Yamamoto was every inch the perfect military figure, and conducted himself on all occasions with military reserve and aplomb. Even at Rabaul and Truk, he suffered the intense heat of the tropical sun impeccably attired in the pure white Navy officer uniform. This figure of the Commander in Chief, oblivious to heat, tropical humidity, and insects, never failed to impress every officer and enlisted man. Yamamoto was not merely an admiral, he was the personification of the Navy.
The admiral’s Operation A was to be launched with a heavy air blow against the enemy on April 7. On the afternoon of the sixth, Vice-Admiral Kakuda planned to leave Vunakanau for our air base at Ballale, a small island south of Buin. The admiral would fly in a Type 1 Betty bomber, which would lead a fighter-plane group to join the “X Raid,” the first step of the operation.
The weather on the sixth was very bad. Constant heavy rains covered the airfield with volcanic ash, and there seemed little prospect for brighter skies. The ground crews worked ceaselessly to maintain our airplanes in readiness, despite the airfield’s condition. The roads leading from the field to Rabaul became muddy quagmires, and travel by automobile was a risky affair. Despite the weather and the risk of becoming caught in the mud, Admiral Yamamoto drove to the field personally to see Admiral Kakuda off. The seventeen-mile trip to the field from Rabaul was a jolting, mud-splattered journey, yet Yamamoto appeared no more uncomfortable than if he were in his Tokyo headquarters.
The Commander in Chief spoke briefly to the assembled pilots and crew members, wishing them good fortune in the forthcoming battles. To the Japanese pilots, this was a great moment. They were fortified by Yamamoto’s good wishes and no obstacle seemed too great to be overcome. I was in Admiral Kakuda’s bomber, the first airplane to leave the mud of the Rabaul field. Behind us the fighters jock-eyed for takeoff position, rocking the landing wheels to clear them from the sucking mire. One by one the fighters struggled along the strip and lifted into the murky skies. I looked back at the dwindling field, where the white uniforms of Admiral Yamamoto and Vice Admiral Ugaki stood out distinctly against the drab ground. It was an incongruous scene, for Yamamoto looked little different in these forsaken surroundings than when I had last seen him as we left Hiroshima Bay.
We assembled our fighters and, with formations complete, set a course south of Rabaul. A massive cloud front filled the entire sky before us, and the black, boiling squall blocked our course. In our bomber we had little to fear from the weather, but forty-five single-seat fighter planes clung grimly to our tail, knowing that to lose our guiding plane in the storm ahead meant almost certain death. Despite our anxiety to reach the main battle force at Ballale, the storm’s severity forced a disappointed Admiral Kakuda to return to Rabaul. We had searched in vain for twenty minutes for a break in the clouds. Our battle plan called for the planes to arrive at Ballale at sunset, so that American reconnaissance planes photographing the area would not see the new force of forty-five fighters. By the time we returned to Vunakanau one hour later, dusk had settled.
We sent the fighter planes in to land first. Forty-three Zeros made their precarious landings in the mud without damage, but two planes sank into the treacherous surface and damaged their propellers and undercarriage. Finally, in the dark, our own bomber landed. I was astonished to see Admiral Yamamoto waiting for our plane; informed of our radio message that we were returning to base, he remained to see Admiral Kakuda.
The initial mass attack against the enemy could not be postponed after the sixth, for our forces had long prepared for the raids, and were in the most advantageous position to strike. Our forty-five fighter planes were desperately needed to escort the bombers against the expected heavy opposition; while it was imperative that we get to Ballale, further flight tonight was impossible. After our plane landed, I proceeded at once along the muddy, darkened road from the field to Admiral Ozawa’s headquarters to receive new orders. We conferred at length on the attack requirements and not until many hours later did I leave the admiral’s headquarters with an order that our planes were to leave Ballale early in the morning of the seventh. We would fly directly to our rendezvous and participate in the air blows. Even as I returned to the field I met a car dispatched for me by an anxious and worried Admiral Kakuda.
The sudden change in plans involved hasty last-minute briefings of the pilots, for we were to leave from the Vunakanau airfield and join the attack directly. Our flight time would be increased, and the pilots were unfamiliar with the areas over which they would pass. Our pilots were, however, confident that they would completely fulfill Admiral Yamamoto’s expectations for the success of the attack. We carried out “Raid X” as scheduled.
