“Yes, sir.”
Word of this exchange spread like wildfire through the unit. I overheard many pilots gossiping about what had happened. Most of the remarks amounted to “He’s a damn disgrace to all of us.”
Flight Seaman 1st Class Koyama, our third man, was also angry. He grumbled, “I don’t want to be in his flight anymore.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” I said. “Do you have no idea how many times he’s saved your life?”
“That’s got nothing to do with this, Izaki. So you think what he did was right?”
“They killed one of ours right before our eyes. It’s only natural to avenge a comrade.”
“The flight leader did that by downing the guy’s plane. I don’t think there was any need to kill the pilot.”
I was stumped as to how to respond.
Koyama had for some time been dissatisfied with Flight Leader Miyabe. Being called “weasel” behind his back by some other airmen was taking its toll.
A few days later, I worked up the courage to bring the matter up with the flight leader.
“Sir, there is something I would like to ask you.”
“What is it?”
“Why did you shoot that parachute the other day, sir?”
The flight leader looked me right in the eye and said, “To kill the pilot.”
To be honest, I was hoping to hear him say that he regretted his action. His words caught me off-balance.
“We are at war. In war, you kill the enemy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The Americans have incredible industrial might. They can crank out fighters instantly. What we have to do is kill their pilots.”
“Sir, yes sir. But—”
At this point the flight leader yelled, “I think of myself as a murderer!”
“Yes, sir!” I replied without thinking.
“I think the American fighter pilots are murderers, too. With every bomber that goes down, seven Japanese lose their lives. But if a bomber blows up one of their ships, many more American troops die. Their pilots murder our bomber crew to keep that from happening.”
“Yes, sir.” I had never seen the flight leader shouting like this, and in such a vehement tone.
“I do battle against aircraft, but I believe my true enemies are the pilots. If I could, I’d strafe them as they stood on the ground, rather than fight them in the air!”
“Yes, sir.”
“That pilot was very skilled. He figured out our return route and hid patiently in a cloud. And when he pulled a 180, one of his bullets came through my windshield. If the shot had been just a foot in the wrong direction, it would have pierced my torso. He was formidable. Maybe he’d downed dozens of our planes. It was out of sheer luck that I won. If I’d let him return alive, he would have gone on to kill more Japanese. Maybe even myself.”
So that’s why, I thought. I felt like I’d realized for the first time that we were in a war. He wasn’t whitewashing what our battles really were. In the end, we were all just killing each other. In war, the objective is to kill as many enemy soldiers as possible without getting killed yourself.
Even so, I had never seen the flight leader get so worked up before. Seeing him that way, I understood: Flight Leader Miyabe had suffered intense agony even as he opened fire on the parachuting pilot.
There’s a surprising sequel to this tale.
That American pilot survived the ordeal—and I met him after the war, in 1970, at the WWII Air Show in St. Louis. Many American, Japanese, and German former fighter pilots were in attendance. The local newspaper gave the memorial ceremony major coverage, calling it a “Grand Reunion,” and many Navy and Marine pilots who had served with Guadalcanal’s Cactus Air Force were there.
A good number of the American pilots approached me to chat in a friendly manner. This was very odd, but the instant we met, it felt like greeting long-lost friends. I even met an ace who had downed more than twenty Japanese aircraft. In somber terms, he’d killed more than twenty of my compatriots, but for some reason I didn’t feel an ounce of hatred or resentment. Perhaps it’s true that time heals all wounds. Or perhaps it was because we’d fought like men in the skies. It seems they felt the same way about us.
They all said, “The Zeros’ pilots were amazingly good.”
I met a former Marine captain called Tony Bailey who had been stationed at Henderson Field in Guadalcanal. Tony was there from 1942 to 1943, meaning he’d fought on the same battlefield, during the same period.
We compared our log books and learned that he and I had fought on the same day seven times. And then we embraced. Isn’t that funny?
But Tony had an odd story for me. He said that he had been shot down by a Zero once. He wanted to know if it was my doing by any chance.
When I pressed for details, he said that it had occurred on September 20, 1942. It was indeed the date of one of my missions.
The story blew my mind. That day, he and his wingman had lain in wait in the clouds to ambush Japanese aircraft regrouping on the way home. Just as Tony began his assault, however, a single Zero noticed them and proceeded to take out his wingman. Having witnessed his comrade’s demise, Tony chose to strike back rather than flee. But he was fired on head-first, and his engine got hit. So he parachuted away from the falling aircraft.
I remember shivering from head to foot as he spoke.
“Were you that pilot?” he asked.
I shook my head no. Then I said, “I have a question for you, Tony. When you were parachuting down, were you fired on?”
“Yeah!” he exclaimed, spreading his arms wide. “How do you know about that?”
“Because I saw it. I thought you died.”
“I thought I was a goner, too. But even with my parachute punctured, I was close enough to the surface and hit it before I could pick up the speed to die from the impact. I was very lucky.”
“I’m so glad.”
“Do you know who it was that shot at me?”
“It was my flight leader.”
“Oh!” he cried out once again. “Is he still alive?”
“No, he died.”
“Was he shot down?”
“No, he died in a kamikaze attack.”
That instant, Tony’s mouth fell open in astonishment. Then he muttered something quietly to himself. The interpreter didn’t tell me what, but I could sense his mortification. Suddenly his face crumpled, and he began to weep.
“What was his name?”
“Kyuzo Miyabe.”
Tony repeated the syllables to himself a number of times. Then he said, “I’d have loved to meet him.”
“Don’t you resent him?”
“Why would I resent him?”
“He fired on you as you parachuted down.”
“It was war, and perfectly natural. We were still fighting. It’s not as though he shot a POW.”
Ah, I thought. “He said that you were a formidable pilot. And he clearly agonized over firing at you.”
Tony lowered his eyes. “Miyabe was a true ace. I fought against Zeros many more times, but none of the pilots were that good.”
“He was a respectable man.”
Tony nodded many times as if to say, I know.
“Guadalcanal’s American pilots were ferocious.”
Tony shook his head. “It was only thanks to those Grummans that we won. No fighter was sturdier than a Wildcat. The only reason I’m here today is because of the armor plating behind the cockpit.”
“I scored many hits on Grummans, but they kept going for the longest time.”
“We were always terrified of Zeros. Back in ’42, there weren’t that many Japanese aircraft, but all the pilots were competent. Every time we intercepted them our planes ended up riddled with holes. We lost count of how many we had to scrap. It was like a fight where we had to take ten punches for each one we landed. But that one punch made a Zero go up in flames.”