The setting sun cast lengthening shadows on a scene of wild disorder at Mabalacat Field. The two airstrips at this base had been raided by enemy planes in the morning, as had Banban Field across the river, the three Clark Field strips just beyond Mabalacat Town, and the two Marcot strips south of Clark. Each of these Luzon airfields, located midway between Lingayen Gulf and Manila, had been thoroughly bombed and shot up. All hands worked desperately to clear debris so that planes could be readied for an early morning takeoff. The frantic atmosphere was understandable.
Two mornings earlier, on October 17,1944, a lookout station on the tiny island of Suluan, at the entrance to Leyte Gulf, had radioed, “Enemy force sighted!” This electrifying message was followed shortly by another and final one which said, “The enemy has commenced landing. We are burning confidential documents. We will fight unto death. Long live the Emperor!” That day more than 100 carrier planes swarmed over Manila, Legaspi, and Clark fields in determined attacks which were extended next day to include targets in Mindanao, the Visayas, and even northern Luzon. The enemy’s intention to recapture the Philippines was abundantly clear, even before any large-scale landings were begun. Upon the invasion of Suluan, Admiral Soemu Toyoda, Commander in Chief Combined Fleet, alerted all combat naval forces for the ironically-named Sho (Victory) Operation. On October 18 came the order from Imperial General Headquarters in Tokyo to launch decisive battle against the enemy at this outer perimeter of the crumbling empire.
This onslaught by the Allied Powers came as no real surprise. After the fall of Biak Island, in Western New Guinea, followed by seizure of the Marianas, Japanese planners well knew that the Philippines could be next. If they were, it had been decided that all available forces, Army and Navy, would be committed to their defense in the hope of turning the adverse tide of war.
The odds were tremendously against Japan. Her early supremacy, especially at sea, where the greatest successes had been achieved, had long since waned. Four months earlier, in the Battle of the Philippine Sea, the Japanese fleet had suffered such an overwhelming defeat that it was no longer capable of challenging the enemy in an ordinary naval engagement. Japan’s only offensive resources were her land-based air fleets, whose pilots were pitifully inexperienced, and the fire power of her surface ships, which lacked the support of carrier planes.
Sho Operation strategy relied most heavily upon the planes of the Army and Navy, which were all concentrated at land bases for the first time in this war. They were to launch decisive attacks as enemy invasion forces approached the defensive barrier which extended from Okinawa to the Philippines. Our wingless surface ships were to drive down from the homeland and up from Malay bases to oppose the invasion.
Tremendous efforts were made in this extraordinary attempt to defend the vast area of the Philippine Islands, but it was too late. The ever-quickening tempo of Allied offensives allowed no time for the defenders to make preparations. Relentless air raids on Mindanao prevented the build-up of Japanese air power there, and even forced its withdrawal to the central and northern Philippines. The enemy’s carrier planes even made strikes at Okinawa and Formosa bases, further destroying fighting power which could have been available in defense of the Philippines.
The rapid enemy offensives had also not allowed time in which to train fliers for Admiral Ozawa’s carriers which were to come down from the north as Kurita’s ships approached from the west and south; but then there was not even opportunity for a briefing between these two commands, so relentless was the drive of the enemy. Reinforcement convoys bound for the Philippines were subjected to endless submarine attacks before reaching their destination. Despite every effort, little actual progress had been made toward achievement of our goal for the Sho Operation.
Allied landings at Leyte, coming a little sooner than expected, had caught the defender’s naval air strength at a pitifully low ebb. Four months earlier Japan had committed the cream of her veteran naval aviators in a futile attempt to thwart the enemy invasion of the Marianas. As a result, Japanese air strength in the entire Philippines area on October 18 consisted of about 70 Army and 35 Navy planes. Reinforcements were expected from Formosa and the homeland to the extent of about 230 planes and pilots, but most of the latter, while eager for battle, were seriously deficient in training.
The sands of time were rapidly running out on a grave situation. Everyone was aware that it would take a miracle to save the empire from disaster. But indoctrination had given us assurance that our country could count on divine blessing to deliver us from such a crisis. It was becoming apparent, however, that neither surface, carrier, bomber, nor submarine forces could work the necessary miracle. It would have to be won, if at all, by fighter planes.
Japanese planes were so outnumbered and outclassed that the bombers could no longer operate by daylight with any chance of success. Their activities had to be confined to small-scale sneak attacks made at night or under cover of foul weather. Zeke fighters, which early in the war had been so superior to all other planes, were the only type left that could in any wise cope with enemy interceptors.
