The Unlikeliest Allies

By Dan O'Donnell

December 8, 2022

The brutality of war leaves scars that never really heal. The physical pain may subside over time, but the haunting nightmares remain. They can, understandably, foster lifelong bitterness at the enemy who long ago inflicted those wounds or, sometimes, they can lead to forgiveness.

This is the Forgotten History of the Unlikeliest Allies.

Richard Fiske’s day began like any other: He rose before dawn, dressed, and grabbed his bugle to play Reveille for his fellow Marines. The first rays of sunlight shined on his face as he walked outside. This would be a beautiful morning.

But over the horizon, he saw something. First small in the sky, and difficult to see as he looked east into the morning sun, it grew larger. Was it...a plane?

In the skies over the Pacific, fighter pilot Zenji Abe trained his sights on the approaching target. He was a consummate soldier and eternally loyal to his emperor. In tight formation with his brothers in arms, he prepared for his attack.

Richard's gaze was fixed on horizon. It was a plane. Then another. And another. And another. Within seconds, it started.

Pearl Harbor was under attack. Zenji Abe let loose his missiles, raining fire on the American GIs below. War was a nasty business, but Japan had declared war, and Zenji was a good soldier eternally loyal to his emperor.

Richard ran for cover and tried his best to help the injured, but it all happened so fast that neither he nor anyone else at the base had time to react. It was over in a little more than an hour, and when the smoke cleared, much of the fleet stationed at Pearl Harbor was destroyed and 2,400 Americans lay dead.

Zenji returned to Japan, while Richard shipped out to the Pacific Theater. The war was hell; the fighting so intense that Richard described it as like a Pearl Harbor every day for months. When it finally ended, both men returned to their lives, Richard carrying with him the scars and bitterness toward his enemy and Zenji with the consoling thought that he was only doing his duty.

But the more he learned about his emperor and his nation's actions leading up to the attack on Pearl Harbor, Zenji became disgusted: Japan had not formally declared war on the United States before the attack as he and his fellow soldiers had been told. Their actions amounted to a terror attack, not a noble battle.

He grew just as bitter as Richard and was overcome with grief at what he had done. He had killed innocent people because his government had lied to him. For decades, he lived with that grief until he decided to make amends.

In 1991, he made plans to attend the ceremony marking the 50th anniversary of the Pearl Harbor attack. He had no idea how he would be received, but he knew he had to go to apologize--if only so that he could live with himself.

During the ceremony, Richard rose just as he had a half-century earlier, grabbed his bugle, and played--this time not a rousing Reveille but a somber Taps. Zenji began to cry, even decades later he couldn't forgive himself for what he had done. But he had a plan. He walked up to the bugler and introduced himself, wiping away tears as he apologized.

Richard, who had decided that he couldn't continue to live with himself if he continued to hold onto the scars from that day 50 years ago, grabbed Zenji and the two embraced. Richard said he forgave him.

But to Zenji, that wasn't enough. Neither was one memorial to the victims of Pearl Harbor. He wanted to keep their memory alive forever. He needed to return home to Japan, but he asked Richard to do something for him: Each month, would he lay two red roses and play his beautiful rendition of Taps on his bugle? Zenji would pay for any expenses and gave Richard $300. Richard, tears now running down his cheeks, accepted.

Every month, he returned to Pearl Harbor to play Taps and lay two red roses: One in honor of his fallen comrades and one for the Japanese soldiers who had earned Richard's forgiveness. And each month, checks would come from Zenji to pay for it. The two wrote to each other and talked on the phone often and, against all odds, became best friends.

For 13 years, Richard played Taps and laid two roses every month until he passed away in 2004 at the age of 82. At his funeral, his dear friend Zenji bowed his head and slowly rubbed his hand on Richard's marble marker in one final goodbye. Zenji died three years later, but their story lives on as a timeless lesson about the power of forgiveness and the ultimate triumph of love and friendship over the bitter wounds of war.

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