Three Zeros suddenly dropped out of formation and raced for the earth. Far below me I saw a brightly colored biplane hedgehopping over the ground. In a flash the three fighters had jumped the enemy plane, hurling bullets and cannon shells without success as the skillful enemy pilot rolled right and left, snapping his slow but agile plane through wild gyrations to evade the slugs and shells. All three fighters screamed up and away from the unscathed biplane.
Now it was my turn, and I caught the biplane dead in my sights and squeezed the trigger. He was gone, rolling violently off to the left, cutting around in a turn too sharp even for the Zero to follow. Another Zero joined the fray, and the five of us slewed desperately through the air to catch the elusive enemy in our sights. That pilot was an absolute master. The biplane was almost like a wraith as it snap-rolled, spiraled, looped, and turned through all sorts of seemingly impossible maneuvers. We were completely unable to catch him in a solid burst.
Then suddenly we neared the summit of a low hill west of Chengtu. The biplane pilot had no choice but to clear over the hill, slow-rolling as he climbed. It was the one mistake, the one fatal error which no pilot is allowed. His belly flashed before my sights, and the cannon shells tore through the floor boards into the cockpit. The biplane fell off into a wild spin, even as another Zero threw useless shells into the ship with a dead man at the controls. It crashed into a hill and exploded.
That made two, and my first with the Zero.
That was our last combat action in the China theater. Shortly thereafter we moved up to Yuncheng, a small city far up the Yellow River. During several weeks of air patrol we failed to encounter any enemy aircraft.
Early in September all naval pilots were returned to Hankow, where we were surprised by the appearance of Vice-Admiral Eikichi Katagiri, the Naval Air Force Commander in China. The admiral told us that we were to be transferred back to Formosa, where we would “fulfill a most important mission.” The admiral did not elaborate, but it was obvious to us all that open war with the great Western powers seemed imminent.
In September we were back on the island. A total of 150 fighter pilots and an equal number of bomber crewmen moved from the Kaohsiung air base to Tainan, where we were organized into the new Tainan Flotilla.
The entire Pacific was about to explode.
CHAPTER 7
On the second of December Vice-Admiral Fushizo Tsukahara, Commander of the 11th Air Fleet, sent the first reconnaissance planes over the Philippine Islands. They returned on the fourth and fifth to take photographs of Clark and Iba Fields, and of other major installations near Manila, from a height of 20,000 feet. The photographs of Clark Field shown to us clearly revealed thirty-two B-17 bombers, three medium-sized aircraft, and seventy-one small planes. The Navy estimated that on Luzon there were some 300 combat planes, of all types, a figure which we discovered later was twice as high as the number of planes actually in the Philippines.
Our reconnaissance planes were not alone in this type of activity. American PBY Catalinas were seen on a number of occasions over Formosa. The twin-engined flying boats came in on cloudy days, flying slowly at an elevation of 1,500 feet, leisurely snapping pictures of our ground installations and aircraft.
The American pilots were amazing. With their lumbering, slow airplanes, they should have proved easy prey, but we failed ever to intercept a single PBY. Whenever the air-raid alarms shrieked, dozens of our pilots scrambled into the air, but invariably the Catalinas slipped into the heavy cloud cover and escaped unscathed. Their pictures, taken at such low altitude, must have told the Americans everything they wanted to know about our air units.
When we reached Tainan as part of the new flotilla, we began a new and intense training period. All the men were restricted to their home fields. From daybreak until late at night, seven days a week, in all kinds of weather, we were engaged in training flights to learn the finer points of escort missions, mass formation flying, strafing runs, and so forth.
Our original attack plan for the Philippines called for the use of three small aircraft carriers to bring the Zeros close to the enemy islands. They were the 11,700-ton Ryujo; the 13,950-ton Zuiho, a converted submarine tender; and the 20,000 ton Taiho, a converted merchant ship. Theoretically the three carriers should have had a combined capacity of ninety fighters, but their actual operation figure was closer to fifty planes, and even this number was halved on windy days. Tsukahara found the three ships almost, useless for his purposes.
