He treasured a photo of his wife and kid. You might want to say that young people these days are all like that, and I won’t quibble with you on that. Modern society is all lukewarm. If some weakling of a salaryman who relies entirely on his company keeps a photo of his wife and child tucked inside his commuter-pass holder, that’s actually kinda cute. But sixty years ago, things were different. We were putting our lives on the line.
Even today, people commonly bandy about phrases like “on my life,” but it’s nothing more than words. It’s just a flashier version of “I’ll do my best.” Don’t make me laugh. I’d love to give them a lesson, about what it really means to risk your life. Back then, we were literally putting our lives on the line.
And yet back there in the thick of war, he was like some modern salaryman gazing at that photograph and spouting crap like, “I wanna survive this war and go home.” Imagine risking your life in combat every day and hearing that nonsense from some fellow next to you.
—Did I ever actually hear him say that? True, I don’t have any precise recollection. But even if he didn’t say it out loud, it was obvious to everyone that he was thinking that all the time.
I graduated from the Preparatory Flight Training Program in Kasumigaura in early 1943.
I was first stationed in Taiwan, and then transferred to the Philippines. From there I was sent to Java, and then on to Balikpapan on Borneo. It was already clear at that point that the tide of the war was turning against us. But I didn’t give a damn. I simply focused on carrying out my duty as a fighter pilot. And what was that duty? Shooting down as many enemy aircraft as possible.
I was lucky to see my first action at Balikpapan. There was an oilfield there, which meant an abundance of fuel, so we could train to our heart’s content. I’m sure that was how I was able to polish my piloting skills.
In my first sortie at Balikpapan, I shot down an enemy fighter—a Spitfire. Many of my former classmates who’d arrived from Japan with me lost their lives during their first air battle. Guys who arrived later met the same fate. It was as though they were showing up just to die. Rare was the pilot who survived three dogfights. The enemy had fighters that could outperform the Zero and their pilots were more skilled. Plus, they had radar, and their sheer numbers were overwhelming. Even veteran pilots had a hard time staying alive in that theater.
It was under such circumstances that I sortied four times in the first week and shot down two aircraft. Everyone’s attitude towards me changed, noticeably. I don’t mean to brag, but I was a gifted fighter pilot. In the first six months, I downed about ten enemy aircraft if I include unconfirmed kills.
I was sent to Rabaul in the fall of ’43.
By that point, Rabaul was no longer the home of the glorious Rabaul Air Corps. The Americans were recapturing the surrounding islands one after another, and we were forced into a defensive stance. A transfer to Rabaul was considered a one-way ticket.
Air raids would continue for days on a tremendous scale. Nearly every day, formations ranging from 150 to 200 fighters and bombers would conduct raids on us. Some days there were as many as 300 aircraft. We had a mere fifty fighters. We were mostly just intercepting the enemy, which actually agreed with me. Frankly, I hated escorting the slowpoke bombers. It was like a ball and chain. But in an ambush, I was free to engage with the enemy. I like it here, I thought.
When you’re intercepting, whoever’s faster wins. As soon as there’s a report of incoming enemy aircraft, the pilots ran at full tilt towards their fighters. The ground crew would start the engines, and we’d jump into the cockpits then head up into the skies.
I never took on their large aircraft. My targets were always fighters. We interceptors were supposedly tasked with shooting down bombers that invaded the airspace over the base, but I didn’t care. I fought the way I wanted to.
The American fighters were sturdily built. A 7.7-mm machine gun couldn’t take them down. The 20-mm cannons could, but their initial velocity was slow and their range was short, which meant they rarely struck their targets. Even so, I easily managed kills using the cannons.
How? By leading the target. It’s a technique where you fire at an enemy aircraft that’s not yet in your sights.
Here’s how it is. Airplanes move at blazing speeds. In a dogfight, your aircraft, too, is slicing through the air. So even if you manage to get the enemy in your sights and pull the trigger, the bullets drift or drop and rarely hit the target. That’s why you have to take aim at the expected trajectory of the aircraft, at open space, and fire there. That way, the enemy will fly into the path of your bullets.
Nobody taught us these things during flight training. In fact, I wonder if there were very many seasoned pilots who used that technique. It was kind of like a trick shot, and, if I say so myself, I was naturally gifted at it. I’ve heard that Germany’s Marseille was a master at deflection shooting, that’s to say, leading the target.
I drilled at it every damn day. I was always practicing plucking flies out of midair with my hands. After countless efforts, I was able to nab them with near certainty. My special talent gained a measure of notoriety within my unit. Everyone tried their hands at it, but hardly anyone succeeded.
I scored over twenty kills at Rabaul.
There aren’t any official records, because by that time the Navy didn’t acknowledge individual kills. Kills were credited to the unit as a whole. How very Japanese that was. They tried to erase any hint of individual achievement.
I suspect the reason the Navy stopped recognizing individual kill records was that such stats would reveal who kicked ass and who sucked. That’d be enough to make any incompetent commissioned officer uncomfortable, huh?
Formations were always led into combat by commissioned officers, regardless of skill level. Some of them were good, but that was very rare. Most Naval Academy-trained formation leaders were inexperienced and incompetent. There were many times when a leader’s lame decision resulted in the entire formation getting into a jam. I myself was faced with such danger many times. But in the military, a superior officer’s orders are absolute. Even if we knew it was dangerous to fly in a certain direction, if the formation leader flew that way we had no choice but to follow. And just as expected, we would be attacked by enemy aircraft lying in wait.
Had they made individual kill records public, it would have been painfully obvious that incompetent commanders were leading highly capable non-comms into battle.
Apparently things were different in the U.S. military. All their pilots were commissioned officers, and those with superior skills headed their formations. Individual kill scores were made public, and pilots were openly lauded for their achievements. All their pilots would excitedly rush into battle, eager to raise their own scores. If a pair of pilots shot down one aircraft, they would each receive 0.5 points. Isn’t that so very American? That encouraged pilots to hustle even when they had to work in tandem. Those guys went all in. You can’t win a fight otherwise.
The Imperial Navy was nothing like that. No matter how excellent an aviator, an NCO was never made a unit commander. At best, he could become a flight leader. My rank then was Flight Seaman 1st Class, the third rank from the bottom. No matter how many enemy aircraft I shot down, my advancement up the ranks was never fast-tracked. The IJN was designed to never allow individuals to stand out.
Yet, there were some who triumphantly defied the policy. Tetsuzo Iwamoto just went ahead and painted the number of kills on the fuselage of his beloved plane. His ride was thus covered in cherry blossoms, one for each kill. From a distance, that whole section looked to be of a different color.