A kamikaze pilot reporting “a sighting of enemy fighters” would repeatedly transmit a dot. If he was about to crash into an aircraft carrier, he would send a dash. A very long dash meant “I am about to make my final assault.” The pilot would hold down the telegraph key until the moment of impact.
When we heard that tone, our spines froze. It meant that at that very moment a pilot was about to lose his life in an attack. And the instant the tone stopped was the moment their life was snuffed out. But we didn’t have the luxury to grow sentimental and grieve their deaths. We had to measure the length of time from the start of the long tone to its expiration in order to gauge whether the pilot had successfully struck his intended target or been taken out my anti-aircraft fire. If the tone ended too quickly, we would judge that the pilot had been shot down by AA fire. If the tone went on for a while, we assumed the pilot had made a successful attack. Basically, it was up to us comm guys to listen to the transmissions and confirm the results of the attack.
The transmissions were the final messages the special attack pilots left in this world, and their way of conveying the results of their mission to HQ. From today’s perspective, that’s quite cruel to say the least, isn’t it? There should have been someone else present to confirm their achievements so the pilots could put aside all distractions and focus on striking the enemy ship. Yet they also had to send out a signal until their last breath in the way of a battle report. I can’t think of anything more heartless.
All the kamikaze pilots were truly fine young men. Most of them dutifully sent out long dash tones before their attacks. Even moments before their deaths, they were devoted to every aspect of their mission. They had to dodge terrifying ambushes by enemy fighters, wind their way through a barrage of anti-aircraft fire, then right before diving into an enemy warship, remember to send out a telegraph…Hard to even imagine. The transmitter was attached to their thigh, and in order to press the key they had to switch over and use their left hand on the control stick. To have such presence of mind even in such an extreme situation…On top of which, they hadn’t acquired the nerve through experience. It was a once-in-a-lifetime situation, and they still managed to pull it off.
I didn’t realize all this at the time. Now I can look back and appreciate how strong they were. None of them panicked in the face of death or lost his head.
I listened to many dashes. I would focus my whole attention, become all ears, to register their last signal. I’d hold my breath for as long as the long tone stretched. There’s nothing that can compare to the gravity of that span. When the tone ended, a young man had lost his life. I don’t know how to express the sadness and fright of those moments. Each time, it felt like a nail had been driven into my heart.
That tone is still engraved in my mind. I don’t know what hertz it was, but when I occasionally hear the same “sound” my whole body goes rigid, my heart starts hammering in my chest, and my knees give out. I don’t like listening to music. Sometimes there’ll be a long note that’s similar to that dash. As soon as I hear it, I’m done for.
* * *
—
You wanted to hear about Miyabe-san.
Yes, I remember him. He was an accomplished pilot, having served since Pearl Harbor. Everyone at Kanoya Base took off their hats to him.
To tell the truth, it had been my dream to become an aviator. I took the entrance exam for the Prep Program but unfortunately wasn’t accepted. I know that this is an inexcusable insult to those who died in the war, but actually I’m glad that I failed to get in. Had I been accepted, there’s no doubt I would have died a kamikaze.
Ensign Miyabe and I met frequently in the communications room.
Since he was a formation leader, he would come to the comm-shack to ask after the transmission status of scouting parties or attack units. Miyabe-san’s rank was ensign, but actually he was a “special duty” ensign. He wasn’t the type to swagger about like the officers from the Naval Academy and easily engaged rank and file like me in conversation, so I liked him.
Miyabe-san often flew escort for the kamikaze units that launched from Kanoya.
The escort fighters were not kamikazes. Their job was to defend the kamikazes from attacks by enemy fighters until they safely reached the other side’s aircraft carriers. I was just a radioman and didn’t know anything about airplanes. But I could imagine how difficult it must have been to fend off an overwhelming number of far superior fighter planes.
