Flying didn’t come until later. Our instructors in the early stages were originally school teachers, but their lessons were severe beyond compare.
Our basic military training consisted of bayonet fighting and marching. We also practiced Sumo wrestling, marksmanship, and various team-building exercises. Rowing was particularly exacting. The oars were thick and blistered our hands, and our backsides became bruised from the hard seats. Everything we did was connected to training. Even walking from one barrack to another was prohibited. We had to run.
We were not allowed into the mess hall when morning classes finished until passing an impromptu test first. An officer would order us to halt. A soldier on the roof then signaled with flags and we had to decipher the code. Whispering our answers into the officer’s ear we were given permission to enter the mess hall if we got it right. Otherwise, we would be stuck outside and subjected to a barrage of insults decrying our “lack of military spirit.” Insults were one thing but being forced to forgo lunch was the worst.
Every minute of every day felt as if we were in our own small war, but I had no issue with even the strictest instruction. I was determined to never show the “white feather” of defeat as it was a matter of pride. I kept my sights firmly on becoming a fighter pilot. Kinzo, Hiroshi and I chose this way, so failure was not an option.
There were about 1,800 fellow trainees in Iwakuni, and many of the cadets in our first Special B-Class course were outstanding fellows. As more pilots were killed in action, we were sent to fill the gaps and became core aviators in the air fleets stationed around Taiwan and the Philippines. Thrust into the center of the action, our cohort was destined to suffer the largest number of casualties in the war.
One memory I have from that time was the mysterious demise of the battleship Mutsu in June 1943. The Mutsu was one of the largest battleships in the world. Even though it was anchored in Hiroshima about 20km away from our base, the almighty noise from the explosion was clearly audible. The cause of the explosion remains unknown.
Training in Nagoya
After six-months in Iwakuni, we relocated to the Nagoya base to undertake the midterm training course. The base was on top of a hill near the little town of Koromo. It was appallingly chilly there, and life was bleak. We were taught flying basics in gliders before advancing to the “Red Dragonflies,” the nickname for Yokosuka K5Y biplane trainers (see photos). Their color, however, was orange. Four trainees made up one team and we repeated take-offs and landings under the watchful eye of instructors seated in the back.
Typical flight training would go as follows: I would allocate the top of the hill in front as 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
