Click here for previous chapters

By this time the 170 members had been chosen for the first group of aircrew to depart for Miyazaki Air Base in Southern Kyūshū.

But although the departure was imminent, the date was still undecided. 

The fateful day

The uncertainty of not knowing when we were going kept us all in a state of unsettled irritation, making it impossible to relax. And I still hadn’t done my training drop. Until I got that out of the way I couldn’t relax. 

Then the fateful day finally arrived.

Although the ground that morning was covered with frost the sun was shining warmly and the winds were light, giving ideal flying conditions. The pilots’ names were written on a blackboard at the command centre and sure enough, my name was there. From the far end of the runway I heard the mighty roar of a bomber’s engines as it began its takeoff roll for the first drop of the day, a K-1 fastened to its belly. 

With a light wind blowing from the north the bomber lifted off majestically from the 1,500-metre runway adjacent to the command centre. A few minutes later another bomber roared off into the sky, then another and another. The day’s first group was all in the air.

The pilots suddenly got very busy

About thirty minutes later the plane that was to carry me rolled up. My emotions were a mixture of fear, determination and uncertainty. But when I climbed aboard, perhaps due to the coziness of the plane’s warm interior, I relaxed and calmly prepared myself to do what I’d trained for.

A few minutes later we lifted off. But no sooner had we started our climb then white smoke started puffing from the left engine’s exhaust and the pilots suddenly got very busy. 

A crew member looked out the port window and shook his head. After descending to an altitude of about 200 metres (650 feet) the bomber turned and headed back to the field.

As we turned final our pilots rocked the bomber’s wings steeply right and left to signal a flight of inbound Zeros that we were in distress and to give way to us. 

I was shocked that the pilot of such a large aircraft would make a violent manoeuvre like that so close to the ground. But apparently he knew his aircraft well and, unlike me, wasn’t worried about stalling. 

In a matter of seconds he cranked the bomber around, lined the nose up on the runway, dropped full flaps and set us down, the customary squeak and puffs of tire smoke announcing our safe return. 

Once again I’d missed my chance to make a drop.

“No, you’re going.”

However, on January 17 — a date I will always remember — I got another chance. 

I’d spent the days following the previous attempt warming myself in front of the stove in the shack behind the command centre waiting impatiently for my chance. But by mid-morning I still hadn’t been called. 

“Well, looks like I won’t be going today either,” I said, resigning myself to spending another day in limbo.

But just then a squadron mate stepped into the room and said, “No, you’re going. The ground crew’s rolling a K-1 out for you.”

Looking through the window I saw a few peach-coloured K-1s sitting in front of their hangar. Looking closer I saw one being transported to a waiting bomber. 

“Okay,” I thought, “this is it. I’m finally going to make my drop.” 

It would all be over in about an hour

I was suddenly very tense. 

My heart started pounding and I felt my face redden to my earlobes. But my anxiety was tempered with relief at finally being able to complete the last step of my training. In a fog of conflicting emotions and barely aware of being called I was inside the bomber before I knew it.

It was actually all quite simple. We’d climb to altitude, they’d release me, and I’d glide to a landing. It would all be over in about an hour. 

“Calm down,” I told myself as the engines picked up rpm and we taxied to the runway. 

Zeros were lined up on each side of the runway preparing to launch, but they made way and held for the approaching bomber (the only time they’d do so). We rolled onto the long strip of white concrete and the pilot lined us up on the centreline. Viewed through the bomber’s windscreen the runway seemed to stretch out to the horizon. The pine forest at its end was only faintly visible.

With a roar from the dual radial engines the bomber accelerated quickly past the command post and we lifted off. 

Free from all ideas and thoughts, I looked on impassively as the pine forest and sandy area slipped away behind us. We soon crossed the coastline and climbed out over the ocean. Below us the long swells rolled in from the Pacific, ending in a white belt delineating the shoreline. 

Memories of my life as a seaplane pilot came flooding back, a life that now seemed to belong to the distant past. 

Peaceful and serene

We flew far out to sea until nothing but ocean was visible on either side of us. The bomber then banked right and headed towards Inubō Point jutting out from the Bōsō Peninsula.

By this time we were pretty high up. I couldn’t tell how high because the pilot’s back blocked my view of the altimeter. But I knew that when we reached 2,000 metres (6,500 feet) I should climb into the K-1 before they tapped me on the shoulder to remind me, so until then I just tried to relax. 

Looking down I saw that we were directly over Inubō Point. 

From our altitude the wide Toné River delta looked almost black. Nearby Choshi City, tinted grey by a layer of high cloud, appeared peaceful and serene, as does most of the earth when viewed from the sky.

NEXT TIME: Hell awaits beneath my seat >

---

These extracts are from the diary of Masa’aki Saeki, trainee Yokosuka MXY-7/K-1 Ohka pilot, 721^st Kōkūtai Jinrai Butai, Imperial Japanese Navy.

Translated by Nicholas Voge and shared with permission.

Nicholas Voge is a retired Pt. 135 airline pilot who spent his younger years living in Japan where he worked as a translator, copywriter and riding model for the Japanese motorcycle manufacturers. His translations include The Miraculous Torpedo Squadron, The Inn of the Divine Wind and Kaiten Special Attack Group, A Story of Stolen Youth.