagoshima.
At 3,000 meters up,
I offer my silent farewell
to the spirits of my departed parents,
and to my little sister.”
This was not just a diary.
It was a farewell letter written in the sky.
He soared into the open blue.
And never returned.
❖ Closing Words from the Author
Every time I read these lines,
I find myself gazing up into the sky,
searching for the path he took.
There is no shouting.
No bravado.
Only a steady, unshakable resolve.
And the weight of that silence
is beyond what any words can ever hold.
🌿 【Chapter 7: A Mechanic’s Letter – Shii-chan on His Back】
❖ Commentary from the Author
Some gave their lives in fire.
Others remained behind in silence.
And in the hands of the living,
a single letter was left behind.
This is the story told from a different angle—
the gaze of the one who stayed.
A few days after Corporal Oishi’s final mission,
a letter arrived at his sister Shizue’s home.
It was from a man named Takenori Onozawa,
an aircraft mechanic stationed at Bansei Airfield.
He had worked on Oishi’s plane.
And he had been entrusted with this message.
Through his eyes, we see not only Oishi the soldier—
but Oishi the gentle, loving brother.
Letter from Takenori Onozawa
Dear Shizue Oishi,
You may be surprised to receive a letter from someone you don’t know.
I was the mechanic in charge of your brother’s aircraft.
Today, Corporal Oishi bravely departed on his final sortie.
Before he left,
he gave me this letter to deliver to you.
Your brother greatly cherished
the small doll you made for him.
He always wore it on his back—
attached to the rear of his flight suit.
Most pilots hang their dolls on their belts
or on the front strap of their parachute harness.
But your brother said
he didn’t want to scare the doll during his final dive.
So he wore it like a piggyback,
on his back instead.
Whenever he ran to his plane,
the little doll would sway,
clinging to him.
Even from behind,
we could instantly tell it was him.
I think your brother always felt
like you were right there with him.
There’s a Buddhist saying: “Dōgyō Ninin”—
“Two traveling as one.”
It means that, even in hardship,
one is never truly alone—
that the Buddha walks beside you.
I believe that, for your brother,
you were that Buddha.
And now,
I believe he has become your guardian spirit,
watching over you always.
Your brother fearlessly struck an enemy aircraft carrier.
Please, Shizue,
live bravely.
Study well.
Farewell.
The words may be simple.
But behind them is something greater—
the kindness, courage, and humanity of a young man
who chose to take his sister with him,
not in body,
but in heart.
❖ Closing Words from the Author
A young man, carrying a little doll on his back,
flew into the fire.
But that doll—
that symbol of love—
was stronger than any bomb.
And perhaps, even now,
it still sways gently
on the backs of our hearts.
🌿 【Chapter 8: The Final Letter – His Last Words】
❖ Commentary from the Author
When someone writes at the edge of death,
their words carry everything they are.
Their love.
Their regrets.
Their hope for those who must go on living.
A final letter is not just goodbye—
It’s a crystallized life.
Before his final mission,
Corporal Oishi left behind a letter for his little sister Shizue.
It was his farewell,
but also his love,
his responsibility,
and his hope—all wrapped in soft, gentle words.
Here is the full text of his final letter:
Final Letter from Corporal Kiyoshi Oishi
My dearest Shii-chan,
The time has come for us to part.
Your big brother is going to his final mission.
By the time you receive this letter,
I will have vanished into the sea near Okinawa.
It breaks my heart to leave you all alone,
especially after the unexpected loss of Father and Mother.
Please forgive me.
As something to remember me by,
I’ve left a savings account and stamp in your name.
Use it when you go on to girls’ school.
I’ve also sent my watch and military sword.
Ask Uncle Kinoshita to help you sell them
and use the money as you need.
But remember this—
your future is more important
than anything I leave behind.
The propeller is already spinning.
It’s time.
And so, your big brother departs.
Don’t cry, Shii-chan.
Be strong.
He left no grand message.
No political rhetoric.
Only practical kindness—
a savings account, a watch, a few words to carry a life forward.
In this letter, he shows us
that love does not end with death.
It turns into a path for someone else to walk.
❖ Closing Words from the Author
This letter might not be just for Shii-chan.
It might be for all the “younger sisters” and “younger brothers”
living in today’s peaceful world.
“Don’t cry.”
