Samurai!

by Martin Caiden

  We never made the attack as planned. Anticipating that we might employ the occasion for a raid against their fleet, the rampaging American pilots returned to Iwo on the morning of the fourth and tore the island’s facilities into a flaming, smoking ruin.

  We could not even take off. Again the runways were rendered useless. We sat around the Command Post, just as we had done before, while the staff officers argued among themselves. Captain Miura (we found out later) refused to budge from his position. “We are being bled white,” he told his staff. “The end is clearly in sight if we continue fighting only defensive battles. What should we do? Stay here and see every last plane shot out of the air while the enemy fleet is unmolested? No! We will attack, and this same day! As soon as the runways are repaired, I want every plane off the ground.”

  Nakajima related the details of the meeting to us. “I realize,” he concluded, “what we are sending you out to do. There is no use in my saying otherwise; you will be flying to almost certain death. But,” here he hesitated, “the decision has already been made. You will go.”

  He looked into the eyes of each man. “And may good fortune accompany you.”

  The commander withdrew a sheet of paper from his pocket and read off the names of the pilots selected to man the planes for the flight—a one-way mission, it seemed.

  There was no excitement among the pilots. Each man rose when his name was called, and saluted. Mine was the ninth name to be announced; I would lead the second V formation of the nine Zeros. Muto, easily the best pilot among us, would lead the third V. Nakajima selected a lieutenant to lead the fighter squadron.

  Nakajima came up to me, obviously unhappy. He placed his hand on my shoulder. “I hate myself for sending you out today, my old friend,” he mumbled. “But,” he sighed wearily, “there seems nothing else for us to do. Sakai!... good luck!” I had no words for a reply. I offered my hand. We clasped in silence, then Nakajima turned and walked away.

  We broke up our group almost wordlessly. The pilots selected for the mission left to pack their belongings. I stared at the few personal things I had brought with me to Iwo. I thought of the men who would deliver them to the families of the dead. How would my mother act when they handed her the bundle, tell her how it happened?

  The hours slipped by very quickly. It’s ironic, I thought. Only a few days ago I thought each minute had become a lifetime, when those fifteen Hellcats were gunning for my blood.

  Muto approached me in my tent, and asked for any ideas I might have on the mission. I looked at him for several moments. “Muto, I,.. I don’t know. Ideas? There aren’t any good ones. When we reach those ships this afternoon, the enemy fighters will swarm all over us. All I can say is...we have our orders. We’ll go. That’s all.”

  I felt sorry for the young pilot. I personally was no longer a great asset to my country. The difficulties I had experienced in evading even the inexperienced American pilots told me beyond any doubts the extent to which my half blindness had hobbled my dogfighting abilities. But Muto...he was Nishizawa, Ota, and Sasai all in one. A brilliant pilot. He did not belong in the air with us today. To throw away his life on such a hopeless mission was sheer stupidity. With one of our newer fighters at his disposal, Muto was our best chance to destroy a dozen, perhaps two dozen, enemy planes. He was the kind of pilot who belonged over Japan, ready to defend the country against the B-29s which were certain to attack in ever greater strength. And now...what a waste!

  Muto, of course, realized none of these thoughts? He smiled at my remarks. “All right, Sakai. I know. If the gods smile...he shrugged. “Otherwise, let us at least die together like the friends we are.”

  An hour later all the pilots chosen for the attack mission lined up at attention before the Command Post. Behind the tent, fastened to a high pole, a broad, white banner flapped wildly in the wind. Imprinted against the white were the ancient words, “Namu Hachiman Daibosatsu.” A literal translation would read: “We believe in the Merciful God of War.” The banner was a replica of the emblem used by a Japanese warlord in the sixteenth century, when an endless series of local civil wars rocked the length and breadth of Japan.

