Samurai!

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Samurai! Page 17

by Martin Caiden


  Buna was a shock to me on my first patrol. I had seen many landing operations before from the air, but never had I witnessed such a pathetic attempt to supply a full infantry division. Soldiers milled around on the beach, carrying cases of supplies into the jungle by hand. Only two small transports with a single small sub chaser as their escort stood off the beach unloading new supplies!

  Flying cover for the beachhead proved eventually more difficult than anticipated. No longer did heavy cloud layers mean a day of comparative rest. On July 22, in a group of six Zeros, we flew wide circles in what appeared to be an otherwise empty sky. A thick overcast hung at 7,000 feet above the ground. Without warning a series of tremendous explosions rocked the beach area, and columns of flame and smoke erupted into the sky. Seconds later thick, greasy smoke boiled out of the critical supply dumps several hundred yards off the shore. No other planes could be seen. Either they had dropped their bombs through the overcast with spectacular accuracy—which seemed highly unreasonable—or one or more planes had dropped below the clouds, released their bombs, and slipped back into the protection of the gray mass without being seen.

  The latter proved to be the case, for several minutes later I caught sight of a tiny speck moving out of the edge of the overcast, far to the southeast. We turned and pursued the fleeing plane which, as we drew closer, was identifiable as our old friend, the twin-engined Lockheed Hudson. We were about a mile away when we were sighted. The bomber nosed down and fled along the coast, trying to make Rabi. Its speed was high, almost as great as that of our own fighters. I jettisoned the fuel tank and pushed the throttle to maximum overboost.

  From a distance of 600 yards and to the rear left, I fired a burst from all four guns at the plane, hoping the Hudson would turn and allow me to lessen the distance between our two planes. What happened next was startling. No sooner had I fired than the Hudson went up in a steep climbing turn to the right, rolled quickly, and roared back with full speed directly at me. I was so surprised that for several moments I sat motionless in the cockpit. The next second every forward-firing gun in the Hudson opened up in a withering barrage.

  Our Zeros scattered wildly, rolling or diving in different directions. Nothing like this had ever happened before! I caught a glimpse of Lieutenant Sasai; his jaw hung open in astonishment at the audacity of the enemy pilot. One Zero-piloted by Nishizawa, who refused to be impressed by anything—rolled out of his sudden breakaway and came down behind the bomber, his guns spitting flame. Again we were astounded. The Hudson heeled over in a snap roll, the fastest I had ever seen for a twin-engined plane. Nishizawa’s guns sprayed only empty air.

  The remaining pilots, myself included, hurled our planes at the Hudson. All of us failed to score a single hit. The bomber rolled and sawed up and down in violent maneuvers, with the top gunner firing steadily at our planes.

  The Zero pilots went wild with fury. Our formation disintegrated and every man went at the Hudson with everything he had. I made at least four firing passes, and was forced to break off my attack by other pilots who screamed in without regard for their wingmates. For nearly ten minutes we pursued the Hudson, pouring a hail of lead and explosive shells at the amazing plane. Finally a heavy burst caught the rear turret; I saw the gunner throw his hands up and collapse. Without the interfering stream of bullets from the turret, I closed in to twenty yards and held the gun trigger down, aiming for the right wing. Seconds later flame streamed out, then spread to the left wing. The pilot stayed with the ship; it was too low for him or the crew to bail out. The Hudson lost speed rapidly and glided in toward the jungle. Trees sheared off the two flaming wings and the fuselage, also trailing great sheets of flame, burst into the dense growth like a giant sliver of burning steel. There was a sudden explosion, and smoke boiled upward.

  The day was full of surprises. We were on our way back to Lae to resume the beachhead patrol when five Airacobras attempted a surprise attack against our formation. The enemy planes flew in a long column low over the water, attempting to climb rapidly and catch us unawares. I was the first to sight the enemy group. I went into a steep turn and dove for the Airacobras, heading directly at the lead plane. Abruptly the five P-39s scattered in all directions, turned, and raced away. With their advantage of surprise gone, and five other Zeros directly behind me, they wanted no part of a battle in which they were at a height disadvantage.

