'Heaven Shaker' Training

Plans were being concocted for a one-man midget which could be released while the mother submarine was submerged. During the winter of 1942-43 two naval officers, lieutenants Nishina and Kuroki, and a naval architect Hiroshi Suzukawa drafted a design based on the Type 93 Long Lance. All the major components of the original torpedo were retained, and the only major modification was the inclusion of an additional section between the warhead in the nose and the oxygen motor. This was the pilot's compartment, fitted with a periscope and a set of controls enabling a man to direct the torpedo run. By the spring of 1943 the designers had completed their drawings, and had calculated that their 'manned' torpedo, fitted with a 3,000 pound high explosive warhead, would have a range of forty nautical miles. The Long Lance had already proved it could break the back of a heavy cruiser with a man to direct it and a warhead three times more powerful there was every reason to suppose it could do the same to a battleship or an aircraft carrier.

Things had already started to go badly for the Imperial Navy and the Naval General Staff in Tokyo were looking for some way of changing the pattern of the Pacific war. The plans were presented for what the designers were now calling the kaiten. (The literal translation of kaiten is 'Heaven Shaker'. But in Japanese it means much more - suggesting a radical change in affairs.) But they were rejected as being too fantastic even But when the for consideration. Imperial Navy's attempt to smash the Americans at Saipan went awry the men in Tokyo began to have second thoughts about the kaiten. Nishina and Kuroki's persistent pleas to the Navy Ministry had culminated in a petition written in their own if this had much what undoubtedly caused the Naval General Staff to listen was what the Americans termed the 'Marianas Turkey Shoot.' when over blood. It is doubtful effect; 400 Japanese planes were lost. Thirteen months after they first sought it, permission was given for the construction of a prototype. But only on condition that it should have an escape hatch giving the kaiten pilot a chance to get away safely once he had put his weapon on a sure course to the tar- get. In February 1944 the prototype was approved and a base was set up on Otsujima Island near the Kure naval base, headquarters of Japan's Sixth Fleet and submarine force.

Strict security measures kept news of the project out of the public eye and only a few kaiten had been built by June 1944. But when the extent of the disaster which had overtaken the Imperial Navy in the Marianas finally dawned on them, the Naval General Staff sent out a frantic order for more to be produced on a crash priority. A second order called for volunteers to operate a Kyukoko heiki, a new national salvation weapon, on missions from which they were not expected to return alive. At first no mention was made of the nature of the weapon, but even when it was learned that their probable fate was an unseen death beneath the waves there were plenty of volunteers. Indeed it appears that the first ones were grateful at being accepted. Selection was supposedly based on three qualifications: physical and moral strength, evidence of strong sense of patriotism, and a minimum of family responsibilities. Married men were excluded and very few elder or only sons were chosen. The accent was on young fit men who would have little tendency to look over their shoulders.

At the kaiten depot on Otsushima, 'Base P', every effort was made to instill esprit de corps, Yamato damashii, Japanese spirit, in the volunteers. On arrival they were introduced to a prototype of their steel coffins before being shown to their quarters. The latter were, like their food, luxurious in comparison with what most of them had known in their previous training. But there were few recreation facilities - no cinema and no women. Nor were the men permitted leave of absence until they had completed their training, and were ready for the mission which was to be their finale.

Nishina and Kuroki organised the training of the first volunteers. But on 6th September, 1944, the kaiten claimed its first victim when Kuroki's torpedo stuck in the mud at the bottom of the placid waters of the Inland Sea. Six other lives were to be lost in training before the end of the war brought the demise of the kaiten. But, from September 1944 until the end of the Okinawa campaign, volunteers in groups which were given traditional names such as 'God's warriors', 'Group for the furtherance of the Samurai way', took kaiten courses at Otsushima. Lessons in the functions of the Type 93 torpedo were followed by simulated dry run missions to familiarise the pilots with the controls and accustom them to the confined space of their tiny cabin. Submerged practice drill against ships moored in Tokuyami Bay followed. Finally, when the pilots were considered proficient at these drills, the group was embarked on one of the fleet submarines for an operational dummy run.

Each of the I class submarines fitted to carry kaiten could take six of the weapons. During the approach to the target the kaiten pilots climbed into their tiny craft through a special hatch which was then sealed off. As the submarine closed on its victim, a telephone link between the submarine's conning tower and the kaiten enabled the captain to keep the pilots informed on the relative positions of the target. At the optimum moment the kaiten's engines were started and they were released at five-second intervals from the mother ship. Once in motion the pilot could observe the target through his own periscope, and make the necessary corrections to his course. Then at about 500 yards distance he would switch his craft on to automatic control for the final dash at full speed submerged to a depth of about twelve feet.

