Despite the damage suffered that day, we dispatched our night bombers on their harassing raids. Our pilots were determined to repay the enemy, at least in part, for his damaging attack. On this particular mission I was unable personally to dispatch the planes, since I still had to prepare the daily report to Tokyo. As usual, I hurried to the field after midnight. The planes were already due, but for some reason Captain Yamamoto and his flight officer failed to appear at the command post. Most probably they had been exhausted by the bombing and were sound asleep.
Soon the bombers began to return, assembling over the field. The ground crews did not know what to do; although the bombers waited for the landing signal lights; only Captain Yamamoto and his flight officer had the authority to order these on. I fidgeted uneasily, for it is intolerable to keep pilots who have just completed a long and grueling night mission circling in the dark. Further, the situation was readymade for an effective sneak attack by an enemy intruder. And the entire base now was wide awake, waiting with uncertainty for the planes to land. One can never be sure that the planes above are friendly.
It was beyond my authority, but as the air staff officer I ordered the ground crews immediately to switch on the landing lights to bring the bombers in. One by one the black raiders slipped onto the airstrip, and the signal lights winked out. At that moment Yamamoto and his flight officer came running into the command post. At once I apologized, for to overextend one’s authority is a serious matter. Rather than taking offense, the captain was grateful for my intervention. His action was typical. To every one of us the welfare of the aircrews was our primary consideration. Our purpose was to ease as much as possible the burden of the men who carried the fight to the enemy. This required the unhesitating cooperation of all concerned; to do less was to shirk one’s responsibility.
The aircrews best of all personified Japan’s people in the battlefield, for they came from every walk of life. Some of them carried the names of wellknown families; some noncommissioned officers were simple laborers. Some were the only sons of their parents. While we maintained strict military discipline on the ground, with proper observance for rank, class, and age, those differences no longer existed when a crew’s plane lifted its wheels from the ground.
The enemy cared little about the groups which constituted our air crews, and there existed no discrimination on the part of the pilot who caught our planes in his sights! Our air crews were closely knit teams, for it mattered not one whit whether an enlisted man or an officer manned the machine guns or cannon. The effect was exactly the same. Unfortunately this feeling of solidarity of our air crews was unique in the Japanese military organization.
The continual air battles against the savagely fighting Americans exacted a heavy and steady toll of our men. The constant fighter-plane interceptions and bombing missions meant that hardly a day passed without men dying or receiving serious wounds. The pilots and air crews did not honestly expect to survive their Buin duty tour, for the steady loss of men meant that no one could predict the time of his own passing. I could not understand the attitude of our Navy command, which treated its men with unnecessary harshness and apparent disregard. Of the one hundred and fifty air-crew members who had arrived one month ago with me at Buin, at least fifty were dead. Before the month passed we were certain that more than one half of the remaining men also would be lost. Even in the costly Guadalcanal beachhead operation we did not lose more than a third of our personnel. Here at Buin we suffered most heavily in the loss of our lieutenant J.G. personnel, who formed the nucleus of the fighter pilots. Thirteen of these men had arrived in the south Pacific eighteen months ago; only one was still alive.
I was not entirely aware of the attitude of these men, either of those who had died, or the ones who remained. Perhaps many of the men accepted their fate willingly, with the realization that in sacrificing their lives for their country they went beyond merely the act of dying. I do not know the answer, but I found it gratifying to see that those who remained to fight and almost certainly to die exhibited no signs of psychological disturbance.
For our ground forces it was a different matter. It was not difficult for our troops to whip themselves into emotional frenzies, for there existed no greater honor than to die in defense of their homeland. Perhaps some of our troops obtained their courage from the long-cherished desire to die, as they knew eventually they must, before their comrades with the fearless Banzai! cry upon their lips.
This world of human emotions did not seem to touch our flying personnel. Their courage and solidarity as a team under fire arose from something more profound and lasting. Certainly they realized that if war conditions did not change drastically, their demise was but a matter of time. Just when that time would come was, of course, the question. They had to continue fighting, ignoring the ever-present specter of flaming death, simply because there was a task to be done.
It was important to our men to be remembered for the brave manner in which they met death against the enemy. Our airmen who for so long fought a steadily losing battle often were denied in their last minutes of life the knowledge that their passing would be related at home. On the majority of occasions the end came without witness by a man’s flying mates. Those men who failed to return simply were listed as “died in action” or “failed to return.” Despite the lack of what was to them a matter of great consequence, our pilots and airmen fought courageously.
The philosopher would state that “it is the basic principle of the theory of evolution to be unmindful of one’s own destruction for the sake of propogating the species.” This is all very well in the classroom, but the philosopher often is conspicuously absent from the battlefield. What is it which allowed our men to act as they did? I cannot answer, and never really will know, but I feel that I saw something wonderful, deep, and pure in their eyes, a reflection, perhaps, of the serene peace they knew in their souls. If I am compelled to identify this motivation, I can reply only with the inadequate phrase of “love of their country.” Could this be classed merely as patriotism? It is difficult to answer.
