Instructor Miyabe had completely let his guard down. Unaware of the approaching enemy planes, he was flying along intently watching over a student’s aircraft that had just gone into a dive.
The Sikorskys rapidly closed the gap. We shouted as loudly as we could, but there was no way our voices would reach the instructor’s plane.
Just then, the Zero of a student reservist who was climbing, having already completed the diving drill, went screaming between Instructor Miyabe’s plane and the approaching Sikorskys. Since the machine guns of the reserve officer’s training Zero were unloaded, he couldn’t fire on the enemy fighters. Even so, his single-minded desire to rescue Instructor Miyabe led him to essentially throw himself headlong at the attacking aircraft.
Two of the four Sikorskys broke away to avoid the trainer plane, but the remaining pair were unfazed in their pursuit. The lead fighter opened fire. It was then that Instructor Miyabe finally noticed and rolled away, but he seemed to be too late.
The reserve officer’s Zero took on the bullets from the Sikorsky. Instructor Miyabe dodged and then fired on the Sikorskys from below. One of them was immediately engulfed in flames.
The other Sikorsky attempted to flee by making a turn and climbing, but Instructor Miyabe was right on his tail. As this was a low-altitude fight, the enemy had no way to employ their favored battle tactic of diving to escape.
The American fighter suddenly pulled a 180 and headed right towards the instructor. Immediately after the two passed each other, the enemy plane’s nose turned down and it started to fall. The pilot didn’t parachute away. He must have been shot in the cockpit through the front windshield. The two other Sikorskys pulled back, retreating high into the sky. Perhaps they were attempting to goad us into pursuing them, but we made no move to follow.
Instructor Miyabe assembled the remaining student planes in the sky, then after a thorough check of the surrounding airspace, allowed them to land. He was the last to touch down. My spine froze when I saw the state of his aircraft—both wings and the fuselage were riddled with bullet holes. I found out afterwards that there’d been a bullet mark just one centimeter away from the fuel tank in one of the wings. Had the bullet struck the tank, no doubt his plane would have gone up in flames.
“I was careless.” Instructor Miyabe’s voice was trembling. His face was ashen. “Who was it that came to my rescue?”
The cockpit of the reserve officer who had shielded him had received gunfire head-on. The windshield had been pulverized, and the instrument panel smashed to pieces. The pilot himself had been struck, but miraculously the injury wasn’t fatal.
Instructor Miyabe ran over to the student as he was carried away on a stretcher.
“Why did you do something so foolish?”
The student, lying on his side on the stretcher, raised his bloodied face. “Sir, you made it.”
“Why were you so reckless back there?”
“Japan needs you, Instructor Miyabe. You must not die.”
My heart filled to bursting on hearing his words. I was painfully aware of how he felt. He was ready to die for Instructor Miyabe’s sake. I felt the exact same.
At any rate, the only word to describe his combat skills was “incredible.” He had shot down the far superior Sikorsky fighters in the twinkling of an eye. The jewel in the crown of the Imperial Navy, I thought.
Yet the Navy didn’t allow him to survive the war.
Soon afterwards, he was transferred along with a number of reserve officers to a base on Kyushu.
I later heard that every last one of the reserve officers died in kamikaze attacks.
* * *
—
Not long after I, too, received orders to go to Kyushu.
I arrived at Kokubu Base in Kagoshima. Looks like my time is up, I thought. But I wasn’t immediately ordered on a kamikaze mission. I was put on standby as part of the kamikaze pilot pool. Other kamikaze pilots sortied in the Zeros we had brought with us.
At the time, near-daily kamikaze missions were launched from Kokubu Base. I saw off many friends there. I always thought my number would be up next. I wrote a will addressed to my parents. I wished for a chance to see them just one more time before I died, but I knew there was no way for that wish to be granted.
After the Battle of Okinawa, Kokubu Base was attacked multiple times by the Americans. We lost a great many aircraft to bombs and ground strafing. I was among those ordered to join the Usa Air Group in nearby Oita Prefecture.
As I was leaving the base, an elderly couple called out to me. They asked after the whereabouts of a certain reserve officer. I explained to them that the ensign had sortied on a kamikaze mission a few days prior. Upon hearing this, the man bowed deeply and the woman crouched down on the ground.
“We’re his parents,” the man said. “We’d heard he was at Kokubu so we came here, but it seems we’re too late,” he lamented.
“He gave us a brilliant smile before he sortied, sir. He flew off, and gave his life like a man.”
“Thank you very much. That puts my mind at ease,” the ensign’s father said. But the mother, still crouching, let out a sob. “He was our only son,” the man told me unbidden. Then he wrapped his arms around his wife’s shoulders and hauled her up, bowed once more to me, and walked away from the base.
This was not an uncommon sight at Kokubu Base.
Pilots were forbidden from telling their families that they were departing on a kamikaze mission. Friends of the selected pilots would ask someone outside the base to send letters to the soon-to-be-bereaved families. But it was very rare for them to make it to the base before the pilots sortied. Many family members would arrive after the mission only to have to return home in grief.