The planes based at Mabalacat belonged to the 201st Air Group. This unit of the 1st Air Fleet had been moved up from Cebu after being caught there unawares on September 12 in an attack by enemy carrier planes.
In the attempt to rebuild depleted air forces, greatest emphasis had been placed on increasing fighter strength, and fighter pilots were even drilled in skip-bombing techniques so that they could be employed as fighter-bombers. These pilots understood and appreciated the importance of their responsibility and their morale was very high.
As dusk settled over the field a black sedan drew up and stopped in front of the command post. A small yellow flag fluttering from the front of the car indicated that its passenger was of flag rank, but there had been no advance notice of a distinguished visitor. Speculation ended as to who it might be when the rear door was opened and Vice Admiral Takijiro Ohnishi stepped out of the car. Though his arrival was unannounced, it was well known that he had been designated to assume command of the 1st Air Fleet. Since the death of Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto in April, 1943, Ohnishi had been regarded as the foremost exponent of aerial warfare. He had arrived in the Philippine theater only two days before to succeed Admiral Kimpei Teraoka, and so his sudden appearance at this advance base was a surprise to everyone.
The executive officer of the 201st Air Corps who received the Admiral was immediately advised to summon a conference of staff officers for consultation. The headquarters building was a two-story, seven- room Western style house. Since all furniture had been removed from the first floor to make room for canvas cots which now filled the downstairs, the meeting was held on the second floor.
When the staff officers had assembled, Admiral Ohnishi was introduced and addressed himself to them. “The situation is so grave that the fate of the Empire depends on the outcome of the Sho Operation. Missions have been assigned. A naval force under Admiral Kurita is to penetrate Leyte Gulf and there annihilate enemy surface units. The 1st Air Fleet has been designated to support that mission by rendering enemy carriers ineffective for at least one week. In my opinion this can be accomplished only by crash-diving on the carrier flight decks with Zero fighters carrying 250-kg bombs.”
This idea had been discussed in recent days by flying officers, and so it was not new, but the already tense atmosphere was electrified by the Admiral’s words as his sharp eyes surveyed the occupants of the crowded room. It was now apparent that the purpose of his visit was to inspire these suicide tactics which he believed to be the only effective means of countering the enemy offensive. Having this difficult task assigned to him at the crucial moment of an Allied invasion must have greatly increased his torment in arriving at this doleful solution.
The circumstances leading to this decision are described in Admiral Teraoka’s personal diary, under an entry of October 18, where he recorded his meeting with Admiral Ohnishi in Manila to discuss the use of “special attacks” against the enemy:
We can no longer win the war by adhering to conventional methods of warfare. . . . Instead, we must steel ourselves against weakness. ... If fighter pilots set an example by volunteering for special attack missions, other units will follow suit. These examples will, in turn, inspire surface forces and army forces. . . .
We conclude that the enemy can be stopped and our country saved only by crash-dive attacks on their ships. Admiral Ohnishi and I are in agreement that he should assume complete charge and responsibility for the formation of a special attack corps.
Within hours after this meeting, orders were received at headquarters of the 201st Air Group summoning the commanding officer and his air officer to 1st Air Fleet Headquarters the next day. They were late in arriving, causing some concern in Manila that their car may have been ambushed by guerillas. This risk had to be taken, however, because it was no longer possible to fly our planes during the hours when U. S. carrier planes were about. That explains why even such an air-minded officer as Ohnishi had come to Mabalacat by automobile.
When Admiral Ohnishi had finished explaining the situation, Commander Tamai, the executive officer, asked permission for a short recess so that he might consult with the squadron leaders. In the absence of the commanding officer, Tamai was in charge, but he wanted to confer with his subordinates before giving an answer on a matter so grave as that proposed by the Admiral. After confirming his colleagues’ assent to the proposal, the conference was quickly resumed and he reported with proud determination that his force was ready to co-operate. Tamai concluded his statement with a prayer that organization of this special attack corps be left to the group itself. Admiral Ohnishi was greatly moved as he listened to this report and as it ended his face presented a vivid picture of agonized relief.