Through my association with these men I learned that there are those who fight merely for the sake of fighting, who seek out mortal combat with the enemy, who wish to stake their lives against that of the enemy pilots. They did not do this from patriotic motives, but merely because they wanted to fight. This is no longer explained by logic. Had the real conditions of the battleground, with its overwhelming lack of decent facilities for our men, been shown to the people back home, there would have been a terrible outcry against our leaders. The decision for war itself would have been questioned seriously, and, perhaps because of this, the war might have ended sooner.
And yet, our airmen did not care to shoulder the task of such public enlightenment. Our men were not so lacking in scientific knowledge as to believe in happiness after death. They had enjoyed in their present life what they considered to be the greatest spiritual moments a human being can attain.
The matter so disturbed me that on occasion I secretly left my barracks and visited the sleeping quarters of my men. I would contemplate, with little success, the drive behind these courageous airmen. Officers higher than the rank of lieutenant (Japanese Navy division officers) were afforded the luxury of sleeping in twos and threes in one room, but the lieutenant J.G. personnel crowded eight together, usually in an old, dirty tent superficially protected by mosquito netting. Our noncommissioned officers also suffered quarters in dilapidated tents, crowded in together. Worst of all, however, were the terrible conditions under which our maintenance crews lived. Their quarters were comparable to the worst jungle slums, and the men slept like sardines in a can, so tightly jammed together that it was impossible for a man to roll over on the damp floors. Tropical rains poured water over their bodies, making sleep impossible. Their mosquito netting amounted to pitiful shreds of cloth, of virtually no use. With poor food, lack of toilet facilities, and jammed quarters, theirs was indeed a miserable lot. We
could do nothing to alleviate the terrible conditions, for the few ships which broke through the enemy screen of submarines, warships, and bombers carried only the most essential items.
I feared for the health of the air-crew personnel. Even the slightest illness could wreck the smooth teamwork necessary in air combat. The effects of malnutrition especially denied us certain combat advantages. In any aerial engagement the opponent who first discovers his enemy gains an immediate advantage. Our pilots and crew members, suffering from malnutrition, also underwent a corresponding loss in vision. We had a most forceful demonstration of this handicap. Lieutenant Commander Mochifumi Nango, a distinguished ace in the Sino-Japanese Incident, persisted in flying despite marked malnutrition. He was a superb flyer. We were convinced, however, that he did not even see the enemy fighter into which his Claude rammed with terrifying impact.
Buin was in the tropical zone, but lacked the customary native dwellings and, indeed, could only boast cocoa. Neither fruit nor vegetables grew in the forsaken strip of jungle land. At Rabaul and Buka (an island north of Buin) there grew some fresh fruit, but in such niggardly quantities that they could not meet even a fraction of our needs. Every so often I dispatched a transport plane to Kavieng, at the northern tip of New Ireland, with orders to bring back bananas, papayas, and vegetables. The flight required a round trip of more than eight hundred nautical miles and the use of valuable fuel, but I felt it imperative that our airmen receive at least this minimum quantity of fresh food. Rear Admiral Sakamaki would not take the food, but ordered it distributed only among the pilots and air-crew members.
Occasionally high-ranking officers from our Tokyo headquarters and from Combined Fleet Headquarters at Truk would visit Buin to confer with me about the air war in the Buin theater. I know that what they learned from me would influence to no small extent the future conduct of our naval air arm, and I was always cautious to answer carefully their every question. One particular interrogation proceeded as follows:
“We understand that since the 2nd Carrier Division transferred to Buin, air operations in the theater have suddenly increased. According to our intelligence reports, our raids are causing the enemy great difficulty. Has the present commander employed tactics differing greatly from those of the former commanding officer?”
Actually we had not modified our tactics to any unusual extent. The truth of the matter was simply that most of the air staff which preceded us at Buin had suffered severe emotional disturbances. Not only were they exhausted mentally and physically from their grueling work under enemy fire, but the lack of proper housing and food and the murderous climate hastened their collapse. Under such conditions they could not possibly have employed their aircraft effectively against the enemy. I replied:
“There has been little change, if any at all. I believe the increased efficiency of our men stems from the fact that our commander receives the unquestioned trust and support of his subordinates. As you realize, the present air battles are fought chiefly by our younger officers, and by men below the rank of lieutenant. Frankly, I myself want quite badly to make a reconnaisance flight over Guadalcanal, for personal observation would aid my duties; however, as you are aware, my old wounds do not permit me to make a high-altitude flight. I could only be a burden to a reconnaisance plane and, as much as I would like once again to fly, I have refrained from doing so.”
“However, Commander Okumiya, as the staff officer in charge of air operations, haven’t you specific ideas you have followed, or would like to see put into practice?”
The question was difficult to answer, but finally I said:
“My idea of an air staff officer may differ from the conception you hold. To me his duties should parallel, if you will pardon my analogy, the task of a sports trainer. The air staff officer should outline his plan of attack, but similarly should bend every effort to ease the work of his airmen. Let us face facts: the air staff officer has no place in actual combat; his every effort should be made to formulate the most effective plan of attack and to provide his men with the greatest chance of survival. I am simply carrying out my duties with this attitude in mind.”
