Samurai!

by Martin Caiden

  The pilot and co-pilot lay sprawled on the deck in pools of blood. The flight engineer struggled with the unfamiliar controls. I could not see the other four crewmen. Two turrets were smashed, and the men who had manned them were either dead or wounded. Only the flight engineer, fighting to keep the plane aloft, appeared unhurt.

  Somehow, he kept the plane flying, rolling and weaving drunkenly until he reached our Lae airstrip. The man was doing a magnificent job. Apparently he was flying from his memory of watching the pilots in the air. That is difficult enough, impossible for most men without pilot training, but with a badly damaged bomber it was virtually impossible. Now that he had reached Lae, the engineer was at a loss as to what to do. He could keep the bomber flying, but landing, with its long, steady approach and lowering air speed, was another matter

  The crippled airplane circled slowly over the airstrip, going around and around, as the engineer studied the narrow runway below him. There was no way to help the unhappy man in the cockpit. We closed in and tried to guide him down, but whenever he took his eyes off the controls the plane lurched dangerously. Gradually he lost speed as he descended. There was no use in remaining aloft until his fuel ran out. The bomber circled over the water, skidded badly as it turned, and then approached the runway. I held my breath. He couldn’t make it. With speed down, the plane rocked badly in the air and began to slide into a stall. It would crash at any moment.

  Then a miracle occurred. The pilot staggered to his feet. His face was white and caked with blood. He leaned heavily on the shoulders of the engineer. For those brief vital seconds of the approach he shoved the wheel forward and regained speed. With its wheels and flaps up the cripple soared down and touched the runway. A flurry of dust burst upward as the airplane skidded wildly. In a moment it smashed two fighters into wreckage, then lurched to a halt and broke in two.

  We landed immediately afterward, taxiing up to the wreckage, which miraculously failed to burn. The pilot who had forced himself to his feet only a minute before was unconscious. The co-pilot was dead. The engineer who had flown the cripple home was so badly wounded in the legs that he had to be carried from the airplane. Both bombardiers were badly shot up. The bone of one man’s arm jutted through broken skin, and both were caked with their own blood. The two gunners were semiconscious, also blood-soaked and seriously wounded, but were clinging to their guns with iron grips.

  It was the first time we had ever seen with such intimacy the terrible power of fighters’ weapons. Death in the air had never been close. Even those men who died in burning planes were remote and distant. A man either came home, or he didn’t. But now we saw it for what it really was.

  The fighter sweeps continued, and during the next two days we shot down three more fighters. But no one at Lae realized that our steady victories paled by contrast with the catastrophic defeat of a major Japanese task force at Midway on June 5. We knew of the battle, since Tokyo had announced a major victory for our fleet forces. Imperial Headquarters minimized our losses as insignificant. For the first time, however, we had doubts as to the accuracy of the reports. Our reasoning was simple enough; we knew Midway was to be invaded and occupied. If our fleet had withdrawn without carrying out that occupation, then something unforeseen had happened.

  We did not learn for a long time to come that four of our largest and most powerful aircraft carriers, along with 280 planes and most of their pilots, as well as thousands of men who formed the warships’ complements, were lost.

  From June 5 through 15 a strange lull settled over the New Guinea front, broken only by a single raid against Lae on the ninth. I added two B-26 bombers to my score. On the sixteenth the air war exploded with renewed fury. It was a field day for our fighters, when twenty-one Zeros caught three enemy fighter formations napping.

  We hit the first group of twelve fighters in a massed formation dive which shattered the enemy ranks. I shot down one plane, and five other pilots each scored a victory. The remaining six enemy fighters escaped by diving.

  Back at high altitude, we dove from out of the sun at a second enemy formation of twelve planes. Again we struck without warning, and our plunging pass knocked three fighters out of the air. I scored my second victory in this firing run.