In this command were 23 pilots who had served under Commander Tamai in the Mariana campaign, which they had been lucky to survive. He was confident enough of their fervent loyalty to believe that most of them would dedicate themselves as human missiles when they heard of the plan. He afterward described their reaction: “They said little, but their eyes spoke eloquently of a willingness to die for their country.” All but two men of this group volunteered, and they were both found to be in ill health.
The next step in this important mission was the selection of a leader. He must be a man of outstanding character and ability since so much would depend on the success of this unit. It was considered desirable that the man chosen for this task be a graduate of the Naval Academy at Eta Jima, and this served further to limit the list of eligibles. So many Naval Academy flying officers had been killed in action that there was seldom more than one or two of squadron commander rank in each air group, and such was the case in the 201st. The selection was not long in being made.
When Lieutenant Yukio Seki entered the room it was shortly after midnight. He was addressed by Commander Tamai, who said, “Admiral Ohnishi has brought to our base the idea of loading Zero fighters with a 250-kg. bomb and having the pilots crash dive on enemy warships. I have recommended you as a proper man to lead such a special attack.”
Seated at the table, Lieutenant Seki leaned forward supporting his head in his hands, elbows resting on the table, head inclined downward, and his eyes were closed. This capable young officer had been married just before leaving the homeland. For several seconds he sat motionless except for the tightening of his clenched fists. Raising his head he smoothed back his hair and spoke in a clear quiet voice. “Please do appoint me to the post.” The tenseness of the room was suddenly dispelled, like moonlight bursting through a break in clouded skies.
Shortly after sunrise Admiral Ohnishi summoned the newly-appointed special attack pilots to the small garden adjoining his headquarters. There stood 24 men, six to a row, the morning sunlight shining on their youthful faces as the Admiral spoke. His visage was unusually palid and his voice shook with emotion. “Japan now faces a terrible crisis. The salvation of our country is now beyond the power of ministers, the General Staff, and lowly unit commanders like myself. It is now up to spirited young men such as you.” At this point tears came to his eyes as he concluded, “On behalf of your 100,000,000 countrymen, I ask you to do your utmost and wish you success.”
It is hard to imagine a more poignant and tragic message. This was no mere exhortation to inspire men’s fighting spirit. It was an appeal for the extreme sacrifice with no chance of repeal. Never in history had a group of men been asked to carry out such an assignment by their commanding officer.
Admiral Ohnishi’s feelings at having lo make this request surpass comprehension. A few days after the kamikaze (divine wind) attacks had begun, he confided in his senior staff officer: “Several months ago when Captain Jyo kept insisting on this kind of attack, I was loathe to accept his idea. But when I came to the Philippines and saw the actual state of affairs, it was clear that these tactics would have to be adopted. The situation here evidenced how poorly our strategy had been developed. We have been forced into these extreme measures although they are a complete heterodoxy of all the lessons of strategy and tactics.”
Ohnishi foresaw some of the criticisms which would be heaped on the extraordinary procedures he had originated. He was known to have lamented to his adjutant on several occasions, “People do not understand my actions today, and a hundred years from now people will still misunderstand the course I am forced to follow.”
The one-way character of these tactics made it imperative in Ohnishi’s mind that the kamikaze attacks be employed only when success was fairly well assured. He rightfully felt that such an expenditure of the cream of Japan’s youth i must not be made if there was any chance that the mission might fail. At the same time he believed sincerely that this method of attack carried out by inspired young pilots was bound to be successful. He later told his staff, “On my return to Manila after organizing the first special attack corps, I went to Southwest Area Fleet Headquarters to request that the sortie of Kurita’s force be postponed until after the enemy had been subjected to strikes by our special attack corps. On arrival I learned that the order for sortie had been issued just two hours earlier, so I withheld the request lest it merely add confusion to the situation.”
While these events were taking place at Mabalacat, similar recruiting of pilots for kamikaze attacks was taking place at other air bases. At Cebu, nearest base to the Allied landings at Leyte, all hands were assembled in the evening of October 20. The commanding officer addressed them as follows: “I have just returned from Manila carrying an order to organize a kamikaze attack corps at this base. You are to prepare a sealed envelope by nine o’clock this evening. Volunteers for the kamikaze attack corps will write their name and rank on a piece of paper and insert it in the envelope; enclose a blank paper if you do not wish to volunteer. You have three hours in which to give the matter serious consideration. There are good reasons for not volunteering. I request that you make independent decisions and not be influenced by your colleagues.”
