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CHAPTER TWO

Training Hell

The Kasumigaura “Naval Aviator Preparatory Course” (Yokaren) in Chiba Prefecture was full. A new “Special B-Class” course was established at the Iwakuni Naval Airbase in Yamaguchi Prefecture in Spring of 1943. It was designed as a shorter, more intensive training program, and I was inducted into the first cohort of cadets.

It was an enthusiastic send-off by the villagers, not the usual adieu given to draftees, as I was the first ever Yokaren trainee from our village. This was considered quite an honor and seemed to warrant much pomp and ceremony. Relatives and well-wishers gathered at my home for a big party the night before departure. At 8:00 the following morning, I marched to the Kitano Tenmangu Shrine where the district’s traditional protective deity is enshrined. Hundreds of people turned up to wish me luck and walk with me to the shrine. Village youngsters at the head of the parade brandished a big flag emblazoned with the words “Congratulations Kazuo Odachi! Yokaren Trainee.” Others performed military songs with their trumpets and drums. I followed the band, and the mayor, assemblymen, and teachers walked behind me. Nearly 200 elementary school pupils also joined in the parade.

We ascended the stone steps of the shrine where I was blessed by a Shinto priest in front of the main worship hall. Returning along the same route to the station we passed hundreds of children in front of the school waving small Japanese flags and enthusiastically shouting “Way to go Kazu-san! Good luck!” I was about to respond in kind but remembered the distinguished gentlemen behind me and thought it prudent to behave in a more adult manner.

Even more villagers were waiting near the station. The mayor entered the station building with trumpeters lined up next to him. They blasted a fanfare, and all gathered turned and bowed in the direction of the Imperial Palace. The mayor then delivered his address. “Allow me to offer a few words of encouragement to our brave young Mr. Odachi who is about to embark on his adventure to fight for Japan.…” When he finished, I made a snappy salute and responded in kind. “I thank you all for this send-off. I will do my best to serve with honor and repay your kindness with dedication to duty. I shall now humbly take my leave.” I boarded the train amid a flurry of red and white as everybody waved their flags.

My parents did not attend my grand farewell. They were too busy making traditional celebratory food to give to neighbors for their support. The send-off was lavish in every way. I figured that they all secretly thought I’d be dead within a couple of years, and this was my last hoorah. Kinzo Kasuya and Hiroshi Toyoda boarded the same train at the next station. We all set off together as brothers of the so-called “cherry blossom corps.”⁴ In their case, however, it was to be their final goodbye. They were killed in action a few years later.

Training in Iwakuni

The Iwakuni Naval Airbase was built in 1938, and that was where we commenced our Yokaren training there.⁵ Rising at 6:00 each morning, the days started with physical exercise followed by breakfast. Then it was classes and training sessions until 17:30. Evenings were set aside for self-study and revision. We took classes in mathematics and other subjects just as we did at school with the addition of Morse code and English. Flying didn’t come until later. Our instructors in the early stages were originally school teachers, but their lessons were severe beyond compare.

Our basic military training consisted of bayonet fighting and marching. We also practiced Sumo wrestling, marksmanship, and various team-building exercises. Rowing was particularly exacting. The oars were thick and blistered our hands, and our backsides became bruised from the hard seats. Everything we did was connected to training. Even walking from one barrack to another was prohibited. We had to run.

We were not allowed into the mess hall when morning classes finished until passing an impromptu test first. An officer would order us to halt. A soldier on the roof then signaled with flags and we had to decipher the code. Whispering our answers into the officer’s ear we were given permission to enter the mess hall if we got it right. Otherwise, we would be stuck outside and subjected to a barrage of insults decrying our “lack of military spirit.” Insults were one thing but being forced to forgo lunch was the worst.

Every minute of every day felt as if we were in our own small war, but I had no issue with even the strictest instruction. I was determined to never show the “white feather” of defeat as it was a matter of pride. I kept my sights firmly on becoming a fighter pilot. Kinzo, Hiroshi and I chose this way, so failure was not an option.

There were about 1,800 fellow trainees in Iwakuni, and many of the cadets in our first Special B-Class course were outstanding fellows. As more pilots were killed in action, we were sent to fill the gaps and became core aviators in the air fleets stationed around Taiwan and the Philippines. Thrust into the center of the action, our cohort was destined to suffer the largest number of casualties in the war.

