He was exactly right.
“Guadalcanal was the birthplace of many flying aces for our side. Me included,” Tony said with a mischievous smile. “But all of us experienced being shot down by a Zero. Smith, Carl, Foss, Everton… Almost all of the aces that the Marine Corps boasted were downed at least once by a Zero. Carl, the pilot who took out Junichi Sasai, was himself downed by a Zero. We’re only alive because we had the home advantage.”
“Ah, Marion Carl, who took out Lieutenant JG Sasai, was shot down by a Zero once too?”
Tony nodded. “You Zero pilots were amazing. That’s not just flattery. I know that because I returned from many missions with my fuselage filled with bullet holes. You had some true pilots.”
I suddenly felt tears well up and spill down my face. He seemed shocked.
“If my comrades who died in Rabaul’s skies could hear what you just said, they’d be overjoyed.”
He nodded several times. “I lost many comrades myself. Maybe they’re all up in heaven right now, telling jokes to each other.”
I’d like to think so, I thought. What a sorrowful history we had—I and these good men whom I now faced had tried to kill one another.
Tony was a cheerful and sunny guy. “I have five grandkids, five!” he said, showing me a photo. I wonder if he’s still alive and well… By the way, Flight Seaman 1st Class Koyama, who had wanted to leave Miyabe Flight, died soon thereafter. One day in October, as our third plane, he ignored the flight leader’s orders and pursued the enemy too far in the skies over Guadalcanal. While he managed to take out two Grummans, the mission would prove to be his last.
Our flight got separated from the rest of our formation, and the three of us made to head back towards Rabaul on our own. About an hour into the journey, Koyama pulled up alongside the flight leader and signaled that he was going back. I pulled up to his aircraft, too. Koyama indicated that he was running low on fuel and couldn’t make it to base. Therefore he would return to Guadalcanal and conduct a suicide attack.
We fighter pilots—not only fighter pilots, but all IJN aviators, in fact—were taught to hurl ourselves against an enemy warship or base if the condition of our aircraft prevented us from completing the return journey. This was a must if our plane had been damaged over enemy territory. I personally witnessed many occasions where medium bombers damaged in combat crashed into the enemy airfield on Guadalcanal. Back then we thought that was the obvious choice. I, too, was ready to throw myself at one of their ships or their airfield if it came to that.
Thinking back on it now, the kamikaze special attack force may have arisen out of that fertile soil.
But at that moment, watching my comrade gesture that he was going to blow himself up because he didn’t have enough fuel, I wondered if there really wasn’t anything we could do. Koyama had been a year ahead of me at Yatabe, and we had practically eaten out of the same bowls. He was my closest friend at Rabaul.
I looked over to Flight Leader Miyabe, who was signaling with his hands as well.
We had radios, but they were entirely useless, all static and no words. So pilots had to rely on hand signs to communicate. At Pearl Harbor too, the attack forces used signal flares because they couldn’t trust their radios.
How long can you last? Flight Leader Miyabe asked.
About 100 nautical miles, just short of Buin, Koyama responded. One hundred nautical miles is about 180 kilometers.
Do your best to make it back there, the flight leader signed.
Roger, Koyama replied.
In an attempt to cheer him up, I got in pretty close and tapped his wing with my own. When he noticed, he made a fist as if he was threatening to punch me, and laughed. That made me laugh, too. Isn’t it strange how people can laugh at times like that?
The flight leader gradually ascended. Aircraft use less fuel at higher altitudes because there is less resistance, and the air-fuel ratio in the engine is more efficient there. Also, if you run out of fuel at a high altitude, you have that much more of a gliding range. On the other hand, at such altitudes the temperature is very cold, so it’s not a comfortable place for pilots to fly. And a rapid ascent will burn up a great deal of fuel.
Fully aware of these issues, the flight leader climbed slowly. He then gave detailed instructions regarding throttle and speed to Koyama, who seemed to be in high spirits. When I smiled at him, he smiled right back.
Our Zeros continued along their course back to Rabaul as if nothing was amiss. After a while, Bougainville Island came into view. Just a little longer now, I thought.
We continued the journey until we were about 30 nautical miles from the island. Koyama’s Zero, which he’d assumed would fall 100 nautical miles short, was still in the air. Just a little further. If he could fly for another ten minutes, he would make it back alive.
I didn’t think that Koyama was going to die. I couldn’t believe that a man flying right next to me, smiling so happily, could die. Yet his time was running out.
Just as we were approaching Buin, Koyama’s plane went into a descent.
Both the flight leader and I pursued him. Incredibly, even as we were descending, the flight leader didn’t stop turning around in the cockpit. He was keeping a keen eye out for enemy aircraft.
On his way down, Koyama’s propeller froze. His plane slowly fell and landed on the waves. It bobbed for a while. After a moment, Koyama got out of the cockpit, stood on the wing, and looked skyward. I circled above him, shouting out his name at the top of my lungs. He must have been shouting, too. I saw him waving his white scarf with his mouth open, a smile on his face.
The nose of Koyama’s plane soon dipped down under the waves. The Zero stood on its head, as it were, before starting to sink. Before it submerged completely, Koyama jumped off the wing into the ocean. I had heard that our lifejackets held out for seven hours. I wrapped my rations in my scarf and dropped them down to him.
Reluctant to leave, I kept on circling overhead.
Of course, I couldn’t stay forever. My own plane was starting to run low on fuel. I wheeled around in one final, expansive circle, then banked. Koyama saluted from amidst the waves.
I pulled up my nose and departed from the spot. During that time, the flight leader had been waiting slightly overhead. Knowing him, he had probably been keeping an eye out in case any enemy aircraft suddenly appeared.
As soon as we landed at Buin, we alerted them to where Koyama had been forced to splash down. They immediately sent out a rescue seaplane, but it returned an hour later empty-handed. By the time they reached Koyama’s last-known location, there’d been no sign of him. Instead, several sharks had been spotted in the area.
The news made me feel like a vise had clamped down on my chest. That Koyama, eaten by sharks? The pain he must have felt. The chagrin.
I recalled my last glimpse of him and how he’d been smiling. He’d fought so hard to keep his plane flying, yet lost his life just before he could reach safety. I couldn’t get over it. If we had functioning radios, we could have called ahead for a rescue party. If only our fighters were equipped with telegraph machines like the bombers were… Such thoughts made my immense frustration all the worse.
On my way back to the barracks, my anger suddenly boiled up.
“Flight leader, sir,” I said. “Why didn’t you let Koyama go back and blow himself up?”
He stopped in his tracks.
“Surely Koyama would have been far happier dying in a blaze of glory than being eaten alive by sharks.”