The bombers passed over Moresby and swung into their wide, slow turns, coming back this time for their bombing run, the sun now behind the pilots and the bombardiers. Hardly had the bombers slipped into their target runs when six fighters came at us from high altitude. I hauled back on the stick, standing the Zero on its tail. The other five fighters were glued to me as we turned directly into the enemy attack. We had no chance to fire; the enemy fighters rolled away and scattered, still diving. We returned to our escort weave positions, but only two fighters slipped into their wingman positions. Miyazaki and his other two fighters had apparently gone crazy; they were swerving down, below the bombers.
I had no time to worry about Miyazaki. The enemy flak was trying to find the range, and a snarl of shells thundered 1,500 feet below the bombers. They could not evade the shells this time; they were on their runs and the bombardiers held every plane tightly in place. I kicked the rudder bar and skidded away from the expected barrage. Then the bombers were gone, hidden completely by a series of bursting shells which spewed out thick smoke. For a moment it looked as though the shells had struck dead center. But then—miraculously, it seemed—the seven planes emerged in formation from the boiling smoke. Their bays were open and the black missiles tumbled through the air. I watched them curve, picking up speed; they erupted in fountains of smoke, the blast waves from each bomb bursting outward in a flash of light as it struck.
Their bellies empty, the bombers picked up speed amid the continual bursts of flak, then wheeled hard over to the left. Miyazaki was flying some 1,500 feet below the bombers. He was in a fantastic position. Without radio (they had been ripped out to increase our range), I could not call him to return to position, and we dared not leave the bombers unprotected.
We passed Moresby and the bursting flak fell behind. I sighed with relief. Too soon! Nearly a mile above us, a single P-40 fighter dove with incredible speed. He came down so fast I could not move a muscle; one second he was above us, the next the lone plane plummeted like lightning into the bombers. Six hundred yards in front of me, I watched the fighter—he was going to ram!
How that plane ever got through the few yards’ clearance between the third and fourth bombers of the left echelon, I shall never know. It seemed impossible, but it happened. With all guns blazing, the P-40 ripped through the bomber formation and poured a river of lead into Miyazaki’s plane.
Instantly the Zero burst into flames. With tremendous speed the P-40 disappeared far below us. Miyazaki’s plane drifted slowly down, trailing flame. Brilliant fire flared out and an explosion tore the Zero into tiny pieces of wreckage.
We failed to see even a piece of metal falling. Everything had happened in three or four seconds. We maintained our course for home. Over Buna our fighters broke, abandoned their roles as escort, and turned for Lae.
Miyazaki’s loss was a painful lesson to all of us. I am firmly convinced that in those early days of the war the individual skill of our pilots was definitely superior to that of the men flying the Dutch, Australian, and American fighters. Our training, which was conducted in pre-war Japan, was more meticulous than that of any other nation. Flying meant everything to us, and we spared no effort to learn every aspect of air-to-air combat. And, of course, we flew a fighter superior in most respects to those of the enemy. In the air battles of World War II, however, individual skill was not enough to insure continued survival. There were many instances, of course, when planes met in individual dogfights, and a pilot’s prowess gave him victory. This was not, however, the general rule, but the exception. Our greatest failing in aerial combat lay in the fact that we lacked teamwork, a skill, unfortunately, which the Americans developed so thoroughly as the war went on.
Miyazaki’s loss, as well as that of three other Zero pilots shot down early in April, I can attribute only to the inability of our fighter pilots to function as a closely knit team. When encountering enemy fighters, our pilots were more apt to scramble in all directions for a wild free-for-all, one plane against another, much as in the days of World War I. To the Japanese pilots of the late thirties, the most valued quality of a fighter plane was its ability to cut inside an enemy fighter’s turn. Maneuverability was desirable above all other characteristics.
And it worked well—under certain conditions, and for a certain time. But the value of the individual dogfight technique evaporated when the enemy refused to fight your own kind of battle, or when his tenacious adherence to a preconceived plan reduced the effectiveness of the lone-wolf attack.
