Perhaps our men who flew for the last time realized this. It is difficult to believe that many of those who flew the Kamikazes did not recognize the hopelessness of Japan’s position in the war.
They did not flinch, they did not hesitate. They flew their bomb-laden planes, and died for their country.
There were other developments of more ominous significance for our people.
One of the great B-29s soared over Tokyo for the first time on November 1, 1944, flying to Japan from the new bases on Saipan. The dreaded moment for the people of the capital city was almost at hand, for it was obvious that the tremendous bomber was but a reconnaissance plane, paving the way for others to follow in the near future. The Superfortress cruised leisurely high over Tokyo, and Army and Navy fighters scrambled frantically to intercept the raider. They failed to get close enough to fire a single shot.
On November 5, and again on the seventh, single B-29’s from Saipan visited Japan. For the second and third times, fighter planes scrambled into the air and vainly struggled to reach the great height at which the B-29s cruised. The high command spluttered angrily and cursed the pilots for being so clumsy and inept in the air. “One plane!” they thundered, “one plane, and we can do nothing!”
They did not understand the difficulties of intercepting the Superfortresses at that height. For one thing, our fighters did not have the rate of climb which would allow them to reach more than 30,000 feet in the few minutes available between the time the alarm was received and the time the bombers departed. Even had they reached the more than six miles, the pilots doubted their ability to slug it out with the B-29s, which had amazing speed.
In December the long-awaited blows came. Tokyo, Osaka, Nagoya, Yokohama, and the other great cities of our country reeled beneath the terrible assault of waves of bombers. They went after the aircraft plants in particular, and devastated factory after factory. Too often the flow of new fighters died to a trickle. Spare parts became more and more difficult to find.
The history of the terrible fire raids launched against Japan’s greatest cities has been documented in the greatest detail. It is a story well known to the world.
The Superfortresses came at night, and most of the Japanese pilots sat helplessly on the ground cursing the lack of night fighters, the lack of training for night combat. Except for a few fighter planes, which did no more than to annoy the nocturnal raiders, the enemy planes were harassed only by antiaircraft fire.
Everywhere we were losing. Everywhere we were forced to fall back, to retreat. Our air units were being slashed to ribbons, their planes falling in droves, the pilots not dying singly or by twos or threes, but by the dozens. By mid-January our ability to defend the Philippines had vanished. Literally every Japanese warplane in the islands was gone—either shot out of the air by the American fighters it engaged, or expended in the Kamikaze attacks, which continued until no planes were left.
Now we were concerned not with the islands, but with the defense of the homeland itself. We knew the B-29s, even with their terrible power to burn and destroy entire cities, were not the last word. More planes, other types of planes, would come.
On January 20, the Imperial Navy organized a new fighter wing—the last of the war—at Matsuyama on Shikoku Island. When I transferred to the new air base, I found Commander Nakajima assigned to the wing as its deputy commander. He had fled the Philippines with fifty fighter pilots to help staff the new group. This was no ordinary wing of fighters; we had the best men in Japan. Our wing commander was Captain Minoru Genda, considered one of the most brilliant naval strategists Japan has ever produced.
Nakajima was the only man I knew personally. When the opportunity presented itself, I dropped into his office to talk about the men we had fought with in the past. It was he who stunned me with the news of Nishizawa’s death.
“He was lost,” Nakajima said, “under deplorable circumstances on October 26, the day after the first Kamikaze attack against the American warships.
“Nishizawa volunteered for the Kamikaze mission on the second day, after he had returned from his escort flight of the first five planes to dive into the enemy fleet. He told me that he was convinced that he would soon die. It was strange,” Nakajima mused, “but Nishizawa insisted that he had a premonition. He felt he would live no longer than a few days.
“I wouldn’t let him go. A pilot of such brilliance was of more value to his country behind the controls of a fighter plane than diving into a carrier, as he begged to be permitted to do.”