Following the completion of Operation A, which Admiral Yamamoto was led to believe had caused great damage to the enemy, the admiral prepared to make a personal survey of our forward bases. He conferred with the commanders and officers of the various air corps, stressing that the future of the war could not permit complacency. The admiral stated further that many great sea battles were yet to be fought, and that victory or defeat in those same battles, and consequently the outcome of the war, would depend largely upon our conduct in air battles. Every man who attended these special meetings could not help but be impressed by the admiral’s sincerity, nor could our staff officers ignore the consequences of failure so dramatically brought to their attention.
At 0600 hours on the morning of April 18, Admiral Yamamoto left Rabaul on a flight to Ballale in southern Bougainville, to inspect personally our air base which lay so close to enemy forces. Almost simultaneously with Yamamoto’s departure, I flew from Rabaul with Admiral Kakuda for our return flight to Truk. When we returned to his flagship, the aircraft carrier Hiyo, his staff communications officer ashen-faced, personally delivered a confidential telegram to Admiral Kakuda.
Kakuda was a veteran combat naval air officer, known for his iron self-discipline under any circumstances. I was astonished to see the admiral’s face grow pale as he read the message. He uttered something unintelligible, and for some time afterward could not or would not speak to anyone.
Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto was dead.
The incidents leading up to the attack by American fighter planes against Admiral Yamamoto’s plane, and the death of Japan’s greatest naval leader, are recorded in detail in the diary of Vice-Admiral Matome Ugaki, Chief of Staff of the Combined Fleet, who was with the admiral at the time of his death. The following passages in quotation marks are from Ugaki’s diary:
“Admiral Yamamoto wished to fly from Rabaul to Buin, via Ballale, to inspect front-line Navy forces, and to pay a personal call on General Hyakutake, commander of the 17th Army. The admiral planned to return on the nineteenth to our base at Truk.”
(The flight was planned with Admiral Yamamoto’s usual meticulous care. Personally aware of even the smallest difficulties of the Navy and Army forces in the Solomons, particularly those troops under General Hyakutake which had been hard pressed by savagely fighting enemy troops and ever-increasing air attacks, Yamamoto hoped by this frontline visit to better his own understanding of future problems. Aware that enemy intelligence would literally go to any lengths to discover his presence in the area, the admiral discarded his white uniform and for the first time donned the Navy khaki garb.)
“At 0600 hours Admiral Yamamoto left the Rabaul air-field in the lead aircraft, a Type 1 Betty bomber, which carried, in addition to Yamamoto, Commander Ishizaki, his secretary, Surgeon Rear Admiral Takata, and Commander Toibana, his air staff officer. In the second aircraft with me were Paymaster Rear Admiral Kitamura, Commander Imanaka, of the communications staff, Commander Muroi, air staff officer, and Lieutenant Unno, our meteorology officer.
“As soon as I entered the second bomber, both aircraft began their takeoff runs down the field. The lead bomber took to the air first. As our planes passed above the volcano at the bay’s end we slid into formation and took a southeast course. Clouds were intermittent and, with excellent vi
sibility, flying conditions were good.
“I could see our escort fighters weaving in their protective pattern; three fighters flew off to our left, three remained high above and behind us, and three others, making nine in all, cruised to the right. Our bombers flew a tight formation, their wings almost touching, and my plane remained slightly behind and to the left of the lead ship. We flew at approximately five thousand feet. We could clearly see the admiral in the pilot’s seat of the other bomber, and the passengers moving within the airplane.
“We reached the west side of Bougainville Island, flying at twenty-two hundred feet directly over the jungle. A crew member handed me a note reading: ‘Our time of arrival at Ballale is 0745 hours.’ I remember looking at my wristwatch, and noting that the time was exactly 0730. In fifteen minutes we would arrive at our first stop.
