28 October 1944
Nichols Field, Manila
Dear Parents,
Congratulate me, for I have been given a splendid opportunity to die. Tomorrow we will be sixteen warriors, manning our planes to sortie for suicide attacks on enemy aircraft carriers. May our death be as clean and sudden as the shattering of crystal.
Isao
Petty Officer Isao Matsuo of the Imperial Japanese Naval Air Force manned his plane next morning. He and his comrades made suicide attacks on the carriers of a United States task force some 200 miles east of Manila. At a cost of twelve Japanese planes and pilots, the attackers succeeded in damaging the carrier Intrepid.
Isao Matsuo was one of 4,364 Japanese who are known to have given their lives in organized aerial suicide attacks against Allied warships during the last ten months of World War II. He was a pilot in the Kamikaze Special Attack Corps. Attacks by the Corps exacted a toll of at least 300 American ships sunk or damaged and some 15,000 casualties among the armed forces of the United States.
These bare statistics give no inkling of how such a program of planned suicide could come into being. What prompted it? What sustained it? How did it happen? What caused more than four thousand Japanese pilots thus to commit suicide?
By the fall of 1944, it was obvious that only the most desperate measures might save the Empire. United States amphibious forces threatened Japan’s hold on the Philippines. U. S. carrier forces were spoiling for a showdown. Japan’s war fleet was decimated and her aircraft critically inferior both in quality and numbers.
On October 19, Vice Admiral Takijiro Ohnishi, commanding naval air forces in the Philippines, in a momentous conference with senior officers at Mabalacat fighter base, stated:
“Our mission is to eliminate the enemy carriers, as our surface forces strike his invasion fleet. With so few planes we can insure success only through suicide attack. Each fighter must be armed with a 550-pound bomb and crash land on a carrier deck.”
With the concurrence of the base commander, this electrifying proposal was announced to Mabalacat’s unit of 23 non-commissioned pilots. With enthusiastic cheers they volunteered to a man.
Thus was born the most diabolical weapon of World War II—the aerial suicide attack, termed by the Japanese, kamikaze—“The Divine Wind.”
In the grey dawn of October 25, Lieutenant Yukio Seki and his men of the new suicide corps dashed for their planes and took off from Mabalacat in search of an enemy force reported to be ninety miles east of Tacloban. The bomb-laden planes found the carriers. Each pilot chose his target and, at a signal from Seki, dived. On that day the U. S. Navy suffered its first losses to the kamikazes—one escort carrier sunk and six escort carriers damaged.
That initial success, accented against a gloomy background of successive failures and heavy losses, was greeted with exuberance by Japanese aviators throughout the Philippines. Volunteers clamored in scores at all the air bases. When Commander Nakajima asked for personnel from among the non-commissioned officers at Cebu, every able-bodied man responded. The officers voiced resentment. Ensign Chisato Kunihara, for example, approached Nakajima abruptly, almost belligerently, trying hard to control his anger.
“You invited the non-coms to volunteer for special attack, but made no mention of the officers. What about us, sir?”
“Why, what do you want to do?”
“We are all eager to join the Corps!” “Then why should I bother to ask if you would volunteer?”
Kunihara’s scowl relaxed into a smile of understanding, as he saluted, thanked his senior, and withdrew.
Except for unit leaders, however, only noncommissioned officers were accepted as suicide pilots. It was essential that the more experienced fliers be used as escorts for the crash- dive planes. Without skilled escorts the kamikaze craft would fall easy prey to enemy interceptors before ever reaching a target.
Why did men volunteer for suicide attacks? They had sortied for conventional attacks and seen their ranks decimated by the overwhelming fire and fighting power of the enemy. They knew that their days were numbered under any circumstance. They knew that death in battle would insure them a place in Tokyo’s Yasukuni Shrine for the heroic war dead. The only possible greater glory was the chance of striking a devastating blow at the enemy who threatened the homeland. Suicide attacks gave assurance of that chance.
The end of October saw the last of the original kamikaze volunteers. They had tried but failed. Though U. S. carriers were hit, their strength remained superior. The Japanese fleet did not win a decisive surface action at Leyte; it suffered a miserable defeat. But the early suicide successes of October set off a wave of enthusiasm which caused the original mission to be forgotten, and the Kamikaze Corps was continued. The enthusiasm spread out to all ranks and rates of Army and Navy fliers and brought volunteers far in excess of available planes. It spread upward to Imperial General Headquarters and brought no objection to the continuation and expansion of the suicide effort. These attacks offered the only hope for the Japanese air forces to use their inferior strength successfully against the enemy.