  A third wave of enemy planes approached even as we pulled out from the second diving attack. Some two dozen fighters came at us as we split up into two groups. Eleven Zeros dove to hit a climbing formation, and the others met us at the same height. The formations disintegrated into a tremendous free-for-all directly above the Moresby air base. The enemy planes were new P-39s, faster and more maneuverable than the older models; I jumped one fighter, which amazed me by flicking out of the way every time I fired a burst. We went around in the sky in a wild dogfight, the Airacobra pilot running through spins, loops, Immelmanns, dives, snap rolls, spirals, and other maneuvers. The pilot was superb, and with a better airplane he might well have emerged the victor. But I kept narrowing the distance between our two planes with snap rolls to the left, and clung grimly to his tail at less than twenty yards. Two short cannon bursts and the fighter exploded in flames.

  That was my third victory of the day. The fourth, which followed almost immediately after, was ridiculously simple. A P-39 flashed by in front of me, paying attention only to the pursuing Zero which zoomed upward in a desperate climb, firing as he went. The Airacobra ran directly into my fire, and I poured 200 rounds of machine-gun bullets into the nose. The fighter snapped into an evading roll. I was out of cannon shells, and fired a second burst into the belly. Still it would not fall. Until a third burst caught the still-rolling plane in the cockpit. The glass erupted and I saw the pilot slam forward. The P-39 fell off into a spin, then dove at great speed to explode in the jungle below.

  Four enemy fighters in one day! That was my record to date, and it contributed to the greatest defeat ever inflicted on the enemy in a single day’s action by the Lae Wing. Our pilots claimed a total of nineteen enemy fighters definitely destroyed in the air.

  On our way back to the field Yonekawa kept breaking formation. He went into wild rolls, climbed, dove, dropped in falling leaves. He cavorted all over the sky, flying circles around my fighter. I understood why when he pulled alongside my own plane and held up two fingers, grinning broadly. Yonekawa was no longer the untried fledgling; now he had three planes to his credit. He bubbled with exuberance. He flew upside down, waving both hands around in the cockpit. Then he flew directly over me, under me, and went through a wide hesitation roll around my fighter. He was like a kid showing off. He finally flew on my wing and held the stick between his knees. Still grinning, he waved his lunchbox at me and started to eat. His exuberance was infectious. I waved four fingers at him, and then opened a soda bottle. He pulled his out from his lunchbox and we drank a happy toast to one another.

  The day of victory was not over yet. Hardly had our planes been refueled and our ammunition belts replaced than a spotter report came in. Ten B-26s were on their way to the base. They could not have chosen a worse time, for nineteen fighters were off the ground before the Marauders reached Lae. We failed to shoot any down, but damaged most of the planes, and caused them to scatter their bombs wildly. During the pursuit away from Lae, ten P-39s came after us over Cape Ward Hunt, apparently in reply to the bombers’ distress calls. One Airacobra went down in flames.

  Lae went wild with the victory that night. All the pilots were given extra rations of cigarettes, and the mechanics swarmed over us to share our jubilation. Even better news was the word that we were to receive five days’ leave at Rabaul. The cheers of the pilots shook the surrounding jungle. I was particularly relieved at the news of the five days’ rest. Not only was I tired from the almost daily fights, but my mechanics wanted several days in which to work on my fighter. They called me over to show me the bullet holes in the wings and fuselage, and my stomach dropped when I saw a row of holes running directly behind the cockpit. They had missed me by no more than six inches.

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2 none of our fighter planes carried pilot armor, nor did the Zeros have self-sealing tanks, as did the American planes. As the enemy pilots soon discovered, a burst of their 50-caliber bullets into the fuel tanks of a Zero caused it to explode violently in flames. Despite this, in those days not one of our pilots flew with parachutes. This has been misinterpreted in the West as proof that our leaders were disdainful of our lives, that all Japanese pilots were expendable and regarded as pawns instead of human beings. This was far from the truth. Every man was assigned a parachute; the decision to fly without them was our own and not the result of orders from any higher headquarters. Actually, we were urged, although not ordered, to wear the parachutes in combat. At some fields the base commander insisted that chutes be worn, and those men had no choice but to place the bulky seat packs in their planes. Often, however, they never fastened the straps, and used the chutes only as seat cushions.

