The Eternal Zero

by Naoki Hyakuta

  His body was flushed all over. In the end, he let out a cry that was close to a scream.

  He rested briefly, then swung his legs over the branch of a nearby tree and hung upside-down. He stayed in that position for as long as he could endure it. His face turned beet red and the veins on his forehead bulged out so far they looked like they might burst open at any second. I wonder how long he held that pose for. I can’t remember, but it seemed like an incredibly long time.

  At long last I realized what he was up to—training for air battles. During turns and loops, the Gs increase and the control stick gets incredibly heavy. The G is the gravitational force exerted during flight. Fighter pilots must manipulate the heavy control stick with one hand during battle. In order to build up the muscles in our arms we did push-ups and pull-ups, but I had never seen anything like Miyabe-san’s workout. And hanging upside-down had to be training for when the blood rushes to the head during sharp turns and loops in battle.

  After Miyabe-san left, I went over and tried to lift up the gun barrel he’d held. I was absolutely stunned. I couldn’t lift it at all. No matter how hard I tried, it wouldn’t move, as if it was stuck fast to the ground.

  I tried gripping the barrel with both hands. I finally managed to lift it up using every ounce of strength in my body. For him to lift and lower it with just one hand, he must have had incredibly powerful arms.

  Monstrous strength underlay his elegant piloting skills.

  The next day, I called out to Miyabe-san as he left the barracks. “Would you mind if I accompanied you, sir?”

  He seemed a bit taken aback, but then smiled pleasantly. “Oh, saw me, did you?”

  “My apologies, sir. I didn’t mean to spy on you. I just happened to find you on my way back from fishing.”

  “It’s fine. It’s not like I was keeping it a secret or anything.”

  Miyabe-san went back to the same spot as the day before and went through the same drills. I couldn’t very well stand there in silence as he sweated, so I dropped and did push-ups.

  As we sat on the ground afterwards, I said, “You’re amazing, sir. I tried to pick that up yesterday but couldn’t lift it at all.”

  “Practice does it, whatever it is. You just need the perseverance to continue. You’ll definitely get stronger the longer you train.”

  “Really?” I asked giddily, but realized he was only trying to console me. “You are an incredible man, Flight Leader Miyabe, sir.”

  “No, I’m not. Everyone does this.”

  “Is that true, sir?”

  “Sure, Sakai-san, Nishizawa-san, all of them.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  Miyabe-san laughed. “Nobody does it where everyone can see.”

  Once he mentioned it, I recalled that Sakai-san often did pull-ups on the crossbeams in the barracks. I felt like a total fool for assuming that was just a hobby of his. I had simply thought him a natural when it came to flying aircraft.

  As a pilot in training back in the program, I was put through a grueling physical regimen every day, long-distance running and swimming, chin-ups, etc. But once I became a pilot, I no longer had such obligations. I was ashamed to have been so grateful for that. I realized that it had all been for my own benefit.

  “But isn’t it difficult to keep up with regularly?” I asked him, as if making excuses for myself.

  “It’s not easy. But it’s nothing compared to the pain of death.”

  I felt like he was scolding me. “You train every day, sir?”

  He nodded in silence.

  “Even on days that you’ve sortied?”

  He nodded again. I was impressed. The night after a mission, I was always so tired that I couldn’t bear moving more than necessary. And yet he…

  “Don’t you ever think, ‘I’m not going to bother doing it today’?”

  Instead of answering me, he abruptly pulled a small bag of cloth out of his breast pocket. In it was a folded piece of paper. He unwrapped it to reveal a single photograph neatly coated in cellophane.

  “A photo of my family.”

  “Please show it to me, sir?”

  Flight Leader Miyabe passed it to me gently as if it were some kind of treasure. I took it gingerly, using both hands. In the photo was a young lady holding a newborn baby.

  “Apparently, she had this taken at a photo studio in our neighborhood,” Miyabe-san explained. He’d reverted to his polite way of speaking, partly because we were alone, but no doubt more because remembering his wife and child brought out his native sincerity.

  The woman in the photograph was very lovely. I recall feeling envious.