I also saw young wives who learned of their husband’s death at the base. I saw this over and over again at both Kokubu and Usa. Some were so grief-stricken and devastated that their legs failed them. When I saw them, I was thankful that I hadn’t gotten married myself. At the same time, I felt sorry for myself since I’d be dying without ever having found a woman’s love.
At Usa, I was once again assigned to the special attack pool. Those who were called up were sent to their deaths.
How did I feel back then? I’m sure I was terrified, but I don’t really remember anything much.
But I do remember quite clearly the heartbreaking sorrow at having to say farewell to my friends. No matter how hard I try, I can’t manage to forget that sadness.
I never saw Instructor Miyabe again, at either Kokubu or Usa.
* * *
—
Silence filled the room for some time.
Mrs. Takeda was the first to speak. “This is the first time I’ve heard you talk about the special attacks.”
Takeda nodded deeply. “I never spoke to anyone about these experiences. I figured that even if I told someone they wouldn’t understand. And the thought of unnecessary misunderstandings arising due to my not having a way with words was unbearable.”
“Did you think that about me, too?”
He shook his head. “I wanted to try talking about it many times, but I wasn’t able to, not until today. While I wanted you to understand my pain and sadness, on the other hand I never wanted you of all people to learn such horrible things.”
“I, too, kept something from you all these years,” Mrs. Takeda said, looking her husband in the eye. “It was in 1950, wasn’t it, that we met through work and married. There was some talk that you had been a kamikaze, but I couldn’t even imagine it to be true. You were always so cheerful and full of smiles at work.”
Takeda nodded.
“You didn’t tell me about the special attack units before we married. And once we were married, I was surprised to discover that you had nightmares every night. You would suddenly groan in torment, your face looking ghastly, like nothing I ever saw during your wak
ing hours…And occasionally you would scream out. When I saw you like that, I wondered, What horrible things has my man gone through? And I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from crying.”
“I didn’t know that,” Takeda said. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“What good would it have done to tell you? There was no way for me to help carry your burden. You did that for more than ten years, until it finally subsided around the time our eldest was in middle school. It was only when I saw you sleeping peacefully that I thought you’d come home from the front at last.”
“Thank you, dear,” Takeda said in a small voice, placing his hand over his wife’s.
* * *
—
Just before we parted, Takeda said, “Miyabe-san was a wonderful man. I only spent a few months in his presence, but I think he was a truly phenomenal person.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“He’s the one who really should have survived the war.”
“It is very kind of you to say that.”
Takeda’s expression became stiff. “As he was climbing into the cockpit of the Zero to fly to Kyushu, I wished him good luck.”
“Yes?”
“He suddenly got this terrifying look on his face and said, ‘I absolutely will not die.’ I saw this tremendous obsession with life in his eyes. I thought there was no way he would ever die.”
“But the war wouldn’t let him live,” I said.
“Not the war,” Keiko said sharply. “Our grandfather was killed by the Navy.”
Takeda nodded. “You might be correct. It probably was the Navy that killed him.”
Chapter 10
Fighting Demon
“That guy was doomed to die,” former Flight Chief Petty Officer Kaizan Kageura said, his eyes boring into mine. “I know that he wanted to come out of the war alive. But it was he, himself, who cut off any chance of that wish being fulfilled.”
My heart pounded violently. I tried to glean Kageura’s feelings from his face, but he was expressionless, unreadable.
* * *
—
Kaizan Kageura was a former yakuza gangster. He lived in Nakano, a quiet residential district a little west of Shinjuku, but there was no nameplate on the front gate, and the wall surrounding the property was dotted with numerous security cameras. He claimed to be retired, but even so, I felt trepidation over visiting him at home. Keiko had said that she wanted to come with me, but I wasn’t keen on the idea of bringing her to the home of someone whose criminal record included murder.
When I pressed the buzzer on the intercom, a young man with a shaved head appeared. His speech was very polite, but his eyes were hawk-like. After I stated my name and the purpose of my visit, he led me through to a sitting room.
The sitting room was decidedly not extravagant, but the walls and ceiling appeared to be made from fine materials. The room lacked any sort of furnishings.
Kageura was a tall man. He was supposed to be seventy-nine, but he looked younger than his years. His hair was thinning, but his complexion and poise made him appear to be around sixty.
The young man who had answered the door remained standing behind Kageura. Perhaps he was something like a bodyguard.
“So you’re Miyabe’s grandkid,” Kageura said without a trace of a smile. His voice was low and subdued, yet imposing.
Feeling a bit overawed, I repeated the purpose of my visit.
After I had gone over everything, Kageura said, “I despised him.”
I nodded wordlessly. I had sensed as much when we spoke on the phone. Since I no longer found it baffling that some of his former comrades might hate my grandfather, having someone tell me as much to my face didn’t faze me anymore.
“The war is over sixty years in the past. I’ve forgotten about most of the people I met back then. Yet I can recall that guy very well. Hmm, how strange.”
* * *
—
I hated Miyabe’s guts. I thought he was entirely disgusting.
I vividly remember when he departed as a kamikaze. I was one of the fighter escorts that day.