Nakajima described how Nishizawa’s fighter was armed with a 550-pound bomb and manned by NAP 1/C Tomisaku Katsumata. At least Nishizawa had the benefit of knowing that his plane had fulfilled the mission he wanted to fly. Katsumata plunged directly onto the deck of an American carrier off Surigao, exploding the fuel tanks of planes waiting for take-off, turning the carrier into a raging furnace.
That same day Nishizawa took off in an old, unarmed DC-3 transport to fly himself and several other pilots to Clark Field, where they could pick up some Zero fighters. The transport took off early on the morning of October 26 from Mabalacar. It was never heard from again.
“Only one thing could have happened,” Nakajima reflected. “His plane must have been caught by the Hellcats operating in that area. Unarmed and flying an old transport, he didn’t have a chance. Most likely he went down somewhere over Cebu. I still find it hard to believe, Saburo, that such a great pilot had to die like that, helpless, unable to fight....”
There was nothing to say. So Nishizawa, too, was gone. The Devil, the scourge of enemy planes at Lae and Rabaul, had gone the same way as Sasai and Ota and all the others.
“If anything, Nishizawa fought even harder in the Philippines,” Nakajima said. “He no longer bothered to count his victories in the air!”
Nishizawa was like that. Nakajima believed that he had shot down more than 100 enemy planes in the air combat. There was no question, either to Nakajima or myself or to any man who knew and who had fought with him, that Nishizawa was Japan’s greatest ace, a pilot of unparalleled skill and ability. And he had been killed flying an unarmed transport plane! The news of his death affected me strangely. I returned to my quarters and took out pen and paper. At least, I thought, I would not die without first saying to Hatsuyo what I had longed to say, what I felt she wanted also to know.
“I have been reassigned to combat duty,” I wrote. “From this day on we shall be fighting against what appear to be overwhelming odds. Today I heard that my very close friend, Hiroyoshi Nishizawa, was killed in the Philippines. Nishizawa was the greatest pilot our country has ever known. I feel that if he has met his end, then I, handicapped by the loss of an eye, am certain to follow him soon.
“Perhaps this letter will be the last one I shall ever write to you. It is impossible to tell, Hatsuyo. But I cannot wait any longer to tell you what I have wanted to say for so long.
“The last time we spoke, you told me I did not understand a woman’s heart. You were wrong, Hatsuyo. So very wrong.
“Do you recall our days as children together? Those were wonderful times, filled with fun and laughter. You and I lived as sister and brother, and even then our fondness for each other was strong.
“What I have long wished to tell you, Hatsuyo, was that in my heart you have been the dearest person on this earth to me.
I know now that I have looked upon you as my only love. Perhaps it is wrong to say so, perhaps it is not the way I would like it to be said, but I believe you were always there in my heart.
I did not know it then as I have known it for these last months.
“I have long loved you, Hatsuyo, and loved you deeply. There has been no outward sign from me to you, although this has been the hardest thing in my life...to keep away from you the way I really felt. I love you now. I have waited so long to tell you these words! The war has created a great barrier between us. I realize that my feelings have never been shown, that this love I have for you has been throttled a
nd kept inside.
“We are, after all, cousins. Perhaps it is best for both of us that marriage lies beyond our grasp. But now I have said what was necessary. I pray for only one thing, my love. May you live long, and may happiness be yours forever.”
The next morning our combat training began in earnest. The pilots shouted uproariously when they watched the dozens of gleaming new fighters landing on the field—the Shiden, the airplane which I had test-flown not too long ago. The men went wild with joy as they took the fighters off the ground. Speed! Four cannon! Armor plate! Tremendous climb! Diving speed! Maneuverability!
It was all there, all wrapped up in one fighter plane. This was no longer the Zero, outclassed in almost every respect by the Hellcat. The pilots couldn’t wait to return to the air; they wanted to know every trick their planes had, everything they could do. Their morale soared to new heights. “Bring on the Hellcats!” they shouted. They were out for blood again.
