I remember shivering from head to foot as he spoke.
“Were you that pilot?” he asked.
I shook my head no. Then I said, “I have a question for you, Tony. When you were parachuting down, were you fired on?”
“Yeah!” he exclaimed, spreading his arms wide. “How do you know about that?”
“Because I saw it. I thought you died.”
“I thought I was a goner, too. But even with my parachute punctured, I was close enough to the surface and hit it before I could pick up the speed to die from the impact. I was very lucky.”
“I’m so glad.”
“Do you know who it was that shot at me?”
“It was my flight leader.”
“Oh!” he cried out once again. “Is he still alive?”
“No, he died.”
“Was he shot down?”
“No, he died in a kamikaze attack.”
That instant, Tony’s mouth fell open in astonishment. Then he muttered something quietly to himself. The interpreter didn’t tell me what, but I could sense his mortification. Suddenly his face crumpled, and he began to weep.
“What was his name?”
“Kyuzo Miyabe.”
Tony repeated the syllables to himself a number of times. Then he said, “I’d have loved to meet him.”
“Don’t you resent him?”
“Why would I resent him?”
“He fired on you as you parachuted down.”
“It was war, and perfectly natural. We were still fighting. It’s not as though he shot a POW.”
Ah, I thought. “He said that you were a formidable pilot. And he clearly agonized over firing at you.”
Tony lowered his eyes. “Miyabe was a true ace. I fought against Zeros many more times, but none of the pilots were that good.”
“He was a respectable man.”
Tony nodded many times as if to say, I know.
“Guadalcanal’s American pilots were ferocious.”
Tony shook his head. “It was only thanks to those Grummans that we won. No fighter was sturdier than a Wildcat. The only reason I’m here today is because of the armor plating behind the cockpit.”
“I scored many hits on Grummans, but they kept going for the longest time.”
“We were always terrified of Zeros. Back in ’42, there weren’t that many Japanese aircraft, but all the pilots were competent. Every time we intercepted them our planes ended up riddled with holes. We lost count of how many we had to scrap. It was like a fight where we had to take ten punches for each one we landed. But that one punch made a Zero go up in flames.”
He was exactly right.
“Guadalcanal was the birthplace of many flying aces for our side. Me included,” Tony said with a mischievous smile. “But all of us experienced being shot down by a Zero. Smith, Carl, Foss, Everton…Almost all of the aces that the Marine Corps boasted were downed at least once by a Zero. Carl, the pilot who took out Junichi Sasai, was himself downed by a Zero. We’re only alive because we had the home advantage.”
“Ah, Marion Carl, who took out Lieutenant JG Sasai, was shot down by a Zero once too?”
Tony nodded. “You Zero pilots were amazing. That’s not just flattery. I know that because I returned from many missions with my fuselage filled with bullet holes. You had some true pilots.”
I suddenly felt tears well up and spill down my face. He seemed shocked.
“If my comrades who died in Rabaul’s skies could hear what you just said, they’d be overjoyed.”
He nodded several times. “I lost many comrades myself. Maybe they’re all up in heaven right now, telling jokes to each other.”
I’d like to think so, I thought. What a sorrowful history we had—I and these good men whom I now faced had tried to kill one another.
Tony was a cheerful and sunny guy. “I have five grandkids, five!” he said, showing me a photo. I wonder if he’s still alive and well…By the way, Flight Seaman 1st Class Koyama, who had wanted to leave Miyabe Flight, died soon thereafter. One day in October, as our third plane, he ignored the flight leader’s orders and pursued the enemy too far in the skies over Guadalcanal. While he managed to take out two Grummans, the mission would prove to be his last.
Our flight got separated from the rest of our formation, and the three of us made to head back towards Rabaul on our own. About an hour into the journey, Koyama pulled up alongside the flight leader and signaled that he was going back. I pulled up to his aircraft, too. Koyama indicated that he was running low on fuel and couldn’t make it to base. Therefore he would return to Guadalcanal and conduct a suicide attack.
We fighter pilots—not only fighter pilots, but all IJN aviators, in fact—were taught to hurl ourselves against an enemy warship or base if the condition of our aircraft prevented us from completing the return journey. This was a must if our plane had been damaged over enemy territory. I personally witnessed many occasions where medium bombers damaged in combat crashed into the enemy airfield on Guadalcanal. Back then we thought that was the obvious choice. I, too, was ready to throw myself at one of their ships or their airfield if it came to that.
Thinking back on it now, the kamikaze special attack force may have arisen out of that fertile soil.
But at that moment, watching my comrade gesture that he was going to blow himself up because he didn’t have enough fuel, I wondered if there really wasn’t anything we could do. Koyama had been a year ahead of me at Yatabe, and we had practically eaten out of the same bowls. He was my closest friend at Rabaul.
I looked over to Flight Leader Miyabe, who was signaling with his hands as well.
We had radios, but they were entirely useless, all static and no words. So pilots had to rely on hand signs to communicate. At Pearl Harbor too, the attack forces used signal flares because they couldn’t trust their radios.
How long can you last? Flight Leader Miyabe asked.