Two days after Miyazaki’s death, seven B-26 bombers attacked Lae. Fortunately, we received sufficient advance warning and had nine fighters in the air to meet the planes as they stormed in at a height of only 1,500 feet. For an hour we fought a bitter running battle with the Marauders; in the end only one bomber went down, with another fleeing as a cripple. It was the clumsiest air fight I had ever seen. The nine Zeros lacked organization, instead of making concerted attacks against one or two planes, and using massed firepower to cut the B-26s apart, our pilots were overzealous and threw themselves all over the sky. Repeatedly several planes jerked frantically out of their firing passes to avoid a collision with another Zero or to evade the fire of a friendly fighter. It was incredible that none of our planes rammed into another or shot any of us down.
I fairly exploded in anger back at Lae. I jumped from the Zero’s cockpit, brushing aside my ground crew, and shouted at every pilot to stand and listen. For perhaps fifteen minutes I cursed their clumsy stupidity, pointing out to each man his, pointing out to each man his errors and stressing the unpleasant fact that only a miracle had brought them all back to Lae alive. From that night on, we held sessions every evening to improve our teamwork. These classes continued for the first week during a strange and unexpected lull in the air war.
On April 23, Nishizawa, Ota, and I made a reconnaissance flight to Kairuku, a new enemy base north of Moresby, shooting up and burning several carrier planes on the airstrip. We had been ordered to carry out only a reconnaissance mission, but the temptation was too much—especially after our recent poor showings in the air.
Our report brought us orders to launch a fifteen-plane strafing attack on the following day. We swooped down on six B-26 bombers, fifteen P-40s, and one P-39, all of which seemed to be evacuating the field. We tallied two bombers and six P-40s as definite kills, with a probable for the P-39. After the one-sided air battle we continued up to Moresby, strafing and burning one anchored PBY. Perhaps my emphasis on team-work was the fault—especially since I rode close herd on the other fighters—but I ended the day without being able to claim a single plane. Neither could Nishizawa, to his great disgust.
The next day we returned to Moresby. Despite their heavy losses in the one-sided fight of the previous day, the enemy put up stiff resistance. Seven P-40s challenged our fifteen fighters; before the wild melee was over, six enemy fighters plunged earthward in flames. We suffered no losses and, with the air cleared, strafed Moresby and Kairuku, burning five B-26s and two P-40s.
Apparently our new attempt to achieve teamwork was effective. However, it failed to benefit me or Nishizawa. After two consecutive battles in which the other pilots scored heavily, we returned unable to claim a single kill. We argued late into the night in an attempt to analyze each other’s actions in the air, to try to discover what we were doing wrong. Everything seemed all right, but the cold fact of the matter was that we were not getting our bullets home.
Another air battle followed on the twenty-sixth. Again, I returned scoreless. Again, Nishizawa was unable to claim a single victory, although three of seven P-40s had gone down.
Nishizawa was baffled. Ignoring his range finder, he had clung grimly to a P-40 whose pilot was frantically trying to elude the Zero glued to his tail. At point-blank range Nishizawa, chasing the P-40 all over the sky, poured bullets and cannon shells into the enemy fighter. The latter nevertheless escaped.
April 29 was Emperor Hirohito’s birthday, and our commander
planned a modest celebration in honor of the special event. All sailors with any cooking experience joined the kitchen staff and prepared the best possible breakfast from the limited supplies available. The Allies had made almost no effort to attack Lae in the preceding few days. This lull in battle, plus our feeling of well-being on this special occasion, threw us off guard, as the enemy had probably hoped it would. We were just finishing our morning meal at seven o’clock when sentries screamed, “Enemy planes!” Immediately a blaring, discordant sound shattered the morning stillness. Buckets, drums, hollow logs, and the like were struck as warning signals. Two bugles blew shrilly to add to the racket—our air-raid warning system.
We raced for the runway too late. The bombs had already fallen, and done their work. We looked up to see our old friends, the B-17s. Three of them cruised at 20,000 feet. They dropped only a few bombs, but, considering their great height, with as excellent accuracy as I have ever witnessed. Five Zeros lay in flaming wreckage. Four others were seriously damaged, riddled .throughout with jagged bomb splinters. Of the six stand-by fighters, only two were in flying condition.
