High Rendezvous

T

he first American air raid on Tokyo had occurred more than two years before, and attacks against keyJapanese strongholds had increased ever since, but it was not until my fighter training that the bombs hit Hiro.

By now the loss of such vital bases as Indonesia, Burma, and Sumatra had greatly reduced our fuel supply. Already, in fact, the shortage was severe enough to prohibit engaging the enemy in lengthy air battles, even with our best fighter planes. Radar stations on our main islands warned of enemy approach. If their course was from Nagoya to the east or Oita the opposite direction, we relaxed. If they headed for Osaka between the two, we took to the sky, fearing that they might veer toward Hiro. Already it was mainly a matter of preserving our aircraft in virtually any manner possible.

It was just before noon one day in November that Hiro’s air raid sirens shrieked for the first time in earnest. Rushing to our trainers, we scrambled in, thundered down the runway, and headed for the clouds. Upon our return a short while later, the base was still in tact. A flight of

fighter-escorted B-29’s had bypassed Hiro and assaulted nearby Kure. For several days afterward the situation was repeated. Sirens keening, our scramble for the frantic take off, and cautious return. Each time Hiro remained unharmed.

Before long our training increased, and I graduated from my trainer to the Hayabusa 2, becoming a full-fledged fighter pilot, something I had dreamed about much of my life. Our furtive hide-and-seek tactics with the enemy, however, had disillusioned me terribly. Yasuo Kuwahara was not the invincible samurai of the skies, not the noble and glorious fighter pilot who would perform stunts over Tokyo on the Emperor’s birthday or on National Foundation Day. Instead, I was compelled to flee at the first sign of danger, to hide like a coward.

The situation filled us all with disgust and humiliation. Simultane­ously, it was depressing and alarming to realize that our country was in such dire straits. True, we were assured by our leaders that our elusive tactics were only temporary, that Japan was prepared for continual en­emy encroachments, that at the right moment it would counter attack with overwhelming savagery. But such propaganda had acquired the odor of decay for many of us. True, Kamikaze had taken its toll on our enemies, but it had not turned them back.

One day we returned from the clouds to discover that the games of our recent past were over. Hiro was belching smoke, one of its hangars enveloped in flame. Several Liberator bombers had appeared with scant warning and assaulted us, tearing up part of the airstrip, destroying much of the fighter assembly plant.

Fire fighters were battling frantically while a repair crew hastily struggled to fill in craters along the runways. It was more than two hours before, fuel running low, we were able to make a precarious landing. Having given our reports in the orderly room, we wandered aimlessly about the base, surveying the destruction. A bitter and dejected group of young fighter pilots.

Nakamura and I plodded slowly along the gray-white runway, hands in our pockets, heads down, except for an occasional glance about to assess the damage. So this was what bombs could do to a base, and it was only a small taste of things to come. We both knew that, and stared for a time at the charred hangar with its ruined aircraft. “Fighter pilots that can’t fight,” Nakamura sneered. “Ha!”

Later that day I visited Tatsuno. He had made his solo flight in the Akatombo and was doing well thus far. With the bombs now striking Hiro, it was unlikely that he and his companions would undergo a full apprenticeship. “You might be flying the Hayabusa before you know it,” I said, “maybe any day now.”

For a while Tatsuno offered no reply. We were seated together on the tail section of a badly damaged bomber near one of the hangars watching the repair work still underway along parts of the air field. Eventually, he turned and eyed me searchingly. “Maybe it will be the way we always hoped, Yasuo. It seems too good to be true, and yet. . . .” He hesitated, frowning. I watched him, sensing that he was about to say something I didn’t want to hear. “Well, I never expected things were going to be like this.”

“Like what?” I asked, feeling a bit angry for some reason.

He shrugged. “I don’t know, but if we’re really going to win? When do we start? The attacks are getting worse all the time. And if we can’t stop them now, how can we expect to stop them a month from now, or a half year from now? What’s the secret? What are we waiting for?” Tatsuno’s voice was quiet and strained.