About 100 nautical miles, just short of Buin, Koyama responded. One hundred nautical miles is about 180 kilometers.
Do your best to make it back there, the flight leader signed.
Roger, Koyama replied.
In an attempt to cheer him up, I got in pretty close and tapped his wing with my own. When he noticed, he made a fist as if he was threatening to punch me, and laughed. That made me laugh, too. Isn’t it strange how people can laugh at times like that?
The flight leader gradually ascended. Aircraft use less fuel at higher altitudes because there is less resistance, and the air-fuel ratio in the engine is more efficient there. Also, if you run out of fuel at a high altitude, you have that much more of a gliding range. On the other hand, at such altitudes the temperature is very cold, so it’s not a comfortable place for pilots to fly. And a rapid ascent will burn up a great deal of fuel.
Fully aware of these issues, the flight leader climbed slowly. He then gave detailed instructions regarding throttle and speed to Koyama, who seemed to be in high spirits. When I smiled at him, he smiled right back.
Our Zeros continued along their course back to Rabaul as if nothing was amiss. After a while, Bougainville Island came into view. Just a little longer now, I thought.
We continued the journey until we were about 30 nautical miles from the island. Koyama’s Zero, which he’d assumed would fall 100 nautical miles short, was still in the air. Just a little further. If he could fly for another ten minutes, he would make it back alive.
I didn’t think that Koyama was going to die. I couldn’t believe that a man flying right next to me, smiling so happily, could die. Yet his time was running out.
Just as we were approaching Buin, Koyama’s plane went into a descent.
Both the flight leader and I pursued him. Incredibly, even as we were descending, the flight leader didn’t stop turning around in the cockpit. He was keeping a keen eye out for
enemy aircraft.
On his way down, Koyama’s propeller froze. His plane slowly fell and landed on the waves. It bobbed for a while. After a moment, Koyama got out of the cockpit, stood on the wing, and looked skyward. I circled above him, shouting out his name at the top of my lungs. He must have been shouting, too. I saw him waving his white scarf with his mouth open, a smile on his face.
The nose of Koyama’s plane soon dipped down under the waves. The Zero stood on its head, as it were, before starting to sink. Before it submerged completely, Koyama jumped off the wing into the ocean. I had heard that our lifejackets held out for seven hours. I wrapped my rations in my scarf and dropped them down to him.
Reluctant to leave, I kept on circling overhead.
Of course, I couldn’t stay forever. My own plane was starting to run low on fuel. I wheeled around in one final, expansive circle, then banked. Koyama saluted from amidst the waves.
I pulled up my nose and departed from the spot. During that time, the flight leader had been waiting slightly overhead. Knowing him, he had probably been keeping an eye out in case any enemy aircraft suddenly appeared.
As soon as we landed at Buin, we alerted them to where Koyama had been forced to splash down. They immediately sent out a rescue seaplane, but it returned an hour later empty-handed. By the time they reached Koyama’s last-known location, there’d been no sign of him. Instead, several sharks had been spotted in the area.
The news made me feel like a vise had clamped down on my chest. That Koyama, eaten by sharks? The pain he must have felt. The chagrin.
I recalled my last glimpse of him and how he’d been smiling. He’d fought so hard to keep his plane flying, yet lost his life just before he could reach safety. I couldn’t get over it. If we had functioning radios, we could have called ahead for a rescue party. If only our fighters were equipped with telegraph machines like the bombers were…Such thoughts made my immense frustration all the worse.
On my way back to the barracks, my anger suddenly boiled up.
“Flight leader, sir,” I said. “Why didn’t you let Koyama go back and blow himself up?”
He stopped in his tracks.
“Surely Koyama would have been far happier dying in a blaze of glory than being eaten alive by sharks.”
“At that point, there was still a chance he might survive.”
“You really thought he might make it?”
“I wasn’t sure. But if he kept flying, perhaps he would. If he blew himself up, he would die for sure.”
“But there was only the slimmest chance. In which case, I wish he’d been permitted an end befitting a fighter pilot.”
Tears of anguish were running down my face. Staring at his wingman, who was throwing a tantrum, the flight leader said, “Death can come at any time. It is important to endeavor to live.”
“We won’t survive this war anyways. If my plane gets damaged in battle, please allow me to blow myself up.”
Flight Leader Miyabe suddenly grabbed me by the lapels. “Izaki!” he shouted. “Stop talking such garbage. You only have one life.”
The ferocity of his reaction left me speechless.
“Don’t you have family? Aren’t there people back home who’ll mourn your death? Or are you truly all alone in this world?” His eyes burned with rage. “Answer me, Izaki!”
“I have my mother and father back home in the country.”
“Who else?!”
“And a younger brother, sir.” As soon as I replied, the image of my five-year-old brother Taichi’s face floated up in my mind.
“Wouldn’t your family grieve for you if you died?!”
“They would, sir.” I could see Taichi bawling. My own eyes filled with tears that signified something other than anguish.
“Then don’t die, Izaki. Keep fighting to live no matter how much it pains you.”