“Without warning the motors roared and the bomber plunged toward the jungle, close behind the lead airplane, leveling off at less than two hundred feet. Nobody knew what had happened, and we scanned the sky anxiously for the enemy fighter planes we felt certain were diving to the attack. The crew chief, a flight warrant officer, answered our queries from his position in the narrow aisle: ‘It looks as if we made a mistake, sir. We shouldn’t have dived.’ He certainly was right, for our pilots should never have left our original altitude.
“Our fighter planes had sighted a group of at least twenty-four enemy planes approaching from the south. They began to dive toward the bombers to warn them of the approaching enemy planes. Simultaneously, however, our bomber pilots also sighted the enemy force and, without orders, raced for low altitude. Not until we had leveled off did our crewmen take their battle positions. Screaming wind and noise assailed our ears as the men unlimbered the machine guns.
“Even as we pulled out of the dive and returned to horizontal flight above the jungle, our escort fighters turned into the attacking enemy planes, now identifiable as the big Lockheed P-38s. The numerically superior enemy force broke through the Zeros and plunged after our two bombers. My own plane swung sharply into a ninety-degree turn. I watched the crew chief lean forward and tap the pilot on the shoulder, warning him that the enemy fighters were fast closing in.
“Our plane separated from the lead bomber. For a few moments I lost sight of Yamamoto’s plane and finally located the Betty far to the right. I was horrified to see the airplane flying slowly just above the jungle, headed to the south, with bright orange flames rapidly enveloping the wings and fuselage. About four miles away from us, the bomber trailed thick, black smoke, dropping lower and lower.
“Sudden fear for the admiral’s life gripped me. I tried to call to Commander Muroi, standing immediately behind me, but could not speak. I grasped him by the shoulder and pulled him to the window, pointing to the admiral’s burning plane. I caught a last glimpse myself, an eternal farewell to this beloved officer, before our plane again swung sharply over in a steep turn. Tracers flashed by our wings, and the pilot desperately maneuvered to evade the pursuing fighter plane. I waited impatiently for the airplane to return to horizontal position, so that I could observe the admiral’s bomber. Although I hoped for the best, I knew only too well what the fate of the airplane would be. As our own plane snapped out of its turn I scanned the jungle. Yamamoto’s plane was no longer in sight. Black smoke boiled from the dense jungle into the air.
“Alas! It was hopeless now!
“Even as I stared at the funeral pyre of the crashed bomber, our own plane straightened out from its frantic maneuvering and at full speed raced toward Moila Point. Shortly we were over the open sea. We noticed the concentration of dogfighting planes in the area where Admiral Yamamoto’s bomber had plunged into the jungle; other fighters were separating from the group and turning after us now. I stared helplessly as a silver H-shaped P-38 half-rolled in a screaming zoom, then turned steeply, and closed rapidly toward our plane. Our gunners were firing desperately at the big enemy fighter, but to little avail.
“The bomber’s 7.7-mm. machine guns could not reach the approaching P-38. Taking advantage of his superior speed, the enemy pilot closed in rapidly and, still beyond the range of our defensive machine guns, opened fire. I watched the P-38’s nose seem to burst into twinkling flame, and suddenly the bomber shook from the impact of the enemy’s machinegun bullets and cannon shells. The P-38 pilot was an excellent gunner, for first his fusilade of bullets and shells crashed into the right side of the airplane, then into the left. The drumming sounds vibrated through the airplane, which rocked from the impact of the enemy fire. We knew we were now completely helpless, and waited for our end to come. The P-38 hung grimly to our tail, pouring in his deadly fire.
“One by one our answering machine guns fell silent. Abruptly the crew chief, who had been shouting orders to his men, fell from our view. Several of the crew were already dead, as the bullets screamed though the airplane. Commander Muroi sprawled over the chair and table in the fuselage compartment, his hands thrown out before him, his head rolling lifelessly back and forth as the plane shuddered.
“Another canon shell suddenly tore open the right wing. The chief pilot, directly in front of me, pushed the control column forward. Our only chance of survival was to make a crash landing in the sea. I did not realize it at the time, but a Zero pilot above us in a futile attack against the grimly pursuing P-38, reported heavy smoke pouring from our bomber. Almost into the water, the pilot pulled back on the controls to bring the airplane out of its dive, but he could no longer control the aircraft. Enemy bullets had shattered the cables. Desperately the pilot killed our power, but again it was too late. At full speed the bomber smashed into the water; the left wing crumpled and the Betty rolled sharply over to the left.