“Things usually get bad for both sides before a war is over,” I said. “Yes, but what are we doing? Are we really hurting the Americans? Are we bombing California, New York, and Washington?”

“Those places are too far away right now,” I countered.

“Of course,” Tatsuno said, “and we’re too close. That’s the whole problem. They’re too far and we’re too close; they’re too big, and we’re too small! Do you realize that California alone—just one of their forty – eight states—is the size of our entire country?”

“Aw, that can’t be right,” I mumbled..

“It is right!” he insisted. “Don’t you remember our geography class? California is as big as our four main islands combined.”

“Maybe,” I admitted, “but it’s not just size that wins wars. It’s the spirit. It’s determination and courage.”

Tatsuno angled me a glance that seemed a bit scornful. “So aren’t

they determined and courageous too? They’ve got to be to have us tak­ing it on the chin like this. When are we going to strike back and make the Americans retreat? Once they’ve dumped their bombs on every city in Japan and taken over the Emperor’s Palace?”

I offered no answer. There was none. Eventually, I arose. “I’d better get back to the barracks,” I said.

“Already?” He looked rather sorrowful. “You’ve only been here a few minutes.”

“I know “ I replied uncertainly, and began to walk away. “But I’ve got a lot to do. I haven’t finished studying for my test on navigation.” Once I glanced back. Tatsuno was still sitting there, leaning forward on his knees, gazing out across the runway. I waved, but he barely lifted his hand.

That afternoon I was in the air again—five of us flying above the Inland Sea at twelve thousand feet somewhere between Kure and Iwakuni. Clouds were forming rapidly below us, literally before our eyes, and falling steadily behind like shredding cotton. Far off, beyond the mountains, a spectral moon hung faint and gray, and occasionally I glanced downward at the sea, its endless, undulating surface, wrinkled, patched with shadow and alternating expanses that dazzled the eye.

At the moment it again seemed very strange to think that throughout the world men were caught up in a cataclysmic struggle of death and hatred. Slightly ahead and above me was Lieutenant Shimada, a veteran combat fighter whom we all greatly respected. Shimada had fought in many a battle going back to the early days when our planes had so badly outclassed the American P-39’s and P-40’s. He had known the taste of victory, and more than one enemy had fallen victim to his guns.

Sunlight gleamed on his cockpit, revealing at times the man within. I could see his leather helmet, the goggles resting upon his forehead, and my heart brimmed with admiration. Slender and unassuming, he spoke very little, but he fought with great talent and valor. Occasionally Shimada’s head tilted slightly from side to side as he surveyed the wait­ing sky. But even those motions, the very line of his shoulders, conveyed precision and vigilance.

The vast reaches of the sky, the water and receding landscape and the waning moon all imparted serenity. I shifted in my seat, glancing back and downward over my left wing at the ocean. Winter would soon be upon us, and once more, gazing toward the distant shores of Honshu, I recalled my walks with Tomika, the fishermen at their nets—bare toes in the sand and the sense of its fading warmth, the sound of their voices and occasional laughter. The laughter of fishermen and their wives was not that of the bars or the crowded streets. It was a part of nature itself, mingling with the sigh and rush of the waves and the cries of sea birds.

Had the war changed all this? Erased it forever? Suddenly I wanted desperately to turn toward Onomichi. I would land on some empty stretch of shore, taking comfort in my very aloneness. The fish shacks would be vacant now, even the nets gone, but I would pause and listen, listen for the last faint strains of haunting laughter.

My earphones crackled, snapping me back to reality. “Enemy, two o’clock low!” I peered anxiously, saw nothing, then shot a glance at our leader. He nodded, pointing downward at an angle with his finger, and my eyes followed. This time I saw them—formation after formation—a tremendous swarm of Grumman Hellcats, and they were headed di­rectly for Hiro!

For a moment I lost my breath. No, this could not be happening; it was an optical allusion, a fantasy. I checked my oxygen mask nervously, and all was in order. But the enemy was still there. Still afar off, though increasingly substantial—an immense swarm, too numerous to count.