One memory I have from that time was the mysterious demise of the battleship Mutsu in June 1943. The Mutsu was one of the largest battleships in the world. Even though it was anchored in Hiroshima about 20km away from our base, the almighty noise from the explosion was clearly audible. The cause of the explosion remains unknown.

Training in Nagoya

After six-months in Iwakuni, we relocated to the Nagoya base to undertake the midterm training course. The base was on top of a hill near the little town of Koromo. It was appallingly chilly there, and life was bleak. We were taught flying basics in gliders before advancing to the “Red Dragonflies,” the nickname for Yokosuka K5Y biplane trainers (see photos). Their color, however, was orange. Four trainees made up one team and we repeated take-offs and landings under the watchful eye of instructors seated in the back.

Typical flight training would go as follows: I would allocate the top of the hill in front as the target. After informing the instructor “Target OK” through the comms tube, I pushed down on the lever to take off. Gradually ascending to 200m, I would call “First turn” and made a 90-degree turn to the left. At the next turning point, I would make one more 90-degree turn to the left, and fly the reverse route looking down on the runway. I would then make a third turn to the left, and then one more before descending to land on “three points.” That is, a stable landing on the two wheels attached to the main wings and the rear wheel. After successfully touching down, I would disembark and run to report to the trainer. The next trainee would then head to the cockpit while I returned to the bench to observe his flight.

In addition to this basic training we also practiced more complex maneuvers such as the “aileron roll,” “vertical loop,” “left diagonal loop,” “right diagonal loop,” and “hammerhead stall.” The “left oblique spin” involved climbing to the upper left, turning over and then descending. The “hammerhead stall” was executed by climbing quickly on an angle, and as the plane lost speed at the highest point, a sudden turn was executed. This technique was an evasion maneuver often used by Zero fighters. Our Red Dragonflies could perform it just as well if not better than Zeros because they flew slowly without the undue stress that resulted in catastrophic structural failure seen in other machines.

Still, the Red Dragonfly was not immune to the occasional mechanical fiasco. I had two frightening experiences with the engine suddenly cutting out. I thought I was doomed, and informed my instructor that I was preparing to crash land on the bamboo below. Fortunately the engine came back to life, and thankfully saved mine.

Trainees also made mistakes. Every now and again the wheel struts under the wings would collapse because of heavy landings. This would inevitably earn a hard slap in the face from the instructor along with a stream of profanities for “taking the piss.”

We had three uniforms; a flight suit, practice suit, and formal wear. Our formal uniform was a black, high-collared suit with seven buttons. Engraved on each of the buttons was a small cherry blossom and an anchor. We became known as “seven buttons” because of the uniforms, and there was even a song about us. “The young hot-blooded men of the Yokaren. Cherry blossoms and anchors, seven buttons so smart.…”

Our formal uniforms fitted well, but flight and practice suits, and shoes were a different matter. Asking for something in our size would result in being told to “go boil your head” and “make your body fit the clothes instead of whining for clothes that fit your body!” The flight boots were awful. My shoe size was 24cm, but I was issued with 28cm boots making it hard to control the foot pedal in the cockpit. Running around base without tripping up was also a mission.

We wore our practice uniforms most of the time. Referred to as “sailor suits” these were not made to fit either. There were fewer buttons than our iconic formal wear, and the hems of the trousers were overstated bell-bottoms, supposedly making them easier to remove them if we ended up in the sea.

Even bedtime was a test of grit. We underwent a nightly ritual of setting up our hammocks as the trainers timed us. We placed our hammocks on the floor and knelt as we waited for the signal. With the sound of a whistle, we grabbed the metal hooks and attached them to the poles, unwound the hammock cords, placed the pillow inside and shouted “Done!” If the last one in our team took more than 18 seconds we would be scolded for our deplorable lack of enthusiasm and would have our backsides whacked three or four times with the trainer’s disciplinary baton dubbed the “Martial Spirit Bludgeon.” The time limit was gradually shortened to 17 seconds then 16 seconds.

Life was tough and there wasn’t much to enjoy about the experience. Even washing clothes was toilsome beyond belief. Navy boys were expected to look smart and well-groomed. This meant that we had to wash our clothes often, but the laundry facilities were on an exposed hill where the frigid wind and freezing water prevented the soap suds from dissolving. Our hands were paralyzed with cold and it took forever to get our gear clean.