Inside the kaiten even a small man was cramped. And, although the controls were simple, considerable skill needed to operate the craft Under his feet was a tiny box of emergency rations and a small flask of Japanese whiskey. Neither was intended for operational missions. Directly in front of the pilot's face was the viewing glass of the short, stubby periscope which was raised or lowered by a crank on the right. Also on the right but above the pilot's head was the valve regulating the oxygen flow to the motor immediately behind him. Overhead on the left was a lever connected with the kaiten's diving planes, which controlled the rate of descent or climb underwater. Below efficiently. was a valve for letting in sea water. This was necessary to maintain stability as the oxygen fuel was used up. Finally, there was the rudder control lever which steered the weapon right or left and which was the last control to be touched by the pilot when he set his final course for an enemy ship. To operate the kaiten efficiently a man really needed six hands. And about the same number of eyes for watching the control panel. Apart from the periscope there was a gyrocompass, a clock, and depth and fuel gauges. Any sudden change in the controls or contact with an underwater obstacle invariably resulted in the pilot banging his head on one or other of the instruments. In consequence, bandaged heads were a frequent sight on Otsushima.

On an operational mission the captain of the mother submarine would align his ship with the target and this lever man would check his compass bearing. In the conning tower each kaiten the attack course of each individual kaiten would then be plotted and relayed by telephone. For example a typical order might be 'Go right thirty degrees on leaving. Speed twenty-five knots for twelve minutes and thirty seconds.' These instructions were designed to bring the kaiten to within 500 yards of his target, at which point the pilot was expected to raise his periscope and set the controls for his dash for the enemy ship's vitals at the top speed of forty knots.

Training finished with the successful completion of an operational dummy run. The kaiten men were then entitled to a few days leave before assignment to an operational mission. On this leave they were not expected to reveal the fact that they were now committed to a suicide operation. Nevertheless many of the families of such men appear to have guessed the reason for the special leave even if they were not told. Any suspicions they may have had would often be confirmed by little luxuries with which their relative was laden when he arrived. When the leave was over it was not considered good taste to mention that the next meeting would probably be at Yasukuni. But no doubt the thought was there.

'Heaven Shaker' Action

News that the Americans had seized Ulithi Atoll in the Carolines, where a deep water anchorage would provide an ideal fleet base, prompted the Japanese to launch their first kaiten attack. Twelve of the newly trained would-be suicides were selected for the strike. Among' them was one of the two inventors of the weapon. Lieutenant Sekio Nishina. Determined to show the worth of his innovation Nishina was taking along a box containing the ashes of his deceased co-inventor. This would ensure that both would go to Kudan and be enshrined at Yasukuni together. A dedication ceremony was conducted at the Otsujima base during the afternoon of 7th November 1944. Vice-Admiral Shigeyoshi Miwa, commander of the Imperial Sixth Fleet, supervised the proceedings and explained the forthcoming operation to the kaiten pilots. Three fleet sub marines, the I-36, I-37, and I-47, which were in the bay nearby, would transport four kaiten each to the vicinity of Ulithi where large numbers of American ships were reported to be concentrating. The kaiten pilots were to sink the biggest ships they could. A presentation of short swords and hachimakis followed, and that night there was a party for the twelve doomed men. Next morning they 9am the I-36 led the three I-class submarines out of the harbour. As they steamed slowly up the channel the crews on other ships lined the rails shouting 'banzai' and waving their caps in a farewell gesture.

The three submarines parted company not long after leaving port. I-37 was to proceed towards Kossol Passage in the Palaus, to attack Allied shipping there. I-36 and I-47 meanwhile would head straight for Ulithi. Their mission was to attack the American invasion fleet at anchor, launching their kaiten at through two different entrances to the atoll's giant lagoon. But I-37 was fated not to reach her destination. Despite having six lookouts on the bridge whenever she surfaced she was spotted by the American destroyer Nicholas on 12th November. In a sudden and unexpected attack the I-37 was caught before she could dive and take evasive action.

I-47 was under command of Lieutenant-Commander Zenji Orita, one of Japan's ace submarine captains. He steamed slowly for his destination, making twenty knots on the surface, until he came within range of the American patrol planes. He then submerged by day, surfacing at night to charge his ship's batteries and to pick up radio reports from Sixth Fleet headquarters at Kure. His ship and I-36 were working in close cooperation with reconnaissance planes from Truk. They would provide reports on American shipping at Ulithi.

On 17th November the I-17's radio picked up a message relayed by Tokyo reporting that one of the reconnaissance planes had seen a vast concentration of American ships at Ulithi on the previous day. According to the pilot they appeared to be anchored in three groups, and he had seen battleships and carriers among them. Next day, fifty miles west of Ulithi, Captain Orita surfaced so that the Kaiten could be given a final check. All four were found to be in good working order. By noon on the 19th the sub- marine had closed to within a mile of the southern entrance of the Ulithi lagoon, and at midnight the four Kaiten pilots began making their final preparations. Last minute messages were written and handed to Orita together with their wills; finally all four men wound their hachimakis round their heads.