In fact, on each mission there were always members of the fighter escorts that failed to return. Sometimes none of them came back. While they weren’t kamikazes, they, too, were on special attack missions so to speak. By then even recon planes that had the benefit of speed didn’t always return.
I asked Ensign Miyabe about that once. “Are the fighter escorts then not in the same boat as the kamikazes, sir?”
“Not at all,” he flatly denied. “To be sure, under these circumstances the support aircraft have a really hard time, too. But at least we have a one-in-ten chance to return from the mission. We can fight for our survival, no matter how bleak the outlook. For the kamikazes, it’s zero-in-ten.”
Jusshi reisei. Death: ten, Life: zero. This was how the Shinpu Special Attack Force was described back then. The word “suicidal” is often used to mean “certain death,” but that isn’t always the outcome. With the special attacks, though, death was indeed the foregone conclusion. As the old saying goes, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” Zero-in-ten odds required an even stronger resolve than that.
* * *
—
The most tragic among the kamikazes were the members of the Divine Thunder Unit.
Those were the ones who manned the Ohka rockets. Among the many horrors of special attacks, none were as atrocious as the use of these. The human bomb Ohka would be loaded onto a Type 1 attack plane and sent off to its target. Who could ever conceive of such a preposterous tactic? When the first Divine Thunder Unit was deployed in early March, none of the eighteen Type 1s that sortied returned to base. Of the thirty Zeros that were in the fighter escort that day, ten didn’t make it back. Since there was a shortage of supporting fighters, many a commander and general staffer proposed to Vice Admiral Ugaki that he delay implementing the plan, but he brushed aside their concerns. Lieutenant Commander Nonaka, who led the squadron of Type 1s, apparently said before sortieing, “This is the stupidest battle plan ever conceived.”
That day, I waited for telegraphs from the Type 1s, yet not a single one came in. Not even the signal for spotting hostile fighters. The lack of any communications from them was bizarre since the Type 1s each had a dedicated wire operator on board. Even in an ambush, it was standard practice to wire “enemy fighters sighted.” But not a single telegraph came in from any of the eighteen aircraft.
A silent protest against the mission, I assumed, on the lieutenant commander’s part.
* * *
—
Yet, Divine Thunder Units were deployed many more times after that.
I believe this incident occurred in May. Ensign Miyabe had been ordered on his first Divine Thunder escort mission since his arrival at Kanoya. Six Zeros were deployed to back up six Type 1s. One of the Type 1s, tasked with guiding the formation, did not carry an Ohka. Ensign Miyabe looked unusually pale before he sortied that day.
His was the only plane that ever returned. He reported that all of the Type 1s had been shot down.
The ensign’s plane was covered in bullet holes. The tail, especially, was riddled with bullet marks. It was incredible that he’d made it back with his aircraft in such a state.
That night, when I left the comm-shack and was heading back to the barracks, I caught sight of someone in a flight uniform sitting alone on an embankment by the runway. It was a bright, moonlight night. The man was Ensign Miyabe.
When he noticed me, he waved. “Come sit with me, Murata,” he ca
lled out. That was my original family name.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, sitting down next to him.
It was then that I noticed that he smelled of alcohol. I looked over to discover a large-sized bottle of sake by his side.
“How about a drink?” he asked, grabbing the bottle and holding it out. “I don’t have any cups, so just drink from the bottle.”
“Thank you, but I’ll pass, sir. It’d be wasted on me.”
Ensign Miyabe didn’t seem particularly bothered by my refusal. He took another big swig straight from the bottle.
“The Ohkas will never succeed!” he spat. I was stunned by how loudly he’d said this. “It’s hard enough for the special attack planes to get close to their warships. There’s no way medium bombers weighed down by Ohkas could ever reach them.”
“It’s hard even for a special attack plane, sir?”
“The Americans spot us on their radar and launch huge numbers of fighters to ambush us. It’s not possible to break through with just a handful of escort fighters. Moreover, the special attack planes are loaded with heavy bombs. Their pilots are newcomers with little experience.”