Ota and one other pilot reached the planes first. In seconds they had gunned their motors and were racing down the runway. By the time the rest of us reached our planes, it was too late to take off. The three B-17s and the two Zeros were out of sight and, with their amazing speed, the B-17s were beyond our reach. The time passed slowly, and we cursed the bombers and fretted over Ota’s return. An hour later a single Zero dropped in for a landing. It was Endo. “We attacked while climbing,” he explained, “and worked over the B-17s as much as possible. Ota crippled one bomber and was still shooting up the airplane when my ammunition ran out. So I left for home.”
Another hour passed without Ota. We were worried about his safe return. Ota, the friend of one and all, the brilliant pilot, attacking at least two heavily armed B-17s alone. Endo became frantic, and mumbled morosely about having left Ota because of his lack of ammunition.
Fifteen minutes more went by, then Captain Saito stuck his head out of the CP and shouted joyously to us, “Hey! He’s safe! Ota just called from Salamaua. He got one Fortress definitely. He landed for fuel; he’ll be home soon.”
Wonderful news! But there was still unfinished business at hand. Six fliers, including Nishizawa and myself, were selected to “return the Emperor’s birthday greetings” to Moresby. We would have felt better had there been sixteen Zeros, but our six fighters were the only machines fit for combat. The enemy undoubtedly expected a reprisal for his attack against Lae. To forestall running into a storm of waiting antiaircraft fire, we cleared the mountain ridge at 16,000 feet and then, instead of continuing toward Moresby at high altitude, dove immediately once we were past the crest. We flew a steep triangle, hitting its top point as we cleared the mountain range and then diving steeply at the enemy air base. It was perfect! The enemy timing was thrown off completely; no one expected us to attack in this new fashion.
We hit the field in a wide sweep just above the ground. Dozens of maintenance men were crowded around bombers and fighters which appeared ready for take-off. That meant full fuel tanks and bomb bays, made to order for the surprise strafing run.
They were like sitting ducks, and we sprayed bullets and shells down the runway. I could see the men on the ground staring at us in amazement, hardly believing their eyes. Six Zeros out of nowhere!
The initial pass was perfect. Not a gun had been fired at us. At the end of the runway, with the surprised gun batteries still silent, we pulled up into a steep turn and dove immediately for another run. The view on the way back was excellent. Three fighters and a bomber were burning fiercely. This time we worked over another row of aircraft, parked neatly in a long line. We hadn’t expected this kind of cooperation! Again we fired in a long, running pass, strafing the enemy planes. We hit four bombers and fighters, although none burned. Men ran frantically in all directions as we screamed down for our second strafing run, and dozens remained on the ground, riddled by our bullets. We made three passes in all and then raced away at high speed. Not until we were on our way out of the area did the first antiaircraft gun open up. I grinned; let them waste their ammunition!
But at 5:30 the next morning the enemy repaid us with a visit of his own with three Marauders, coming in low and fast, no higher than 600 feet. The earth shook and heaved as the B-26s dumped their bombs directly onto the airstrip. As the smoke cleared we saw five of our stand-by fighters tearing for altitude. They were hardly off the ground when the enemy raiders turned and came back again, thundering over the field before the fighters could close with them. Then they were gone, disappearing into the breaking dawn. They had done well; one Zero burned brightly and another was smashed wreckage. Four other fighters and a bomber were badly holed with bullets and bomb fragments.
For the next several days the tempo of the air war increased furiously. The Allies returned our next strafing attack with a beautifully executed run by twelve P-39s against our airfield, and heavily damaged nine bombers and three fighters. We caught the Airacobras on their withdrawal, and shot down two without losses on our part. But, again, neither Nishizawa nor I was able to bring down a plane.
I broke out of my slump—as did Nishizawa—the day after the strafing attack by the P-39s. Nine of us flew to Moresby, spoiling for a fight. We got one. Nine enemy fighters, P-39s and P-40s, waited for us over the enemy airstrip, willing to fight!