Ensigns Akira Sato and Kozo Watanabe climbed into their kaiten at midnight while the submarine wallowed quietly on the surface. Lieutenants Nishina and Fukuda were able to defer their entry, because there were access tubes to their weapons from the submarine. (Access tubes to all kaiten were provided on later sorties, so that the submarine could remain submerged.) When the lids of their weapons had clanged shut, Orita dipped I-47 beneath the waves and then edged the submarine stealthily forward to the very en- trance of the lagoon. This manoeuv- ring occupied three hours, during which Sato and Watanabe sat in their kaiten - their only contact with the world outside being two telephone cables. At 3am Nishina and Fukuda struggled through the access tubes to their kaiten, Numbers One and Two. All was now set for the attack. Four cables bound each kaiten to the submarine's deck during the voyage. Two of these had been loosened when the I-47 surfaced at midnight; the other two could be released from inside the submarine. At 4am Captain Orita, guided by the twinkle of welding torches on the US ships which he could see in his periscope, declared that he was in the firing position. Over the telephone lines the four kaiten men reported they were ready for action.

'Kaiten Number One stand by, start your engine!' ordered Orita.
'Standing by', came Lieutenant Nishina's soft voice over the circuit. The third cable on Number One kaiten was loosened.
'Start your engine!' said Orita.
Inside the submarine, a motor sound could be heard.
'Engine started'
'Ready?'
'Ready!'
'Go!'

The fourth cable was loosened. It was 4.15am, 20th November 1944. Captain Orita, peering through his periscope, could see just a trace of bubbling water for a moment, as Nishina's kaiten moved off. Final checks of position, depth and the course Nishima was to follow had been made. He was now on his run-in, under orders to penetrate as deep into the anchorage as he could before raising his periscope and selecting a target for attack.

Ensign Sato left at 4.20, followed by Watanabe and Fukuda at five minute intervals. The second and the third kaiten were to get inside, then move off to the right and left, respectively. Fukuda was to attack when just inside the lagoon. This, it was hoped, would throw the Americans into a panic, when ships began exploding at widely separated points. The last words heard from kaiten pilots in I-47's conning tower were Fukunda's, 'Tenno heika banzai!'. Long Emperor!

The four kaiten forged towards their targets at about thirty knots. Mean- time the barely submerged I-47, live the suddenly freed of twelve tons of metal, lurched towards the surface. Orita submerged again to periscope depth and headed south-east. He had wanted to be well away from the of the anchorage when the kaiten completed their mission. He also wanted a clear view of what happened to take back to Japan. Thus at 5am, the I-47 surfaced again. It was pre-dawn twilight and the crew was edgy, for daylight comes quickly in the South Pacific. The minutes ticked past. Then, at 5.07, an orange flash blossomed over Ulithi, and there was a distinct boom from well within the lagoon where Nishina was supposed to hit a target.

At 5.11 another flash set the submarine's crew banzaiing. The appearance of an American destroyer soon stopped that, however. Orita dived, but when the absence of depth charges suggested the submarine had not been spotted he surfaced again. The sun was now up and the destroyer could be seen threading its way through the entrance to the Ulithi anchorage. At 5.52 the dull thud of another explosion was reported by I-47's sonar as coming from the atoll. It seemed that at least three of the kaiten had scored hits on something.

Whether their missions were successful or not Orita concluded that all four pilots were now dead, and at 6am he ordered a silent minute of prayer for their souls. Then he dipped his ship beneath the waters and headed for home. I-36 was not so lucky. Lieutenant- Commander Teramoto, the captain, shut Ensigns Taichi Imanishi and Yoshihiko Kudo into their kaiten from the deck shortly after midnight. At 3am Lieutenants Kentaro Yoshimoto and Kazuihisa Touozumi climbed into their craft through the access tubes. Everything seemed to be going well until I-36 reached the point designated for launching, just off the eastern entrance to the Ulithi lagoon. There, at the very moment set for firing kaiten Numbers One and Two were found to be stuck fast in their racks. They could not be freed after their engines had started. Then the pilot of kaiten Number Four reported that his craft was leaking badly. The only weapon that could be despatched was Ensign Imanishi in Number Three, who was launched at 4.54am.

Yoshimoto and Toyozumi returned to the submarine through their access tubes, and the I-36 surfaced briefly to take in Kudo. At this point the captain decided no more could be achieved, and when the I-36 submerged he turned her bow towards the open sea. Shutting off all the motors the crew listened intently. At 5.45am an explosion was heard, and at 6.05 another. Soon afterwards a pattern of depth charges rocked the I-36 and Teramoto decided it would be wise to get away from the area.

But the I-36 was compelled to stay submerged while American destroyers overhead methodically searched the area for the submarine which they thought had fired conventional torpedoes from the eastern entrance. Nineteen hours passed. By that time the air in the submarine was foul with fumes, and the crew was exhausted. No depth charges had been heard for more than an hour, and Teramoto decided that he would have to surface to get fresh air and charge his batteries. Shortly before midnight the tanks were blown and the vessel surfaced. It was dark night and as there was no sign of American ships Teramoto took a risk. Running north on the surface at maximum speed, he cleared the area without further incident.