  We had little use for these parachutes, for the only purpose they served for us was to hamstring our cockpit movements in a battle. It was difficult to move our arms and legs quickly when encumbered by chute straps. There was another, and equally compelling, reason for not carrying the chutes into combat. The majority of our battles were fought with enemy fighters over their own fields. It was out of the question to bail out over enemy-held territory, for such a move meant a willingness to be captured, and nowhere in the Japanese military code or in the traditional Bushido (Samurai code) could one find the distasteful words, “Prisoner of War.” There ‘were no prisoners. A man who did not return from a flight was dead. No fighter pilot of any courage would ever permit himself to be captured by the enemy. It was completely unthinkable. Nevertheless, it was acutely discomforting to discover a row of bullet holes only inches from where I sat.

  That night I received confirmation of my four kills for the day’s fighting. This was by no means unique in the Imperial Navy, and I know of a score of other naval fliers who matched or exceeded this number of planes shot down in a single day. This gave me a total of forty-three victories.

  Nishizawa, who went on to become Japan’s greatest ace with a final toll of just over 100 enemy planes shot down in combat, hit his record on August 7 over Guadalcanal, when he gunned six American Navy fighters out of the air. A year later Naval Air Pilot 1/C Kenji Okabe shot down a total of seven F4F Wildcats, TBF Avengers, and SBD Dauntlesses in a single day in a series of actions over Rabaul. Okabe landed his plane three times to refuel and rearm during the day’s fighting, to set an all-time record for the Navy.

  Almost every pilot who accomplished this feat was, however, killed shortly afterward in combat. The two exceptions of whom I personally know are myself and Nishizawa, and the Devil never lived out the war. Ironically, Nishizawa was killed in October of 1944 over Cebu in the Philippines, unable to fire a single shot in defense of his life. Several Hellcat fighters caught him in an unarmed, unescorted DC-3 transport and shot down the plane in flames, an ignominious end for Japan’s greatest pilot.

  That night I received orders to report to the base commander, an event of rare occurrence. At Captain Saito’s billet I found that Lieutenant Sasai also had been summoned, and that Deputy Commander Nakajima was with Saito. Both officers appeared glum.

  Captain Saito spoke: “I have been questioning the wisdom of telling you this news, and am doing so at the direct recommendation of Commander Nakajima, It is an unpleasant task for me.

  “Earlier this month I requested Tokyo Headquarters to reward Lieutenant Sasai for his extraordinarily fine leadership of his squadron in combat. At the same time I also asked for recognition of Sakai’s outstanding accomplishments in battle, which make him, so far as we know, the leading ace of the entire Imperial Navy.

  “However, these requests were not granted. Tokyo did not see fit to break with established precedent. There has never in all our history been a living hero,” Saito emphasized, “and apparently Tokyo is adamant about making any changes at this time. They have refused,” he added with regret, “even to award a medal or to promote you in rank.

  “I was undecided about revealing these details to you,” he concluded, “lest it lead you falsely to criticize the actions of our high command. But it is equally important to me that you both be aware that I, as your commanding officer, am fully cognizant of your devotion and your unflagging effort.”

  Commander Nakajima spoke up. “It has always been the Navy’s tradition—right or wrong—to award decorations and grant special promotions only on a posthumous basis. This tradition, of course, is of little comfort to you at the moment. I feel you should know that Captain Saito requested for Lieutenant Sasai the rank of commander, for Sakai his ensign’s bar.”

  Sasai answered at once. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your consideration, and your efforts on my behalf. I must add, however, that neither Sakai nor I are dissatisfied with Tokyo’s decision. I do not see any reason for us to hold any malice. It is my opinion, and I am sure that I speak for Sakai as well, that our accomplishments and air victories are not ours alone. Without our wingmen flying cover for us, without the devotion of our ground crews, we would be able to do nothing. I am satisfied that our team functions so well, and I do not feel that individual recognition is necessary as a reward, although I am most honored that you should have acted for us the way you did.” Sasai expressed perfectly everything I could have hoped to say, and I nodded my agreement.

