Nakajima waved his arm above his cockpit to signal the other fighters to follow him. A long, winding road led from the main airfield to the second strip. The distance was more than a mile, and the smaller runway was at a level higher than the one we were leaving. I felt ridiculous as I jockeyed the Zero along on the road. This was my first—and my last—experience climbing the side of a mountain in a taxiing fighter plane. And in a convoy of thirty fighters.
A battalion of Army troops watched our queer convoy, with its clouds of dust and blatting motors, their mouths gaping open in disbelief. Many of them pointed their arms at us, laughing loudly and jeering. It was hardly funny to us. Taxiing the Zero up that tortuous slope with a fighter in front of me and a whirling propeller immediately behind, while we all tried to negotiate the hairpin curves, was as hazardous as maintaining tight formation in a thick fog.
Fortunately, we had arrived at Iwo during a temporary lull in the fighting. Only the day before the island had rocked and heaved beneath the impact of thousands of shells from the American task force which steamed off shore. Now they were back at Saipan, steadily reducing the fortifications on that island to wreckage.
For three days the war spared Iwo. Not that it was a place where any sane man would voluntarily want to remain. It was as dreary, hostile, and uncomfortable as Rabaul, if not more so. But we were left to our own devices, and took advantage of the lull in the fighting to soak in the hot springs which bubbled through the rocks from one end of the island to the other.
The war never seemed stranger to us. We knew by now that our fleet had been shattered in the Marianas sea fight and that practically all of the carrier pilots in the battle had died. There was no doubt that the overwhelming might of the American invasion forces, supported by many hundreds of planes and the thousands of heavy guns on the ships, would annihilate our troops on Saipan to the last man. And we soaked in hot baths on Iwo Jima.
Our officers were desperate. They knew all too well the need for help at Saipan. But what could we do? A mass assault by our fighters would have only a temporary and meaningless effect, for Saipan lay nearly 600 miles south of Iwo. On the other hand, we could not sit comfortably on our islands while our friends were blasted to bits. There was still another factor. If we left. Iwo Jima unattended by dozens of fighters ready for instant flight, then the Americans could—in those unguarded hours—storm the island’s defense and move in against weak opposition.
Finally it was decided that the fighters would remain, but that the bombers would attack the American warships cruising off Saipan. Each attack would be made at night, the unescorted bombers leaving in groups of eight or nine.
When I watched these planes roaring down the Iwo runways, their blue exhausts illuminating the wings and fuselage, the old days at Lae flashed back into my mind. I finally began to understand what had motivated the crews of the Mitchells and Marauders which pounded Lae, day and night, without fighter escort, hurling their defiance in the teeth of dozens of Zero fighter planes.
Now I saw the other side of the picture, but it was worse. In the early months of 1942 the American twin-engine bombers had a fighting chance. With the Bettys it was different. Let a fighter plane catch a Betty in its sights for a second or two, let an antiaircraft shell spill its hot fragments into the fuselage, and the odds were that there would be no more bomber, but a roaring mass of flames disintegrating into the water.
The hours between each take-off and the return of the surviving bombers seemed interminable. Our pilots carried out their bombing runs with the utmost gallantry and scored some hits. But what did it mean? These were only fleabites!
And every night perhaps one or two planes limped back to Iwo Jima with fuselage and wings holed, the crews desperately tired, their eyes haggard from watching their friends going down, one after the other, even before they were within attack range. The few pilots who returned to the island told us of fighters coming in after them in almost total darkness, and finding their planes unerringly in the gloom, of tracers bursting bright as day when all the guns on the American ships opened up at them. Brilliant explosions, cobwebs of spitting tracers which seemed to be impenetrable walls of fire blocking their path as they swung into their bombing runs.
In a few days there were hardly any of the twin-engined Mitsubishi bombers left on the island. Then Iwo threw in its torpedo bombers, single-engined planes (Jills) which attempted zero-level torpedo attacks. They fared little better than the larger planes.