  “Her name’s Kiyoko. As in ‘pure child.’ ”

  “Kiyoko-san is a lovely lady.”

  Flight Leader Miyabe laughed a bit bashfully. “No, my wife’s name is Matsuno. Kiyoko is my daughter’s name.”

  My face flushed in embarrassment. Flustered, I said, “She’s an adorable baby.”

  “She was born in June, right after I returned from Midway. But I couldn’t get any time off, so my hopes of seeing her were dashed. I haven’t even met my own daughter yet.”

  It seemed that the rumors that Midway survivors had been quarantined were true.

  “Whenever I think, ‘This is too much, I’m quitting,’ I look at this photograph. It gives me courage,” Flight Leader Miyabe confessed with a shy smile. “Pretty pathetic that I lose my conviction if I don’t look at this picture.”

  “Not at all, sir,” I replied, but he was no longer listening. He stared intensely at the photograph, and carefully put it back into his breast pocket.

  Then he said in a voice barely louder than a whisper, “I just can’t die until I meet my daughter.” His face, which usually was so gentle, looked incredibly scary then.

  * * *

  —

  After that day, my view of the flight leader changed. I’d been taught the importance of survival in a way that a million-word lecture couldn’t have. From that point on, I listened to everything he said. Before every sortie, he would repeat over and over until it became almost tedious to hear, “Absolutely stay in formation,” and “No matter what happens, stick close to me.”

  The reason I am able to tell you this story today is because from then on I followed Miyabe-san’s instructions to the letter.

  An air mêlée is incredibly terrifying. You never know when someone might take you out from behind. It was a matter of luck. When I was young, I figured that if that happened, then that was when and how I was destined to die. But Miyabe-san was loath to stake his life on sheer luck.

  Until then, I had dreamed of becoming a flying ace like Sakai-san, but after becoming part of Miyabe-san’s flight, I considered coming out alive by far the most important thing.

  However, we were soon embroiled in a battle where even survival was difficult. I’m referring to the Battle of Guadalcanal. Compared to Guadalcanal, our earlier attacks on Port Moresby were mere skirmishes.

  For us pilots, Guadalcanal was the opening act of true hell.

  * * *

  —

  Guadalcanal is a small island in the South Pacific, part of the Solomon Islands farther east from New Britain Island where Rabaul is located. It was a lone, undeveloped outcropping covered with jungles. Had the Pacific War not taken place, the name and its very existence would have gone forever unknown by the world at large.

  At the time, the Japanese military was attempting to sever lines of communication between the U.S. and Australian forces. We hoped to build an airfield on Guadalcanal that would serve as an unsinkable aircraft carrier glaring out over the South Pacific. We advanced to Guadalcanal and began construction on the airfield in the summer of 1942. The plan was to move most of our aircraft from Rabaul to Guadalcanal once the airfield was completed.

  An IJN construction unit spent a whole mo
nth clearing virgin jungle and building a runway, but as soon as they were done, U.S. forces mounted a ruthless attack on Guadalcanal and took our just-finished airfield. The Americans had held off until the runway was done. Most of the Japanese troops at Guadalcanal at the time were construction crew and didn’t stand a chance. Our side was annihilated in no time.

  I learned all this after the war had ended. At the time, I had never even heard of a place called Guadalcanal, let alone that our Navy was building a base there.

  I suppose Imperial Headquarters never thought the U.S. would launch a full-scale attack on such a tiny island. They must have assumed that at most it would be a minor archipelagic conflict. But that obscure island would become the site of the hardest-fought battle in the Pacific theater.

  August 7, 1942, was the fateful day.

  As if in anticipation, we were transferred from Lae to Rabaul several days before. About half the pilots were back in Rabaul for R&R and aircraft maintenance. That morning, even those of us at Rabaul heard the news that Guadalcanal had been taken. Our planned air raid on Milne Bay was scrapped, and we were to attack the enemy’s troop transport fleet headed for Guadalcanal instead.

  “Where the heck is Guadalcanal?” I asked PO3 Saito, a member of my squadron.