Sorry to say I didn’t witness his last moments. After the Battle of Okinawa, most kamikazes failed to reach the American fleet because there were squadrons of enemy fighters three layers deep lying in wait far ahead of their task force. There was no way planes loaded down with heavy ordnance could make it to the enemy’s fleet. On many occasions, even the nimble escorting fighters failed to return to base from their missions. Most were probably taken out by the other side’s fighters.
As I’ve been saying, I loathed him from the bottom of my heart.
Why? No particular reason. There must be people in your own life that you just don’t get along with. Someone whose very presence you find exceedingly aggravating. For me, that guy was Miyabe.
He treasured a photo of his wife and kid. You might want to say that young people these days are all like that, and I won’t quibble with you on that. Modern society is all lukewarm. If some weakling of a salaryman who relies entirely on his company keeps a photo of his wife and child tucked inside his commuter-pass holder, that’s actually kinda cute. But sixty years ago, things were different. We were putting our lives on the line.
Even today, people commonly bandy about phrases like “on my life,” but it’s nothing more than words. It’s just a flashier version of “I’ll do my best.” Don’t make me laugh. I’d love to give them a lesson, about what it really means to risk your life. Back then, we were literally putting our lives on the line.
And yet back there in the thick of war, he was like some modern salaryman gazing at that photograph and spouting crap like, “I wanna survive this war and go home.” Imagine risking your life in combat every day and hearing that nonsense from some fellow next to you.
—Did I ever actually hear him say that? True, I don’t have any precise recollection. But even if he didn’t say it out loud, it was obvious to everyone that he was thinking that all the time.
I graduated from the Preparatory Flight Training Program in Kasumigaura in early 1943.
I was first stationed in Taiwan, and then transferred to the Philippines. From there I was sent to Java, and then on to Balikpapan on Borneo. It was already clear at that point that the tide of the war was turning against us. But I didn’t give a damn. I simply focused on carrying out my duty as a fighter pilot. And what was that duty? Shooting down as many enemy aircraft as possible.
I was lucky to see my first action at Balikpapan. There was an oilfield there, which meant an abundance of fuel, so we could train to our heart’s content. I’m sure that was how I was able to polish my piloting skills.
In my first sortie at Balikpapan, I shot down an enemy fighter—a Spitfire. Many of my former classmates who’d arrived from Japan with me lost their lives during their first air battle. Guys who arrived later met the same fate. It was as though they were showing up just to die. Rare was the pilot who survived three dogfights. The enemy had fighters that could outperform the Zero and their pilots were more skilled. Plus, they had radar, and their sheer numbers were overwhelming. Even veteran pilots had a hard time staying alive in that theater.
It was under such circumstances that I sortied four times in the first week and shot down two aircraft. Everyone’s attitude towards me changed, noticeably. I don’t mean to brag, but I was a gifted fighter pilot. In the first six months, I downed about ten enemy aircraft if I include unconfirmed kills.
* * *
—
I was sent to Rabaul in the fall of ’43.
By that point, Rabaul was no longer the home of the glorious Rabaul Air Corps. The Americans were recapturing the surrounding islands one after another, and we were forced into a defensive stance. A transfer to Rabaul was considered a one-way ticket.
Air raids would continue for days on a tremendous scale. Nearly eve
ry day, formations ranging from 150 to 200 fighters and bombers would conduct raids on us. Some days there were as many as 300 aircraft. We had a mere fifty fighters. We were mostly just intercepting the enemy, which actually agreed with me. Frankly, I hated escorting the slowpoke bombers. It was like a ball and chain. But in an ambush, I was free to engage with the enemy. I like it here, I thought.
When you’re intercepting, whoever’s faster wins. As soon as there’s a report of incoming enemy aircraft, the pilots ran at full tilt towards their fighters. The ground crew would start the engines, and we’d jump into the cockpits then head up into the skies.
I never took on their large aircraft. My targets were always fighters. We interceptors were supposedly tasked with shooting down bombers that invaded the airspace over the base, but I didn’t care. I fought the way I wanted to.
The American fighters were sturdily built. A 7.7-mm machine gun couldn’t take them down. The 20-mm cannons could, but their initial velocity was slow and their range was short, which meant they rarely struck their targets. Even so, I easily managed kills using the cannons.
How? By leading the target. It’s a technique where you fire at an enemy aircraft that’s not yet in your sights.
Here’s how it is. Airplanes move at blazing speeds. In a dogfight, your aircraft, too, is slicing through the air. So even if you manage to get the enemy in your sights and pull the trigger, the bullets drift or drop and rarely hit the target. That’s why you have to take aim at the expected trajectory of the aircraft, at open space, and fire there. That way, the enemy will fly into the path of your bullets.
Nobody taught us these things during flight training. In fact, I wonder if there were very many seasoned pilots who used that technique. It was kind of like a trick shot, and, if I say so myself, I was naturally gifted at it. I’ve heard that Germany’s Marseille was a master at deflection shooting, that’s to say, leading the target.
The Eternal Zero Page 31