If, however, the Zeros could fly from Formosa directly to the Philippines and return nonstop, we could then eliminate our need for the carriers. The admiral’s aides doubted, however, that a single-engine fighter could carry out a mission of such range. Clark Field was 450 miles away from our own air base, and Nichols Field, another major target near Manila, was 500 miles distant from Tainan. That meant, considering the factors of still-air range, fuel for fighting, and fuel for reserve, that we would be required to fly nonstop for some 1,000 to 1,200 miles! No fighters had ever flown on such combat missions before, and there were vehement arguments among the air staff as to whether even the Zero was capable of this performance. There was only one way to determine this point.
From then on we flew literally day and night to stretch the range of our planes. Apart from its range, the Zero was designed to remain in the air on a single flight for a maximum of six or seven hours. We stretched this figure to from ten to twelve hours, and did so on mass formation flights. I personally established the record low consumption of less than seventeen gallons per hour; on the average our pilots reduced their consumption from thirty-five gallons per hour to only eighteen. The Zero carried a normal fuel load of some 182 gallons.
To conserve fuel, we cruised at only 115 knots at 12,000-feet altitude. Under normal full-power conditions, the Zero was capable of 275 knots and, when overboosted for short emergencies, could reach its maximum speed of about 300 knots. On our long-range flights we lowered propeller revolutions to only 1,700 to 1,850 rpm’s per minute, and throttled the air control valve to its leanest mixture. This furnished us the absolute minimum of power and speed, and we hung on the fringe of losing engine power at any time and stalling.
These new long-range cruising methods extended the Zero’s range by a remarkable figure, however, and our flight commanders reported the exciting news to Admiral Tsukahara, who then dropped the three small carriers from his plans. Two of them returned to Japan and one moved on to support our operations at Palau. As a result, the 11th Fleet became a fleet without any ships.
We were curious, of course, as to the opposition we would encounter from the Americans. We knew little of the types of planes or the performance of the American pilots, except to anticipate that they would possess even greater flying ability than the pilots against whom we had fought in China.
Not a man questioned the wisdom of launching the war. We were, after all, non-commissioned officers who had been trained—painfully—to respond immediately to orders. When we were told to fly and fight, we did so unquestionably.
At two in the morning on December 8. 1941, an orderly went through our billet at Tainan, waking my group of pilots. It had come—X-Day, as we knew the opening day of the war. The pilots slipped into their flying gear quietly and in small groups moved outside. The night was clear, moonless, with gleaming stars stretching from horizon to horizon. Over all was a deathly stillness broken only by the sounds of our boots crunching on gravel, and the low voices of the pilots as they hurried to the airstrip. Captain Masahisa Saito, our commander, told us that we would take off at 0400 hours and briefed each flight on its respective assignments for the attack on the American airfields in the Philippines. Then we could only wait. Orderlies brought us our breakfasts as we sat beside our planes on the runway.
At approximately 0300 hours a mist began to close on the airfield, a rare occurrence in this semitropical area. By four o’clock it had become a thick pea-soup fog with visibility reduced to only five yards. The loudspeakers on the contr
ol tower boomed out: “Take-off is delayed indefinitely.” Our nervousness increased as the darkness wore on. We kept looking at our watches, cursing the fog. Three hours passed this way, and still the fog had not abated. If anything, it had thickened.
Abruptly, the loudspeaker crackled: “Attention! Here is an important announcement!” The pilots listened in attentive silence. “At 0600 this morning a Japanese task force succeeded in carrying out a devastating surprise attack against the American forces in the Hawaiian Islands.”
A wild, surging roar went up in the darkness. Pilots danced and slapped their friends on the back, but the shouts were not entirely those of exultation. Many of the fliers were releasing their pent-up anger at being chained to the ground while our other planes were smashing at the enemy.
