But sadly, the pilots at the controls of those aircraft weren’t the ones who had attacked Pearl Harbor. This became evident right after takeoff. Flying in a beautiful close-knit formation was beyond them! This was no longer the IJN air corps of the old days.
So how did it turn out? Exactly as you might imagine.
The Americans’ advanced radar detected our incoming attack force while we were still 100 nautical miles out. What’s surprising is that they could also gauge our altitude. I only learned all this after the war, mind you. To what extent Fleet Commander Ozawa and his staff were aware of the Americans’ radar capabilities, I do not know. I’m afraid they had no idea. Meanwhile, we aircrew learned the hard way.
The Americans had launched all of their mobile task force’s fighters to ambush our attack waves. While we thought we’d be dealing a surprise blow courtesy of our out-of-range tactic, we were the ones who suffered a nasty surprise instead.
Our formations were attacked from a higher altitude by more than twice as many enemy fighters. I managed to just barely escape the onslaught, but in the blink of an eye my wingmen became balls of flame and fell from the sky. I tried to lock onto a Grumman, but as soon as I tailed one, another came up right on my six-o’clock and fired at me. Taking down enemy aircraft was out of the question.
Our planes continued to drop like flies. The younger, less proficient pilots weren’t even able to take evasive maneuvers, and one after another they fell prey to the enemy fighters.
You know what the American troops called this battle later? The Great Marianas Turkey Shoot. I don’t really know what kind of bird a turkey is, but apparently it’s so slow that even a child can shoot one. For the American fighter pilots, our aircraft were as easy to hit as turkeys that day.
While I had managed to elude the first bunch of enemy planes, there was a second one right behind them. The Americans had deployed multiple layers of fighters. In the end, most of our attack planes were shot down. Only a handful were able to break through the lines of interceptors.
Somehow, though, I was able to safeguard several Suisei dive bombers, and we made it to the skies above the American mobile task force. The Suiseis were fast, which likely helped them break through, but the Tenzans were slow, and I think most ended up getting shot down.
When we arrived above their fleet, I shivered. There was a whole herd of large-sized aircraft carriers, close to ten of them. The IJN had deployed only three fleet carriers, and here the Americans had three times as many. A difference in reach was totally meaningless. It was like a flyweight boxer trying to take on a heavyweight.
The American fleet was protected by a thick screen of innumerable aircraft. I gave up. I figured that my luck was about to run out. If I was going to die anyway, I hoped to help at least one of our bombers score a hit even if it meant sacrificing my own aircraft.
I took on the enemy fighters, very nearly hurling myself at them as they tried to attack the Suisei bombers. Perhaps it was my sheer fighting spirit that kept their machine-gun fire from touching the Suiseis. I clung fast by the bombers, driving away enemy fighters. I was totally prepared to put myself in the line of fire.
I saw the bombers nose down into the dive. The fleet sent up a furious volley of anti-aircraft fire. I had never before seen such an intense barrage. The sky turned black. The Suiseis dove down bravely through it all. Hang in there, I prayed. Even if you’re no more than a preying mantis against them, deal the enemy at least one slash! Even if it won’t do a thing, land just one blow!
But in the next instant, I witnessed something unbelievable. One after another, the Suisei bombers began spouting flames and falling from the sky. It was as though the Americans’ anti-aircraft artillery were sniping at the Suiseis with scoped rifles. I stared in blank amazement at the falling bombers.
In the end, they’d done hardly anything to the enemy. I didn’t know what to think anymore. A Hellcat approached me while I was in that state. I escaped by pure instinct. I was totally incapable of striking back, and it was all I could do to protect my own hide. They were like cats toying with mice, pouncing on me again and again. I would dodge one only to encounter another. I was fully occupied just evading enemy fire.
At long last, I escaped the airspace above the American ships, and no Hellcats gave chase. They had probably been tasked to defend the ships, first and foremost. Had they doggedly pursued me, I very likely would have been killed.
I decided to return to my home carrier. There wasn’t a single friendly aircraft in sight. I considered heading to the base on Guam, but finally resolved to go back to the Zuikaku. This decision saved my life. The third attack wave that sortied after me failed to discover the enemy fleet, and instead of returning to their carriers flew to Guam, where they were ambushed by American fighters that shot down almost all of them.
Upon returning, I saw only one of our aircraft carriers. Both the Taiho and the Shokaku were nowhere to be seen, even though the enemy’s attack force shouldn’t have reached them yet.
I landed on the Zuikaku and headed to the flight captain to give my report. I stated that due to the Americans’ interception most of the attack force was lost, and that as far as I could tell, the enemy had suffered almost no damage.
“Is that so,” the flight captain said, then fell silent.
I asked a sailor as to the status of the Taiho and the Shokaku. He told me that American submarines had torpedoed and sunk both carriers. I felt all the strength drain from my whole body all at once. While we had devoted all our air power to a battle to no avail, two of our carriers had gone down…
A crushing defeat, I thought.
After a while, a lone Zero returned. It was Miyabe. He came back alone, without his wingmen. That was a given; no flight could have come back intact from that battle. His aircraft had suffered damage, sporting several bullet holes. A thoroughly exhausted Miyabe climbed out of the cockpit.
After he turned in his report, he saw me, which seemed to surprise him. His eyes seemed to say, “Good for you to have survived.”
We went into the crew lounge. It was empty. Most of those who had sortied that day hadn’t returned.
“We lost a hell of a lot of men,” I said.
“Radar, probably. Seems like their radar technology has improved by leaps and bounds.”
“Did you make it to their location?”
Miyabe nodded.
“Then you saw it?”
He paused and then said, “I did.”
“Did you include it in your debriefing?”
“I did, but the flight captain and the staff didn’t seem all that interested.”
“Same with me. I tried to explain at length, but they just refused to pay it any particular attention.”
“You have to see it to believe it.”
“What on earth was that?”
Miyabe shook his head. “I don’t know, but I do know that it’s absolutely formidable. It might mean that we can’t sink their carriers anymore.”
We were discussing the Americans’ anti-aircraft artillery, which had demonstrated an astoundingly high hit ratio against the bombers. It almost defied belief. I wondered if they hadn’t developed some outrageous new weapon.
Our speculations later proved to be correct.
The Americans’ secret new weapon was something called a “proximity fuze.” Nicknamed “magic fuzes” or “VT fuzes,” these were small radars in the nose of a shell. When an aircraft passed within a couple dozen meters of the shell, the fuze got tripped and detonated. It was a fearsome weapon.
This, too, I only learned years after the war had ended. Apparently, the U.S. military spent as much money developing these VT fuzes as they did on the Manhattan Project. The Manhattan Project produced the atomic bomb.