On June 24 the quiet lull which had settled over Iwo Jima disappeared. It was about 5:20 A.M. when the air-raid alarms set up a terrific din across the island. Early warning radar had caught several large groups of enemy aircraft less than sixty miles to the south—and coming in fast.
Every fighter plane on the island—more than eighty Zeros— thundered down the two runways and sped into the air. Mechanics dragged the remaining Bettys and Jills to shelter.
This was it! The long wait was about to be rewarded. I had a Zero under my hands again, and in another few moments I would know—by the acid test of actual combat—if I had lost my skill.
An overcast at 13,000 feet hung in the sky. The fighters divided into two groups, forty Zeros climbing above the cloud layer, and the other forty—my group—remaining below.
No sooner had I eased out of my climb than an enemy fighter spun wildly through the clouds, trailing a long plume of flame and black smoke. I had only a brief look at the fighter—it was a new type, unmistakable with its broad wings and blunt nose, the new Grumman I had heard so much about—the Hellcat. I swung into a wide turn and looked up...another Grumman came out of the clouds, diving vertically, smoke pluming behind.
Hard on the heels of the smoking fighter came scores of Hellcats, diving steeply. All forty Zeros turned and climbed to meet the enemy planes head on. There was no hesitation on the part of the American pilots; the Grummans screamed in to attack. Then the planes were all over the sky, swirling from sea level to the cloud layer in wild dogfights. The formations were shredded.
I snapped into a tight loop and rolled out on the tail of a Hellcat, squeezing out a burst as soon as the plane came into the range finder. He rolled away and my bullets met only empty air. I went into a left vertical spiral, and kept closing the distance, trying for a clear shot at the plane’s belly. The Grumman tried to match the turn with me; for just that moment I needed, his underside filled the range finder and I squeezed out a second burst. The cannon shells exploded along the fuselage. The next second thick clouds of black smoke poured back from the airplane and it went into a wild, uncontrolled dive for the sea.
Everywhere I looked there were fighters, long trails of smoke, bursts of flame, and exploding planes. I looked too long. Flashing tracers poured directly beneath my wing and instinctively I jerked the stick over to the left, rolling back to get on his tail and snapping out a burst. Missed. He dove out of range, faster than I could follow.
I cursed at myself for having been caught without warning and with equal vehemence I cursed my blind eye, which left almost half of my area of vision blank. As quickly as I could I slipped out of the parachute straps and freed my body, so I could turn around in my seat, making up for the loss of side vision.
And I looked without a second to spare. At least a half-dozen Grummans were on my tail, jockeying into firing position. Their wings burst into sparkling flame as they opened fire. Another left roll—fast!—and the tracers slipped harmlessly by. The six fighters ripped past my wings and zoomed in climbing turns to the right.
Not this time! Oh, no! I slammed the throttle on overboost and rolled back to the right, turning after the six fighters with all the speed the Zero would give me. I glanced behind me— no other fighters in the back. One of these was going to be mine, I swore! The Zero closed the distance to the nearest plane rapidly. Fifty yards away I opened up with the cannon, watching the shells move up the fuselage and disappear into the cockpit. Bright flashes and smoke appeared beneath the glass; the next moment the Hellcat swerved cr
azily and fell off on one wing, its smoke trail growing with each second.
But there were more fighters on my tail! Suddenly I didn’t want to close with them. Weariness spread over me like a smothering cloak. In the old days, at Lae, I would have wasted no time in hauling the Zero around and going for them. But now I felt as though my stamina had been wrung dry. I didn’t want to fight.
I dove and ran for it. In this condition it would have been sheer suicide to oppose the Hellcats. There would have been a slip, a second’s delay in moving the stick or the rudder bar...and that would be all. I wanted time in which to regain my breath, to shake off the sudden dizziness. Perhaps it was the result of trying to see as much with only one eye as I had before; I knew only that I couldn’t fight.
I fled to the north, using overboost to pull away. The Hellcats turned back and went after fresher game. And then I saw what was to me the most hideous of all the hundreds of air battles in which I had fought. I glanced down to my right and gaped.