“Prepared for an emergency landing, I do not recall being injured in the crash. Apparently the shock of the plane’s meeting the water at such high speed numbed my senses, for when I was hurled into the aisle from my seat my body was bruised and cut.
“The impact of the crash momentarily stunned me, and everything turned black. I felt the crushing force of salt water pouring into the fuselage and almost immediately we were below the surface. I was completely helpless. Convinced this was my end, I said a requiem to myself. Naturally it was difficult to remember coherently everything which happened in those incredible moments, but vaguely recall that I felt as if life had come to its end; I could not bring myself to move and could only lie perfectly still. I do not believe I was actually knocked unconscious. I did not swallow any sea water. Everything was hazy, and I could not tell how much time passed before . . .”
(Several lines of the diary are omitted here.)
“The following day search planes discovered the wreckage of the lead bomber in which Admiral Yamamoto had flown to his death. The reconnaissance pilots found no sign of life and reported that fire had entirely consumed the wreckage. On the day of the attack a native reported to an Army road-construction crew that a Japanese plane had crashed in the jungle along Bougainville’s west coast. Army headquarters dispatched a rescue force, which reached the wreckage on April 19. They picked up the corpses and began their return. It was this same group that our Navy rescue force encountered.
“The Army group had found Admiral Yamamoto’s body, still in his pilot’s seat, hurled clear of the airplane. A sword was held tightly in his hand. His body had not yet decomposed and even in death dignity did not leave the great naval officer. To us, Isoroku Yamamoto virtually was a god.
“Our doctors later examined his body aboard a submarine chaser, and found bullet holes through the lower part of the skull, as well as in the shoulder. Presumably the admiral died instantly aboard the airplane. In addition only the chief medical officer, his body partially burned, could be identified, as the remainder of the group were burned beyond recognition.
“As to the wreckage of my own airplane, divers went to sixty-seven feet below the water’s surface, but found only the wheels, engines, propellers, machine guns, and one officer�
�s sword. The following day (April 20) the bodies of the two crewmen were washed up on the shore.
“Of all the personnel aboard both bombers, only rear Admiral Kitamura, the pilot of my bomber, and I survived. More than twenty men and officers perished. Although death is an everyday occurrence in war, I feel that I am to be blamed for this incident.
“I was informed at a later date that the enemy, which had in the past made only single-plane reconnaissance missions, had, only one or two days before April 18, increased his reconnaissance to fighter-plane groups. This information from our field forces did not reach Vice-Admiral Kusaka’s headquarters until twenty-four hours after the incident. Had we been informed immediately of the sudden appearance of the enemy fighter formations, we could have averted the terrible loss of Admiral Yamamoto. But we were too late.”
In the same area where so many of his own men had shed their blood for Japan, Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto came to the end of his brilliant career. Not only did we suffer an irreplaceable loss in his death, but Japan lost also Commanders Toibana and Muroi, considered the two “brains” of the Navy’s air staff. The injured Admirals Ugaki and Kitamura, and their pilot, were rescued by our ships which sped to the scene of the water crash.
The itinerary of Admiral Yamamoto and his staff was, of course, a closely guarded secret. Behind the chain of events leading to the successful enemy attack, however, lay the direct cause for the incident. Partially as a courtesy message, the commander of the Shortland seaplane base southwest of Buin had notified his forces, in naval code, that the admiral would personally inspect their area. This same message was intercepted and decoded by American Navy headquarters at Pearl Harbor. The Navy immediately informed Army Air Forces headquarters at Henderson Field, Guadalcanal. Late in the afternoon of April 17 the Henderson Field message center delivered to Major John W. Mitchell, P-38 commander at Guadalcanal, a cablegram from Frank Knox, Secretary of the Navy, with the complete information on Admiral Yamamoto’s scheduled inspection tour. The message also noted that Yamamoto was most punctilious, and could be counted upon to follow his schedule rigidly. Included in the message was a list of other officers accompanying the admiral, as well as the fact that the staff would fly in two new-type Mitsubishi bombers escorted by six Zero fighters.
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