Continuance of the attacks led to a special training course for the pilots. They were taught target selection, approach, attack angle, point of aim, and other niceties of their suicidal trade.
As the supply of non-coms and planes in the Philippines dwindled, a batch of aviation recruits from the homeland were sent southward in such planes as could be spared. They came by way of Formosa, where two schools were set up for their particular training. In Formosa, as in the Philippines, there were new faces at every lecture.
Captain Inoguchi was the senior officer present at Cebu air base in early November when a six-plane suicide unit arrived, led by his nephew Lieutenant Tomo Inoguchi whose assignment for the time being was with the escort planes. They had not met for several years and there was a warm exchange of greetings, after which the young man asked for news of his father. Captain Inoguchi had regretfully to reply that his own brother, Tomo’s father, whose last assignment was captain of the battleship Musashi, had gone down with his ship in the Sibuyan Sea the previous week.
Early next morning Captain Inoguchi watched the departure of a twelve-plane strike for Tacloban airfield, where some eighty U. S. planes were reported to have landed. As the last of the dozen was airborne, a breathless warrant officer pilot came to report, “Lieutenant Inoguchi has stolen my plane!”
With the first light of day there were faint flashes of antiaircraft fire in the direction of Tacloban. Half an hour later, one crippled plane returned. The bloodstained pilot reported, “Fierce AA fire destroyed our formation as we passed over the mountains. Enemy radar must have detected our approach. Every battery was alerted and waiting for us.”
Captain Inoguchi started to speak, “Lieutenant Ino—?” but broke off. The pilot’s expression had already answered the captain’s unspoken question about his nephew. It was just ten days since the father had gone down with his ship—and now the son had found a last resting place, not far away.
In mid-November the kamikaze pilots at Cebu were offered a gift of sake by members of the garrison unit. When there was possibility of a sortie, fliers did not drink. But, because no enemy task forces had been reported in the area, Commander Nakajima ordered the large bottles delivered to their billet. They promptly arranged a party, and invited Nakajima.
At the affair he was greeted by a boisterous celebrant with, “When can I make my attack? Why don’t you let me go soon?”
This boldness inspired another to say, “I’ve been a member of the Corps from the very first, yet later volunteers have already gone. How long must I wait?”
Commander Nakajima, momentarily stunned by this sudden spate of questions, replied, “Sooner or later the time comes for each of us. Special attacks of one kind or another will continue until peace comes to the whole world. You fellows should think of yourselves as being among the first of many, and not complain that you are a couple of days later than someone else.”
They grudgingly agreed, but the first man spoke again: “Yes, I understand what you mean, Commander, but I wanted to be among the very first.”
The line of conversation changed when a man asked, “Is there discrimination according to rank at Yasukuni Shrine, Commander?”
“There is no discrimination at Yasukuni. A man’s standing is determined entirely by time of arrival.”
“I will outrank you then, Commander, because you will have to send out many more pilots before you can go yourself!”
“Say,” called out another, “what shall we do with the Commander when he reports in to Yasukuni?”
“Let’s make him mess sergeant!” There were roars of approving laughter.
“Can’t you do better by me than that?” Nakajima begged.
“Well, then, perhaps mess officer.''’ They all roared again.
When Nakajima was ready to leave the party, several pilots followed him to the door, begging to be chosen for the next attack. Hearing the pleas, their colleagues shouted, “Unfair! Unfair! No special favors!” These strange words mingled and were lost in the sounds of good cheer that finally faded from hearing as Nakajima returned thoughtfully to his quarters.
Some fliers sortied on their mission the day after joining the Corps; none ever knew more than a day in advance when his time would come. Yet they studied, asked questions, and showed intense eagerness to learn. Their attitude belied any aspect of gloom. They were cheerful and pleasant in company, but matter-of-fact, sincere, and industrious about their work. They were men with a job to be done.
In trying to analyze the attitude of these men, we must remember that they considered the suicidal attacks as merely a part of their duty. Many expressed their sentiments on this point, and the theme was always the same: “When we became soldiers, we offered our lives to the Emperor. When we sortie, it is with the firm conviction that we will fulfill this offer and help defeat the enemy. We would be remiss to think otherwise. ‘Special attack’ is just a name. The tactic, while unusual in form, is just another way of performing our military obligation.”