The majority of the fliers in the new wing were veterans of many battles. There were aces among their ranks. We were the elite of all the fighter units in the Imperial Navy, which was why we had been supplied the new planes. Despite the impelling need for volunteers in the Kamikaze units, these men together were the strongest air weapon Japan had produced, and Commander Nakajima rejected all applications for transfer to the Kamikaze operations.
More than ten days had passed without a reply to my letter to Hatsuyo. I could not understand why she failed to answer me. There was nothing I could do; I could not afford to allow sentiment to interfere with my duties, especially now. On the twelfth day after I had sent the letter, I was giving a lecture to new pilots on dogfighting techniques. When the class was over, an orderly approached to inform me that I had two visitors waiting to see me. I left at once for the guest room.
I found Hatsuyo and her mother awaiting me. As soon as I entered the room Hatsuyo rose from her chair. “I have come, Saburo,” she said quietly. “I have come here to become your wife.”
I stood frozen to the floor, struck dumb.
“If you are prepared to die, Saburo, then it is the same with me. If we are to be given only days or weeks, then we shall have them together. That is God’s will for us.”
“Hatsuyo!” I cried. It was impossible. It couldn’t be true! It was all too wonderful to happen to me!
My aunt spoke. “Saburo, there is no reason why you and Hatsuyo should not be wed. The fact that you are cousins should not stand between you. You are both sound mentally and physically. It is my daughter’s wish—and mine—that this marriage shall come to pass.”
I was delirious with joy. But before we could proceed further with any wedding plans, there was the matter of writing my mother and asking for her approval, as the eldest of my family. Her letter offered her blessings, but contained the unhappy news that she would be unable to attend the ceremony. Kyushu’s rail facilities had been tom into wreckage, and no passengers were being carried. She requested my aunt to attend to all necessary details.
When I first arrived at Matsuyama, the president of a large aircraft factory in the city had offered me a spacious upstairs room in his large home. He told me that he had followed my actions in combat from the time I shot down my very first plane in China, and that he wished me to live with his family. I declined the offer, not because I did not wish to accept his generosity, but for another reason entirely. I felt it would be unfair for me to enjoy the comforts of a large home while the men with whom I flew remained in shabby barracks.
Now, however, I needed a place to live for Hatsuyo and myself. Rather embarrassed, I informed Commander Nakajima of my marriage plans. He broke into a wide smile and told me to stand exactly where I was, not to move an inch. He picked up his desk phone and dialed the company president direct. I was to move in as soon as the marriage took place, he said, then hung up. Nakajima had known of the generous offer, and refused to entertain any objections.
Hatsuyo and I were married the evening of February 11, 1945, on our country’s Foundation Day. It was a modest ceremony, attended only by my aunt and the company president’s family. The plans for the wing pilots to attend were changed at the last moment, when an air-raid alert occurred early in the evening. The other men remained by their planes, ready to scramble, while the marriage took place. We had not anticipated that our wedding music would be the spine-shivering shriek of hundreds of air-raid sirens.
After the ceremony, Hatsuyo and I walked together through the blackout to a Shinto shrine. There we knelt and reported to God of our marriage.
A honeymoon, of course, was out of the question under the circumstances. On the following Sunday we invited the fifty pilots of the wing to a reception. They had laughed loudly at my report of the “Siren’s March” the night of the ceremony. The reception more than made up for the lack of festivities on our wedding night. Many of the pilots brought with them their own instruments, guitars and accordions, and belatedly played for us a joyous wedding march. I was the happiest man in the world. The pilots exclaimed over and over again about the beauty of my bride. It was a wonderful, wonderful night.
My aunt had a surprise for all of us. She had scoured the remote provinces and somehow managed to purchase additional food for the occasion. The fifty men fell to their meals with gusto. The party continued late into the night. All the men gathered in a large group and sang song after song for us. Hatsuyo led the chorus with the piano, and the men with instruments gathered around her to form an impromptu orchestra.