  When we were at Lae our fliers had never resorted to such psychological crutches as morale boosters. To me the theatrical display was a sign of weakness, and nothing else. It betokened mental retrogression on the part of our officers, who attempted to impress themselves with the fire and fury of the ancient times when wars were decided for the most part by individual courage and skill. But those days were centuries past! I was no staff officer, I participated in no campaign planning, and heaven knows I was far from being even an amateur strategist. But certain things were obvious! Our own officers were resorting to what amounted almost to modem witchcraft. They were beating the drums of patriotism, trying to convince, not only their subordinates, but themselves, as well, that we could recoup the tremendous losses we had suffered by emotional displays and threats shouted at the “cursed Americans.”

  How could these men so resolutely refuse to recognize truth? Did it take a world upheaval to make them realize that our Zero fighter—which long ago had been the world’s best—could be outflown, outdived, outclimbed, and outgunned by the Hellcat, as well as by many other new planes I had not yet seen?

  I looked at the banner. It had been there for many days, but today for the first time I really saw it. Were we to put our faith in this symbol of supernatural strength? How was this to help us gain victory? Would it stop the flaming tracers of the Hellcats’ guns?

  As a fighter pilot, I appreciated better than most the wisdom of relying upon my own strength and my own skill to escape the death which in a dogfight was never more than a split second away. I could count only upon myself and my wingmen and the assistance I knew I would always receive from my fellow pilots. Had I gone into battle only shouting historic phrases, I would never have survived this long. All of this was now drastically altered. My skill in preserving my life against every assault no longer counted. Not one of the seventeen pilots standing at ramrod attention before the Command Post entertained even the faintest hope that he would ever see his friends alive. Or that he himself could possibly survive. I loved my country dearly, and never would I hesitate a moment to defend Japan with my life. But there is a vast gulf between defending one’s land even to the last and wantonly wasting one’s life. To me, the ancient warrior’s incantation meant something else.

  “Namu Ami Dabutsu!” The ancient Buddhist chant, “believe in Buddha” The prayer murmured by those among my people who were breathing their last on their deathbeds, or who offered solace and comfort to those among them who were dying. I believed in Japan, but not in the so-called merciful god of war. I was willing to die for my country, but, only in my faith, in the tradition of the Samurai, as I had been taught all my life, as a man, as a warrior!

  The thought soothed my anger. By the time Captain Miura came out of the tent to address us, I was relaxed. The captain climbed onto the podium of empty beer cases. He looked slowly from man to man, unhappy, regarding us as if it were the last time he would see our faces.

  “You will strike back at the enemy,” he began. “From now on our defensive battles are over. You men are the fliers chosen from the Yokosuka Air Wing, the most famous in all Japan. I trust that your actions today will be worthy of the name and the glorious tradition of your wing.”

  He hesitated for several moments. “In order for you to perpetuate the honor which is ours, you must accept the task which your officers have put before you. You cannot, I repeat, you cannot hope for survival. Your minds must be on the word attack! You are but seventeen men, and today you will face a task force which is defended perhaps by hundreds of American fighter planes.

  “Therefore, individual attacks must be forgotten. You cannot strike at your targets as one man alone. You must maintain a flight group of planes. You must fight your way through the interceptors, and...” Captain Miura drew himself up straight, “you must dive against the ene
my carriers together! Dive— along with your torpedoes and your lives and your souls.”

  A great roaring sounded in my ears. What was he saying? Had I heard him right?...a normal attack will be useless. Even if you succeed in penetrating the American fighters, you will only be shot down on the way back to this island. Your death will be ineffective for our country. Your lives will be wasted. We cannot permit this to be.”

  His voice boomed at us. “Until you reach your targets, the fighter pilots will refuse to accept battle with the enemy planes. No bomber pilot will release his torpedo in an air drop. No matter what happens, you will keep your planes together. Wing to wing! No obstacle is to stop you from carrying out your mission. You must make your dives in a group in order to be effective. I know that what I tell you to do is difficult. It may even seem impossible. But I trust that you can do it, that you will do it. That every man among you will plunge directly into an enemy carrier and sink the vessel.”

