The Americans issued “three absolute no-no’s” regarding Zeros to all of their pilots: never dogfight a Zero; never perform the same maneuver as a Zero at speeds lower than 300 mph; and never pursue an ascending Zero at low speeds. Those who violated these rules would end up gunned down by a Zero, they were told.
Thus the Americans completely switched to using hit-and-run attacks on us, and their pilots were ordered to number two or more planes for each Zero.
It was thanks to the American forces’ ample materiel that they could employ such a method. And we suffered attrition from these new battle tactics that relied on their ability to mass-produce fighters.
While the Americans pressed with ample materiel, they valued the lives of their pilots. I think it was that autumn when a captured American pilot was sent to Rabaul.
An American fighter had been shot down in a dogfight over Guadalcanal, and the pilot was picked up by one of our destroyers and held as a prisoner of war. What he said astounded us. After participating in battle for one week, American pilots were moved to the rear and allowed to fully recuperate before heading back to the front lines. And after a combat deployment lasting several months, they were removed from the front entirely.
When we caught wind of this, we were at a loss for words. Here we were, almost never granted any leave, forced to sortie nearly every day.
We were losing our most seasoned pilots like an overused comb. In fact, they were the first to perish. Inexperienced pilots were at greater risk of getting shot down and wasting precious aircraft, so our veteran pilots were called on first. Our superiors valued the planes more than our lives.
I am repeating myself again, but we had to fly over three hours one way to protect bombers in skies where the enemy lurked in ambush, only to make a three-hour-plus return journey, day in, day out. Our stamina and concentration levels inevitably deteriorated. One mistake and we were done for. It wasn’t an easy world where you simply tried not to make the same mistake twice. Just once was all it took. “That single careless pitch was fatal,” they sometimes say in pro baseball, and for fighter pilots it was literally fatal.
This is off the subject, but after the war I received quite the shock when I looked up records of German flying aces. At the top was Hartmann with 350 kills, and there were dozen others with over 200 kills each. Such numbers were unthinkable in the Imperial Navy. I think it’s that they had the advantage of fighting over Germany. Their terrain greatly favored them. Even if they were shot down, they could parachute down to safety, or make an emergency landing in the case of engine failure. Hartmann had been shot down a number of times but parachuted each time. I believe the fact that they were intercepting was also big. They were going up against incoming hostile aircraft, so they could set up ambushes and didn’t have to worry about conserving fuel. We were never given a second chance. Pilots like Tetsuzo Iwamoto and Hiroyoshi Nishizawa who were able to down over a hundred enemy aircraft each even under such circumstances were true masters.
Anyway, the latter half of ’42 saw the start of an incredibly tough battle.
Replacements for lost aircraft were slow to arrive, as were fresh pilots to replace the men who died in action. Actually, the latter deficit was truly dire. With aircraft, at least, they could send them and that was that, but veteran pilots were irreplaceable. It took years to nurture expert pilots. Resupplying wasn’t a possibility when it came to them.
One time Zeros were deployed to provide a screen for destroyers. I mentioned their “rat transportation” before, but even the speedy destroyers couldn’t make the journey to Guadalcanal within nighttime hours. They had to make the approach while the sun was still in the sky, which allowed enemy aircraft to launch from Guadalcanal and attack them. Thus three Zeros were deployed from the base at Buin to provide cover. They protected the airspace over the ships, and a fresh flight of three Zeros relieved them when their fuel started to run low. However, the base at Buin was not equipped for night landings, so the replacement Zeros were to ditch in the ocean near the destroyers. In the rough seas, the three pilots lost their lives—all of them veteran with years of experience.
The crew of the destroyers risked their lives to get food to the starving soldiers on Guadalcanal, and in turn the pilots of Rabaul fought to the death to protect the ships.
The conflict over the tiny island in the South Pacific assumed the aspect of an all-out battle between Japan and the U.S. No matter how many blows we landed on the enemy, they kept sending out fresh forces. It was as if they had unlimited supplies.
I said earlier how I was floored by the sheer number of warships that I had seen anchored at Guadalcanal on my first mission there, but there was another spectacle I’ll never forget. In September of 1942, thanks to an air raid and the brave fighting of our Zero pilots, we were able to make vast military gains. We shot down many enemy aircraft and destroyed many more before they could take off. When I glimpsed the airfield at Guadalcanal two days later, however, it had an equal number of planes. The sight made my hair stand on end. I feared we were battling an immortal monster.
That reminds me—of the time Flight Leader Miyabe machine-gunned an American who was parachuting down.
I think it happened on September 20th, two weeks into the Guadalcanal conflict. We were on our way back to Rabaul from an air raid when two Grummans jumped us. We must have been about 100 nautical miles from Guadalcanal. The Grummans abruptly emerged from the clouds above and swooped down to attack our formation. We were utterly taken by surprise. A Zero burst into flames before my eyes.
I immediately dove down to give chase, but they easily shook me off. A Zero, with its limited diving speed, couldn’t keep up. Damn it, I thought, but there was nothing I could do.
Just then I saw a Zero in hot pursuit of a Grumman. It was Flight Leader Miyabe. He had caught on to the surprise attack and preemptively gone into a dive, hanging below. I saw his machine guns blazing and then the Grumman exploding.
The other Grumman pulled a 180 and went after the flight leader. This seemed to take him completely off-guard. Just when I thought they were headed for a mid-air collision, Flight Leader Miyabe dodged the enemy by a hair. The next instant, the Grumman caught fire. The pilot escaped from the falling aircraft, and I could see his parachute opening.
That did me good. Even so late in the game, I felt new admiration for my flight leader. But what happened next was shocking.
The flight leader’s plane wheeled around, aimed its nose towards the escaping pilot, and fired. The bullets tore up the parachute, and the American pilot plummeted toward the sea along with his collapsed parachute.
Seeing this made disgust wash over me. Why did he have to go and do that? I thought. Sure, we had lost one of ours, but this was war, and it couldn’t be helped. It didn’t mean you had to open fire on a defenseless enemy pilot.
Many other aircrew must have witnessed the incident. When we returned to Rabaul, the formation leader immediately confronted Flight Leader Miyabe and yelled, “You bastard, don’t you have a shred of samurai mercy?”
None of the other pilots said a word, but their eyes were filled with reproach for my flight leader. And as his wingman, I felt ashamed.
“Why take the life of an enemy when you’ve shot down his plane?”
“Yes, sir,” my flight leader answered.
“We fighter pilots should be samurai. What you did was akin to skewering a fallen warrior with a bamboo spear. Don’t ever do that again.”