The commanding officer retired to his quarters where he was shortly visited by a young reservist sub-lieutenant. His taut face and blazing eyes reinforced the firm determination of his voice. “May I be sure, Commander, that my name will be included in those chosen from among the volunteers?”
This particular man’s action had not been unexpected. A university graduate, he was soft-spoken, mild-mannered, and a man of few words; but his superior had long before recognized his intense spirit. The air officer smiled, and there was an understanding look in his eyes. “You may rest assured, young man, because one of the special attack planes brought from Mabalacat is reserved for you.” These words brought a smile of obvious relief to the flier’s face, and he withdrew after bowing to his commander.
When the humble evening meal was finished, one of the fliers as usual began to play the piano which stood in a corner of the mess hall. Tonight’s pianist had volunteered to die for his country, and the music was heavy with his emotion. There were few listeners who remained dry-eyed.
At nine o’clock sharp the senior petty officer pilot came to the commander’s quarters, silently delivered an envelope and departed. It was several minutes before the envelope was hesitatingly opened, for there was no way of knowing how many men would offer themselves for this suicide mission. Inside were more than twenty signed pieces of paper; only two were blank.
It was getting close to midnight when a reserve ensign appeared at headquarters. He had married upon graduation from St. Paul University in Tokyo, and it was a happy day for the whole unit when word came that his wife had borne him a son and heir. He now appeared fidgety and nervous, asked a few trivial questions, and retired. The next night he returned and his continued strange attitude caused the commander to become suspicious. When the ensign appeared the third successive night, with no apparent purpose, the commanding officer confronted him. “Is your presence here for the past three nights in some way connected with the special attack mission?” So direct a question startled the young officer who admitted that he wanted to volunteer and continued, “But I am such a poor flier compared with the other pilots at this base that I am afraid that you will not accept me for the mission.”
He was greatly consoled when the commander assured him that he qualified and would have a place in the mission. When the time eventually came for this young man to take off on his last flight, he left behind a most touching letter to his wife and the infant child he had never seen.
In the meantime great land and air battles centered on the island of Leyte, but Japanese counterattacks were limited in strength and terribly ineffective. The Sho operation plans of Combined Fleet called for reinforcement of the greatly reduced 1st Air Fleet by the transfer of planes from Formosa on October 23. These land-based planes were then to make an all-out air attack on the 24th. This was to be followed at dawn the next day with a driving thrust into Leyte Gulf by Admiral Kurita’s surface forces.
Allied forces had begun landing on Leyte on October 20 and Japanese retaliation was limited to small-scale air attacks upon ships in the gulf—with very little success. There were no other air raids throughout the Philippines on this day when Admiral Ohnishi became commander in chief of the 1st Air Fleet.
During this period the “special attack” pilots awaited their chance to turn back the enemy advance by hurling themselves at his ships. In the afternoon of the 21st came the long-awaited flash: “Enemy task force built around six carriers sighted 60 miles east of Suluan Island.” Six Zero fighters were ordered to take off immediately from the Cebu base.
Preparations were begun immediately and the planes were hauled up to the air strip from (heir hidden revetments, 500 meters down the hillside. As they were lined up for takeoff, a flight of enemy Gruman fighters suddenly came in to attack and all six Zeros burst into flames. Within ten minutes after this raid two more “special attack” fighters and one fighter escort plane were manhandled up to the strip and they roared into the air above the smoldering base. This flight was led by the piano player of the previous evening. His plane became separated from the other two, who returned to base when they failed to sight enemy targets, but he did not come back. It was thus this plane which led off the strikes of special attack missions—first of the organized kamikazes.
A more dramatic ceremony attended the first sortie of kamikaze planes from the Mabalacat base. When the order was received, Lieutenant Seki was named to lead the first special attack unit. Six young pilots stood in a row and, passing a canteen lid-cup among them, took their last drink of water. Their fellow-pilots, standing by to see them off, took up the ancient song of the warrior, Umi Yukaba (When Going Away to Sea). The doleful, but stirring melody wafted out on the morning air:
Umi yukaba
Mizuku kabane
Yama yukaba
Kusa musu kabane
Ogimi no he ni koso
Nodo niwa shinaji
If I go away to sea,
I shall return a corpse awash;
If duty calls me to the mountain,
A verdant sward will be my pall;
Thus for the sake of the Emperor
I will not die peacefully at home.
