The First Human Bombs

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gain, life had changed abruptly. With fighter training before us, we were accorded far greater courtesy. The tremendous load of punishment had been lifted, and now our lives were dedicated to the air. During the first two months we flew training planes similar to regular fighters, though not nearly as powerful and maneuverable, with only one small-caliber gun on each wing. This was our preparation for the advanced Hayabusa the best army fighter then in production.

The course was stringent involving gunnery, formation flying, basic aerial maneuvers, and suicide practice. The latter entailed diving from specified heights at a large oval painted on the airstrip and about twenty feet in diameter. This was the most difficult part of flying because of the psychological effect—the idea that we were practicing to die. It was taken for granted that any pilot with a disabled plane would do his best to die in true samurai tradition provided he couldn’t make it back to home territory. Given the opportunity, he would dive into an enemy ship or plane, taking as many of his adversaries with him as possible.

These thoughts were disturbingly in mind the day I made my first

death-enhancing plunge toward the tower. From two thousand feet I gazed down at Hiro and the surrounding landscape-ridges and dales a darkening green—farm land stretching out to where the sea sparkled. Beneath me lay the airstrip, an ugly concrete scar on the earth’s face, planes and hangars lining one end. Our trainers were droning above in a series of three-man V’s, separated in tiers and slowly rising in a wide circle, the tower gradually diminishing below to our left.

Seconds later our instructor, in the lead, peeled off and began his dive. The man just behind him angled slightly, winging over in like manner, and the third followed, all three fast fading toward the earth. Then the next formation was descending, and now, as the lead pilot in our own, it was my turn.

Easing the stick over left, I saw and felt the earth tilt toward me. The first formation was already pulling out, then the second, and I was descending fast on their tail—the airstrip rushing toward me as though that part of the world were suddenly inflating. The buildings were grow­ing magically. For an instant I was almost hypnotized. Larger and closer. . . larger and closer still— everything. There was the control tower, starkly looming, the deadly black circle only a short way off.

Terrifyingly near now, and I was astounded at my own daring. Now! Stick back, and my plane commenced its groaning pull out, the blood in my head straining, determined to continue its straight downward course.

Black splotches were surging at me through the cockpit, and I real­ized that I was suddenly on the level, still a good two hundred feet above my target. Dismayed and chagrined, I followed the formation ahead. Seconds earlier it had seemed that I was pulling out with only a few yards to spare. One does not pause in mid air, however, to contemplate his mistakes. Once again we were climbing, but I had apparently done no worse than most of the others. That was my only comfort, and with little chance for reflection, I was into my next dive. Thundering downward once more, and this time, this time, I would amaze everyone on the field. I would not allow the rising earth to hypnotize me—not this time.

Concentrating on the flight ahead, I watched it level and felt a slight disdain. They were pulling out far too high above the target, but for some reason also, I seemed to be seeing a second, duplicate wave, slightly

transparent, continuing straight on to its destruction, fourth dimensional versions of the impact, the explosions, erupting smoke and flame.

Unnerved, I actually pulled out higher than before. Disillusionment! Vexation! Humiliation! All of that and more. For a brief instant, however, it was as if I had actually known what it would be like to see others die, and to be drawn relentlessly after them. To keep right on going to the devastating point of impact. Decimation! Annihilation!

Again and again we repeated our suicide runs, but that day no one except our instructor pulled out with less than one hundred feet to spare. Gradually as the days passed, however, our confidence increased, and we began diving at the outlines of ships and carriers, painted on one end of the strip. After a few weeks we were pulling out with only fifty or sixty feet remaining.

Steadily we became more confident, and after three weeks we were given an added challenge. We were to complete every dive with our eyes closed. Dropping from approximately six thousand feet initially, we would count to ten before pulling back on the stick. Later, from half that height, we would count to six, coming even closer to destruction.

The tendency initially, of course, was to count very rapidly, and also either to peek or merely squint hard, eyes only partially closed. In time, though, we conquered this challenge as well. Although no one else would ever actually know whether we cheated or not, it became a matter of personal pride for many of us. We became masters at “blind diving”, and in time even dispensed with the counting entirely. We could actually feel our proximity to the earth, just as sightless people can sometimes sense the wall before them.