  The naval policy of abstaining from recognition of individual exploits was carried out steadfastly to the end of the war. There was but one exception to this rule, and it was made as late as March of 1945, when Admiral Soemu Toyoda, Commander of the Combined Fleet, commended NAP 1/C Shoichi Sugita and me, then an ensign, for our outstanding number of victories in the air. By then the commendation was meaningless. The great pilots of our Navy—Nishizawa, Ota, Sasai, and others—were dead.

  CHAPTER 20

  DURING the month of June we encountered an ever-increasing number of enemy fighters and bombers. We were told that the enemy was staging a major build-up of air power in the area, and that from now on we would carry out stronger fighter sweeps. It was clear to all that we would need every Zero we could lay our hands on. The enemy was hacking more airstrips out of the jungle growth in the general area of Moresby.

  Our bomber attacks also increased in weight and frequency, and enemy fighters met every raid with determined aggressiveness. On June 17, twelve Zeros escorted eighteen bombers against Port Moresby, and held seven intercepting fighters away from the bombers, which hit the pier area and sank an 8,000-ton freighter docked in the harbor. The seven American fighters harried our force of thirty planes all the way from Moresby to Cape Ward Hunt, but without success. The following day nine bombers and an equal number of fighters raided Kido in Rescar Bay, a new enemy base north of Moresby which was rapidly being stocked with fighters. Ten enemy fighters hit the eighteen Japanese planes, again without causing any losses, and lost two of their own number.

  On June 24 I returned to Lae from my leave at Rabaul, and took off the next morning as part of a sweep of twenty-one fighters against Moresby. Action was brisk, and I shot down one of the eleven enemy planes claimed for the day’s action.

  The next morning Rabaul sent nineteen bombers back to Moresby, with eleven fighters escorting. Twelve enemy planes intercepted them, and the Zeros shot down three.

  That was the last raid during June. The next day a torrential downpour engulfed the New Guinea area. The rain continued to beat down not only against our fields but against those of the Allies as well. Our successes in April, May, and June had been due in part to the excellent flying weather we enjoyed during the day. Clouds gathered almost every afternoon, but not until 3:00 or 4:00 P.M., by which time we were back on the ground. Violent squalls swept over the area in the evening and continued intermittently during the night. These were more of a blessing than an inconvenience, because they prevented the enemy from conducting his nocturnal assaults with any regularity, and we were able to sleep throu
gh most of the nights.

  July brought an abrupt change in the weather. No longer did the evening squalls permit uninterrupted slumber, and for days on end the night skies were clear and starlit. The bombers came; almost every night their thunder shattered the darkness, and then the bombs rained down ceaselessly. The Mitchells and Marauders swept up and down the field, bombing and strafing at will. We were helpless against the attacks. Even had the runway been large enough to accommodate night operations, it is doubtful that we could have done much damage with the Zero. So we remained on the ground, cowering in shelters and cursing the Americans. Those who suffered the most were the maintenance crews. They were denied even the satisfaction of going out on missions and seeing the enemy planes falling in flames. Instead, their lot was almost round-the-clock labor to keep our relatively low number of fighters in operational condition. In addition, they were now deprived of even their snatches of sleep as the nightly bombing attacks increased in fury.

  We were hit with a particularly heavy raid on the early morning of July 2. The clamor of the air-raid alarms roused us out of our sleep before daybreak. We threw on our flying suits and ran to the field. Hardly had we reached the runway when the thunder of motors, accompanied by the shattering roar of the first bombs, burst out of the night. Every pilot ran frantically for the nearest shelter. There was no time to reach the dugouts. Instead we hurled ourselves into the nearest craters.

  We could see the bombers against the stars. They were Mitchells and Marauders, no higher than 600 feet, the bluish flames from their exhaust pipes flickering in the night sky with an eerie radiance. But they seemed anything but beautiful to us as we cowered at the bottom of our craters.