I-36 and I-47 both got back to Kure on 30th November. On 2nd December a special conference was held on board the Tsukushi Maru, flagship of the Sixth Fleet, to consider Orita and Teramoto's reports on the kaiten attacks. Over 200 staff officers and specialists attended, and there was a lot of discussion before the results were summarized by a staff officer of the Sixth Fleet. Men on board I-47 had seen two fires, he said. And the crew of I-36 had heard explosions. Photographs of Ulithi taken by a reconnaissance plane from Truk, on 23rd November, three days after the kaiten operation, were then produced. 'From these', declared the speaker, 'we can estimate that Lieutenant Nishina sunk an aircraft carrier, as did Lieuttenant Fukuda and Ensign Imanishi. Ensigns Sato and Watanabe sank a battleship apiece!'

This was the conclusion the audience wanted to hear, and there was a great outburst of banzais. The Japanese high command had ordered kaiten to be produced in quantity, and news that the first strike had been an outstanding success was a great boost to the morale of the scores of young men in training. 'Die for the Emperor, but not in vain' was a good motto. Every embryo Kaiten pilot was positively looking forward to his death-dealing mission, when the news was circulated. The Japanese estimate of ships destroyed was a complete fabrication. The only ship sunk in the operation was the US tanker Mississinewa.

One Way Ticket – Japan’s Kamikazes Weren’t the Only Suicide Pilots of WW2

One Way Ticket - Japan's Kamikazes Weren't the Only Suicide Pilots of WW2

IN 1944, JAPAN'S MILITARY SHOCKED THE WORLD when it sent the into battle. With the emperor's fleet dwindling in the face of the numerically superior U.S. Navy, the leadership in Tokyo called on volunteer pilots to crash explosive-laden aircraft into enemy ships.

Sydney Harbour, Australia

 

A reproduction of the Japanese plan, showing the location of the mother submarines when they released their midget submarines. (Hugh Clarke and Takeo Yamashita, 1966, back cover)

Ban’s torpedoes were fired from the centre of the harbour.(Peter Grose, 2007, p. 140. Illustration by Ian Faulkner

Date: 31 May–1 June 1942

Attack by: Japanese Type A midget submarines

Target: USN, RAN, RIN and RNN warships

While Admiral Ishizaki’s raiding group scouted for targets off southeast Africa, a similar group commanded by Capt Hanku Sasaki, overall commander of the Pearl Harbor midgets, prepared to make a surprise attack in Australian waters. Sasaki’s group consisted of the aircraft-carrying submarines I-21 and I-29 and the Type A carriers I-22, I-24, I-27 and I-28. The four latter were called from patrol duties off Port Moresby, New Guinea, on 11 May and ordered to the IJN’s base at Truk atoll in the eastern Carolines to take aboard Type As and their crews. Meanwhile, I-21 and I-29 made aerial reconnaissance of major anchorages at Suva in Fiji, Auckland in New Zealand, and on the east coast of Australia, in search of large Allied warships refitting after the Battle of the Coral Sea (5–8 May).

On 17 May, on the last leg of her voyage to Truk, I-28 was running on the surface SSE of the atoll when she was sighted by the US submarine Tautog (Cdr J. H. Willingham). A torpedo hit crippled the Japanese submarine, which managed a brief and unavailing burst of gunfire before a second torpedo hit under the conning tower sent her down with all hands. But I-22 (Cdr Kiyotake Ageta), I-24 (Cdr Hiroshi Hanabusa) and I-27 (Cdr Iwao Yoshimura) all arrived safely at Truk and sailed again with Type As aboard on c.20 May. By 29 May they had made rendezvous with I-21 and I-29 some 40nm (46 miles, 74km) ESE of Sydney, where reconnaissance flights on 20–23 May had reported the presence of major warships.

In fact, the only major Allied units in Sydney Harbour (Port Jackson) were the heavy cruisers USS Chicago (CA 29) and HMAS Canberra and the old light cruiser HMAS Adelaide. With them were the destroyer tender USS Dobbin, the destroyer USS Perkins (DD 377), the minelayer HMAS Bungaree, the armed merchant cruisers HMAS Kanimbla and Westralia, the corvettes HMAS Whyalla, HMAS Geelong and HMIS Bombay, the old Dutch submarine K.IX, and the depot ship HMAS Kuttabul. The harbour defence force – all Australian ships – consisted of the anti-submarine vessels Bingera and Yandra, two minesweepers, six channel patrol boats and four unarmed auxiliary patrol boats.

