Whirlwind - Barrett Tillman [87]
By skill or fortune, Akamatsu survived the war, making extravagant claims to anyone who listened. Quipped historian Henry Sakaida, Akamatsu claimed 260 victories when sober; 350 when drunk. But whatever the numbers, he met and matched every plane and pilot the Americans threw at him.
Despite the exceptional records of a few super-aces like Akamatsu, not even Japan’s finest squadrons could dent the American onslaught. Arguably the most professional air defense unit in Japan was Captain Minoru Genda’s 343rd Naval Air Group, boasting a high proportion of combat-experienced pilots with long victory records. In some twenty encounters between March and August 1945, Genda’s pilots boasted 170 victories. But close examination of U.S. records shows barely thirty successes against ninety Japanese losses. That’s instructive—by 1945 Japan’s finest fighter wing claimed a two-to-one kill-loss ratio but in fact finished on the short end of one-to-three.
In truth, Japanese aviators were triple-damned. They often faced superior numbers of better aircraft flown by generally more competent pilots. In the end, facing a losing battle like their Luftwaffe allies, the emperor’s fliers fought for their comrades and their own self-respect.
Riding a Mustang
For American fighter pilots, Iwo Jima was the start of a long-range war. In 1945 a P-51 pilot based near London knew that his Mustang’s 750-mile radius could take him well beyond Germany: Berlin was “only” 590 miles away. But the Mustang could fly to Poznan or Vienna, down to Trieste at the head of the Adriatic, or to Firenze, Italy. Discounting that Spain was neutral, he could fly beyond Barcelona and back without landing. The difference was that, excepting the English Channel, the Britain-based pilot flew over land. For the fliers of VII Fighter Command, the distance was entirely over water.
The lurking dread faced by fighter pilots flying very long range escorts from Iwo Jima cannot be understood by anyone who has never taken a single-engine airplane beyond sight of land. Flying 1,500 miles round-trip, a pilot developed enhanced hearing. Over water he might hear—or imagine—little hiccups in the satin-smooth purr of his Rolls-Royce Merlin engine. Maybe it was just the spark plugs fouling on the return trip. Nursing its remaining fuel, the Mustang would lope along at 210 mph.
Returning southbound from Japan, the flier would wriggle on his seat cushion. He was “butt sprung,” the parachute pack feeling more uncomfortable than ever. There was no way to adjust his buttocks so they didn’t hurt. Five and a half hours into a seven-hour mission, the glamour of flying “the Cadillac of the skies” diminished in proportion to the ache of his sciatic nerve. He squirmed in the confined cockpit, stomped his feet on the floor, and tried to ignore the Pacific sun beating down through the canopy. He was tired and hot and bored.
Two hours before, the youngster had reveled in the firepower at his fingertips and the raw thrill of flying at fifty feet, shooting anything that moved. Now he stifled a yawn. That, too, was war.
Thirty years later General Mickey Moore wrote, “I don’t believe there is any question about the P-51 being the best prop fighter of World War II. It was a top air fighter and, hence, best for escort missions and equal to the P-47 as an attacker against ground targets.” Squadron and group commanders were just as enthusiastic and described the sleek North American as “perfect for these missions.”
With their heavy fuel loads, the Mustangs needed a long takeoff run, even at sea level. Originally the Iwo Jima strips were barely 2,000 feet long, and that was often inadequate for B-29 emergencies, when Superfortresses could run off the end. After a typical mission, fifty or more Superfortresses might land on Iwo rather than risk the extra 700 miles to the Marianas. The hazards also extended to the locals: the 531st Fighter Squadron’s flight line coffee tent was wiped out three times before it was moved to the upwind side of the runway, away from landing