It seemed that the rumors that Midway survivors had been quarantined were true.
“Whenever I think, ‘This is too much, I’m quitting,’ I look at this photograph. It gives me courage,” Flight Leader Miyabe confessed with a shy smile. “Pretty pathetic that I lose my conviction if I don’t look at this picture.”
“Not at all, sir,” I replied, but he was no longer listening. He stared intensely at the photograph, and carefully put it back into his breast pocket.
Then he said in a voice barely louder than a whisper, “I just can’t die until I meet my daughter.” His face, which usually was so gentle, looked incredibly scary then.
After that day, my view of the flight leader changed. I’d been taught the importance of survival in a way that a million-word lecture couldn’t have. From that point on, I listened to everything he said. Before every sortie, he would repeat over and over until it became almost tedious to hear, “Absolutely stay in formation,” and “No matter what happens, stick close to me.”
The reason I am able to tell you this story today is because from then on I followed Miyabe-san’s instructions to the letter.
An air mêlée is incredibly terrifying. You never know when someone might take you out from behind. It was a matter of luck. When I was young, I figured that if that happened, then that was when and how I was destined to die. But Miyabe-san was loath to stake his life on sheer luck.
Until then, I had dreamed of becoming a flying ace like Sakai-san, but after becoming part of Miyabe-san’s flight, I considered coming out alive by far the most important thing.
However, we were soon embroiled in a battle where even survival was difficult. I’m referring to the Battle of Guadalcanal. Compared to Guadalcanal, our earlier attacks on Port Moresby were mere skirmishes.
For us pilots, Guadalcanal was the opening act of true hell.
Guadalcanal is a small island in the South Pacific, part of the Solomon Islands farther east from New Britain Island where Rabaul is located. It was a lone, undeveloped outcropping covered with jungles. Had the Pacific War not taken place, the name and its very existence would have gone forever unknown by the world at large.
At the time, the Japanese military was attempting to sever lines of communication between the U.S. and Australian forces. We hoped to build an airfield on Guadalcanal that would serve as an unsinkable aircraft carrier glaring out over the South Pacific. We advanced to Guadalcanal and began construction on the airfield in the summer of 1942. The plan was to move most of our aircraft from Rabaul to Guadalcanal once the airfield was completed.
An IJN construction unit spent a whole month clearing virgin jungle and building a runway, but as soon as they were done, U.S. forces mounted a ruthless attack on Guadalcanal and took our just-finished airfield. The Americans had held off until the runway was done. Most of the Japanese troops at Guadalcanal at the time were construction crew and didn’t stand a chance. Our side was annihilated in no time.
I learned all this after the war had ended. At the time, I had never even heard of a place called Guadalcanal, let alone that our Navy was building a base there.
I suppose Imperial Headquarters never thought the U.S. would launch a full-scale attack on such a tiny island. They must have assumed that at most it would be a minor archipelagic conflict. But that obscure island would become the site of the hardest-fought battle in the Pacific theater.
August 7, 1942, was the fateful day.
As if in anticipation, we were transferred from Lae to Rabaul several days before. About half the pilots were back in Rabaul for R&R and aircraft maintenance. That morning, even those of us at Rabaul heard the news that Guadalcanal had been taken. Our planned air raid on Milne Bay was scrapped, and we were to attack the enemy’s troop transport fleet headed for Guadalcanal instead.
“Where the heck is Guadalcanal?” I asked PO3 Saito, a member of my squadron.
“No idea. Nor did I know we had an airfield there.”
None of the aircrew knew of the place. But soon information trickled in that a garrison on Tulagi, an island facing Guadalcanal, had died to the last man, and an incredibly heavy mood overtook our unit.
We gathered before HQ, where we were handed aerial maps. We found out that it was a whopping 560 nautical miles from Rabaul. That’s about 1,000 kilometers.
“Impossible,” someone muttered. It was Flight Leader Miyabe. “We can’t fight at such a distance,” he objected in a sorrowful tone.
Someone yelled, “Who the hell just said it’s impossible?!” A young officer boiling over with rage stalked towards us. “You bastard! What the hell did you say?” he barked, striking Miyabe-san across the face before he could reply. “Just this morning our comrades were killed in action on Tulagi. The entire seaplane contingent on Tulagi was wiped out as well. It’s a military man’s duty to avenge his brothers-in-arms!”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” said Miyabe-san, but the officer punched him again, splitting his lip open.
“You’re Miyabe, aren’t you? I’ve heard the rumors about you, damn coward!” yelled the officer. “If I hear any more cowardly bullshit from you, you’re gonna pay for it!” the officer shouted and walked away.
“Flight Leader, you can’t voice such thoughts,” I said, wiping at his bloodied lip with my scarf.
Miyabe-san’s eyes were dark as he muttered, “This battle will be unlike anything that’s come before.”
“Do you know Guadalcanal?”
“No, I don’t. But I do know how far 560 nautical miles is,” he said softly. “It’s not a distance that Zeros can do battle over.”
The air supremacy team picked earlier that morning included Lt. Sasai, PO1 Sakai, PO1 Nishizawa, PO1 Ohta, all the Rabaul stalwarts. Miyabe-san was not among the names listed. Of course, neither was mine.
Flight Petty Officer 1st Class Saburo Sakai—I’ve mentioned him several times now, and from back then, he was so famous that there wasn’t a single Navy pilot who didn’t know his name. He was truly a genius ace who already had over fifty kills. His eyes were so sharp that they said he could pick out stars in the daytime skies, and his dogfighting skills were practically divine. Meanwhile, PO1 Nishizawa would later become the ace pilot most feared by the American forces. Lt. JG Sasai and FPO1 Ohta were remarkably expert pilots as well.
The Zero fighter pilots chosen for the attack on Guadalcanal that morning included Flight Chief Petty Officer Toraichi Takatsuka, FPO2 Ichirobei Yamazaki, FPO2 Masaaki Endo—all amazing, master pilots, too.
Command must have known that making a strike at a distance of 560 nautical miles was at best a risky mission. Eighteen of our best men were chosen for it.
At 07:50, twenty-seven Type 1 land-based bombers took off from Vunakanau Airfield located on a plateau, and eighteen Zeros took off from the eastern airfield in the foothills. But one had to turn back due to engine trouble.
Thus seventeen Zeros fell into an orderly formation above Rabaul and flew due east into the deep blue sky. Even now I remember the sight of the greatest pilots in the IJN flying in formation that day. It was a truly beautiful formation. We waved and waved as we watched.
Later that day, nine Type 99 carrier-based bombers also departed. However, the 99’s flight range was insufficient, so they all sortied knowing it would be a one-way trip. They were ordered to attack the enemy’s troop transports, then to ditch in the ocean in a designated area and to wait for rescue from seaplanes. I remember feeling very uptight once I heard of such a suicidal mission.