The instructors habitually frightened the living daylights out of us. We found out later that some of them were hardened veterans, but many others were not. The latter were “dropouts” who lacked the necessary skills, or who were not imbued with “the right stuff” to be fighter pilots. As such, these fellows tended to be relentless in their bullying, and were clearly bent out of shape with jealousy.

No good memories were forged in Nagoya. Perhaps the only exception was the sugar biscuits. When we were allowed a little time off training, we purchased packs of biscuits and bottles of cider which we consumed in a special room in the shop reserved for navy men. Munching on biscuits and chattering away in our fleeting moment away from the slog was our only reprieve.

First Time in a Zero

There were 60 trainees in Nagoya at first. All of us wanted to be fighter pilots, but many were weeded out and dropped from the course. The training duration was shortened to three months from the scheduled four, and I was sent to an airbase in Oita as a fighter trainee.⁶ At first, we weren’t sure why things were hurried along but it became abundantly clear later. The war was not going well, and Japan needed Zero pilots in battle theaters ASAP.

After our basic training, some of us were sent offshore to places like Singapore. I was bound for Singapore at first, but my orders were changed to Oita. This is where cadets were taught how to fly Model 32 Zero fighters. I was dispatched to Oita in January 1944 with about 50 others. Being in a bomber meant you were one of a team of seven, whereas the Zero pilot was captain of his own machine. It was what all of us desired most.

Arriving in Oita, I was dismayed to see three “Military Spirit Bludgeons” hanging ominously in the barracks. Three veterans were sitting in a circle. They stared long and hard at us wondering whether we would be able to hack it. I knew we were in for a difficult time but couldn’t let the negativity get to me.

I boarded the fabled Model 32 Zero for the first time. It was markedly different to the Red Dragonfly I was accustomed to. The rhythmic sound of the engine was powerful and soothing. It handled sublimely, and I felt as if vapor from the engine was engulfing my body. The Zero and I were one.

The training Zero came with a back seat for an instructor. We graduated from these before long and flew solo in single-seated models. The Model 32 was very stable. There was one instructor for each trainee team of four. We mainly practiced taking off and landing to start with, then progressed to standard flight drills and finally aerial dogfight maneuvers against other Zeros.

A month passed, and we started to sense a change in mood around base. Instructors would fire us up by screaming that we had no more time to waste in training. “It’s time to get where the action is.” Before long, we were deployed to operational units. Our original four-month training schedule was concluded in a little over a month. I was transferred to Kasanohara Airbase in Kagoshima Prefecture.⁷

Kasanohara Airbase

There were three naval air bases in Kagoshima: Kanoya, Kokubu, and Kasanohara. I moved to Kasanohara in the middle of February 1944. Naval Fighter Wing squadrons of the 1st Air Fleet were referred to with animal designations—Lion, Tiger, Panther, and Wolf. Those in the 2nd Air Fleet’s 221st Naval Air Group 312th Fighter Wings were named after natural phenomena: Storm, Lightning, and Thunder. I was attached to the 312th Wing in the “Storm” (Arashi) Corps, and this is where the real fighter pilot drills began.

Trainings at Kasanohara started out as usual. After a week or so, a senior officer told us that things were about to get serious. “Your seniors have been annihilated in the Truk Islands. The stakes are higher now. Get ready for hell lads.” The Navy had been secretive about the defeat in Truk. The Imperial General Headquarters never disclosed discouraging news, but the details trickled down to us by word of mouth anyway.⁸

With squadrons in the 1st Air Fleet all but gone, the 2nd Air Fleet was called in to bolster air attacks in the southwest Pacific. We trained relentlessly from morning to night. Aside from on rainy days, we were usually not allowed to sleep in our quarters. Instead, we kipped under the wings of our aircraft outside. There was no bathing or change of underwear. We became scabby and filthy, and constantly beleaguered with itchy skin.

Drills were of a much higher level than before. Taking off and landing on aircraft carriers required pinpoint accuracy. A long line of white linen was laid out on the runway in the shape of a carrier platform. Precise landing demanded careful consideration to the velocity and direction of the wind. If a landing came up short, the instructors would be furious. “You moron! You just smashed into the stern of the carrier!” Conditions on grass and tarmac runways were also different, so we had to learn to cope with various environments.

For shooting practice, a Zero dragging 200 meters of rope from its tail with a 5-meter streamer attached to the end would serve as the target plane. It took off first with the rope and streamer trailing behind. Four attack Zeros followed suit and fired their 7.7mm machine guns in turn at the streamer. They were each loaded with different colored bullets—red, blue, yellow, or purple—so that hits could be identified.