Although the probable presence of at least one unidentified submarine off Sydney had been reported by RNZAF aircraft on 26 and 29 May, no specific measures against submarine attack had been taken. Of the permanent anti-submarine installations, the outer magnetic indicator loop at the Heads (the points flanking the harbour’s 1.5-mile wide outer entrance) was unserviceable, and the anti-torpedo boom at the 1,500yd (1370m) wide inner entrance was only partially completed and had gaps at both ends. Around the 12-mile (19km) long harbour a “brown-out” was in force, but repair shops on Garden Island were brightly lit, silhouetting the warships in Man-of-War anchorage to the east.

Even the sighting of a reconnaissance plane over the harbour early on 30 May failed to rouse the defences. Lt Susumo Ito’s “Glen” seaplane was catapulted from I-21 at c.0300, some 30nm (35 miles, 56km) northeast of Sydney, and at 0420 flew over the inner harbour at 600ft (180m), circling twice over Chicago. The cruiser’s duty officer identified the Japanese monoplane as a Curtiss SOC Seagull biplane “from an American cruiser”, and apart from brief patrols by RAAF fighters no special precautions were taken. Ito’s aircraft was lost when he landed in rough water near I-21, but he and his observer survived to report “battleships and cruisers” at Sydney.

Crossing the Loop

At dusk (c.1630) on 31 May, some 7nm (8 miles, 13km) east of Sydney Heads. the Japanese fleet submarines launched their Type As: Ha 21 (Lt Matsuo Keiyu and PO Takeshi Omori) from I-22 an unidentified midget (SubLt Katsuhisa Ban and PO Mamoru Ashibe) from I-24; and Ha 14 (Lt Kenshi Chuman and PO Masao Takenaka) from I-27.

To reach their objective, the midgets would have to travel some 20nm (23 miles, 37km) through heavily-defended waters; their attack would stir up a hornets’ nest of air and surface activity, it was obvious that none would return. For their one-way journey, the crews were provided with excellent charts and aerial photographs, and (possibly as a “token” of the chance of survival) rations enough for one week – including staples like dried fish and pickled plums as well as such luxuries as chocolate and whisky.

As night closed down, the Type As were able to take navigational fixes from the lights on the Sydney Heads, entering the harbour approaches in darkness. Subsequent examination of the magnetic loop log revealed that Ha 14 was the first to enter the outer harbour, at 2000, although its “signature” was not then distinguished from that of other harbour traffic. This was Ha 14’s last piece of luck: by 2015 the midget had become entangled in the western section of the anti-torpedo boom, where it was spotted by a watchman in a rowing boat. Although reaction was leisurely – the channel patrol boat Yarroma did not arrive until c.2130 – Lt Chuman and PO Takenaka failed to free their craft. At 2235, as Yarroma opened fire with her two Vickers machine guns and prepared to drop her four depth charges, Chuman fired a demolition charge that destroyed Ha 14 and its crew.

Lt Ban’s Type A had already crossed the loop, at 2148, and was making its run-in of c.6nm (7 miles, 11km) to the “battleship” at Man-of-War anchorage. A general alarm was raised in Sydney Harbour at 2227, but the order to darken all ships did not come until 2314, and dockside lights were not doused until 2325. Thus, the harbour was still well lit at c.2257, when Ban’s Type A surfaced about 500yds (457m) off Chicago’s starboard quarter, where it was sighted and caught in the cruiser’s searchlight. Chicago opened fire, first with light weapons and then with her 5in (127mm) – some of the shells from the latter fell ashore, damaging buildings but not, as popular legend had it, killing a lion in Sydney Zoo. The Type A submerged and made off towards the north shore. Perkins (with defective sonar gear) made a brief patrol with the Australian corvettes Geelong and Whyalla, but was ordered to anchor by Capt H. D. Bode of Chicago, who probably believed that he had destroyed the intruder.

In fact, the Type A was unharmed, and at c.2310 Ban surfaced again to the northeast of Garden Island, whose dock lights illuminated Chicago’s berth. But before he could fire his torpedoes he was sighted and fired on by Geelong; and by the time he was ready to attack, at 2330, the dock lights had at last been switched off. Ban fired both tubes: one, a dud, ran ashore on Garden Island; the second narrowly missed Chicago, passed beneath the Dutch submarine K.IX, and exploded under the old harbour ferry Kuttabul, a naval barracks ship, killing 19 and wounding 10 of the seamen billeted aboard. Perkins, the corvettes and harbour defence craft immediately began intensive patrols – but again Ban was able to slip away, heading back towards the harbour entrance. A signature on the loop at 0158 is believed to have been that of Ban’s boat making its exit – but what became of the Type A after that is unknown, for it was never seen again.