Of course, I told myself, we wouldn’t attack, not with only five air­craft. No, that would be sheer lunacy, and fortunately they were appar­ently unaware of us. It would be better, regardless, to perfect our flying skills. Air fights? Later, when we were more experienced. I glanced back off my right wing at Shiro Hashimoto, a recently acquired comrade, caught his eye, and pointed toward the enemy below. Then I opened and closed my hand rapidly. Hashimoto nodded, actually grinned.

And now, to my surprise, Shimada was turning, angling toward them. Automatically, the rest of us responded, following close behind. He was definitely tracking the Hellcats. Could this be possible? Attack? No, I told myself. We were merely observing to determine their intentions.

Nevertheless, I checked my guns. It was always good to check, because one of these days when the odds were better, we’d be using them.

My ears buzzed, and I flinched. Incredible! We were going to attack! What should I do? Already I was forgetting everything I had learned. My mind had gone blank. I was on the verge of panic! Release auxiliary gas tank! Yes, that came first. Otherwise a single bullet could blow me into the next world. Tanks from our four other planes were already tumbling downward, and we were closing fast. Again I adjusted my mask. Again I checked my guns.

What now? Just follow Shimada—no other choice. Yes, just follow Shimada. Do everything he does and it will be all right. Remember how you followed The Mantis? Follow Shimada, only not so close, not so close! Don’t tense up! Don’t freeze. Relax, Kuwahara, relax. Your back is like a gate post. All right. . . better now. Breathe calmly. You can’t fight the enemy if you’re fighting yourself. Shimada’s beginning his dive, so follow. Over you go, Kuwahara, over you go.

Shimada has peeled off, seeming to lift slightly, balancing it seems for a full second on his wing tip, then dropping away with increasing speed, his nose angling toward the enemy. I am following his swiftly vanishing tail, and the Hellcats are in full view, growing larger at every second. At first, just minutes earlier, only toy planes, but now they are actual aircraft, formidable looking fighters, with men inside. Americans!

It is absolutely clear now. We will strike at their rear then fan off rap­idly, hit and run. Too many for anything else. The enemy is still unaware of us. Should I begin firing? No, wait for our leader. Do everything he does. But why doesn’t he shoot? We can shoot now, spray them en masse and drop a dozen or more. Yes, yes! I’m sure we can Nearer. . . nearer. . . rapidly closing. Shimada is opening up! Ripping off short, deadly bursts. . . swift red trails from the tracers, fleeting away with diabolical speed, seeming to arch and curve, heading for the enemy.

The Hellcats are aware of us now. Rolling off, no doubt in their minds. Fire, Kuwahara— fire! I haven’t even squeezed the trigger. Wildly I blaze away. Compulsive, attenuated blasts. . . all consumed by the sky. Then a Hellcat flips crazily, rotating belly up, veering off, angling downward. A remarkable maneuver, but no—he’s hit. I hit him. . . got him!

No, no. . . Shimada has done it. My own tracers are swallowed again and again into an endless void of deepening blue. We flash on past the stricken aircraft, banking and climbing, eager for altitude.

The entire tail of the Hellcat formation has scattered, the rest far ahead. Half a mile or so below, Shimada’s victim is spiraling downward in its death throes, vomiting black smoke, smoke as black as tar. Flames lapping savagely with a kind of awful glee all along the fuselage.

Fascinated, I watched its waning death plunge, gripped simultane­ously by exultation and frustration. I had never known it would be so gratifying to see an enemy destroyed. But why couldn’t I have been the one to do it? Just that one Hellcat when the chance was so perfect. But perfect opportunities, I soon discovered, are rare and very brief, usually only seconds, even for the most skilled. At the time, though, I didn’t even remember having him in my sights. I had just fired away compulsively hoping to score a hit by spraying enough sky.