Flight Leader Miyabe released his grip on my uniform and headed off towards the barracks.
That was the first and last time that the flight leader berated me. His words settled in the deepest recesses of my heart.
* * *
—
I recalled those words a year later.
At that time, I had left Rabaul and was part of the crew of the aircraft carrier Shokaku. In 1944, during the Battle of the Philippine Sea, my fuel tank was pierced by a bullet during an intense battle with enemy fighters.
I was lucky that the hit hadn’t ignited my fuel, but there was no way I would make it back to the carrier. To begin with, I was already surrounded by enemy aircraft, and they’d shoot me down sooner or later. These were new and powerful fighters, the Grumman F6F Hellcats which were even better than the F4Fs and against which Zeros were no match. Outnumbered to boot, it became increasingly obvious that there was no hope for victory. I’d certainly survived many a hard-fought battle, but I was beginning to think that my luck was running out.
I figured that since I was going to be shot down anyways, I might as well take one of them with me to the other side, and decided to fling myself at an enemy plane.
Suddenly, Flight Leader Miyabe’s angry voice reverberated through my mind.
IZAKI!
I could hear his voice clearly.
Do you still not understand?!
At the same moment, I recalled Taichi’s face.
The next instant, I went into a nosedive in an attempt to escape. Two Grummans gave chase. Their aircraft were capable of diving at much higher speeds. I made several evasive sharp turns, eventually coming very close to the ocean. I leveled out, skimming the surface as I flew. This prevented the enemy from taking aim at me from above, as they would strike the water. But the Grumman pilots were skilled too, and they stayed right on my tail and fired at me. I yelled, “How about this, then?” and descended until the edge of my propeller just grazed the water. One F6F crashed into the waves. The other stopped trying to stay on my tail and began gaining altitude. I held course, flying just above the ocean’s surface. Over the next thirty minutes, the remaining Grumman followed me from overhead, but eventually he gave up, turned around, and flew away. I had finally shaken off all enemy aircraft.
But my luck was close to running out. I was very low on fuel.
I put my plane down on the ocean.
I jumped into the water. I figured I was about 20 nautical miles from Guam. My only hope of survival was to swim to shore. If I swam the wrong way, I would simply die. If my endurance failed me partway, I would die. And I would die if sharks attacked. But I was still alive. I had to fight to keep on living.
Pulling off my pants, I untied my loincloth and let its length trail out behind me in the water. I had been taught that sharks don’t attack anything larger than them.
Somehow I swam for nine hours, finally reaching the shores of Guam. My lifejacket had failed at the seven-hour mark, after which I stripped naked and swam the rest of the way through will alone. I was mystified to discover such reserves of strength in myself.
What spurred me on each time I felt like giving up was my brother’s face—Taichi crying and calling out, “Big brother! Big brother!”
But I think my true savior was Flight Leader Miyabe.
* * *
—
Let’s get back to Rabaul.
I can’t forget what the flight leader once said as he ran his hand over a Zero’s wing: “I have a grievance against the men who created this aircraft.”
I was shocked, since I thought the Zero was the greatest fighter in the world. “I’m sorry to contradict you, sir, but I think the Zero is an incredible fighter. Its flight range alone is—”
“Yes, of course, its range is impressive,” he cut me off. “A single-seat fighter with a range of 1,800 nautical miles is unbelievable. It’s amazing that it can stay airborne for eight hours straight.”
“I think that’s an excellent capabili
ty, sir.”
“I had thought so, too, at one time. The Zero can fly far and wide across the vast Pacific Ocean. How excellent. When I was stationed on an aircraft carrier, I felt confident knowing I was riding a noble steed that could run a thousand miles. But…” He glanced around cautiously, making sure no one else was around before continuing, “That unique capability is what’s tormenting us now. We fly out 560 nautical miles, do battle, and then fly back another 560 nautical miles. The only reason they could create such an unrealistic battle plan is the Zero’s unique range.”
I thought I understood what he was trying to say.
“Sure, it’s great that this plane can fly for eight hours straight. But they never bothered to take the pilots into consideration. During those eight hours, a pilot can’t let his guard down for even a moment. We’re not civilian pilots. To spend eight hours flying in a combat situation never knowing when the enemy might attack is beyond the limits of anyone’s normal physical endurance. We’re not machines. We are humans, made of flesh and blood. Did the engineers who designed this aircraft never stop and think about the people who would be piloting it?”
I didn’t have a response. He was right. Spending eight hours sitting in a cockpit went far beyond the limits of physical endurance. We were making up the difference by sheer force of will.
Now I can look back and see just how correct Miyabe-san was. Even today, when people talk about the Zero they extol its astounding flight range. Yet, precisely that range inspired appallingly reckless operations. After the war, an Air Self-Defense Force instructor told me that a fighter pilot’s stamina and concentration lasted only about ninety minutes. If so, we had already lost our physical and mental acuity by the time we arrived at Guadalcanal after a three-hour flight. That instructor was talking about modern jet fighters, but I’m sure the conditions were similar for our propeller-powered Zeros.
The Eternal Zero Page 16