  For another minute he looked at us. “You have your orders,” he snapped.

  I was stunned! We had been sent out before this on missions where our chances of survival seemed hopelessly remote. But at least we had the chance to fight for our lives! This was the first time a Japanese pilot had actually been ordered to make a suicide attack.

  In our Navy it was an unwritten convention that, once a plane was crippled on the high seas far from its base, the pilot would dive against an enemy warship or transport, since he had no chance to return home. We were not the only pilots to do so; it had happened with the Americans, with the Germans, with the British...it would always happen so long as men fly and fight. But no Japanese air commander had ever told his men, “Go out and die!”

  The celebrated Kamikaze Special Attack Corps was organized four months later in the Philippines, by Vice-Admiral Takijiro Onishi. Before he proceeded with his “suicide” planes, as they are described elsewhere, he queried the pilots under his command and received an overwhelming assurance that they would, if necessary, sacrifice their lives to defend their country. The Kamikaze operation, however, was an elaborately planned campaign, eventually utilizing airplanes specifically designed for such operations. In the beginning, however, the planes which were to dive against ships were loaded with bombs and escorted by Zero fighters whose pilots were under specific instructions to return to their base. In this fashion they operated as fighter escorts and provided eyewitness testimony to the results of the attack. At Iwo, it was entirely different.

  Even the Zeros, which carried no bombs on the mission, were expendable. Captain Miura, who gave us our orders, died in action, while Admiral Onishi committed harakiri after Japan’s surrender.

  Miuri’s talk had a tremendous shock effect upon the assembled pilots. Whatever the reaction of the men toward deliberately sacrificing their lives, the captain’s words, his manner of speaking, and his background of outstanding valor in combat buoyed the spirits of most of them. No longer did they approach the mission with the purely negative attitude of departing without any chance. Now it was different. Now that they knew they would never return, the men took on an air of determination. Their lives were no longer to be wasted. The sacrifice of their small number would be more than compensated for by the loss of one or more huge enemy ships, possibly causing the death of thousands of Americans.

  I was in a turmoil. I had a cold, sinking feeling of revulsion in my brain. I was neither furious nor desperate. My heart and my emotions might perhaps be called frozen. The ancient words returned to me. “A Samurai lives in such a way that he will always be prepared to die a man.”

  The Samurai code, however, never demanded that be constantly prepared to kill himself. There is a great gulf between deliberately taking one’s life and entering battle with a willingness to accept all its risks and hazards. In the latter case death is acceptable and there can be no regrets. Man lives with his head held high; he can die in the same fashion. He forfeits neither his personal honor nor that of his country, and he has the satisfaction of having given his nation his best. It has never been difficult to become so exalted in the heat of combat as to defy the worst odds, to fight when necessary, to attack when outnumbered. All these things comprise the life of a man dedicated as a warrior.

  But how does one quietly and objectively decide in a few hours to go out and kill oneself?

  It was to be remembered, however, that we were still in the Navy, where orders are orders.

  A chilled silence followed the end of Captain Miura’s address. Presently we saluted, the captain left the area, and the pilots broke up into small groups.

  I told the two men assigned as my wingmen, “You understand fully the captain’s orders?” They nodded. “I trust you are prepared, then, for what we must do. My only instructions to you are these: stay with my plane until we arrive at our target. Never break away from my V formation. No matter what happens, stick with my plane.”

  They both were so serious. Young-old men! All of twenty years old.

  Muto and his two wingmen joined us. Muto grinned broadly and joked. “Well, since all of us are going to die in a few hours, we might as well look at each other. I want to be sure to remember all your homely faces later on.” He broke the tension; we laughed and sat down on the ground. Muto kept up the laughter and jokes. After a few minutes, however, the laughter became forced and the jokes stale.