  “No idea. Nor did I know we had an airfield there.”

  None of the aircrew knew of the place. But soon information trickled in that a garrison on Tulagi, an island facing Guadalcanal, had died to the last man, and an incredibly heavy mood overtook our unit.

  We gathered before HQ, where we were handed aerial maps. We found out that it was a whopping 560 nautical miles from Rabaul. That’s about 1,000 kilometers.

  “Impossible,” someone muttered. It was Flight Leader Miyabe. “We can’t fight at such a distance,” he objected in a sorrowful tone.

  Someone yelled, “Who the hell just said it’s impossible?!” A young officer boiling over with rage stalked towards us. “You bastard! What the hell did you say?” he barked, striking Miyabe-san across the face before he could reply. “Just this morning our comrades were killed in action on Tulagi. The entire seaplane contingent on Tulagi was wiped out as well. It’s a military man’s duty to avenge his brothers-in-arms!”

  “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” said Miyabe-san, but the officer punched him again, splitting his lip open.

  “You’re Miyabe, aren’t you? I’ve heard the rumors about you, damn coward!” yelled the officer. “If I hear any more cowardly bullshit from you, you’re gonna pay for it!” the officer shouted and walked away.

  “Flight Leader, you can’t voice such thoughts,” I said, wiping at his bloodied lip with my scarf.

  Miyabe-san’s eyes were dark as he muttered, “This battle will be unlike anything that’s come before.”

  “Do you know Guadalcanal?”

  “No, I don’t. But I do know how far 560 nautical miles is,” he said softly. “It’s not a distance that Zeros can do battle over.”

  The air supremacy team picked earlier that morning included Lt. Sasai, PO1 Sakai, PO1 Nishizawa, PO1 Ohta, all the Rabaul stalwarts. Miyabe-san was not among the names listed. Of course, neither was mine.

  Flight Petty Officer 1st Class Saburo Sakai—I’ve mentioned him several times now, and from back then, he was so famous that there wasn’t a single Navy pilot who didn’t know his name. He was truly a genius ace who already had over fifty kills. His eyes were so sharp that they said he could pick out stars in the daytime skies, and his dogfighting skills were practically divine. Meanwhile, PO1 Nishizawa would later become the ace pilot most feared by the American forces. Lt. JG Sasai and FPO1 Ohta were remarkably expert pilots as well.

  The Zero fighter pilots chosen for the attack on Guadalcanal that morning included Flight Chief Petty Officer Toraichi Takatsuka, FPO2 Ichirobei Yamazaki, FPO2 Masaaki Endo—all amazing, master pilots, too.

  Command must have known that making a strike at a distance of 560 nautical miles was at best a risky mission. Eighteen of our best men were chosen for it.

  At 07:50, twenty-seven Type 1 land-based bombers took off from Vunakanau Airfield located on a plateau, and eighteen Zeros took off from the eastern airfield in the foothills. But one had to turn back due to engine trouble.

  Thus seventeen Zeros fell into an orderly formation above Rabaul and flew due east into the deep blue sky. Even now I remember the sight of the greatest pilots in the IJN flying in formation that day. It was a truly beautiful formation. We waved and waved as we watched.

  Later that day, nine Type 99 carrier-based bombers also departed. However, the 99’s flight range was insufficient, so they all sortied knowing it would be a one-way trip. They were ordered to attack the enemy’s troop transports, then to ditch in the ocean in a designated area and to wait for rescue from seaplanes. I remember feeling very uptight once I heard of such a suicidal mission.

  “They’ll be okay, won’t they?” I asked Miyabe-san, who stood beside me as we saw off the Zero formation.

  “With Sakai-san and Nishizawa-san, there shouldn’t be anything to worry about,” Miyabe-san replied. “Even so, 560 nautical miles is a punishing distance. At cruising speed, that’ll take them over three hours. They’ll have only a little over ten minutes to fight over Guadalcanal.”

  “Over three hours?”

