by Bruce Gamble
CHAPTER 22
New Identities
AS READERS HAVE undoubtedly discovered, the system used to identify Japanese aircraft at the beginning of World War II was unwieldy and confusing. A full identification combined two main components: A) the official military designation based on the plane’s primary role and the Imperial year it entered service and B) the alphanumeric project code applied by the manufacturer.* The result was a bewildering array of names that all sounded alike, such as the Navy Type 96 carrier fighter (Mitsubishi A5M), Navy Type 96 attack bomber (Mitsubishi G3M), Army Type 97 heavy bomber (Mitsubishi Ki-21), Navy Type 97 carrier attack bomber (Nakajima B5N), and Navy Type 97 flying boat (Kawanishi H6K). The method was challenging enough for intelligence personnel, but Allied airmen became even more tongue-tied when they tried to reconstruct events after snatching blurred glimpses of planes in combat.
By the middle of 1942, as both the number and variety of Japanese planes increased, a much simpler identification method became necessary. The answer was a system of short, unforgettable code names. These came into practice shortly after Capt. Frank T. McCoy Jr., an intelligence officer in the 38th Bomb Group, was placed in charge of the Air Technical Intelligence Unit in Australia. McCoy and his team of enlisted men—Tech. Sgt. Francis M. Williams and Cpl. Joseph Grattan—set out to create a list of names that was both simple and effective. One of their first important decisions was to create two categories, using male names for fighters and female names for just about everything else (though refinements were made to the latter category).
McCoy, from Tennessee, drew upon his Southern heritage for several of the early code names. Blessed with a good sense of humor, he applied hillbilly nicknames to variations of the most famous of all Japanese fighters, the Mitsubishi Zero. The prevalent model (A6M2) became “Zeke,” while “Rufe” was given to the Nakajima-built floatplane version (A6M2-N), encountered for the first time at Tulagi in the Solomons. When an upgraded variant of the Zero with nonfolding square wingtips entered combat in mid-1942, McCoy’s team thought it was an all-new fighter and named it “Hap” as a tribute to the top American airman, Gen. H. H. Arnold. Usage of the code name continued for approximately one year until it was learned that Arnold took exception to it, whereupon the nickname was revised to “Hamp.”
Ironically, some of the new code names were slow to catch on. “Zero” was already so iconic that airmen continued to use it to describe almost any fighter they faced in the Southwest Pacific. Even the obsolete, fixed-gear Mitsubishi A5M was often misidentified as a Zero, although by the time it received its own code name (“Claude,” after an Australian friend of McCoy’s), none were still serving on the front lines. Adding to the confusion, a new Imperial Army fighter that appeared at Rabaul in late 1942 looked remarkably like the Zero. The Nakajima Ki-43 Habayusa (Peregrine Falcon) was nicknamed “Oscar” by McCoy’s team, but on numerous occasions the nimble fighters were misidentified as Zeros.
Japanese bombers were generally easier to identify. McCoy’s team took delight in choosing code names that were not only unique but had interesting connections to real people. The name selected for the Imperial Navy’s predominant land attack aircraft, the Mitsubishi G4M, was inspired by a well-endowed acquaintance of Sergeant Williams. The pair of gun blisters that bulged from the aircraft’s fuselage reminded him of a big-breasted nurse he knew from Bridgeville, Pennsylvania, and so the bomber became known famously as “Betty.” The venerable Mitsubishi G3M was nicknamed “Nell” for the wife of an intelligence officer in Melbourne, and an Australian army sergeant inspired the code name of the Aichi D3A “Val” dive-bomber. “Kate” was chosen for the Nakajima B5N carrier bomber, the Kawanishi H6K flying boat became “Mavis,” and its successor, the massive H8K flying boat, was code-named “Emily.”
From its homespun beginnings, the use of the code names expanded rapidly, gaining such widespread acceptance that all of the American armed forces adopted the program by the end of 1942. McCoy and his team constantly updated the list, which eventually grew to 122 names including all of the known aircraft in the Imperial Army and Navy inventories, and even some that were merely suspected of being developed. To this day, the use of the code names remains almost universal.