But these brave volunteers were not smiled upon by the God of War this day. They failed to sight any enemy force and had to return to their base. Four successive days they sortied, each time in vain; and returning to the field which they never expected to see again, Lieutenant Seki would tearfully apologize to the commander for his failure to find his opportunity to die. Surprisingly enough, these pilots did not become nervous or desperate but were as composed as if they had just returned front a routine attack mission.
Meanwhile Japan’s war machine, which had long been geared toward facing the Allied Powers in a decisive battle, was moving inexorably toward its fate. The main naval striking force, led by Admiral Kurita, had left Brunei on October 22 to sail north along the Palawan Island chain and through San Bernardino Strait into the Pacific toward Leyte. Under Admiral Nishimura, one fleet element was headed through the Sulu Sea to transit Surigao Strait for a southern approach to Leyte Gulf. In concert with these two forces Admiral Ozawa’s decoy force, built around carriers practically devoid of planes, was coming from the homeland to lure the enemy task force northward. The 2nd Air Fleet, consisting of about 350 land-based planes, was to launch an all-out attack upon the invader on the 24th so as to facilitate the penetration into Leyte Gulf by the Kurita and Nishimura forces.
Any illusions Japan might have entertained about defeating the enemy in a decisive naval engagement were decisively shattered by the events of three days beginning on the 23rd. Early that morning the Kurita force was caught and attacked in Palawan passage by U. S. submarines. Two heavy cruisers were sunk and another was damaged so that it had to drop out of formation. Reaching the Sibuyan Sea next day, Kurita’s ships, with no protective cover of fighter planes, was subjected throughout the day to unrelenting attacks by carrier planes. This air-sea contest resulted in the sinking of battleship Musashi, whose powerful 18-inch guns had been counted as such a great asset for surface engagements. Japanese retaliation that day in the form of an air attack by 226 planes—all that could be mobilized— succeeded in sinking only one light carrier and inflicting some damage on several other ships.
At break of day on the 25th Kurita’s force found itself in the unexpected, unbelievably happy situation of being within sight of an enemy surface force. Coupled with this good fortune was the fact that Ozawa’s decoy force was serving its purpose and had succeeded in luring the enemy carrier task force to the north as planned. It was this day that battleship Yamato, the giant of Kurita’s force, first fired her 18-inch guns against enemy ships.
The first successful kamikaze unit attack was carried out this day by six planes which took off at dawn from Davao in southern Mindanao. They scored hits on enemy escort carriers, southern units of the same force which Kurita’s ships had encountered a little to the north. At least three escort carriers were damaged by these sentient missiles.
Another successful special attack this same morning was led by Lieutenant Seki. Escorted by four fighter planes, his unit of five special attack planes left Mabalacat soon after sunrise seeking targets against which to make their sacrifice. One of the escorting pilots furnished a report of the action. “Sighting an enemy force of four carriers and six other ships at 1040, distant 90 miles, bearing 85° from Tacloban, Lieutenant Seki banked his plane vigorously to the right and left as a signal and then dived headlong into one of the carriers which he rammed successfully. A colleague followed directly after him and crashed into the same ship, from which there arose a great column of smoke. Successful hits were also scored by two more pilots, one on another flattop, the other on a light cruiser.”
A total of 93 fighters and 57 bombers were flown in conventional attacks this day, inflicting no damage on the enemy. The superiority of special attacks was manifest, and Admiral Ohnishi’s belief was proven true. Hundreds of planes making orthodox attacks could not inflict as much damage on the enemy as a mere handful of kamikazes.
News of the successes scored by Lieutenant Seki’s unit flashed throughout the Navy to inspire men at home as well as those in the Philippine theater. But even the mighty power of such attacks was not enough to stem the tide of war. The situation was now so grave that Admiral Ohnishi, who had originally urged the use of special attacks only for the initial stage of the Sho operation, was convinced that further and extended employment of these inhuman tactics was unavoidable. He pressed this opinion on Vice Admiral Fukudome, commander in chief of the 2nd Air Fleet, saying, “Nothing short of all-out use of special attacks can save us. It is time for your air fleet to adopt these tactics.”
Fukudome considered this advice, deliberated with his staff, and on October 23 announced that his air fleet would carry out kamikaze attacks. At this same time the decision was made to facilitate operations by combining the 1st and 2nd Air Fleets. Admiral Fukudome was named to command the combined forces, Admiral Ohnishi serving as his chief of staff.