  With the speed from my dive, I was soon among the enemy group. Two fighters zoomed wildly and disappeared into low-hanging clouds. Another disappeared within a shower of rain, and yet another seemed to have vanished into thin air. One Airacobra was still in the clear, and I went after the fighter at maximum speed. He was heading for clouds, but a burst across his nose changed his mind. The P-39 flicked over in a left roll and dove for the sea with me 200 yards behind.

  It was the new model Airacobra which, at sea level, was equal in speed to my own fighter. But the pilot had made a fatal error—he was flying in the wrong direction! Instead of fleeing to Moresby, he was headed in exactly the opposite direction. I still had plenty of fuel, and was content to maintain the distance between our planes—all the way to Rabaul, if necessary. Several minutes later the American pilot came to his senses, and realized his error. He had no choice but to reverse his course, and the fighter winged over in a sharp left bank and turn.

  This had happened many times before. I cut inside his turn, moving in slightly below and to the left of the fighter. A short burst sent the Airacobra rolling violently to escape my fire. I clung to his tail as he whipsawed back and forth, heading for the coastline. For precious seconds I lost the fighter when he went through some unusually wild maneuvers, and the P-39 raced away for his home base, with several hundred yards’ distance between our two planes. Even with the engine on overboost I could not close the distance between us. I was almost ready to turn away; so long as the P-39 kept a straight and true course it was impossible for me to reach firing position.

  The enemy pilot chose otherwise. Instead of staying over the sea, he headed directly for the Owen Stanley Mountains, which forced him into a climb. And no P-39 could outclimb a Zero. Slowly but steadily I closed the distance between us. I held my fire for a burst at the closest possible range. With my ammunition low after the battle with the Hudson, I would have enough for only one or two quick bursts.

  Fifty yards. Then it shrunk to forty, then thirty. I gripped the gun trigger, aiming carefully.

  I had not fired a single shot when the pilot bailed out of the fighter! The Airacobra was less than 150 feet above the ground when his form tumbled into the air, in a drop which seemed to be certain death. I knew of no instance where a pilot had survived a bailout from less than 300 feet.

  Miraculously, the chute snapped open a split second before the pilot struck the ground. He dropped into a small clearing while his fighter exploded a scant few yards in front of him. I still could not believe that the enemy pilot had lived through his incredible descent. I turned steeply and flew back over the jungle clearing. Only the parachute was visible. The pilot had lived, and was in good enough condition to flee from sight. It was my second victory without firing a shot, and raised my total to forty-nine planes.

  The next few weeks were spent in maintaining cover over the Buna beach area, but the latter half of July meant a new and strange phase of the war for us. No longer did we fly without parachutes. Orders had come down from higher headquarters, and Captain Saito directed every pilot to wear his chute into combat. It was a strange sensation to feel the chute packed on my seat below me, and the straps around my body. I had never flown with one before.

  Equally disturbing to us were further orders which carried unspoken but ominous implications. We were taken off the offensive. Captain Saito issued orders that from now on no fighters would cross the Owen Stanley Range, no matter how compelling the reason.

  Only on one occasion—July 26—did I see Port Moresby again. We had intercepted five Marauders over Buna, and during the running fight as the bom
bers fled for home I shot two B-26s out of the air, kills confirmed by the other pilots. With Sasai and Endo behind me, I pursued the remaining bombers, crossing the mountain range against orders. I shot up one bomber, but failed to see it crash, and received only a probable.

  That was the last time I ever flew over the enemy base. Our situation was changing rapidly. By the end of the first week in August, we began to fight under conditions we had never before known. The Americans had launched a tremendous invasion of Guadalcanal Island.

  CHAPTER 21

  ON JULY 29 Lieutenant Joji Yamashita returned to Lae from his Buna patrol with news which electrified the entire base. His planes had been attacked for the first time by American naval aircraft. He reported to Commander Nakajima and Captain Saito that his nine Zeros had encountered a mixed force of American SBD Dauntless dive bombers and F4F Wildcat fighters, led to the Buna area by P-39 pathfinders which, he estimated, had come from Rabi. The Navy warplanes were the first to appear in our theater.