WHILE MCCOY and his team developed their list of names in the fall of 1942, the EleventhAir Fleet at Rabaul tried desperately to dislodge the American invaders from Guadalcanal. The great distances involved—each round trip was the equivalent of 1,300 highway miles—gave the Japanese airmen no margin for error. This hard lesson was driven home on the very first day of the offensive, when fifty-three aircraft from Rabaul counterattacked the American fleet. Nine Aichi D3A “Val” dive-bombers took part despite the fact that their range barely exceeded 900 miles. Rear Admiral Yamada sent them anyway, instructing the pilots to attack the American troopships and then attempt water landings near Shortland Island, where a seaplane tender and a flying boat would serve as rescue pickets. Without fighter escort, the nine courageous crews attempted to fulfill their mission, but scored only a single hit on the destroyer Mugford with a 60-kilogram bomb. (Material damage to the destroyer was minor, but casualties proved relatively high with twenty-one crewmen killed.) In exchange, five of the Vals were shot out of the sky by U.S. Navy Wildcats. The remaining four ditched as planned near the Shortlands, but only three crews were rescued, bringing the 2nd Air Group’s losses to nine aircraft and six crews.
The experiences of the 4th Air Group, which sent twenty-seven Mitsubishi G4M Bettys to attack the transports and warships anchored off Lunga Point, were similar. Each plane carried a payload of two 250-kilogram and four 60-kilogram bombs which were dropped in a massive salvo against the stationary ships; much to the disgust of the Japanese, however, none of the 156 bombs struck a vessel. The ultra-long mission was wasted. Even worse, four Bettys were shot down, a fifth bomber crash-landed on Buka Island, and yet another cracked up while landing at Vunakanau airdrome. In all, the group’s losses for the day totaled six aircraft and twenty-eight crewmembers.
The Rei-sen fared better. The pilots of the Tainan Air Group accounted well for themselves, downing nine Wildcats, but the unit’s popular torchbearer, Saburo Sakai, was critically wounded. Spying what he thought was a covey of Wildcats, Sakai stumbled into a formation of SBD Dauntlesses and was caught in a heavy crossfire. Machine-gun bullets shattered the canopy of his Zero, and a .30-caliber round struck the metal frame of his flight goggles just above his right eye. The slug creased his skull rather than entering his brain, but the eye was permanently blinded. Bleeding profusely, temporarily paralyzed on the left side of his body from the bullet’s impact, Sakai somehow held his fighter in the air for the 650-mile flight back to Rabaul. Fortunate to have survived, he remained out of action for almost two years.
Unlike Sakai, the great majority of Japanese airmen whose planes were damaged over Guadalcanal did not return—and the losses accrued rapidly. On the morning of August 8, Rear Admiral Yamada again tried to smash the American invasion fleet, this time with aerial torpedoes. Supported by nine rikko of the Misawa Air Group that had arrived the previous afternoon, Yamada was able to muster twenty-six Bettys and fifteen escorting Zeros. Three of the former turned back because of mechanical problems, but the remaining aircraft attacked the American ships at noon.
Within a matter of minutes, the entire rikko doctrine was turned on its ear. Intense, accurate antiaircraft fire from the warships of the screening force brought down no less than eight Bettys, and only one torpedo actually hit a vessel, resulting in moderate damage to the destroyer Jarvis. The worst harm was caused by Lt. j.g. Takafumi Sasaki, who deliberately “body-crashed” his flaming Betty into the transport George F. Elliott. The fires that ensued became uncontrollable, resulting in the demise of the ship the next day.
Of the fifteen remaining Bettys, four more were shot down by Wildcats, leaving eleven battle-damaged planes to face the daunting flight back to Rabaul. Less than half made it. Six went down en route, with only o
ne crew recovered. Two escorting Rei-sen also failed to return. The shock to Yamada at losing eighteen Type 1s and two Zeros must have been great.
For the airmen at Vunakanau, the results of the two-day effort were especially devastating. Quite possibly, no other aviation unit in the Imperial Navy experienced a worse run of bad luck than the 4th Air Group. In February, when the Lexington task force approached Rabaul, the group lost fifteen planes and more than 100 airmen; next, during the Battle of the Coral Sea in early May, they lost six aircraft and 31 crewmen while attacking Rear Admiral Crace’s cruiser support group; and now, two consecutive long-distance missions to Guadalcanal had cost the land-attack unit another twenty-three Bettys and more than 150 elite aviators.