As October ended it was apparent that it would take more than a miracle to save Japan from impending disaster. Admiral Kurita’s force, after making a successful approach to Leyte Gulf and then fortuitously getting an inferior enemy force within gunfire range, mysteriously failed to press home its attack and withdrew from the trembling enemy. The Ozawa ships served to good purpose as a decoy force but were almost completely annihilated in the process. All available planes of the army and naval air forces had been mobilized to carry out conventional attacks on the enemy, but, like all our other efforts, this too was a failure. The invader had firmly established his bridgehead on Leyte Island by the end of the month.
It thus came about that Kamikaze tactics were given full play, and young men volunteered freely for the opportunity to add to the intensity of the “Divine Wind.” Reinforcements poured to the front from the homeland to crash in turn upon enemy warships. And each new pilot was as calm and composed as his predecessor.
If a pilot returned to his base unable for some reason to make an attack, he was always ready and eager to try again the next day. One such officer, a unit commander, came back to Cebu alone, having refrained from trying to crash his plane because the enemy ships had not been reached until after dark. He wrote a report to his commanding officer in which he said, “I think it advisable to launch special attacks at dawn, with Cebu as the last staging base. Please tell those who follow never to lose patience and attempt an attack under adverse conditions.” He extolled the virtue and bravery of his subordinates, describing how they had gone unflinchingly to their death.
Before dawn next morning he took off alone from Cebu field to fulfill his destiny by crash-diving into a ship at Leyte Gulf.
Day by day the situation around Leyte Island became more desperate and hopeless. But as the tempo of the enemy invasion increased, so too did the intensity and volume of kamikaze attacks. One after another the brave young volunteers had planes assigned to them, made a few practice flights, and then received orders for their target and time of takeoff. Fighter pilots who served as escorts until their comrades reached the attack point returned to make reports and to take their place in subsequent attacks.
Impressive yet typical was the performance of Lieutenant S. Kanaya, who came to the Philippines in late December as leader of the last kamikaze reinforcement echelon to arrive that year. Irresistible Allied forces had already swept through the central Philippines and the fate of Luzon was inevitable. Kanaya’s attitude was calm but completely detached, and he evinced interest in only one subject—that his plane make an effective hit. He practiced at making speedy takeoffs until his timing was perfect to the split second. This was important in view of the constant threat of enemy air raids which might come at any time, often thwarting special attacks before they even got started. Every day he was first in practice, approaching his plane at a run, in full flying gear, despite the sultry Philippines weather. Each time he was asked to submit a list of names from his unit for the next attack, his name headed the list. It was not until January 5 that his chance came and he led a unit of fifteen fighter-bombers in the last large- scale suicide attack upon the enemy invasion forces at Lingayen Gulf. Observers reported that one cruiser and four transports were hit and damaged.
The last kamikaze flights from Philippine bases had been scheduled for January 5 and the dwindling supply of planes had been allocated accordingly. On that date the last operational planes took off on their deadly missions; only remnants of damaged planes remained and they were to be destroyed. But energetic maintenance crews worked throughout that night patching and repairing so that by early morning of the 6th five extra fighter planes were ready for flight. The base commander had the difficult task of selecting five pilots from the more than thirty who remained, all having volunteered for this final special attack from a Philippines base. The men selected showed their gratitude at having been thus honored by saluting solemnly as they taxied past the commander for takeoff. They circled the field once before disappearing into the northern sky.
Further Japanese defeats followed quickly after the fall of the Philippines. The mighty enemy invaded Iwo Jima in February and Okinawa in April, trapping Japan in a grip of death which inspired desperation tactics on an unprecedented scale. The decision was made to throw every possible plane into repelling the enemy at Okinawa. Convinced that kamikaze attacks were the only means at their command which might prove effective against so powerful an enemy, Headquarters ordered that they be exploited to the fullest extent. Even training planes were mobilized for the effort.
A new suicide weapon was introduced in 1945 consisting of a rocket-powered 1800- kilogram missile. It was attached to a “mother” bomber for delivery to within sight of a target. There it would be released and a volunteer suicide pilot would fly it in to crash an enemy ship. This ingenious device was developed and promoted by a naval aviator who had been organizing and training a special unit since September, 1944. This group was called Jinrai Butai (divine thunderbolt unit), but “Baka (foolish) Bomb” was the notorious nickname it earned among the Allies.