  “Considering how much fuel they’ll need for the return trip, they can’t risk fighting for much longer. The medium bombers have a better flight range than the Zeros, and a navigator calculates the route, which is reassuring. But the Zeros are single-seated. If any of them wanders off-course or takes unnecessary detours, there’s a real chance the Zero won’t make it back.”

  “But they’ve got the bombers with them, so they should be able to stay on course. Isn’t that right?”

  “Getting there, yes. But if they get separated from the formation during the air battle at Guadalcanal, they’ll have to get back to Rabaul unaided. It’s not exactly easy to navigate 560 nautical miles over open seas with nothing but a map and a compass.”

  Listening to Miyabe-san, I realized his explanation was that of a former aircraft carrier pilot. They were the words of a man who’d traveled over the ocean in search of the enemy’s military vessels with no landmarks to guide his way, returned back to his home carrier after the attack, and done it all over again numerous times.

  That morning, the whole base was filled with a heavy, oppressive atmosphere. The aircrew had at first been enthused over the chance to avenge our fallen comrades at Guadalcanal, but once they had calmed down they realized just what it meant to attempt a strike on the enemy on an island 560 nautical miles away.

  According to the map, if you flew due east over a string of islands, you reached the target. Even separated from the formation, you could simply fly back along the same route. In case of heavy cloud cover, though, the islands wouldn’t be visible, and you’d have to depend on your map and compass.

  At around 15:00, we heard a familiar roar. We dashed out of the barracks and looked skyward to see friendly planes. The attack force had returned from Guadalcanal, seven hours after sortieing. They weren’t in formation and landed as they pleased. Most of the medium bombers bore bullet holes, proving that it had been quite an arduous battle.

  The biggest shock was the number of Zeros that made it back. There were only ten. Seven had been downed.

  All the faces of the Zero pilots as they stepped out onto the tarmac spoke of bone-deep exhaustion. FPO1 Nishizawa looked downright gaunt, and it seemed to be all he could do just to get out of his aircraft. I learned afterwards that PO1 Nishizawa had been like a whirlwind, downing six Grummans that day.

  All the pilots headed directly to the command post for the debriefing. I ran up to PO1 Nishizawa.

  “Where’s PO1 Sakai, sir?”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s all right, considering who it is we’re talking about. No easy prey,” he
replied with a laugh and slapped me on the shoulder. But it seemed to take all the strength he had left to put a smile on his face.

  It was fairly common to split up during combat and return in smaller groups, so I shouldn’t have been particularly worried, but realizing that PO Sakai’s plane was one of the seven that hadn’t made it back intensified my anxiety.

  Petty Officer Sakai was a flight leader. As I said before, a flight consists of three planes. PO Sakai was an extremely gifted flight leader. Up until that point, he had never once lost a plane under his command. “Saburo Sakai” always gets the limelight as a flying ace that shot down dozens of enemy aircraft, but I thought it was far more magnificent that he had never once lost a wingman. By the way, Nishizawa-san had a similarly excellent track record as flight leader. I heard that the only time he lost a man was in his final air battle.

  In any case, it was highly unusual for Sakai-san to have become separated from his flight.

  After a while, a report came in that five Zeros had crash-landed on Buka Island, to the east of Rabaul. They had run out of fuel and couldn’t make it back to base. However, PO Sakai was not among those pilots either.

  Another hour passed and still there was no sign of him. He would have run out of fuel by then.

  Just after 16:00, a Zero suddenly appeared on the far side of the airfield. A commotion erupted on the base. The Zero tottered and staggered as it came in for a landing. I thought it was strange. PO Sakai would never be so wobbly during a landing.

  The Zero slowly approached the runway. I saw the windshield was shattered, which meant bullets had gone through the cockpit. The Zero bounced on landing as though a novice pilot was at the controls. It taxied down the runway, eventually coming to a standstill.

  Squadron CO Lieutenant Commander Nakanishi and Lieutenant Junior Grade Sasai clambered onto the wings, pried open the shattered windshield, and dragged FPO1 Sakai from the cockpit. All the crewmembers who had rushed forward to help gasped when they caught sight of him. Dried blood had given his face a dark cast, and his upper body, too, was covered in blood.