The Hunt in Taylor Bay

The remaining midget, Lt Keiyu’s Ha 21, was detected on its inward journey, at c.2250, before reaching the loop, by the unarmed patrol boat Lauriana and the anti-submarine vessel Yandra. The latter attempted to ram the midget, lost contact temporarily, and at 2307 dropped six depth charges. Shaken, but with his boat still intact, Keiyu apparently decided to lie low for a while in the harbour approaches. By 0300 he was again attempting to penetrate the harbour, when the outward-bound Chicago reported a periscope close aboard in the loop area. It is difficult to trace Keiyu’s subsequent movements, for by this time the harbour was in uproar, with reports of contacts and periscope sightings from all quarters. It is possible that the contact fired upon by Kanimbla at 0350, from Neutral Bay, represented Ha 21’s deep penetration of the anchorage. By c.0530, Ha 21 was again outward bound, to be located and subjected to a three-hour hunt in Taylor Bay by Yarroma and the patrol boats Sea Mist and Steady Hour. Repeated depth charge attacks were made – but when Ha 21 was located by a diver later that day it was found that the Type A’s motor was still running and that Keiyu and Omori had committed suicide with their pistols after scuttling their boat. Ha 21’s torpedoes were still in their tubes, which had been fouled by the midget submarine’s bow-mounted net-cutter.

Ha 14 and Ha 21 were salvaged and cannibalized to build a single midget, which was toured through Australia to raise money for the Naval Relief Fund. The Japanese crews’ remains were cremated and given a funeral with full military honours – a proceeding which attracted some criticism, especially because the fleet submarines that had launched the midgets shelled the Sydney suburbs and the Newcastle industrial plant before heading homeward. But although Japanese propaganda claimed that the operation had resulted in the sinking of the battleship HMS Warspite, the Sydney raid represented the last major suicidal operation of the Type A midgets.

Diégo-Suarez Bay, Madagascar

HMS RAMILLIES

Interior of a Type A Japanese midget submarine.

Date: 29–30 May 1942

Attack by: Japanese Type A midget submarines

Target: British warships at anchor

On 30 April 1942, Admiral Ishizaki sailed from Penang, northwest Malaya, in I-10, a Type A1 boat designed to function as the headquarters of a submarine pack and carrying a Yokosuka E14Y1 (“Glen”) reconnaissance seaplane. With I-10 sailed I-16, I-18 and I-20, each carrying a Type A midget. On 5 May they refueled at sea from the armed merchant cruiser Hokoku Maru, in preparation for a cruise off southern Africa in search of suitable targets for the Type As. At dusk on 20 May, I-10’s aircraft scouted Durban, and on succeeding nights made similar fruitless searches for major warships at East London, Port Elizabeth and Simonstown. Farther north, a seaplane from I-30 hunted for heavy units of the British Eastern Fleet at Aden, Djibouti, Zanzibar, Dar-es-Salaam and Mombasa.

In November 1941, under German pressure, Laval’s Vichy French government had agreed in principle to Japanese occupation of the island of Madagascar, off the east coast of Africa. Although there was little chance of a fullscale Japanese takeover of the huge (227,602 sq mile, 589,489 sq km) island, the Allies could not ignore the threat to the Indian Ocean supply routes that a Japanese presence at the well-equipped French base of Diégo-Suarez, at the island’s northern tip, would pose. Thus, on 5 May 1942, the British launched “Operation Ironclad”, an amphibious attack on Diégo-Suarez against determined but short-lived Vichy French opposition. By the end of May the base had been secured and most of the invasion fleet’s warships had dispersed. There remained, however, a force consisting of the battleship HMS Ramillies, three destroyers and two corvettes.

At 2230 on 29 May, I-10’s seaplane flew over Diégo-Suarez Bay and returned to report “one ‘Queen Elizabeth’ class battleship and one cruiser at anchor”. The reconnaissance flight was spotted by the British, who suspected that it was a French plane scouting for Vichy French submarines believed to be still active in the area. At 0500 next morning, the most likely time for a submarine attack, Ramillies weighed anchor and kept moving around the bay until full light, while Fleet Air Arm aircraft flew anti-submarine patrols.

Admiral Ishizaki’s midgets were launched at dusk on 29 May. The Type A carried by I-18 proved to be unserviceable, so the attack was to be made by midgets from I-16 (crewed by Ens Katsusuke Iwase and PO Kozo Takada) and I-20 (Lt Saburo Akeida and PO Masami Takemoto). Like Iwasa, lost at Pearl Harbor, Lt Akeida had been a test pilot during the development of the Type A and was a volunteer for operational duty with the weapon.

It was obvious that the midgets had no chance of returning: launched 10nm (11 miles, 18km) out to sea, they were expected to pass undetected through the 1,300yd (1,190m) wide Oronjia Passage and navigate a channel some 8nm (9 miles, 15km) long, notorious for reefs, rocks and treacherous currents, before reaching the main anchorage at Antisirane. After making their attacks, the crews were ordered to scuttle their craft and return to the parent boats as best they could – presumably by making their way overland to a coastal rendezvous specified in advance.