Two aspects of the 4th Air Group’s combat history were particularly troubling. The most astounding was the minimal damage caused to the enemy. Over the span of three major battles, while sacrificing forty-four aircraft and some three hundred crewmembers, the attackers had hit exactly one American ship with a torpedo, and gunners shot down a couple of navy Wildcats. The greatest single achievement belonged to Lieutenant Sasaki, but only because he made a suicidal dive into a transport.
The other disturbing element was the tendency of the Type 1 aircraft to burst into flames. The lack of protection for the fuel tanks was clearly to blame, and rikko crews began to refer to their planes derogatorily as the “Type 1 lighter” or “one-shot lighter.”
No one in the 4th Air Group suffered more acutely than Capt. Yoshiyotsu Moritama, who had commanded the unit since its inception in February. After the debacle over Guadalcanal on August 8, he composed a heartfelt “draft of his views” for his superiors. Moritama began:
At the battle of offshore New Britain on February 20, at Coral Sea on May 7, and the First Battle of the Solomons on August 7 and 8: three times we encountered major U.S./British task forces, their combined fleet, and a large convoy of transport vessels. Every time we pressed the enemy hard, expending all our might with the determination to kill or die, we achieved great results, showed our naval air group spirit and ability, fully demonstrated our traditions, and thus won honor. However, we also lost valuable lives each time, large numbers of experienced brave warriors who should otherwise have been successful in their future. Although this is a rule of war, this is truly a regrettable matter. As the direct leader of the unit, I am strongly aware that I am to blame for it, and humbly accept the responsibility.
In the main body of his draft, Moritama pleaded for changes. “[The] aircraft that we are currently using must be improved and strengthened drastically,” he wrote. He also urged better coordination between surface units and air groups. It was his belief that the only path to victory lay in “collaborated operations between air and sea units with no hesitation to die.”
Ironically, the men of the 4th Air Group—or what was left of it—became heroes in Japan. According to the claims submitted to Combined Fleet headquarters by Rear Admiral Yamada, the air units from Rabaul had crushed the enemy fleet at Guadalcanal on August 7 and 8. In his diary, Chief of Staff Ugaki noted the alleged results: “two light cruisers and ten transports sunk, one large cruiser set on fire, one medium cruiser seriously damaged and listing heavily, two destroyers and one transport set on fire, and four planes shot down. This should be called a great result.”
The basis for Yamada’s incredible exaggeration can only be surmised. Meanwhile, the Combined Fleet received a new report that “five enemy cruisers were sunk by a sudden night assault.” This information was much closer to the truth. On August 7, a powerful Eighth Fleet cruiser group commanded by Vice Admiral Mikawa had sortied from Rabaul to attack the American amphibious force. The warships sheltered near Bougainville on the eighth while awaiting nightfall, then slipped down “the Slot” in the darkness and surprised the outer screen of Australian and American warships. In a vicious few minutes off Savo Island, Mikawa’s ships sank four cruisers in exchange for relatively minor damage to two vessels. With the exception of the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor, the battle was one of the worst defeats in the history of the U.S. Navy.
Seizing on the initial reports of the two separate actions, the Combined Fleet Staff allowed themselves to be misled. “Putting the [results] together,” Ugaki wrote, “we believe that all the warships and half of the transports have been sunk, and the fate of the battle has now been settled.” Even so, the staff at Truk remained cautious while awaiting confirmation of the reports. Having experienced blatant exaggerations before, Ugaki urged the staff to “be ready for any change of plans.”
The same could not be said of Imperial General Headquarters or the Johokyoku. In a nationwide radio broadcast on August 10, the chief of naval information declared that the American offensive had “ended in a fiasco.” Newspaper headlines the next day boasted that twenty-eight Allied warships and transports had been sunk or damaged at Guadalcanal. Four days later, alleging that the results were based on “verified reports,” the press raised the figures to twenty-nine warships and eleven transports sunk or otherwise destroyed. Friendly losses warranted only a brief explanation: “21 planes of the Imperial Navy crashed themselves against enemy warcraft.” This, too, was a blatant exaggeration, but it served to venerate the fact that so many land attack aircraft had not returned from the mission.