This attack created a factor which we must consider. The Americans were now warned of our attack plan, and it was incredible that they would not be waiting for us in strength in the Philippines. The tension increased as the morning approached. The fog had crippled our plans, worse yet, it would allow the Americans to send their bombers from Luzon and catch our planes on the ground the moment the fog lifted. We manned our defense installations. Machine gunners slipped live rounds into their weapons, and every man on the field strained for the sound of enemy bombers.
Miraculously, the attack never came! At nine in the morning the fog began to lift and the welcome sound of the loudspeakers told us that we would take off in only one hour. Every pilot and bomber crewman on the field climbed into his plane without awaiting further orders.
Exactly at ten the signal lights flickered through the last wisps of fog. One after the other the bombers rolled down the long runway. One, two, three, then six planes were in the air, climbing steadily. The seventh plane was racing down the runway, 1,200 feet from its starting point, when suddenly the right landing gear collapsed. With a great screeching roar the plane spun along the ground on its belly, flames enveloping the entire fuselage. In the harsh glare of the fire we saw the crew struggle through their hatches and jump onto the ground, then run furiously away from their plane. The next instant a tremendous blast rocked the field as the bomb load blew up. None of the crew survived the explosion.
Repair crews were on the runway in seconds, and the men proceeded frantically to drag away the twisted pieces of metal. Dozens of men raced against time to fill the smoking crater; in less than fifteen minutes the signal was given for the next bomber to resume its take-off. By 10:45 all planes were airborne, fifty-three bombers and forty-five Zero fighters.
The fighters broke up into two groups, one staying with the bombers as escorts, while the other flew ahead to tackle the interceptors, which, we felt certain, after the long delay in our attack, would be awaiting us in great strength. I flew in the first wave, and our formation moved up to 19,000 feet.
Soon after passing the southernmost cape on Formosa, I sighted a nine-plane bomber formation flying directly toward Formosa, apparently an enemy force out to attack our fields. Nine pilots, including myself, were briefed before take-off to oppose any enemy aircraft discovered on our route to Luzon, while the others were to continue the attack as planned. We dropped out of the main formation and dove for the bombers. In seconds I was in firing position and closed in to take the lead plane. I started to squeeze the trigger when I suddenly realized that these were Japanese Army planes! I rocked my wings in signal to the other fighters to hold their fire. Those fools in the bombers! No one in the Army command area had taken the trouble to coordinate their flights with the Navy, and these idiots were out on a routine training flight.
We regained our formation when passing over the Batan Islands, midway between Formosa and Luzon. These were occupied by our paratroopers, shortly after we flew over the islands, to provide a haven for any planes which might be forced to ditch on their return from the Philippines. Actually we lost no aircraft through ditching. And then the Philippine Islands hove into view, a deep green against the rich blue of the ocean. The coastline slipped beneath us, beautiful and peaceful, without another airplane in the air. Then we were back over the China Sea.
At 1:35 p.m. we flashed in from the China Sea and headed for Clark Field. The sight which met us was unbelievable.
Instead of encountering a swarm of American fighters diving at us in attack, we looked down and saw some sixty enemy bombers and fighters neatly parked along the airfield runways. They squatted there like sitting ducks; the Americans had made no attempt to disperse the planes and increase their safety on the ground. We failed utterly to comprehend the enemy’s attitude. Pearl Harbor had been hit more than five hours before; surely they had received word of that attack and expected one against these critical fields!
We still could not believe that the Americans did not have fighters in the air waiting for us. Finally, after several minutes of circling over the fields I discovered five American fighters at a height of about 15,000 feet, some 7,000 feet below our own altitude. At once we jettisoned the external fuel tanks, and all pilots armed their guns and cannon.
The enemy planes, however, refused to attack, and maintained their own altitude. It was a ridiculous affair, the American fighters flying around at 15,000 feet, while we circled above them. Our orders precluded us from attacking, however, until the main bomber force arrived on the scene.
