LITMIR.BIZ

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the target. After informing the instructor “Target OK” through the comms tube, I pushed down on the lever to take off. Gradually ascending to 200m, I would call “First turn” and made a 90-degree turn to the left. At the next turning point, I would make one more 90-degree turn to the left, and fly the reverse route looking down on the runway. I would then make a third turn to the left, and then one more before descending to land on “three points.” That is, a stable landing on the two wheels attached to the main wings and the rear wheel. After successfully touching down, I would disembark and run to report to the trainer. The next trainee would then head to the cockpit while I returned to the bench to observe his flight.

      In addition to this basic training we also practiced more complex maneuvers such as the “aileron roll,” “vertical loop,” “left diagonal loop,” “right diagonal loop,” and “hammerhead stall.” The “left oblique spin” involved climbing to the upper left, turning over and then descending. The “hammerhead stall” was executed by climbing quickly on an angle, and as the plane lost speed at the highest point, a sudden turn was executed. This technique was an evasion maneuver often used by Zero fighters. Our Red Dragonflies could perform it just as well if not better than Zeros because they flew slowly without the undue stress that resulted in catastrophic structural failure seen in other machines.

      Still, the Red Dragonfly was not immune to the occasional mechanical fiasco. I had two frightening experiences with the engine suddenly cutting out. I thought I was doomed, and informed my instructor that I was preparing to crash land on the bamboo below. Fortunately the engine came back to life, and thankfully saved mine.

      Trainees also made mistakes. Every now and again the wheel struts under the wings would collapse because of heavy landings. This would inevitably earn a hard slap in the face from the instructor along with a stream of profanities for “taking the piss.”

      We had three uniforms; a flight suit, practice suit, and formal wear. Our formal uniform was a black, high-collared suit with seven buttons. Engraved on each of the buttons was a small cherry blossom and an anchor. We became known as “seven buttons” because of the uniforms, and there was even a song about us. “The young hot-blooded men of the Yokaren. Cherry blossoms and anchors, seven buttons so smart.…”

      Our formal uniforms fitted well, but flight and practice suits, and shoes were a different matter. Asking for something in our size would result in being told to “go boil your head” and “make your body fit the clothes instead of whining for clothes that fit your body!” The flight boots were awful. My shoe size was 24cm, but I was issued with 28cm boots making it hard to control the foot pedal in the cockpit. Running around base without tripping up was also a mission.

      We wore our practice uniforms most of the time. Referred to as “sailor suits” these were not made to fit either. There were fewer buttons than our iconic formal wear, and the hems of the trousers were overstated bell-bottoms, supposedly making them easier to remove them if we ended up in the sea.

      Even bedtime was a test of grit. We underwent a nightly ritual of setting up our hammocks as the trainers timed us. We placed our hammocks on the floor and knelt as we waited for the signal. With the sound of a whistle, we grabbed the metal hooks and attached them to the poles, unwound the hammock cords, placed the pillow inside and shouted “Done!” If the last one in our team took more than 18 seconds we would be scolded for our deplorable lack of enthusiasm and would have our backsides whacked three or four times with the trainer’s disciplinary baton dubbed the “Martial Spirit Bludgeon.” The time limit was gradually shortened to 17 seconds then 16 seconds.

      Life was tough and there wasn’t much to enjoy about the experience. Even washing clothes was toilsome beyond belief. Navy boys were expected to look smart and well-groomed. This meant that we had to wash our clothes often, but the laundry facilities were on an exposed hill where the frigid wind and freezing water prevented the soap suds from dissolving. Our hands were paralyzed with cold and it took forever to get our gear clean.

      The instructors habitually frightened the living daylights out of us. We found out later that some of them were hardened veterans, but many others were not. The latter were “dropouts” who lacked the necessary skills, or who were not imbued with “the right stuff” to be fighter pilots. As such, these fellows tended to be relentless in their bullying, and were clearly bent out of shape with jealousy.

      No good memories were forged in Nagoya. Perhaps the only exception was the sugar biscuits. When we were allowed a little time off training, we purchased packs of biscuits and bottles of cider which we consumed in a special room in the shop reserved for navy men. Munching on biscuits and chattering away in our fleeting moment away from the slog was our only reprieve.

       First Time in a Zero

      There were 60 trainees in Nagoya at first. All of us wanted to be fighter pilots, but many were weeded out and dropped from the course. The training duration was shortened to three months from the scheduled four, and I was sent to an airbase in Oita as a fighter trainee.⁶ At first, we weren’t sure why things were hurried along but it became abundantly clear later. The war was not going well, and Japan needed Zero pilots in battle theaters ASAP.

      After our basic training, some of us were sent offshore to places like Singapore. I was bound for Singapore at first, but my orders were changed to Oita. This is where cadets were taught how to fly Model 32 Zero fighters. I was dispatched to Oita in January 1944 with about 50 others. Being in a bomber meant you were one of a team of seven, whereas the Zero pilot was captain of his own machine. It was what all of us desired most.

      Arriving in Oita, I was dismayed to see three “Military Spirit Bludgeons” hanging ominously in the barracks. Three veterans were sitting in a circle. They stared long and hard at us wondering whether we would be able to hack it. I knew we were in for a difficult time but couldn’t let the negativity get to me.

      I boarded the fabled Model 32 Zero for the first time. It was markedly different to the Red Dragonfly I was accustomed to. The rhythmic sound of the engine was powerful and soothing. It handled sublimely, and I felt as if vapor from the engine was engulfing my body. The Zero and I were one.

      The training Zero came with a back seat for an instructor. We graduated from these before long and flew solo in single-seated models. The Model 32 was very stable. There was one instructor for each trainee team of four. We mainly practiced taking off and landing to start with, then progressed to standard flight drills and finally aerial dogfight maneuvers against other Zeros.

      A month passed, and we started to sense a change in mood around base. Instructors would fire us up by screaming that we had no more time to waste in training. “It’s time to get where the action is.” Before long, we were deployed to operational units. Our original four-month training schedule was concluded in a little over a month. I was transferred to Kasanohara Airbase in Kagoshima Prefecture.⁷

       Kasanohara Airbase

      There were three naval air bases in Kagoshima: Kanoya, Kokubu, and Kasanohara. I moved to Kasanohara in the middle of February 1944. Naval Fighter Wing squadrons of the 1st Air Fleet were referred to with animal designations—Lion, Tiger, Panther, and Wolf. Those in the 2nd Air Fleet’s 221st Naval Air Group 312th Fighter Wings were named after natural phenomena: Storm, Lightning, and Thunder. I was attached to the 312th Wing in the “Storm” (Arashi) Corps, and this is where the real fighter pilot drills began.

      Trainings at Kasanohara started out as usual. After a week or so, a senior officer told us that things were about to get serious. “Your seniors have been annihilated in the Truk Islands. The stakes are higher now. Get ready for hell lads.” The Navy had been secretive about the defeat in Truk. The Imperial General Headquarters never disclosed discouraging news, but the details trickled down to us by word of mouth anyway.⁸

      With squadrons in the 1st Air Fleet all but gone, the 2nd Air Fleet was called in to bolster air attacks in the southwest Pacific. We trained relentlessly from morning to night. Aside from on rainy days, we were usually not allowed to sleep in our quarters. Instead, we kipped under the wings of our aircraft outside. There was no bathing or change of underwear. We became scabby and filthy, and constantly

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