By now we were fleeing for home, and I caught a gleam of silver from the corner of my eye, above and off my right wing tip about four hundred yards away. Then another and another, flashing and vanish­ing, flashing and vanishing, among the wisps of cloud. Once I glanced down and caught my breath. A short distance below and to my right three Hellcats were keeping pace. I had always supposed that the Haya- busa 2 could outdistance most other aircraft including the enemy’s, but the American fighters were keeping up, and we were going all out, full throttle. Maybe, I thought, they have better fuel, higher octane.

No time then for further reflection. Three more Hellcats—apparent­ly the glints of silver I spotted seconds earlier—had materialized, diving at us head on from a thousand yards above, descending with terrifying speed. Strange ripping sounds within the top of my cockpit, but I failed to comprehend the cause. Holes appearing strangely along the trailing edge of my right wing. Instinctively I glanced to the rear and glimpsed a single enemy plane, closing at three hundred yards—sporadic red lines, tracing the space that separated us, and fleeting past my cockpit.

“Cut right, cut right!” The voice of Shimada just ahead, as he performed a tight, rolling bank. The rest of us followed, and shortly thereafter I was on the tail of an enemy. Another chance, and this time I wouldn’t betray it. I had him in my range finder now and fired off a calculated burst. A bit too high. Two more. . . lengthier but more precise.

The bullets were going home!

It all had a dream-like quality. . . the roaring of my motor, the fierce, staccato thumping of my guns, the whitening sky. . . . But the Grumman was wounded, trailing wisps of smoke. Ramming my plane into a steep climb, I glanced down, following its path, saw the pilot bail out. The chute trailed him, and for an instant I thought it had malfunctioned. Then it popped open, bringing with it recollections of the Mantis that day over the mountains of Fukugawa.

Suddenly I realized that I was no longer with our leader. There was nothing left of our formation, nothing but Americans and a few badly outnumbered Japanese scrambled throughout the clouds. Then, without the slightest warning, I heard the voice of Lieutenant Shimada. “I’m wounded. . . burning. . . going to crash. Save yourselves! Return and report!” Simultaneously, I spotted his plane. It curved across my line of vision just ahead, caught in flame, a virtual fire ball. Then a wild explo­sion as he struck the American Hellcat broadside, and the two planes were plummeting downward in flame and smoke, disintegrating.

Now my own craft was vibrating strangely, coughing and trembling, the prop roar becoming hoarse and gravelly. My head felt light. I was not getting enough oxygen. Tearing off my mask, I dived steeply, saw the ocean’s approach, and glanced at my air speed indicator. It didn’t register, and the wind was screeching through my new bullet holes. I stared at the fuel gauge, and my fears were confirmed. Little left. I’d never make it to Hiro.

For now, however, there was no sign of the enemy. It was as if the destruction had spawned a wind to sweep the heavens clean. Gradu­ally, nervously alert, I gained my bearings and limped onward toward Kyushu. The enemy’s 50-caliber machine guns had created more havoc than I’d realized earlier. Even my compass was gone, but it was impossible to miss Kyushu, one of our four main islands there below the southwestern tip of Honshu.

Twenty minutes or so later, my motor still sputtering at times, gas tank nearly empty, I was nearing the air base at Oita. Still no sign of my companions, and it was impossible to believe that Shimada was gone. I had observed his fiery death close hand, perhaps the only living witness, yet I could not make it register. My mind was numb.

Now the landing strip was in sight, rapidly growing, and I circled, calling in for authorization to land. Moments later, as I made my ap­proach, a warning sounded from below. “This is the control tower: Do not land—your landing gear is not down!” My pulse rate surged. “Repeat—do not land! Your landing gear is not down!

Pulling back on the stick, I began my ascent, circling, I pushed the button again and again. “Your landing gear is not down!” Frantically I searched my instrument panel, knowing that only minutes remained, if that long, until my fuel was gone. Then, groping about beneath the panel, I discovered that the landing gear connecting wires had become separated, perhaps severed by a bullet. Fortunately, it was a simple mat­ter to rejoin the ends, and this time as I pushed the button, my wheels lowered into position.

Within a few seconds I was again making my approach, landing with a slight jolt and screech of rubber, taxiing slowly toward the main hangar. My first air battle was over.