Hardly were we in sight when they broke off their circle and roared head on against our planes. I took on the first enemy fighter. The P-40 rolled into a turn as he came at me, hoping for a belly shot, I cut sharply inside him and fired, I could not have timed it better; the P-40 staggered into the burst. Instantly the enemy pilot snapped over in a left roll, but he was already too late. Another burst and the fighter exploded in flames.
But he had friends and I jerked out of my turn as a P-39 dove on me. No need to run for it; I drew a split-S and the enemy pilot walked right into the trap. For a moment his belly hung before my guns as he tried to loop away. I needed only that moment, and I squeezed the cannon trigger. The shells caught the enemy fighter while it was still pulling up, and the plane fell apart in the air.
He was sure, I knew, to have a wingman, and even as I fired my burst I had the stick hard back and the rudder bar all the way down, horsing the Zero back into the tightest turn I could make. It worked; I came out in line for a quick burst. The startled pilot tried to disengage by diving, but too late. I rolled out of the turn in time to snap out another burst. The enemy fighter flew directly into my fire, staggered, then plunged in a dive.
I shouted with joy! I was out of the slump. Three fighters in less than fifteen seconds! My first “triple play”!
The fight was over, and I had scored the only kills. Six enemy fighters fled in wild power dives, too fast for our fighters to catch up, although Nishizawa and the seven other Zeros were attempting to do so. It was impossible; the American P-39s and P-40s could always escape us by diving.
Back at the Lae airstrip, my mechanics came running to me excitedly. They were amazed to find that I had fired only 610 rounds of ammunition during the day’s air battle, an average of just over 200 rounds for each enemy fighter. Nishizawa climbed from his plane with his face black with angry disappointment.
The next day, May 2, we flew back to Moresby with a force of eight Zeros. Thirteen enemy fighters waited for us, cruising slowly at 18,000 feet. Nishizawa spotted them first, and jumped the gun. We followed his lead as he swung around in a wide turn, coming up to the enemy formation from their left and rear. What was the matter with these pilots? Didn’t they ever look all about them? We hit the thirteen planes before they even knew we were in the air. Before they could roll away in evasive action, several enemy fighters were falling in flames. Our total bag for the day came to eight P-39s and P-40s, of which I claimed two.
Nishizawa leaped from his cockpit as the Zero came to a stop. We were startled; usually he climbed down slowly.
Today, however, he stretched luxuriously, raised both arms above his head, and shrieked, “Yeeeeoow!” We stared in stupefaction; this was completely out of character. Then Nishizawa grinned and walked away. His smiling mechanic told us why. He stood before the fighter and held up three fingers. Nishizawa was back in form!
On May 7, after several days of rest back at Rabaul, I flew in what I called a “dream sweep.” Four Zeros were ordered out for reconnaissance over Moresby, and, when each pilot saw who his wingmates were, he shouted happily. We were the wing’s leading aces. I had twenty-two planes to my credit; Nishizawa had thirteen; Ota now had eleven; and Takatsuka trailed us with nine. Our four best aces! What a day to mix it up with the enemy! We knew we could count on each other to cover anyone in trouble. And certainly any enemy fighter pilots wouldn’t know they were flying into the worst hornet’s nest possible! I hoped we’d run into opposition today.
We found them. We were circling over Moresby when Nishizawa rocked his wings in signal and pointed at ten fighters in a long column, coming at us from the sea, about 2,000 feet higher than our group. Nishizawa and Ota formed a wedge of two planes, with Takatsuka and myself immediately behind and a little lower. Four P-40s separated from the enemy formation and dove at us.
All four Zeros nosed up in a rapid, almost vertical climb, instead of rolling away and scattering as the enemy pilots expected. The first P-40 went up in a wild loop, trying to get away from his own trap. The belly flashed in front of me and I snapped out a burst. The shells caught him and tore a wing off. I came out of the climb in an Immelmann and saw each Zero hammering away at a P-40. All burst into flames. The remaining six fighters were on us. We scattered to the right and left, coming up in tight loops and arcing over. It worked! All of us came out with a fighter beneath us. Three more P-40s disintegrated and burned; one escaped. The three remaining fighters stuck their noses down and ran for it.
Samurai! Page 11