A Hellcat rolled frantically, trying to escape a Zero which clung grimly to its tail, snapping out bursts from its cannon, no more than fifty yards behind. Just beyond the Zero, another Hellcat pursued the Japanese fighter. Even as I watched, a Zero plunged from above and hauled around in a tight diving turn after the Grumman. One after the other they came in, in a long snaking file! The second Zero, intent upon the pursuing Hellcat fighter, seemed entirely unaware of a third Hellcat following in its dive. And a third Zero, watching the whole proceedings, snapped around in a tight turn and caught the trailing Hellcat without warning.
It was an astonishing—and to me, a horrifying—death column which snaked along, each plane following the other before it with determination, firing at the target before its guns. Hellcat, Zero, Hellcat, Zero, Hellcat, Zero. Were they all so stupid that not one pilot, either Japanese or American, guarded his weak spot from the rear?
The lead fighter, the Grumman, skidded wildly as it hurled back smoke, then plunged toward the sea. Almost at the same moment the pursuing Zero exploded in a fireball. The Hellcat which had delivered the death blow remained in one piece less than two seconds; cannon shells from the second Zero tore its wing off, and it fell, spinning wildly. The wing had just ripped clear of the fighter when a blinding flash of light marked the explosion of the Zero. And as the third Hellcat pulled up from the explosion, the cannon shells of the third Zero tore its cockpit into a shambles.
The five planes plunged toward the sea. I watched the five splashes. The last Zero rolled, turned, and flew away, the only survivor of the melee.
I circled slowly, north of Iwo, sucking in air and trying to relax. The dizziness left me, and I turned back to the battle area. The fight was over. There were still Zeros and Hellcats in the sky, but they were well separated, and the fighters of both sides were forming into their own groups.
Ahead and to the right I saw fifteen Zeros swinging into formation, and I closed in to join the group. I came up below the formation and...
Hellcats! Now I understood why the surgeon, long ago, had protested my return to combat so vigorously. With only one eye my perspective was badly off, the small details were lost to me in identifying planes at a distance. Not until the white stars against the blue wings became clear did I realize my error. I wasted no time in throwing off the fear which gripped me. I rolled to the left and came around in a tight turn, diving for speed, hoping the Grummans hadn’t seen me.
No such luck. The Hellcat formation broke up and the planes turned in pursuit. What could I do? My chances seemed hopeless.
No—there was still one way out, and a slim chance at that. I was almost over Iwo Jima. If I could outmaneuver the other planes—an almost impossible task, I realized—until their fuel ran low and forced them to break for home....
Now I appreciated the speed of these new fighters. In seconds they were closing in. They were so fast! There was no use in running any further....
I snapped back in a tight turn. The maneuver startled the enemy pilots as I climbed at them from below, swinging into a spiral. I was surprised; they didn’t scatter. The lead fighter responded with an equal spiral, matching my maneuver perfectly. Again I spiraled, drawing it closer this time. The opposing fighters refused to yield a foot.
This was something new. An Airacobra or a P-40 would have been lost trying to match me in this fashion, and not even the Wildcat could hold a spiral too long against the Zero. But these new Hellcats—they were the most maneuverable enemy planes I had ever encountered. I came out of the spiral into a trap. The fifteen fighters filed out of their spirals into a long column. And the next moment I found myself circling in the center of a giant ring of fifteen Grummans.
On every side of me I saw the broad wings with their white stars. If ever a pilot was surrounded in the air, I was.
I had little time in which to ponder my misfortune. Four Grummans broke out of their circle and dove at me. They were too eager. I rolled easily out of the way and the Hellcats skidded by, out of control. But what I thought was only a slight roll set me up for several other fighters. A second quartet flashed out of the ring, right on my tail.
I ran, I gunned the engine to give every last ounce of power and pulled away sufficiently to get out of their gun range for the moment. The four pursuing planes didn’t worry me; it was the first quartet. How right I was! They had climbed back from their skidding plunge and were above me, diving for another firing pass.