“But there are some who make it to the enemy task force.” Since I was on the receiving end of their telegraphs, I refused to concede this point.
“Sure, there’s the occasional one that’s able to break through, but it’s barely one out of a few dozen. Over 2,000 kamikazes have sortied in the Battle of Okinawa. How many of those signaled that they were diving into their targets?”
I didn’t have an answer. I had personally heard dozens of strike signals, but out of 2,000 kamikazes that was still a dispiritingly small percentage.
“Even if they’re lucky and manage to dodge the interceptors’ attacks and make it to an aircraft carrier, they’re faced with intense anti-aircraft fire. I have witnessed a number of planes take that final plunge, and I can’t even begin to describe how fierce their anti-aircraft barrage is. It was impressive enough at the time of the Battle of the Solomon Sea, but the Americans have far greater AA power now. Headquarters has no idea what the actual conditions are like. Or maybe they do and are just feigning ignorance.”
Tears were running down his face. “Pulling off a ramming attack from a nose-dive requires skill. The carrier-based bomber pilots who fought at Pearl Harbor might be able to pull it off, but these young kids can’t hack it. You have to dive at a very steep angle in order to avoid their anti-aircraft guns. If you go in at a low angle, you’ll get pummeled by them. But if your angle is too steep, you’ll end up going too fast, which makes your plane drift. You can do your best to counteract this, but at such high speeds the flaps become awfully heavy, and the vertical rudder is much less efficient. It’s not easy to change your angle or direction immediately before you slam into the target. In most cases, you just crash into the sea.”
Ensign Miyabe sounded as though he were speaking to an aviation student. He was clearly drunk. That was the first time I had seen him in such a state.
He suddenly grabbed the bottle of sake and flung it towards the runway. The bottle glinted in the moonlight as it arced its way through the air, then smashed into the pavement and splintered into pieces.
“Today, I watched as six medium bombers all got shot down. I couldn’t do a damn thing,” he said.
Then he howled. It made me tremble.
“Among the Ohka pilots was a student of mine from Tsukuba. Before we departed, he looked at me and said, ‘It’s a real comfort to know you’ll be escorting us, sir.’ But right before my eyes, the Type 1 that was carrying him went up in flames and fell away. The crew of the bomber saluted me as they fell,” Ensign Miyabe said, glaring at me. “I couldn’t save a single one of those planes.” His voice was anguished. “Not a damn one!”
“I don’t think it could have been helped, sir.”
“You don’t think?!” he shouted. “Do you have any idea how many men died? It’s the duty of the guard contingent to protect the special attack planes, even if it means sacrificing yourself. Yet I let all of them die.” Ensign Miyabe gripped his knees tightly and dropped his head. His shoulders were trembling.
I didn’t know what words to offer him. I could sense that he was blaming himself and getting lost in a black despair.
“My life rests on all of their sacrifices.”
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think that’s true.”
“Yes, it is. I only survived because they died.”
Upon hearing this, I realized just how tormented his heart was. He was all too kind for his own good.
Ensign Miyabe then got up and started walking on unsteady feet towards the barracks. I couldn’t even call after him.
* * *
—
In the latter half of the Battle of Okinawa, Ensign Miyabe had clearly changed. He let stubble form along his jawline, and his eyes gave off a strange, dazzling light. He had always been tall and slender, but he grew even thinner. His face was haggard, his features altogether transformed. And he had stopped smiling.
It was as if each sortie as a fighter escort for kamikazes chipped away at his life force.
One early afternoon, seeing him standing on the runway, I felt a shiver run down my spine. As I observed his image wavering there in the hot air reflecting off the runway, it was as though he wasn’t of this world anymore. He already seemed to have one foot on that distant shore.
Even after Okinawa was captured by the Americans, kamikaze missions were carried out intermittently.