It is believed that only one Type A penetrated the anchorage, the other having been lost without trace on the voyage in. The first indication the Royal Navy received of an intruder came at 2025 on 30 May, when a torpedo struck Ramillies on the port bulge forward of ‘A’ turret, causing extensive damage in the forepart of the battleship. A short time later, another torpedo struck the tanker British Loyalty (6,993 tons, 7,105 tonnes), which sank almost immediately. The British corvettes immediately got under way and combed the bay throughout the night, making frequent depth charge attacks. Although no confirmed contact was made, the Type A was probably damaged, for by morning it had been abandoned by its crew and had drifted on to a reef, where it was discovered in a wrecked condition some two weeks later.

Ramillies, with a 900 sq ft (84 sq m) hole torn in her bulge and a 320 sq ft (30 sq m) rent in her outer bottom, rapidly took water in her forward magazines and compartments and began to settle by the bow. Rapid discharge of oil fuel and offloading of ammunition restored her trim and, with her main machinery undamaged, she was able to steam for repair to Durban, where she remained out of action for nearly one year. British Loyalty had settled in shallow water and was raised and repaired. It was at first thought that the attack had been made by a Vichy French submarine, but a few nights later the two Japanese crewmen were cornered ashore by a Commando patrol and, refusing to surrender, were shot dead. Had the attacker been identified at once as a Japanese midget submarine, and an immediate report sent to other Allied bases, Allied naval units might have been spared a severe shock less than one day later, when the Type As struck at Sydney, Australia.

Shinpu

Seki's unit taking off October 25, 1944 (A6M2, 301st Hikotaki, 201st Kokutai, ikishima-Tai)

St. Lo's magazine detonates after Seki's attack.

A formation of nine more Shinpu took off from Mabalacat. Leading the group was Lieutenant Yukio Seki, one of twenty-four volunteers who stepped forward—every Mabalacat aviator, to a man—after Vice Admiral Takijiro Onishi’s 19 October meeting.

Seki, 23, was at once an odd and natural choice to command the mission. An Imperial Japanese Naval Academy graduate fresh out of advanced flight school, Seki was a skilled pilot with some carrier-based combat experience. Seki had more in common with the Taffy 3 pilots than the Japanese flight novices whose deficiencies in age, skill, and experience would make them prime “body crashing” fodder in the months ahead. At the same time, though, Seki was a poster boy for the best in Japan’s latest generation of military manhood. He was wolfishly handsome, trim, and ramrod straight. 

As the son of a widowed mother, Seki’s pedigree was unpretentious and unassailable. He was the personification of the new samurai, a role model and sacrificial example for others—many others it turned out—to emulate and follow.

The group’s official name became the Shinpu (a compound noun, written using the Chinese characters for “god” and “wind”). Special Attack Unit with Seki as commander. Composed of all the pilots and remaining aircraft of what had formerly been the navy’s 201st Air Group, Shinpu Special Attack Unit was organized into four flight sections, each section’s name chosen to symbolize an essential virtue of Japanese manhood. The aircraft resources—twenty-six Zekes—were further divided: half would be used for body crashing, half for escorts and witnesses.

Ready to go and perhaps as motivated as they might ever be, Seki and the other original volunteers nevertheless had to linger several days before realizing their fate. During that time, there were a number of missions, but each was either aborted or produced dismal results—mistaken target coordinate s, mechanical failures, planes lost in bad weather, or jumped by American C.A.P.s. As new aircraft filtered into the Philippines during these frustrating days, they became part of Shinpu Special Attack Unit. Organized into new flights with their own glorious names, the planes were ferried south to airstrips on Cebu Island and then onto Mindanao to be closer to the developing action.

Meanwhile, while every Mabalacat mission got its ceremonial send-off, the fanfare for each became increasingly self-conscious and subdued. Whether mission takeoffs sparked pride, resignation, or dread, “failed” returns implicitly carried the stain of shame. When grounded, the original volunteers sat idle, free to relax (if they possibly could) and to contemplate their destiny. Though squadron mates offered encouragement and consolation, an ominous question loomed: Just how many times could a person set off prepared to die and return alive?

As it was, for all the glory that had been initially showered on this first contingent of body crashers, they might end up as no spearhead at all. Though officially unsanctioned, there’d already been earlier body crashing episodes—some perhaps as early as mid-1944. Now these new units—not to mention ones being formed by the IJA—might grab the first glory, dulling the first volunteers’ legacy while eventually leaving them just as dead.

Then, at 1020 on 25 October, Seki’s formation of Zekes broke through and made contact with Taffy 3.

Now Things Will Start Rolling

One Zeke dived at Kitkun Bay (CVE-71). Ron Vaughn, an 18-year-old Texan positioned as a lookout on Kitkun Bay’s after port catwalk, watched as the plane climbed, rolled, and plunged straight down toward the flight deck. Kitkun Bay’s 40-mm gunfire battered the plane. Vaughn saw a portion of the plane’s tail section crumple, causing it to veer drunkenly from its trajectory. One of the attacker’s wings managed just a glancing blow to the ship’s port-side catwalk—but its bomb exploded in the water just off the bow, with blast and shrapnel claiming a score of casualties.