There were two ways to strike. One method was called the “upper-rear attack” and entailed chasing the target Zero from 1,000 meters above and then descending rapidly from behind on a 45-degree angle to shoot at the streamer at the closest point before pitching away in a “hit and split” maneuver. The other method was called the “upper-front attack.” This was also initiated from above at 1,000 meters, but we came in from the front in a rapid dive firing a burst at the streamer just as we crossed paths and suddenly rolling out of the way.

The trainers checked the colors marking the target streamer to identify who was successful. If your color was not there, the insults would fly. Some trainees found the task very difficult and met with little to no success. I wasn’t bad but tended to fire a little too deeply.

We also practiced chasing tactics. The lead Zero was piloted by an instructor and we had to keep on his tail being careful to not to get too close. We tried to keep around 200 meters to the rear, but a slight miscalculation meant that the lead Zero would vanish before us.

“Team fighting” and “advantage vs. disadvantage” training was designed to be as realistic as possible. The former comprised of mock dog-fights with four vs. four, or eight vs. eight planes. The latter involved four Zeros soaring at 5,000 meters above sea level and the other four flying from the opposite direction at the lower altitude of 4,000 meters. One group flew in formation from the direction of Mount Kaimon, the other from Shibushi Bay. The point of engagement was just above Kasanohara base from where senior instructors watched the dogfights through binoculars. The four fighters at higher altitude were expected to capitalize and take their lower flying prey to task. The disadvantaged fighters, on the other hand, were supposed to somehow escape and maneuver to turn the tables.

Mock dogfights required mastery of rapid ascents, descents, and circling at maximum speed. A Zero that exceeded its speed threshold in rapid descents was in danger of breaking up through stress on the frame. It was crucial to keep speed within the limits and carefully time the climb. The joystick had to be pulled fully back which took immense strength in the arms. The transition into rapid ascent would generate incredible Gs, pushing my body and head back into the seat and distorting my face. I would start to see yellow, purple, and finally black as I all but lost consciousness. It was dangerous but the only way to learn.

Combat tactics also depended on the weather. If we flew under clouds, we risked easy identification by the enemy because of the Zero’s distinctive silhouette. On overcast days we flew in the clouds meaning that visibility was non-existent. We flew out from the clouds momentarily to confirm each other’s position, and then back in again.

The time frame for each simulated dogfight was only five to six minutes but it was exhausting. Some cadets failed to pull the control up sufficiently and ended up crashing into the hills. There were four such accidents during my time at Kasanohara. Senior officers made us go and recover the bodies. Debris would be strewn everywhere as we clambered up to the crash site, so it usually took some time to locate the pilot’s remains. In one case we were unable to find any sign of a body at all. When a body (or its parts) were recovered, everything was taken back for immediate cremation. A funeral was never held. Relatives would come about a week later to collect the ashes.

Flying in formation was another important skill that we were drilled in thoroughly. We practiced keeping 16 airplanes flying neatly in formation, which was not easy especially if visibility was poor. Night flying was the worst. Lights were not allowed so it was virtually impossible to see other planes flying in proximity.

The daily routine varied. We sometimes had formation training right after breakfast, followed by lunch, an hour-long afternoon nap, then battle training, and night flying after dinner. Sometimes we flew before breakfast in dawn exercises. Each day’s agenda was posted on a board in advance with our initials placed underneath to indicate which activity we were assigned to.

The food was good. Fighter pilots didn’t cook as meals were organized by the mess crew. We usually got milk and eggs for lunch. After flight drills we were given a special bag containing a small bottle of rice wine, tobacco, chocolate, adzuki-bean jelly, caramel and other treats. Every so often we were given time off to boost morale.

It was wise to be considerate to the maintenance staff. They never got treat bags like us, so we shared our provisions with them. This was how we ensured our Zeros got the care they needed. Particularly in the Army, rank-based hierarchy was very strict. Even one rank up was carte blanch to torment juniors. This was not the case among airmen where rank was not as important as how many flight hours you had under your belt. Anyone with 1,000 hours or more was first-class. Although I had only been in training for one-and-a-half years, I managed to accumulate 6 to 700 hours. This wasn’t bad going considering the hurry the Navy was in to get us to the front.