Soon, however, enemy planes taking off from Okinawa began to conduct near-daily raids. Most of the aircraft and personnel from Kanoya and other bases around southern Kyushu were transferred to northern Kyushu. Kanoya was then only used as a launching pad for kamikaze missions. I remained at Kanoya.
I began to realize that Japan was about to lose. August saw new types of bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and there was a looming sense of despair that Japan itself would perish.
After the call came down in the latter days of the Battle of Okinawa for all planes to kamikaze, HQ began issuing kamikaze orders as normal attacks. In addition to the student reservists and boy pilots, seasoned aviators from the Preparatory Program and even the Naval Academy were commanded one after another to sortie as kamikazes. Anyone who refused would of course be charged with insubordination.
By that time, however, many pilots were forced to turn around after encountering engine trouble. I’d also heard that more than a few crashed into the ocean well before reaching the American fleet. And I witnessed some aircraft that fell into the sea almost immediately after taking off from Kanoya. No matter how diligent the mechanics were, nearly one out of every three aircraft was forced to return due to engine problems. On particularly bad days, nearly all the aircraft had to come back. Japan was rapidly running out of materials, fuel, and everything else.
It was under those dire circumstances that Ensign Miyabe was ordered to sortie as a kamikaze at last.
* * *
—
The morning of his mission, I went to say goodbye to him. Dawn had yet to break.
It was still dark out, which made it hard to tell who was who, but eventually I found him.
I wasn’t sure what exactly I should say. I finally managed to force out, “Good luck in battle, sir.”
Ensign Miyabe nodded, but it was hard to read his expression in the darkness.
After a while the engines were started and the pilots headed towards their planes. Then something strange happened.
Ensign Miyabe asked a reserve officer to switch planes with him. The ensign’s was a newer Zero Model 52, and the reserve’s an old Model 21. By that time, Model 21s were very rare, and that particular one had probably been chucked away at some base to be patched up only now and brought to Kanoya. I was seeing one for the first time.
Ensign Miyabe wanted
to fly the antique. He said he wanted to fly the same model of aircraft he’d piloted at Rabaul. A Model 21 couldn’t hold a candle to a Model 52 in terms of performance. The Model 52 had far greater horsepower and boasted a higher speed. The Model 21 may have been a more agile dogfighter, but that was irrelevant on a kamikaze mission. Even I knew it would be better to have a plane with greater horsepower and more speed.
The reserve officer that Ensign Miyabe had addressed was quite aware of these things as well, so he refused to exchange planes.
“Ensign Miyabe, you should take the Model 52, sir. You are far more skilled than I. A good pilot deserves a good aircraft,” the reserve declared.
“Understood,” the ensign said, returning to his own aircraft. But moments later he came back and repeated his request.
“My skills are top notch. I’ll be just fine in a Model 21,” he said loudly enough to be heard over the roar of the engines.
I couldn’t believe my own ears upon hearing this. It just didn’t seem like something he would ever say. I had never before heard him brag about his own skills like that. No, that was most certainly not the sort of man he was.
Maybe even someone like Ensign Miyabe wanted to strut a little in his final moments, I wondered then. Or maybe he was insisting on piloting the Model 21 out of stubbornness, out of anger towards the Navy for ordering a brilliant pilot like himself to kamikaze. Perhaps he thought, Fine, I’ll go, but I’ll take an old Model 21.
Or maybe what he said was the plain truth: his nostalgia for the good old Model 21 had won out.
The Zero came to be regarded as a symbol of the Imperial Navy. At the start of the war, she was a peerless fighter. But later on, since they hadn’t developed aircraft that could succeed her, the Zero continued to fight on the front lines. The famed warhorse that had once soared across the heavens had grown old and useless. In the first two years after its debut, the Model 21 wreaked havoc across the Chinese mainland and the Pacific, weaving the legend of the Zero’s invincibility. Perhaps upon seeing it again Ensign Miyabe felt like he had been reunited with an old war buddy.
The Eternal Zero Page 36