Those were the happiest hours I had ever known. I was drunk with happiness. All that had happened before now seemed unimportant; it was trifling, compared to the wondrous joy and elation which swept through me now.
I could not take my eyes off Hatsuyo. She was a dream come true, a princess of fairy tales, radiant, beautiful. She was my wife.
CHAPTER 31
In MARCH of 1945, for the first and only time in its history the Japanese Navy departed from its rule of “no precedents” in announcing a special citation to two naval fighter pilots. Only the critical military situation could have influenced our Imperial staff to perform such an act. The citations awarded to NAP 1/C Shoichi Sugita and to me, both of us part of the Matsuyama Wing, were intended to bolster the flagging morale of many pilots.
Sugita, twenty-four years old, was a brilliant flier. Most of his combat activity took place at Truk and in the Philippines, during which he claimed a total of 120 air kills as of January 20, when he returned to Japan.
This figure, however, appears considerably to exceed the actual number of his air victories, which I personally believe totaled about eighty planes. Sugita admitted to me that many of the victories were questionable and had not been confirmed, since battle circumstances made it impossible to provide an accurate check. Most of the dogfights occurred when Sugita fought defensively against superior numbers and when he was unable to take the time to watch a plane actually crash, burn completely in the air, disintegrate, or to be abandoned by its pilot. The fact that we did not carry gun cameras was a handicap to the man who lacked actual proof that his target was destroyed.
When a nation is winning its war, every step is taken to double check all air fighting claims, as we did during our easy conquests in Moresby Alley. But when the situation has deteriorated into a series of defensive battles against a superior enemy, accuracy invariably suffers. No one, however, could dispute Sugita’s brilliance in the air. After watching him in combat, I was so impressed that I felt he could be regarded as the equal of no less an ace than Nishizawa.
Sugita demonstrated his superb skill in spectacular fashion on March 19, when the Matsuyama Wing intercepted enemy carrier fighters during an attack in force against the great Kure naval base. Prior to this air assault, Japan proper had been raided several times by carrier planes, and with virtually no opposition.
Today it was different, although the American pilots thought otherwise. The radiomen at Matsuyama listened in to the conversations of the enemy pilots as the
y appeared from the south. One would have thought they were thousands of miles from imminent combat, for they discussed openly their formations and attack altitudes.
All available fighters at Matsuyama—forty planes—took off at once. The Shidens, about to receive their baptism of fire with our wing, cruised in wide circles just above the height maintained by the enemy formations. Sixty pilots, myself included, remained on the ground because of a shortage of operational planes. I had an excellent view from the control tower, from which I trained my binoculars on the planes.
The battle exploded the moment the Hellcats came within range. Two flights of Shidens screamed down from their vantage point 1,500 feet above the Grummans. Sugita plummeted, like a stone. Coming out of his dive, he rolled in against a Hellcat and snapped out a burst. The four cannon proved their effectiveness in dramatic fashion. Flames burst out from the fighter’s engine as it careened wildly through the air, out of control. Sugita rolled away and came out directly behind a second Hellcat, sending his cannon shells into the fuselage and cockpit. The Grumman skidded crazily and plummeted for the ocean. A third fighter raced in against the Shiden. Sugita gave him no chance. His fighter soared upwards, hung on a wing, then came around in a beautiful diving mm. The Hellcat fell apart in the air.
Sugita’s fighter flashed away, heading for the main dogfight. It was a spectacular battle. Every man on the ground cheered and shouted as one Hellcat after the other went down. This time it was different...this time the Hellcats fought for their lives! Obviously the appearance of the Shiden fighters, which were much faster than the Hellcats, which possessed greater climbing speed and firepower, and which were manned by some of the best pilots in Japan took the enemy fliers completely by surprise.
An hour later a jubilant Sugita returned to the field singing the praises of his new plane. He claimed four fighters definitely shot down—kills confirmed by the other pilots—as well as three probables. Sugita couldn’t stop talking about the Shiden; only his lack of ammunition, he said, prevented him from downing more planes.
Samurai! Page 31