At 1:45 p.m. the twenty-seven bombers with their Zero escorts approached from the north and moved directly into their bombing runs. The attack was perfect. Long strings of bombs tumbled from the bays and dropped toward the targets the bombardiers had studied in detail for so long. Their accuracy was phenomenal—it was, in fact, the most accurate bombing I ever witnessed by our own planes throughout the war. The entire air base seemed to be rising into the air with the explosions. Pieces of airplanes, hangars, and other ground installations scattered wildly. Great fires erupted and smoke boiled upward.
Their mission accomplished, the bombers wheeled about and began their return flight home. We remained as escort for another ten minutes, then returned to Clark Field. The American base was a shambles, flaming and smoking. We circled down to 13,000 feet and, still without enemy opposition, received orders to carry out strafing attacks.
With my two wingmen tied to me as if by invisible lines, I pushed the stick forward and dove at a steep angle for the ground. I selected two undamaged B-17s on the runway for our targets, and all three planes poured a fusillade of bullets into the big bombers. We flashed low over the ground and climbed steeply on the pull-out.
Five fighters jumped us. They were P-40s, the first American planes I had ever encountered.
I jerked the stick and rudder pedal and spiraled sharply to the left, then yanked back on the stick for a sudden climb. The maneuver threw the enemy attack off, and all five P-40s abruptly rolled back and scattered. Four of the planes arced up and over into the thick columns of black smoke boiling up over the field, and were gone.
The fifth plane spiraled to the left—a mistake. Had he remained with his own group he could have escaped within the thick smoke. Immediately I swung up and approached the P-40 from below; the American half-rolled and began a high loop. At 200 yards the plane’s belly moved into my sights. I rammed the throttle forward and closed the distance to fifty yards as the P-40 tried desperately to turn away. He was as good as finished, and a short burst of my guns and cannon walked into the cockpit, blowing the canopy off the plane. The fighter seemed to stagger in the air, then fell off and dove into the ground.
That was my third kill—the first American plane to be shot down in the Philippines.
I saw no other fighters after that, but other Zero pilots caught a group of planes in the air. Later that night, back at Tainan, our reports showed claims for nine planes shot down, four probably destroyed in the air, and thirty-five destroyed on the ground, Clark Field antiaircraft guns shot down one Zero, and four others crashed during the flight home. But not a single plane was lost to an enemy aircraft.
CHAPTER 8
The s
econd day of the war—December 9—we fought our worst battles against violent rainstorms, which came close to inflicting serious losses on our air units. Early on the ninth we took off for Luzon. The weather was so bad that the bombers were forced to remain on the ground. The storms raged over the Philippines as well as at Formosa, and at the end of the day we had shot up only a few planes on the ground.
Torrential rainstorms broke up the big fighter formation on the return flight. The rain was incredible; it lashed at the light fighter planes in the worst downpour I have ever encountered. Swirling masses of clouds drove us to the ocean surface. Finally we scattered into V’s of three fighters, with each group concerned only for its own safety.
From a height of fifteen and twenty yards the water was a fearsome sight, lashed into white spray by the wind. I had no choice but to fly at this low altitude, my two wingmen hugging my tail, desperately trying not to lose sight of my plane. For hours we fought our way northward, our fuel gauges dropping lower and lower. Finally, after what seemed like countless hours, the southern tip of Formosa broke through the clouds. We circled through the downpour until we found an Army air base near the coastline and with barely enough fuel for our approach set down on the muddy runway. Thirty other fighters preceded me, and later that night we discovered that three fighters had made forced landings on a small islet near the Army field. Not a pilot was lost, however.
That evening was our first real rest in the three months since our assignment to Formosa. The shabby inn at the hot springs hamlet was a small paradise to us, as we soaked in the tubs and turned in for a long sleep.
The third day of the war is one I will long remember, for on December 10 I shot down my first Boeing/B-17; it was also the first of the Flying Fortresses to be lost by the Americans in combat. After the war I found that this particular bomber was piloted by Captain Colin P. Kelly, Jr., the American air hero.
Samurai! Page 6