Daily now, also, we engaged in mock air battles with blank ammuni­tion, perfecting our skill at cutting tight circles, barrel and aileron rolling, leaf-dropping, performing loops and other more complicated maneuvers. And each day my confidence increased, for at this point I was completing each practice session with precision, making few mistakes.

My three companions were also proving themselves very capable. While Oka and Yamamoto flew with bold abandon, N akamura was more conservative and precise. Even so, there was no doubting his courage or determination. His suicide dives were executed to near perfection, and each time he pulled out at the same level with only slight variation.

By now, as well, our dives had become less disturbing because we

were far more confident regarding our reflexes and ability to judge dis­tance. In addition, they were now more of a game than preparation for death. Yes, I still understood their purpose, but their full significance was a growing abstraction, something that only happened to people in a novel or on the movie screen.

Consequently, we received a traumatic awakening a short while later in October. That month our first Tokkotai (special attack group) struck the enemy—Japan’s first actual suicide pilots. Within the next ten months five thousand more pilots would follow in their wake.

“A samurai lives in such a way that he will always be prepared to die.” Every Japanese fighting man knew these words. “We are expendable.” “Be resolved that honor is heavier than the mountains and death lighter than a feather.” This was all part of the timeless pattern, an ancient and revered religious philosophy, national Shintoism.

Its modern outgrowth involving the purposeful destruction of thousands of our pilots, however, originated in the mind of one Colo­nel Motoharu Okamura of Tateyama Air Base. His plan was covertly presented to Vice-Admiral Takijiro Onishi, Father of the Tokkotai, as he became known, and later approved by the Daihonei. Okamura believed that suicide pilots could fan the winds of battle in Japan’s favor. “I have personally talked to the pilots under my command,” he stated, “and I am convinced that there will be as many volunteers as are necessary.” After some deliberation his proposal was accepted.

In the latter part of October, shortly after American troops had launched their assault to take back the Philippines, the Daihonei released the following memorable communique:

“The Shikishima Unit of the Kamikaze Special Attack Corps, at 1045 hours on 25 October 1944, succeeded in a surprise attack against the enemy task force, including four aircraft carriers, thirty nautical miles northeast of Sulan, Philippine Islands. Two Special Attack planes plunged together into an enemy carrier, causing great fires and explosions, and probably sinking the war­ship. A third plane dove into another carrier, setting additional fires. A fourth plane plunged into a cruiser, causing a tremendous explosion which sank the vessel immediately afterward.”

It was a young lieutenant Yukio Seki who became the world’s first

official human bomb when he led that famed Kamikaze attack on Leyte Bay. Seki, only married a short time, was approached by his superiors and asked whether he would accept the honor. For a moment he had hesitated, just long enough to glance down and run a hand through his hair. Then, slowly he looked up into the eyes of his inquisitors, and gave a quick nod. “Hai!” he said abruptly, “I am profoundly honored to be considered worthy.”

The attack, as indicated, was an astonishing success. The pilots had all been relatively inexperienced, but four of the five Zero fighters, each carrying a 550 pound bomb, had struck their targets according to escort observers.

Although Tokkotai was the designation for all suicide fighters, each group went under a different name. Kamikaze, however, the first attack corps, named after the “Divine Wind” that swamped Genghis Khan’s invading fleet in the Thirteenth Century, became the popular term. The name Kamikaze, therefore came to represent our entire suicide onslaught, one inflicting the heaviest losses in the history of the United States Navy, scoring hundreds of direct hits on its vessels.

Thus it was that by the end of October 1944, Kamikaze had become a rallying cry. Whereas the God of Heaven had once hurled the raging elements at our enemies, he would now hurl bomb-laden planes, piloted by living human beings. There was no denying our new-found power. Under the continual bombardment of Japanese propaganda agencies, optimism was kindled. Only a minority, an objective few, permitted themselves to suspect that Kamikaze was a telling indication of Japan’s desperate status.