The Allied losses, especially when compared to the total number of ships involoved, were not as disastrous as the Japanese claimed. In addition to the four cruisers sunk off Savo Island, transport George F. Elliott was scuttled as a result of the fires started on August 8. The destroyer Jarvis, hampered by the aforementioned torpedo damage, was caught in the open sea on the afternoon August 9 by a large force of rikko. The captain’s decision to try to reach Australia for repairs led to a rare occurrence—the loss of a warship with all hands. Steaming slowly about 130 nautical miles southwest of Tulagi, Jarvis was attacked by thirteen Bettys of the Misawa Air Group escorted by fifteen Zeros. Mistaking the warship for an Achilles-class cruiser, the airmen from Rabaul put two more torpedoes into Jarvis—but not before the destroyer’s guns shot down two attacking Bettys and damaged several others.
Although the loss of six ships was far less than the Japanese claimed, the U.S. Navy had suffered a severe blow. Even more problematic, especially from the standpoint of the marines on Guadalcanal, Vice Admiral Fletcher withdrew his carrier task force on August 8. In addition to fretting over the loss of more than twenty Wildcats during the first two days of operations, he cited the need to refuel his ships in safer waters. As a result of Fletcher’s decision, the commander of the amphibious fleet also withdrew his ships from Guadalcanal, leaving the marines on their own. The absence of the ships was interpreted by the Japanese as further evidence of a great naval victory, giving them the impression that the Americans on Guadalcanal were weak and demoralized.
The story of the prolonged, bitter struggle that ensued is now legendary. For the Japanese, Guadalcanal became a veritable meat grinder. Tens of thousands of soldiers, most delivered by fast warships from Rabaul, either died from combat or succumbed to disease and starvation. Similarly, the Eleventh Air Fleet launched attacks almost daily from Rabaul, weather permitting, but the losses accrued at an appalling rate. Only the surface units of the Eighth Fleet enjoyed occasional success, particularly in night actions, yet they could not break the Allies’ toehold in the Solomons.
By late September, the strain of the mounting losses over Guadalcanal was contributing to the poor health of Vice Admiral Tsukahara, commander of the Eleventh Air Fleet. Suffering from a combination of dengue fever, malaria, and “a stomach and intestinal ailment,” he was sent home to Japan for recuperation. His replacement, Vice Adm. Jinichi Kusaka, arrived at Truk on October 7 for briefings with the Combined Fleet Staff. Raised in Ichikawa Prefecture, Kusaka had spent the past several years in administrative positions, most recently as director of the naval academy. During his time at Etajima, which followed his posting as director of the bureau of education, Kusaka had grown accus
tomed to the trappings and privileges of flag rank. Sometime after his arrival at Rabaul on October 8, he was pleased to discover that there were thousands of horses on New Britain. (The South Seas Detachment had brought 4,500 animals and even a veterinary detachment with the original invasion fleet in January.) The fifty-three-year-old admiral typically started his day with an early morning ride, often accompanied by one or more of his staff officers. Refined, with a slender build and pleasant features, Kusaka also had a habit of napping after lunch, even when the war was in full swing at Rabaul.
SHORTLY AFTER Kusaka’s arrival, a major expansion of the aviation presence in and around Rabaul commenced. To support the ongoing battles for Guadalcanal and New Guinea, the Japanese decided to concentrate as many aircraft as possible in the Southeast Area. To make room for additional land- and carrier-based naval air groups, improvements were made to the existing airdromes and construction of several new fields was initiated.
Work on the first new airdrome on New Britain began as early as October 1942, when portions of two coconut plantations east of Kokopo were cleared. Progress was slow, for the Japanese had no bulldozers. Army tanks were used to push down trees, but much of the effort to clear away the debris was done by POWs and labor gangs. Eventually the field boasted a 4,350-foot concrete runway near the shoreline of St. George’s Channel. The Allies called it Rapopo, borrowing the name of the nearest plantation.
