was a rule for landing called the “mid-air pass.” When we approached the runway, we flew 200 meters overhead and passed by first. Banking our wings, the officer in charge looking through his binoculars confirmed by saying “Number such-and-such passed.” Only then could we start the landing procedure. Everyone on the ground watched as we came in. Even if they didn’t know the pilot, they could assess his skill level by how well he landed. After a successful landing the engine would be revved for a few seconds before alighting the aircraft and running to the command post to report in.
Aircraft landed separately at smaller bases. Runways were typically 50 to 60 meters wide, but planes were prone to swinging to the sides, so as much leeway as possible was appreciated. At large bases four planes could land in unison. We could even do eight simultaneously at the largest. It just depended on the conditions. We relied on hand signals and non-verbal cues to coordinate our approach. The runways on carrier decks, however, were considerably narrower and always a harrowing prospect.
Cockpit Lunches
We had lunch in the cockpit on long flights. This was usually a couple of rice balls wrapped in bamboo leaves made by the mess staff. We stuffed the rice balls in the pockets of our flying suits and looked forward to scoffing them in the cockpit. We never took water bottles for some reason. I don’t know why, but I guess it was because we never really got thirsty. No matter how loudly nature called, we refrained from taking a dump or a whiz in the cockpit. Having said that, if our bladders were bursting and peeing was unavoidable, one small consolation was that it dried quickly through the engine heat.
Some pilots tucked into their lunches as soon as they levelled out after take-off. They would move to the front of the formation and let the others know, even though enemy aircraft could appear at any moment. Boys being boys, sometimes pilots would sneak up behind those enjoying their lunches and frighten the living daylights out of them.
Fighter pilots were a special breed in the Navy. Each one was, in a sense, a lone wolf. Flight hours was more significant than official rank, and pilots who had done the hours and proved themselves in battle were treated with respect, even if their rank was low. They were allowed in the cadre’s chamber called the “Gun Room” which was off limits even to commissioned officers without enough flight hours.
Under the Commander was the Assistant Commander, Flight Commander, Squadron Leaders, Section and Assistant Section Leaders. The commander was usually a Colonel or Lieutenant Colonel. Under him were 60 to 70 pilots. Promotions came rapidly. I started at the lowest rank of Flight Petty Officer 2nd Class but was promoted to Flight Petty Officer 1st Class within three months, and Superior Flight Petty Officer three months later. Then Chief Flyer to Flyer 2nd Class, and Flyer 1st Class on August 15, 1945. I can’t remember when I was made Flyer 2nd Class.
Embroidered Scarf
In those days, most big towns in Taiwan had sugar companies run by Japanese. The factories had clubhouses where wives of employees took good care of us. On the second floor of one such clubhouse, there were five or six Japanese tatami-mat rooms in which we could rest. On the ground floor was a large hall, cafeteria, and a room for listening to music and playing Japanese chess. The facilities were built for company personnel and their families, but we were permitted to come and go as we pleased. These were still relatively carefree days as we didn’t know the misery that awaited us.
When stationed at the Hsinchu base, we occasionally visited the local town to unwind after long training periods, or after completing two to three weeks of sorties. Somehow this information always got out and we were greeted by throngs of Japanese girls living in Taiwan. It was quite perplexing when they called us by name. We had no idea who they were. We were invited to their homes for dinner, and ended up going to several houses each night. It was decided who would go where first by scissors-paper-stone. The families welcomed us with delicious food cooked by the mothers. Alcohol flowed freely. We went from one home to the next after an hour, indulging in three full meals in a single night.
One girl gave me a scarf on my second or third visit. It was made of cloth from a used parachute and was embroidered with pink cherry blossoms and a navy blue anchor, the symbol of Yokaren. Brushed onto the silk was a poem composed by a pilot who died at Pearl Harbor (see photos).
For you [your imperial majesty],
if my life is short like scattering cherry blossoms,
then I have no regrets. 11
The characters were so exquisite, I figured her father must have written it. She gave me another scarf with “221st Naval Air Group Storm Corps, One shot, one kill”12 and my name stitched on it. I wore it on all my sorties. The others liked to give me a hard time about it. “Hey, fashion Queen!” they would chide. “Piss off!” I replied. I wore this religiously when I sortied. I intended for it to be wrapped around my neck in my final mission as a Kamikaze pilot.
I never saw her again. If letters were not censored the way they were, I might have kept in contact. I will always remember her name though. My wife kept the scarf in a drawer after the war. The color of the stitching was vivid pink, but it faded over the years. I told my wife that I received it from a young girl in Taiwan whose family I became friendly with. She understood its immense value and treated it with the utmost respect.
The Japanese girls in Taiwan must have been happy to have all these dashing young men from the mainland over there to protect them. We received love letters from girls who we didn’t know. The content was mostly the same. “Dear So-and-so, thank you for devoting your life in service to the nation. Stay well and good luck.” Some of the letters contained beautiful pressed flowers which really lightened our mood. Our superiors told us never to get too close. We all knew that “happily ever after” was an unlikely outcome. We weren’t destined to live for long, but we appreciated their kindness all the same.
Formosa Air Battle
On October 12, 1944, news came in that 12 enemy carriers had appeared east of Taiwan. It was time to scramble. Bombers and torpedo planes took off first to keep the American fleet at bay. We were determined to keep the air battle offshore and away from the island itself. Before long, hundreds of Japanese planes not stationed in Taiwan started arriving at our bases to refuel. Losses started to mount.
Fifty Zeros departed from Hsinchu in pursuit of the bombers. I was among them. We headed east and could see small dots like speckles of sand contrasted against the clouds to the north. There were too many to count. The dots soon grew to the size of beans and we realized that they were the enemy judging by their direction and formation.
We climbed to 4,000 meters, the optimum altitude for combat in the Zero, but the enemy climbed higher. We gave chase but then the enemy started to dive. We were now disadvantaged as their planes had considerably more grunt than ours. They had spotted us and were heading in our direction. I could tell they were F6Fs because I studied pictures of enemy aircraft every day. Thumb on trigger, I was resolved not to show the underside of my aircraft. We pushed our Zeros into full throttle and charged forward into the fray. We were all of one mind.
The wings of an F6F came into my sights. I knew that he was hunting me too. I was flying at about 350km/h and he at around 400km/h. The Zero had two pairs of machine-guns on each wing. We were approaching each other at approximately 200 meters each second, so I was focused solely on getting the timing right for my burst. I would need to press the button at 500 to 600 meters out, and then veer away at the last second to avoid collision. I was ready spray him the instant he showed his belly.
I held my shot. “Not yet, not yet.…” I fired and so did he. Passing each other by in
