I swore that, no matter what happened, if any superior officer attempted to vent his wrath on the young pilot by beating him, I would throw all caution to the winds and throw myself on that man and reduce him to a pulp. I have no idea what brought on the sudden burst of anger. One moment I was fearing our audience with our superior, the next I seethed with rage.
Captain Miura sat impassively at his desk. He listened, intent on every word, as I told him what had occurred, of the swarms of Hellcats, of the burning fighters which never had a chance, of the bombers which exploded, one after the other, seven within a minute.
Miura lifted his eyes and looked deeply into mine. “Thank you, Sakai,” he said quietly. That was all.
Then Muto spoke. Much of what he said, of course, was confirmation of my own words. Again the captain spoke but three words. “Thank you, Muto.”
We saluted and stepped back. Captain Miura sat without moving a muscle of his body, his face dark, agony in his eyes.
I felt grief for this man who had ordered his men on a mission doomed to failure before it began, but who had done so because he felt he had no other choice, because it was best for Japan. Right now, however, Captain Miura appeared only as a man grieving for the men—his men—who would never return.
Shiga and Shirai left the tent with us. A man ran after us; it was Commander Nakajima. He grasped my shoulders, relief on his face. “Sakai!” he exclaimed. “I despaired ever of seeing you again!”
“But—” I protested.
“You have no need for apologies,” he interrupted before I could speak further. “Do you not think I know you so well, my friend? Every man on this island knows what happened today, that the only thing for you to do was to return. Don’t scowl so! We will still have our chance, we will still strike back. It is good to have you here again, Saburo. Very good.” Nakajima’s words melted the ice in my heart. He understood, then. I was not alone with my feelings. But not even his kind words could drive away completely the anger which revolted me.
The other fliers ran up to us, offering cigarettes, candy, what food they had. Other men had gone ahead to the billet and rushed some warm food for us to eat. One after the other, the pilots came in with canned goods they had foraged somehow from other installations on the island.
We could only say our thanks, and refuse. I could never have forced a morsel down my throat.
An hour later an orderly rushed into the room, his chest heaving from the exertion of the long run from the radio shack. “A message just came through,” he shouted, “from South Iwo. One of the bombers just landed there. The crew is safe!”
So another man in the air today had shared my feelings! The pilot had released his torpedo and run for it, fully aware that not in a thousand years could he have broken through the wall of fire thrown up by the Hellcats.
The news washed much of the tension away. It was good to know that Muto and I were not the only ones who had broken with the “unbreakable chain” of tradition and orders.
CHAPTER 28
THE AMERICAN task force gave us little time to brood over our misfortunes. The day after our return from the ill-fated mission, the enemy greeted us with a thundering salvo from sixteen warships cruising off the island.
Breaking away from their fleet’s main body, eight cruisers and eight destroyers steamed leisurely toward the island. After a few probing salvos of shells which burst with tremendous concussion on the island, the warships moved in at point-blank range.
For two days we cowered like rats, trying to dig ourselves deeper into the acrid volcanic dust and ash of Iwo Jima. For forty-eight hours the warships cruised slowly back and forth, their sides livid with flashing fire, belching forth masses of screaming steel which shook the island from one end to the other.
Never have I felt so helpless, so puny, as I did during those two days. There was nothing we could do, there was no way in which we could strike back. The men screamed and cursed and shouted, they shook their fists and swore revenge, and too many of them fell to the ground, their threats choking on the blood which bubbled through great gashes in their throats.
Virtually every last structure on Iwo Jima was torn to splintered wreckage. Not a building stood. Not a tent escaped. Not even the most dismal shack remained standing. Everything was blown to bits. The four fighter planes which had returned from our last sortie were smashed by shells into flaming pieces of junk.
Several hundred Army troops and naval personnel were killed, and many more injured. We were virtually without supplies. We were short on ammunition.