  Several pilots dropped from the mission came up to us. They brought gifts, all they could find among their meager personal supplies: some cigarettes, candy, and bottles of soda. The gifts themselves were, of course, an expression of their attempt to cheer us up, to tell us of their regret that we, not they, had been selected for the fatal dives. The significance of this was not lost on us. Supplies at Iwo were almost totally exhausted, and we were sure that these sparse offerings meant that everything left among the other pilots was gone....

  Their eyes were wide and sad, telling us more than could be said with inadequate words. Muto no longer joked. He sat silently, lost in his own thoughts. The very air seemed to crackle with the tension which had again arisen among us.

  It was time to take off on the last mission.

  The other three pilots came out of the tent, and we all walked down to the fighters. Standing alongside my plane, I looked at my parachute. Then, as one man, all nine pilots flung their chute packs onto the volcanic ash of the runway.

  The Zero wouldn’t start. I turned the engine switch back and forth, right and left. Finally she caught, vibrating badly. The engine was no good.

  For two days this plane had fought in combat, and the stringent power demands of the dogfights had nearly burned the engine out. When I switched from one generator to the other, the propeller dragged almost to a stop, instead of slowing down slightly. Unless I used both generators the propeller stayed dead.

  Normally I would never have attempted a take-off with a plane in this condition. But now? I was embarrassed. I looked at the other fighters. Mechanics were working on at least four of the other eight planes; my difficulties were not unique.

  But who required a plane in perfect working order? Remember, Sakai, this is a one-way flight. You need cover only 450 miles in the air, not 900. You’re not coming back from this mission. The engine’s condition no longer seemed important. I waited for the fighter to warm up.

  The eight bombers sped down the runway, one after the other. The first Zero moved into take-off position. I followed, taxiing slowly, my wingmen behind me.

  On both sides of the runway the mechanics and other pilots stood at attention, their caps off, waving handkerchiefs as we thundered down the strip and into the air. We formed into our V’s and turned toward the distant enemy fleet.

  I felt drained of all emotion, cold and lifeless. I turned; Iwo Jima was a speck on the horizon growing smaller as we bored through the air, dwindling to a dot on the vast ocean.

  I felt so small. One man, in an insignificant fighter plane, and the ocean stretching endlessly below me.

  I looked back a
gain, barely able to make out Iwo. The horizon blurred and wavered before my eye. I felt dizzy and upset.

  My mother’s face, tenuous and filmy, filling the sky. A vision, but so real!

  She smiled at me. She didn’t know that soon I must die, that I was about to kill myself. I stared at her face. The vision faded slowly and disappeared.

  A terrible loneliness gripped me. I was lost in an endless sea. Everywhere below me there was only water, with the sky above. The horizon was misty and unreal, blurred with distance.

  I looked at the fighters in front of me, the bombers ahead and below. They did not seem to be moving, but were poised in mid-air, rocking gently, rising and dipping easily on the invisible swells of air. Was it all real?

  I shook my head to clear away the fog. Music! Listen! A piano...the Moonlight Sonata...Hatsuyo had played that for me....

  Hatsuyo! Her face appeared...was it a vision? The music began to fade, then swelled louder and louder, crashing and thundering in my ears.

  I had never told her. “Hatsuyo, I love you!” I cried. No one knew. No one but me. I thought of her...I turned back and looked for Iwo Jima. I saw only the endless ocean.

  The music vanished. The sky was clear again. The drone of my engine beat strongly in my ears. The Zeros kept in perfect formation, precise, exact, moving together toward their flaming, blood-letting destiny.

  The loneliness fled. You are too maudlin, Sakai, I cursed. You are a pilot. A Samurai. You wallow in your emotions. The mission...do what you must do!

  I tried to plan the last moments in the air, the best method of diving into a carrier. What was the weakest spot? The stack; dive into the stack? Take all three fighters and plunge together at the thin hull at the waterline? Hope there would be planes lined up on the deck, their tanks filled with fuel, their bombs loaded? Dive into the planes, explode their bombs and fuel tanks, and in a split second transform nearly 30,000 tons of ship and thousands of men into a shrieking, fiery, bloody Hell?