This attitude generally prevailed. There were few theatrics or hysterics. Sorties were a routine matter. It was all in the line of duty.
Typical of pilot conversation was an exchange between two as they awaited final briefing: “I’ve been thinking about aiming for the stack of a carrier. That should be fairly effective, since the stack is lightly armored.”
“Yes, but stacks are usually curved, so it is difficult to hit them.”
It was more like casual talk about good fishing grounds than discussion of a rendezvous with death.
For the Japanese, the war situation in the Philippines went from bad to worse. By early January, 1945, Admiral Ohnishi withdrew his headquarters to Formosa. Kamikaze sorties continued from there and the homeland. U. S. aircraft carriers were still the choicest targets, but now other warships and transports came to be considered worthy of this formidable weapon. The tempo of attacks slowed during January with the evacuation of Philippine airfields, but it picked up in the middle of February when Iwo Jima was invaded. The high morale of the pilots continued.
By the time of the invasion of Okinawa, in April, the pace of suicide attacks reached a furious crescendo. On the 6th and 7th, 355 kamikaze planes sank four U. S. ships and damaged twenty-five. That was the first of a series of ten massive strikes which, in all, used up a total of 1,465 planes and pilots by June, when the mass attacks were discontinued. During these three months 26 ships were sunk by kamikazes and 164 were damaged, and the U. S. Navy lost 3,593 men killed, 5,539 wounded afloat at Okinawa, almost all to kamikaze attack.
During this period, however, there was a noticeable change in the attitude of suicide pilots. Membership in the original Philippines and Formosa corps had been made up entirely of volunteers, and these had had a spontaneous enthusiasm. Also, in the early days there had been an obvious purpose—and even some hope—that these extreme tactics might be successful in turning the tide of battle in favor of Japan. But now huge formations of American B-29’s were striking all the important cities of Japan. In the wake of these attacks, military forces as well as civilians began to see the handwriting on the wall.
Under the circumstances there remained nothing to do but continue and increase the tempo of the kamikaze attacks. And this was borne out by the postwar judgment of U. S. military men: “Macabre, effective, supremely practical under the circumstances, the special attack became virtually the sole method used in opposing the United States striking and amphibious forces, and these ships the sole objective.”
The purely voluntary system of earlier days proved to be inadequate in providing the number of pilots that was needed. There developed, accordingly, a pressure, not entirely artificial, which encouraged “volunteering.” It is understandable that this effected a change in the attitude of the pilots.
Many of the new arrivals lacked enthusiasm; indeed, were disturbed by their situation. With some, this condition lasted only a few hours; with others, for several days. It was a period of melancholy that passed with time. Devotion to duty was not an invariable rule at this critical stage of the war. The special attackers were neither saints nor devils. They were human beings, with all the emotions and feelings, faults and virtues, strengths and weaknesses of other human beings. They laughed and cried; did good things and bad.
Kamikaze pilots stationed in the homeland were subjected to extra pressures and very close scrutiny. In an excess of veneration some people came to look on them as gods and were disappointed when they did not act accordingly. It was even more regrettable when a few of these pilots, unduly influenced by a grateful and worshipping public, came actually to think of themselves as gods and grew unbearably haughty. Then, as so often happens, the reputation of the few was inaccurately imputed to the many. Neither better nor worse than others, they were, after all, just ordinary men.
But there was nothing ordinary about their war activity. One wonders, then, about these men. What were their feelings? What did they think? Standing at the brink of death, what were their final views on life?
They are gone, and can no longer answer our questions. But like other men about to die, they kept diaries and penned farewells to loved ones. These candid writings give some evidence of their innermost thoughts.
Many, like Ensign Susumu Kaijitsu, 23, combined solicitude for their families with eagerness to carry out their mission:
I trust that spring finds you in good health . . . We are hopeful of leading our divine Japan to victory . . . Words cannot express my gratitude to the loving parents who reared and tended me to manhood . . . think kindly of me and consider it my good fortune to have done something praiseworthy ... I pray for your well being.
Some had misgivings, as did Ensign Teruo Yainaguchi:
I was selected unexpectedly and am leaving for Okinawa today . . . Life in the service has not been filled with sweet memories ... I can see only that it gives one a chance to die for his country ... It leaves a bad taste in my mouth when I think of the deceits played on our innocent citizens by some of our wily politicians. I am willing to take orders . . . because I believe in the polity of Japan.