“Be strong.”
These are words not of sorrow—
but of a warm and quiet cheer,
sent across time
from the past to the future.
🌿 【Chapter 9: Truth or Fiction – The Deeper Meaning of the Story】
❖ Commentary from the Author
“Did it really happen?”
“Was he a real person?”
These are natural questions.
But I believe that what matters more than answering them is this:
What does this story leave behind in your heart?
The story of “Shii-chan on His Back” was included in the book
“Kyo Ware Ikite Ari” (Today, I Still Live) by author Jiro Kosaka, published by Shinchosha.
When it first appeared, the tale drew criticism.
– No record of a tokkō pilot named “Kiyoshi Oishi” exists.
– The author is a novelist; it may be fiction.
– It’s too sentimental, possibly idealized.
These doubts are not unreasonable.
However, at the end of the book, a name appears: Miyoko Kinoshita of Wakayama,
listed as someone who cooperated in the interview process.
And in the story itself, we read that Shizue was taken in by her uncle—Mr. Kinoshita.
This strongly suggests that the core of the story was based on real people,
real memories.
And we must remember the times.
In postwar Japan, former soldiers and their families often faced stigma, discrimination,
and even harassment.
If the author chose to change names or soften identities,
perhaps it was not to deceive,
but to protect.
And perhaps most importantly—
this is not the only story like this.
Millions of young men went off to war.
Each had a name.
Each had a family.
Each carried someone in their heart.
They were not “just soldiers.”
They were human beings,
each with a story worth remembering.
❖ Closing Words from the Author
This is not a story to be judged only by whether it is “true.”
It is a story to be felt by whether it is sincere.
When Oishi wrote “Be strong” to his sister,
I believe he was speaking not just to her—
but to all of us who live in the world they left behind.
It is a quiet, unwavering message.
And it still reaches us today.
🌿 【Chapter 10: A Message to Those Who Live Today】
❖ Commentary from the Author
We don’t inherit these stories as “tales of the past.”
We inherit them as wisdom for the present.
And this story, too—
was a gift, passed down through time,
from those who could no longer speak.
“Your big brother is going.
Don’t cry, Shii-chan.
Be strong.”
These were not words spoken only to a little sister in wartime.
They were meant for us—
For all of us who live today.
For children who will live tomorrow.
For anyone who has ever wondered why they are here.
A quiet voice, calling to us across the years.
The soldiers who died in war
did not do so because they wanted to die.
They died because they chose to protect someone.
Because they believed in a future
they themselves might never see.
Some wanted to live,
but could not.
Some tried to protect,
but could not.
And what remains after their sacrifice
is the life we now live.
To live
is not just to breathe.
It is to carry forward the lives that were entrusted to us—
delicately, carefully, gratefully.
And today,
we live in a world without air raids.
We sit with our families at the table.
We choose our tomorrow.
We are free to hope.
Free to love.
Free to carry on.
So even if you feel lost,
even if you find yourself in tears—
remember this:
There is a voice,
soft but unwavering,
saying simply:
“Be strong.”
If this story has reached your heart as that voice,
then I can ask for nothing more.
❖ Closing Words from the Author
A story is not an ending.
It is the beginning of something new.
And by receiving that story—
by passing it on—
we become the ones
who carry the light
into the future.
🌿 【Epilogue: A Message for Those Who Live On】
The tokkō pilots did not fly because they wanted to die.
They flew because they wanted someone else to live.
That “someone” was not an abstract ideal.
It was a younger sister. A beloved parent. A friend. A child yet to be born.
And in a broader sense—
it was all of us who would inherit the peace they could not live to see.
Our lives today are not ours alone.
They were protected, even purchased, by those who could not return.
And this is true not only for one nation.
It is not about victors or the defeated.
It is about all who walked through the fire of war—on every side—and still longed for peace.
The words of a young man, on the edge of death, remain:
“Be strong.”
And now we understand:
This was not just a farewell to a little sister.
It was a letter to all who live on—regardless of nation, language, or flag.
A quiet voice from the past,
reminding us that we are not alone.
That we carry more than our own breath.
We carry a legacy of love, sacrifice, and hope.
Even today,
when we are tired,
or afraid,
or unsure if we can go on—
may we remember that voice.
And may we choose to live,
not only for ourselves,
but for those who could not.