  The news that an American aircraft carrier had moved into New Guinea waters was ominous, and our staff officers appeared upset. If the Americans had carriers to spare for operations against our forces at Lae, Buna, and Rabaul, then there appeared to be some truth in their claims of victory at Midway and their denials of major losses during the Coral Sea Battle. If what Tokyo had claimed was true, that our fleet had destroyed the enemy carriers encountered in the Coral Sea and off Midway, how could there be a carrier in our vicinity? Something was wrong, and for the first time we felt doubts regarding the authenticity of Tokyo’s repeated claims of victory.

  The majority of fighter pilots at Lae, however, greeted the news in an entirely different fashion. Late into the night we threw questions at Yamashita’s pilots. How many Navy planes were there? Were the Wildcats better than the P-39s and the P-40s? How good were the American Navy pilots?

  Their answers were encouraging, for Yamashita’s squadron put in claims for three dive bombers, five fighters, and one P-39 definitely shot down, without the loss of a single Zero. This made unimportant what might have happened at Midway, or at the Coral Sea, or anywhere else! All we cared about was that for four successive months we had whipped the enemy’s fighters and bombers time and time again, and that the appearance of his Navy planes meant that much greater an opportunity for gaining even more victories.

  But for the next three days the new enemy planes failed to appear over Buna. On the thirtieth nine B-17s attacked the beachhead area with considerable success, and our nine fighters managed to shoot down only one bomber of the enemy formation. I received credit for the victory when I caught the fourth Fortress over Cape Nelson and managed to concentrate my fire into its nose. Apparently the pilot and co-pilot were killed, for the big airplane plunged into the ocean out of control. It was one of my hardest air battles, for I returned to Lae with several inches of skin scraped off my right arm from the bomber’s guns. I had missed death by no more than the thickness of a hair, and my mechanics worked all night to patch up the dozens of bullet holes in the fuselage and wings.

  On August 2, all thought of Navy planes fled from our minds. Before the day was over, we had behind us a tremendous occasion to remember—the dream of all Japanese fighter pilots come true. We were circling over Buna at 12,000 feet when we sighted five tiny specks against the clouds several miles away from the beachhead. They were at our height, and they appeared to be Fortresses. I flew alongside Sasai’s plane and indicated the oncoming bombers. He nodded and we both pointed out the B-17s to the other pilots. We kept our formation, circling slowly, until the four engines of each bomber became clearly visible. Sasai signaled us to follow him. He raised his right hand, rocked his wings to give the order to break up our V formations into a single column for a head-on attack. Our fuel tanks tumbled through the air.

  Now was our chance to put to the acid test the theories we had worked out in our billets at night. In a few moments we would know whether or not the Fortresses were vulnerable to the head-on attack. The situation was perfect. Nine Zero fighters against five of the great B-17s, and among that nine we had the leading aces of all Japan. Sasai led the attack. Ota dropped 500 yards behind his plane, followed by Endo. I slipped into fourth position, also at a 500-yard distance, and my wingmen, Yonekawa and Hatori, followed me as numbers five and six in the column. Nishizawa took seventh place, then Takatsuka, and finally NAP 3/C Yoshio Sueyoshi in the rear slot. Nine Zeros, spread out over a distance of 4,000 yards, and carrying the best pilots Japan had produced.

  The Fortresses tightened their formation as we closed in. Sasai’s fighter dropped below the lead bomber, then climbed at a shallow angle, rolling slowly as he aimed at the lower nose section of the plane. The next second he flashed up and over as he completed his firing run. Smoke trailed from all five bombers but it was the smoke of their 50-caliber guns. The enemy formation continued on.

  Then Ota made his bid, following exactly the same maneuver as Sasai. I watched the flashes of his tracers as they bit into the lead bomber, then Ota’s wing lift up as he began his breakaway turn. The next instant a violent explosion hid every plane from view. A flash of intense light appeared in the sky, followed by a tremendous smoke cloud. Even from a half-mile distance, the shock wave jolted my own fighter. The B-17 was no longer in the sky. It had disappeared, shattered into small pieces of wreckage when its full bomb load went off under the impact of Ota’s cannon shells. It was the most spectacular air kill I had ever seen, and I cheered loudly as Ota’s Zero rocketed upward through the smoke.