Iwo lay dazed and helpless. The men’s ears rang shrilly from the ceaseless detonations of the thousands of shells which had shrieked onto the small island. There remained on hand to defend the vital island of Iwo Jima less than a battalion of Army troops.
These men walked about in shock, stupefied by the terrible bombardment they had suffered. Their brains were addled: they spoke incoherently.
Iwo Jima lay naked.
Equally dazed were the small group of naval fliers who had survived the terrifying shelling. We were few in number, but we were determined to defend our island against the invasion which every man believed was but perhaps hours away, perhaps days at the most. We formed a tiny “Iwo Marine Company” of pilots without planes. Our pathetic little group vowed to fight to the last man alongside the surviving Army troops. We received weapons and ammunition, and accepted the fact that our cause was lost.
How could we doubt our impending destruction? If the Americans had taken Saipan, which seemed likely by now, if they had absolute supremacy of the air, if their warships sneered at our fleet and cruised insolently up and down off Iwo Jima, were they not able to storm our few defenses?
Iwo Radio kept calling frantically for reinforcements from Yokosuka. We begged for more fighters. We begged for anything which could fly! Yokosuka could do nothing. The thirty Zero fighters which we had flown to Iwo Jima were all the fighter planes available. There were no more. Chaos reigned within the high command in Tokyo.
Glad cries and shouts of happiness awoke us one morning shortly after the usual devastating bombardment. The Navy could spare us no planes, but we were not forgotten. Several transport ships appeared over the horizon, making for the island. We ran down to the shore, shouting and laughing at the unexpected good fortune, only to see the ships erupt in geysers of flame and water, sunk before our very eyes by American submarines which had waited in anticipation of just such a move.
That last catastrophe was decisive. It was obvious to us all that we could offer only token resistance, that within an hour or two after a landing the Americans would control Iwo. Who then, of all the men on the forsaken hump of volcanic ash, with its bubbling sulphur springs, could have foreseen the actual turn of events? Who among us would have dared to prophesy that the Americans would throw away their priceless opportunity to take the island with minimum casualties on their side? We felt we had but a few days in which to remain alive.
The Americans did not come. Every hour of the day lookouts posted from one end of the island to the other, searching the sea from Mr. Surabachi, looked for the invasion fleet. From time to time a nervous lookout would imagine he saw something on the ocean surface and would sound the alarm. Bells, bugles, sticks beat against drums, anything and everything which could make noise broke the quiet of the island with a terrific clamor. We would rush from our cots, grim-faced, ready to fight, clutching our weapons, but nothing ever happened.
We did not know, of course, that the Americans already had turned for the Philippines. They did not return to Iwo Jima for another eight months. Eight months during which Lieutenant General Tadamachi Kuribayashi moved onto the island, bringing with him 17,500 soldiers, as well as nearly 6,000 naval personnel. He built Iwo Jima into a mighty fortress, buttressed with pillboxes, powerful cave defenses, elaborate tunnels. He poured men onto the island until Iwo Jima could contain no more.
Many of Japan’s military leaders stated later that the war would h
ave ended sooner if the Americans had attacked Iwo Jima in July of 1944, instead of waiting so long to do so. To these men the Philippines invasion was a vast and costly operation, highly successful for the Americans, but an insignificant campaign which did little to hasten the defeat which was already in sight.
The long-expected invasion came finally on February 19, 1945, in the form of a stupendous gathering of military strength. According to the United States Navy, that invasion force required a total of 495 ships, including seventeen aircraft carriers. The official American government information stated further that the incredible number of 1,170 fighters and bombers was employed against Iwo Jima.
A total of 75,144 American fighting men engaged in the most bitter struggle of the entire war in their attempt to take the island. Of these, the Americans counted 5,324 men killed, as well as 16,000 wounded. The island was not declared secure until March 16, when the last Japanese defenders were killed.
After several false invasion alarms, a message from Yokosuka astounded us. The Yokosuka command informed us that all staff officers and pilots were to return to Japan by courier planes which were already on their way to us.