Others were confident. Cadet Jun Nomoto wrote with mixed emotions:
I am confident of my ability . . . will do my utmost . . . My friends and I must part company, but there is no remorse. Every man is doomed to go his own way in time . . . We have had the most intensive training. Now, at last our chance to sortie has arrived ... It is my firm belief that tomorrow will be successful.
Here the original handwriting ceased and the letter was continued by another:
I am in my plane awaiting the signal to take off. Nakanashi writes these words for me . . . resting the paper against the fuselage . . . My outlook is unchanged. I will perform my duty calmly ... It is a great honor to have been selected.
There were even those who were Christians and whose views were seemingly not affected by the fatalistic concepts of oriental religious beliefs. Along this line, Ensign Ichizo Hayashi, 22, wrote to his mother:
. . . Morale is high as we hear of the glorious successes scored by our comrades who have gone before ... I will carry the Rising Sun Flag you gave me. When results are announced you may be sure that one of the successes was scored by me . . . knowing that you are praying for my success. There will be no clouds of doubt or fear. We live in the spirit of Jesus Christ, and we die in that spirit. This thought stays with me . . . living now has a spirit of futility and it is time to die ... I will precede you now, in the approach to Heaven. Please pray for my admittance because I should regret being banned from Heaven to which you will surely be admitted.
There were philosophical letters and there were bitter letters. Ensign Heiichi Okabe, 21, kept a diary whose last entries showed that he was both:
. . . Death and I are waiting ... I shall die watching the pathetic struggle of our nation. I am a human being—with hope to be neither scoundrel nor saint, fool nor hero—just a human being . . . The world is too full of discord. As a community of rational human beings, it should be better composed. Lacking a single conductor, everyone lets loose with his own sound, creating dissonance where there should be melody and harmony. We die in battle without complaint. I wonder if those who are not in uniform would do the same. Only then can Japan have any prospect of winning ... If by some strange chance, Japan should win the war, it would be fatal for the nation. It will be better for our people if they are tempered through ordeals that strengthen.
Like cherry blossoms
In the spring
Let us fall
Clean and radiant.
With the Emperor’s surrender proclamation of August 15 one might have expected that suicide attack efforts would come to a justifiable and relieved close. Such was not the case. Early that morning the commander of the Fifth Air Fleet, Vice Admiral Matome Ugaki, ordered a sortie of three bombers for suicide attacks on ships at Okinawa, announcing that he would personally participate. Staff officers and friends did their best to dissuade him from this expedition.
Ugaki listened to the Imperial broadcast at noon, entertaining some hope that it would call for a fight to the end. The fact that it was, instead, a call to surrender did not alter his plan. After a farewell gathering with his staff, he was surprised to find not three, but eleven planes ready to sortie. The unit commander explained: “Who could stand to see the sortie limited to only three planes when Admiral Ugaki himself is going to lead the attack? Every plane of my command will join.”
Engine trouble caused four to turn back. But Ugaki’s plane and the others flew on toward Okinawa. Their last report indicated that they were making an attack. Since there were no suicide attacks reported on ships this day, his flight must have been knocked down by U. S. fighter planes. In retrospect it seems astonishing that Ugaki, a loyal military man, could have thus violated an Imperial command. He should have realized that, if his attack had hit any Allied ships, it might well have prolonged the war.
And what of Admiral Ohnishi, the author of this monstrous device? In judging him it must be remembered that his determination to carry out crash attacks had been an ultimate extremity. His every action and decision had been premised on the idea that Japan would never surrender. His position becomes more understandable when one considers that he had been told to turn the tide of war at any cost.
The Admiral spent his last days searching official Tokyo for the ear of someone in authority who might be convinced that Japan should fight to the bitter end. The noon surrender speech of the Emperor signalled a failure in this effort. Before dawn of the next day he committed hara-kiri. The abdominal cut was cleanly done, but the attempt to slit his own throat was unsuccessful. Still conscious when found by his aide, he refused both medical assistance and a coup de grace and lingered in agony until six o’clock in the evening. A farewell note bore testimony that he felt and assumed responsibility for the origin and failure of the Kamikaze Corps. He had written:
They fought well and died valiantly with faith in our ultimate victory. In death I wish to atone for my part in the failure to achieve that victory. I apologize to the souls of those dead fliers and to their bereaved families.