  By now Endo was in his firing run, diving and climbing upward at a shallow angle. The Zero rolled slowly as it raced against the bombers, both cannon and machine guns spitting out flame as he closed in. His tracers went wild and Endo went for altitude as the bomber guns bracketed him in a heavy crossfire.

  My turn now! I pulled back gently on the stick and the third Fortress in the formation expanded slowly in my range finder. Closer and closer he came, and I squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened! The bomber seemed to fill the entire sky before me before I found out what was wrong. Stupid! I had failed to release the safety lock on the trigger; an error not even the greenest pilot would make. It was almost my undoing, and I rolled violently to clear the B-17 at a distance of only twenty yards.

  Their gunners had me in a crossfire. The Zero lurched as bullets slammed into the fuselage, and I felt the shock of the heavy slugs ripping through metal. I was frantic now, and, with my fighter’s belly up, I held the stick over hard to the left, rolling wildly. I was through, but not without damage. I raged at my own stupidity, but it was too late. I had wasted a perfect firing pass. I dropped below the enemy formation and gunned the engine to overboost to race ahead of the bombers for another run.

  Nishizawa was already climbing against his B-17. He went in beautifully, his fighter arcing up slowly in its gradual climb, rolling steadily as the distance narrowed between his fighter and the enemy plane. His attack was perfect, as he kept pouring cannon shells into the wing fuel tanks. Abruptly a splash of flame burst through the wing, spread rapidly, and in a few seconds the Fortress seemed to turn into a gigantic flame thrower. Brilliant fire streamed into the wind from the wing and along the fuselage. The plane skidded wildly and its nose dropped. Then it was gone. Another mighty explosion flipped Nishizawa’s fighter over on its back like a toy and rocked my own Zero sharply. The other bombers reeled under the shock wave even as the remaining fighters screamed by on their firing passes.

  Now Sasai went in again, raking a third bomber from nose to tail. He started firing from a distance of almost 150 yards, and his shells slowly moved back along the fuselage. Pieces of metal erupted from the plane and flipped away in the slipstream. The airplane rolled wildly to the right, out of control. I saw flames within the fuselage, licking out of the cockpit and the second gun turret. The B-17 dropped in a long sweeping turn, rolling and skidding as it descended, the sure sign of a dead pilot and co-pilot. The flames increased and, for the th
ird time in two minutes, another roaring explosion marked the finish of the third B-17.

  I could hardly believe my eyes. These were the planes which had been driving our fighter pilots frantic wherever they appeared. And now, one, two, three! Three blasting detonations and as many Fortresses just so many small pieces of charred wreckage falling from the sky.

  The two surviving bombers split up as I came in for my second pass, and I found only empty space in my range finder. I went up and over in a high loop, coming out to see the two B-17s racing away in different directions. One headed for the mountains and the other turned for the open sea. I went after the plane racing for the water. The B-17 rolled and turned continuously as I tried for a long burst at the cockpit or fuel tanks. For some strange reason the bombardier failed to jettison his lethal load, and the plane fled under the weight penalty of all its bombs. I dove to gain speed, and came up beneath the bomber, closing in toward the left wing. The B-17 grew larger and larger in my sight, and I opened up, watching the shells exploding along the left wing by the fuselage and chewing up the metal skin as they moved toward the bomb bay.

  The world was blotted out in the next instant. A bolt of light, searing and intense, filled the sky, blinding me. A great fist gripped the Zero and flipped it wildly through the air. My ears rang and I tasted blood trickling down from my nose. The fourth Fortress was gone! Everyone had been destroyed by its own bombs. Now only one remained. The bomber fled for the mountains, eight Zeros clawing at the great plane like hunting dogs after a massive wild boar. They were hard pressed to keep up with the B-17, which evidently had jettisoned its bombs and had gained speed. The B-17’s course, cutting across my nose, gave me a chance to intercept the airplane before it reached land.

 

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