The unexpected reprieve elated the fliers. We had been prepared to die fighting on the ground...and now life was offered us again! We dropped our guns and ran to the main strip to join with the mechanics and other ground personnel in filling the hundreds of craters which pitted the runway.
We had never expected a miracle of this nature, and so had made no attempt to repair the field after the July 4 debacle. I was among the fliers turned coolie, and went at my labors with feverish determination. Not all the men were pleased, of course. There were those who would remain behind. The maintenance crews, for example, as well as the Army garrison. Not one man among them spoke a word against the decision to leave them behind, but their faces indicated clearly their envy and, as was to be expected, often their resentment.
Late that afternoon the first of the courier planes landed. They were obsolete bombers, which sneaked in low over the water, one by one, to escape detection by the radar of any American ships which might be prowling the area. Yokosuka was taking no chances. It was fortunate indeed for us that no American fighters appeared during the landing and departure of the courier planes. Seven twin-engined bombers arrived to take back the men selected to return to Japan.
Even here the military caste system was rigidly adhered to. Not even our desperate plight could negate centuries of tradition. Each evacuee filed into a bomber in the order of his rank. No other factor was considered.
My own group of eleven non-commissioned officers and enlisted men were left behind. There were so many officers of higher rank before us that no room was left. We stared hollowly as the last plane lurched into the air and headed for Japan.
The next day a single plane returned to the island to pick us up. I gaped in disbelief at the flying wreck which staggered onto the runway. Not only was the plane obsolete, but it was so badly in need of repair that it seemed impossible for it to fly. The plane had barely managed to reach Iwo. With the eleven of us aboard, it reeled and swerved dangerously down the runway. It could not reach flying speed, and the pilot taxied back, one engine spitting and belching forth clouds of smoke.
For two hours the mechanics worked silently to repair the bad engine. The two hours were like weeks to us. We kept looking at the sky, afraid that Hellcats would burst out of the blue to pour tracers into the weary old plane. A single fighter could doom us to remain on the island.
Finally the mechanics were through, and the engine turned over as smoothly as its battered parts would allow. The ground crew looked so forlorn as we climbed aboard that I turned and called to them, “We’ll be back! And soon, with new fighters!”
They waved to us, afraid to entertain any hope. None of them dreamed that for nearly eight months Iwo would be ignored by the enemy.
We were airborne only ten minutes when the airplane shook violently. A steady vibration rattled our teeth. I looked out the window at the right engine, which vibrated and shook wildly in its mountings. How was this incredible old junk pile going to carry all of us 650 miles to Japan?
The co-pilot, a youngster about twenty years of age, walked back through the cabin. “Warrant Officer Sakai? Sir, could you come forward and help us out?” He was pale and shaking almost as badly as the airplane.
I knew the answer before he had finished speaking. “Turn around,” I snapped. “With that engine we’ll never make Japan. You’ll have to go back for some more repair work.”
The crew obeyed me at once. Back at Iwo, we had a long, worried inspection of the troublesome engine. It looked like fouled plugs. We inserted new spark plugs and took off again.
The bomber cruised steadily toward Japan. But our worries were far from over. An hour and a half later we were in the middle of a violent rainstorm. Sheets of water battered heavily at the flying wreck. The plane leaked like a sieve. The co-pilot returned again and asked me if I would come forward.
The pilot was hardly any older—twenty-two at the most. “Sir? Should we try to go over the cloud deck or fly beneath it?”
“Take it below,” I ordered.
The storm continued without let-up, at times hemming us in to zero visibility. It was fully as bad as the storm I had encountered only days before, trying to find the American task force off Saipan. The bomber skidded wildly, plunged up and down in the murderous air currents. We went lower and lower until the pilot was skimming directly over the foaming water.
Beads of sweat dripped down his face. He was becoming panicky. In desperation he turned his pale face to me and bleated plaintively, “Sir, where are we now?”