“Will you elaborate a bit further, Commander?”
“Perhaps the best example is found in the manner in which we ordinarily attend to our personnel. Usually everybody takes great care to insure that the needs of officers are met, but these same people are surprisingly negligent of the cares of the greater majority of our flying personnel, the noncommissioned officers. To me this is foolish, for the best officer is useless in combat unless he has the support of a well coordinated and able crew. Therefore I have given every possible minute to devising means to raise the morale of our noncommissioned officers. I have taken special pains to provide these airmen with the food and medicine necessary for their health. Our mechanics bend every effort to maintain our planes in flying condition; few things are as effective in destroying morale as a lack of aircraft against an enemy who daily grows stronger.”
“I see!. . . . Is there anything that, as the air staff officer, you would specifically like to see done?”
“Many things! But of all which I feel should be done, I particularly want to send some of my men back to Japan while they still are in good health. It is unimportant if we return to the homeland only one or two of our airmen who are not yet ill, or wounded. More than two months have passed since I arrived in Buin; in all this time, although many more men have since come as replacements, not a single healthy man has left the base. This same situation applies to our maintenance crews, who live under the most primitive conditions. Why? If our personnel could believe only that they had a chance, even the slimmest chance, of returning to Japan before they were seriously wounded, or become seriously ill, our morale would soar. The prospect of returning home under conditions other than, so to speak, being carried out on a stretcher would provide a tremendous incentive for work.
“Another question. Why in the name of heaven does Headquarters delay so long in according our combat men the honors they deserve? The most unbelievable acts of courage and bravery before the enemy have gone without notice from Tokyo. From the looks of things, Japan is no more impressed with the man who singlehandedly defeats a hundred enemy planes than with the administrative clerk who is never fired upon! Look at the methods of our enemies. Henderson Field on Guadalcanal, the largest enemy base in the area, is named after their Major Lofton Henderson, a Marine torpedo-bomber pilot who died at Midway. I am impressed with the wisdom of the American method of raising the morale of their fighting men.
“In contrast, our Navy does absolutely nothing to recognize its heroes. The outstanding men of the Pearl Harbor Attack, and the Sea Battle of Malaya, to this day have not received a single individual honor or citation. These men are now dying one after the other in battle, and their numbers decrease every day. The situation at times becomes ridiculous. Recently Vice-Admiral Jinichi Kusaka, Commander in Chief of the Southeast Area Fleet, was forced to take some steps to recognize one of our pilots. The admiral awarded an honor sword to Flight Petty Officer Okabe, who in one day shot down seven enemy planes. Okabe himself was happy to receive this citation, but little is left for his memory, since he died in action several days later. Our air-crew members do not complain or even discuss this lack of recognition or honors for their deeds; because of this silence especially I plead that you may convince Headquarters to give these men the attention they so rightfully deserve.”
(It is astonishing, and perhaps shameful, to realize that throughout all World War II not a single living member of the Japanese armed forces ever received any form of government honor, award, or citation, despite the actions of many men above and beyond their duty to their country.)
In late September of 1943 I was reassigned as the air staff officer of the 2nd Carrier Division, and soon afterward I returned to Japan. By mid-October the enemy air raids against the 26th Air Flotilla at Buin had become intolerable. With its base
constantly subjected to enemy bombs and strafing attacks, with living facilities reduced to the lowest possible level, and with a mounting loss of supply ships, the Navy pulled out, moving its air strength directly to Rabaul. From October of 1943 to January of 1944 our planes engaged the enemy air units in some of the most bitter air fights of the war. Increased numbers of enemy land-and carrier-based fighters and bombers attacked our positions; these were met by planes of the 25th and 26th Air Flotillas, and the air groups of the 1st Carrier Division. The Navy could not continue to bear indefinitely the ever-increasing enemy air strength, and our position deteriorated rapidly.
The Last Rabaul Air Force
During the summer and early fall of 1943 the reorganized 2nd Carrier Division, under Rear Admiral Takaji Jojima, was forced by a shortage of aviation fuel to recognize and train its air groups in the Singapore area. With its training barely completed, the division received orders from Admiral Koga to transfer to Truk, and arrived at the Pacific bastion by December. By the close of 1943 the Marshall Islands and Rabaul were periled by the advancing enemy, whose planes daily filled the skies over our bases. Truk itself was threatened by the approaching bulk of enemy air strength. For the third time, Admiral Koga dispatched the 2nd Carrier Division’s air groups to bolster Rabaul’s tottering defenses.
Preceding the main body of planes, on January 20, 1944, I flew to Rabaul to set up my working quarters. In charge of Rabaul’s air defense was the 26th Air Flotilla, the air group I had worked with at Buin. After paying my respects to Vice-Admiral Jinichi Kusaka, commander of the new aerial defense operation, I hurried to the flotilla’s headquarters to visit my old friends. I was anxious to see the men with whom I had shared the bombings and deprivation at Buin.
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