This weapon was first employed in battle on March 21 when an enemy task force built around three carriers was sighted bearing 145 degrees, distant 320 miles from the southeastern tip of Kyushu. A flight of eighteen medium bombers, all but two carrying human bombs, was reluctantly ordered to attack by Vice Admiral Ugaki, who, as commander in chief 5 th Air Fleet, was in charge of air operations for the area. Ugaki hesitated about ordering this attack because of the scarcity of fighter planes to act as escorts. His doubts proved to be well-founded when this unit was ambushed and completely destroyed by a vastly superior group of enemy fighters, fifty miles short of the task force position.
One of the largest air attacks against the invaders at Okinawa was made on April 12. Some “Baka Bombs” were used in this attack, and one of them scored the first hit for this type of weapon. The successful pilot, a higher normal school graduate, was a reserve sub-Lieutenant, and very conscientious in everything he did. One of his subsidiary duties at the Kanoya air base had been to supervise the junior officers’ billet which was located in a shabby primary school. His last words before climbing into the mother bomber were, “Keep an eye out for the new straw mats I ordered for the billet; fifteen of them are supposed to arrive today.” Such was his composure that he napped peacefully during the flight toward Okinawa and had to be awakened when the time came to board his flight to eternity. Upon release from the mother ship the bomb sped down and away at great speed, soon disappearing from sight of the bomber crew. The big plane had turned and was heading back to base when, after several minutes of anxiety, her crew was relieved to see a huge column of black smoke reaching skyward—silent evidence that a “divine thunderbolt” had found its mark.
There were a few volunteers for the suicide missions who tended to become morose during the wait for their call to action. Especially was this true during the Okinawa campaign in which there were more than 1800 special attack flights and pilots, requiring involved planning and causing extended delays in many cases. By the time of Japan’s surrender, a total of 2519 men and officers of the Navy had futilely sacrificed themselves in the mad eddy of the divine wind. This does not include volunteer suicide Army pilots, nor does it include a small group of naval pilots who took off on suicide flights but were not counted as kamikaze attacks because their sortie was made after the Imperial rescript proclamation of August 15, 1945, calling for immediate cessation of the war.
At noon of that day the Emperor’s voice had gone out to his people by radio with the words of the rescript, an event without precedent in Japan’s history. A few hours later the 5th Air Fleet Commander, Admiral Ugaki spoke to his assembled officers and men. “Our Air Fleet has long been of the conviction that every man would fight to the finish, but we have come to a sorry day. I am going to take off for a crash attack upon the enemy at Okinawa. Those who wish to follow me are requested to raise their hands.” Sensing the imminent surrender, Ugaki had determined early that morning to die crashing an enemy ship at Okinawa, where he had sent so many pilots to their death in suicide attacks. He ordered his staff duty officer to prepare dive bombers for takeoff. Close friends and members of his staff tried to dissuade the Admiral from his plan, but, true to his reputation for imperturbability, his blunt answer was that he “must have a place to die.”
Cautious and thorough as ever, Admiral Ugaki stripped the insignia of rank from his uniform, and carried only a short samurai sword. His enthusiastic pilots responded eagerly to the admiral’s query about followers. There were more volunteers than there were planes available to follow the commander. The eleven planes finally took off and, although four of them were forced to drop out or turn back along the way, seven planes, including Admiral Ugaki’s sent back their “time of diving on target.”
Japan’s surrender found another sponsor of the kamikaze corps in the important post of vice chief of the Naval General Staff in Tokyo. Admiral Ohnishi had been ordered to Formosa when the fall of the Philippines appeared inevitable in early January and remained there until ordered to Tokyo in June. On August 15 came the proclamation of Japan’s surrender and that evening Ohnishi summoned staff officers to his official residence for a discussion which lasted late into the night. On their departure he penned a note: “To the souls of my late subordinates I express the greatest appreciation for their valiant deeds. In death I wish to apologize to the souls of these brave men and their families.”
Upon completing this last testament in the early morning of the 16th, he plunged a samurai sword into one side of his abdomen and drew it across to the other in complete satisfaction of the harakiri tradition. When told of this, his secretary rushed to the dying man, only to be ordered, “Do not try to help me.” Thus, refusing both medical aid and a coup de grâce, he lingered on in agony until six o’clock that evening. His choice to endure prolonged suffering was obviously made in expiation for his part in the most diabolical tactic of war the world has ever seen.*
*Editor’s note: This article is a condensation of a full length book published by Nippon Shuppan Kyodo in December, 1951.