That was the silliest question I had ever heard from a pilot. For a few seconds I was speechless with astonishment. “Get out of that seat! I’m taking over!” I shouted. He wasted no time in clambering out of his seat to relinquish the controls.
It was dead reckoning all the way. For another ninety minutes I flew blind, fighting the sluggish plane through the winds and rain. Then the familiar peninsulas south of Tokyo Bay hove into view.
Cries of jubilation shook the bomber as the crew and passengers cheered.
We landed at the Kisarazu Bomber Base across the bay from Yokosuka. I looked around at the broad airfield. Japan! I was home again! On my own soil! There had been so many times when I was convinced that never again would I see my country. What a difference from Iwo Jima, only a few hours’ flight from here!
To me and to the ten other men who had come out of the volcanic Hades behind us, the pure and sweet water of Japan seemed the most desirable thing on earth, water which did not have the horrible, gritty taste of the collected rain on Iwo. Every one of us ran across the field to an open pipeline by the control tower. We turned the faucet on and let the cool liquid gush forth. I drank and drank, enjoying immensely the feel and taste of the water as it washed down my throat and into my body.
But Iwo Jima was too close behind me. Muto and I must have thought of the same thing together, for suddenly we could drink no more. We both thought of our friends who had died only a few days before from wounds inflicted by the shells pouring onto the island, spitting out volcanic dust and crying to us in their agony, “Water! Water!” begging for the water of which there had been none.
CHAPTER 29
A month after my return to Yokosuka I was promoted to the rank of ensign. After eleven years I had reached the status of a regular officer. It was an all-time record in the Navy.
Several men who died in the midget submarine attack against Pearl Harbor received double promotions and were moved up to officer rank, ten years after their enlistment. Their award, however, was more in keeping with tradition, since the promotions were posthumous. I was the first Japanese enlisted man to achieve my memorable regular officer’s status—alive—within the space of eleven years.
Muto and I were reassigned to the Yokosuka Air Wing. We were not to be sent back to Iwo Jima; so acute was the short
age of pilots and planes that the high command was forced to leave the island without air protection for many months to come.
That the Philippines were now destined for invasion was clearly apparent, and a flow of planes and pilots bolstered our forces in the islands. We saw Commander Nakajima off when he left for his new post at Cebu.
My new assignment included a welcome change from the disastrous beatings we had suffered at Iwo Jima. In addition to my training duties with new fliers, I was made a test pilot.
The high command had ordered mass production of new fighter planes to replace the Zero. Even the most obstinate staff officer could not deny that the once-mighty Zero had lost its sting, that the enemy’s new fighters far outclassed us in the air. In the Marianas and other sea-air engagements, the Grumman F6F Hellcat had clearly established its superiority in almost every performance respect.
From the South Pacific came disturbing reports of new models of the Lockheed P-38 Lightning which were great improvements over the first F-38s to enter combat late in 1942. With new engines, the Lightnings had gained greatly in all-around performance. Once the big twin-boomed fighter was brought into a dogfight, the Zero’s superior maneuverability gave our pilots an excellent chance. Otherwise, the Lightning’s great speed, its sensational high-altitude performance, and especially its ability to dive and climb much faster than the Zero presented insuperable problems for our fliers. For the P-38 pilots, flying at great heights, chose when and where they wanted to fight... with disastrous results for our men.
No less troublesome was the Corsair’s powerful gull-winged American Navy fighter which operated mostly from land bases. Not as maneuverable as the Hellcat, the Corsair nevertheless was much faster than the Zero and had tremendous diving speed.
Our Army pilots in Burma reported encountering another new enemy plane, the P-51 Mustang, which outperformed the Zero on an even greater range. The Mustangs made their combat debut as escorts for the four-engined Liberator bombers in November of 1943, and the performance of the new models was simply astounding. The Army pilots flying the Hayabusa (Oscar) were outflown and outfought consistently by the sleek American plane.
Samurai! Page 29