I slammed my right foot against the rudder bar, skidding the Zero to the left. Then the stick, hard over to the left, rolling sharply. Sparkling lights flashed beneath my right wing, followed by a plummeting Hellcat.
I came out of the roll in a tight turn. The second Grumman was about 700 yards behind me, its wings already enveloped in yellow flame from its guns. If I hadn’t known it before, I knew it now. The enemy pilots were as green as my own inexperienced fliers...and that could be a factor which would save my life.
The second fighter kept closing in, spraying tracers all over the sky, tracers which fell short of my own plane. Keep it up! I veiled, keep it up! Go ahead, waste all your ammunition; you’ll be one less to worry about. I turned again and fled, the Hellcat closing in rapidly. When he was about 300 yards behind, I rolled away to the left. The Grumman passed below me, still firing at empty air.
I lost my temper. Why run from such a clumsy pilot? Without thinking, I rolled back and got on his tail. From fifty yards away I snapped out a cannon burst.
Wasted. I failed to correct for the skid caused by my abrupt turn. And suddenly I didn’t care what happened to the fighter in front of me...another Grumman was on my tail, firing steadily. Again—the left roll, a maneuver which never failed me. The Hellcat roared past, followed by the third and fourth fighters in the quartet.
Another four planes were almost directly above me, ready to dive. Sometimes, you have to attack in order to defend yourself. I went into a vertical climb, directly beneath the four fighters. The pilots banked their wings back and forth, trying to find me. I had no time to scatter them. Three Hellcats came at me from the right. I narrowly missed their tracers as I evaded with the same left roll.
The fighters were back in their wide ring. Any move I made to escape would bring several Grummans cutting at me from different directions. I circled in the middle, looking for a way out.
They had no intention of allowing that to happen. One after the other, the fighters peeled off from the circle and came at me, firing as they closed in.
I cannot remember how many times the fighters attacked nor how many times I rolled away. The perspiration rolled down my body, soaking my underclothes. My forehead was all beads of sweat, and it began to drip down onto my face. I cursed when the salty liquid trickled into my left eye....I couldn’t take the time to rub it with my hand! All I could do was to blink, try to keep the salt away, try to see.
I was tiring much too quickly. I didn’t know how I could get away from the ring. But it was very clear that these pilots weren’t as g
ood as their planes. An inner voice seemed to whisper to me. It repeated over and over the same words...speed...keep up your speed...forget the engine, burn it out, keep up your speed!...keep rolling...never stop rolling....
My arm was beginning to go numb from the constant rolling to the left to evade the Hellcats’ tracers. If I once slackened my speed in flicking away to the left, it would be my end. But how long could I keep that necessary speed in rolling away?
I must keep rolling! As long as the Grummans wanted to keep their ring intact, only one fighter at a time could jump me. And I had no fear of evading any single plane as it made its firing pass. The tracers were close, but they must hit me exactly if they were going to shoot me down. It mattered not whether the bullets passed a hundred yards or a hundred inches away, just so I could evade them.
I needed time to keep away from the fighters which raced in, one after the other, peeling off from the wide ring they maintained about me.
I rolled. Full throttle.
Stick over to the left.
Here comes another!
Hard over. The sea and horizon spinning crazily.
Skid!
Another!
That was close!
Tracers. Bright. Shining. Flashing.
Always underneath the wing.
Stick over.
Keep your speed up!
Roll to the left.
Roll.
My arm! I can hardly feel it anymore!
Had any of the Hellcat pilots chosen a different approach for his firing pass or concentrated carefully on his aim, I would surely have been shot out of the air. Not once did the enemy pilots aim at the point toward which my plane was moving. If only one fighter had spilled its tracers into the empty space leading me, toward the area where I rolled every time, I would have flown into his bullets.
But there is a peculiarity about fliers. Their psychology is strange, except for the rare few who stand out and go on to become leading aces. Ninety-nine per cent of all pilots adhere to the formula they were taught in school. Train them to follow a certain pattern and, come what may, they will never consider breaking away from that pattern when they are in a battle where life and death mingle with one another.
Samurai! Page 25