Moments later, Kalinin Bay took a deeper mauling from a plane that succeeded in crashing its deck. Two other Zekes were shot down and two more driven off by gunfire from Fanshaw Bay and White Plains (CVE-66). But then the remaining three planes drew a bead on St. Lo.

The wing of one Japanese plane, shot down by St. Lo, fluttered right in front of Tom Van Brunt, barely missing his Avenger. Then he saw another plane careen toward St. Lo and watched as it too was shot out of the air. What Van Brunt didn’t see—and what St. Lo gunners missed as well—was a third Japanese plane approaching astern. Van Brunt recalled later: “He came right up the wake, pulled up, nosed over, and then crashed into the flight deck.”

Aboard St. Lo, crewmen were caught in the abrupt squeeze of contradictory events. First, they’d exhaled and stood down after spending the early morning square in the crosshairs of a Japanese fleet. Then they—and particularly the flight deck crews—were working furiously to recover aircraft. And now back to GQ as bogeys snooped in.

Few eyewitnesses agreed completely about what happened next. Many were convinced the entire Japanese aircraft sliced through St. Lo’s flight deck, igniting fuel and ordnance in the hangar area below. Brock Short, 19, a signalman positioned on the island just aft of St. Lo’s conning bridge, instead was sure he saw a bomb drop from the plane’s wing just before the plane itself disintegrated atop the deck. It was this bomb, Short was convinced, which “doomed our ship.”

This much was certain. In the next twenty-seven minutes, as explosions rocked and fractured St. Lo, all its crewmen abruptly turned their attentions to the singular, urgent business of survival.

Larry Collins, 29, one of St. Lo’s communications officers, was in the wardroom when GQ sounded. He jumped up and sprinted toward his GQ station on the fantail. His accustomed route was through the hangar deck, “but the Lord steered me another way.” Collins went up the usual ladder, but instead of getting off at the hangar deck, he kept climbing to the gallery level. The plane hit while he was still climbing. Collins turned and ran forward. Explosions seemed to chase him. They came one after another—maybe a half dozen—and with each explosion the ship shuddered.

Hearing blasts, Radar Technician Evan H. “Holly” Crawforth ran from the mess deck to a forward ladder also leading to the hangar deck. Someone cautioned him: “Don’t go up.” He started to turn back, “but I just had to see.” Crawforth glimpsed smoke and fire sweeping across the deck and a huge hole in the flight deck just behind the elevator. He ducked back below and took a roundabout series of passageways back to his duty station in Radio 2.

Radio 2 was dark but filled with sailors. “I told them to get the hell out. We went over to radar, which had a door opening onto the catwalk.” The door was jammed but they quickly unhinged it, tumbled out, and ran forward along the starboard catwalk, away from the smoke and fire. Crawforth inhaled the acrid scent of exploded ordnance. After emerging unscratched from the morning’s ordeal, it was hard to believe they’d finally been hit.

Joe Lehans, 27, St. Lo’s radar officer, was in that same gallery level radar compartment when he felt the first jolt of the crash. Dust puffed from the air ducts and settled across the room. Then there were explosions—and it was clear the ship was listing. The radar equipment and everything associated with it were classified Top Secret. Lehans knew what he had to do. First, he grabbed an armload of messages and instruction manuals and stuffed them into a weighted canvas bag. Next, he loaded and cocked his .45-caliber pistol. With the weighted sack in one hand, Lehans backed out of the compartment like a bank robber with his gun blazing, shooting up screens and consoles. When he got outside to the catwalk, he heaved the weighted bag overboard.

Briefly, inexplicably, Lehans then started toward his stateroom intent on retrieving his Remington electric shaver. Very quickly he let that idea go. Lehans did, however, dip back into the darkened radar room to retrieve a canvas bag stuffed with his own assortment of survival gear—gloves, an extra life belt, several .45 ammunition clips, and pieces of chocolate in watertight containers.

On St. Lo’s bridge Seaman Bill Pumphrey was getting final instructions from the ship’s skipper Captain Francis McKenna. Pumphrey, a 20-year-old from the West Texas plains town of Paint Rock, was the Captain’s Bridge Talker, a position of both privilege and isolation. Several minutes before, McKenna had calmly given the order to abandon ship and would by tradition be the last man to leave. 

Now McKenna was releasing Pumphrey so he could go over the side. He thrust a sheaf of papers into the young sailor’s hands, ordering Pumphrey to take care of the papers, but by no means to be killed or captured while they were in his possession. Pumphrey gulped audibly, rolled the papers into a tube, thrust them under his shirt and belt, removed his talker’s headphones, saluted McKenna, and started for the ladder leading to St. Lo’s flight deck.

Meanwhile, Larry Collins joined lots of others jammed onto St. Lo’s forecastle. He’d been there less than five minutes when another ship’s officer called down from the flight deck. “Captain says abandon ship.” Some men headed for knotted escape ropes being rigged over the side. Some jumped. One man near Larry hopped immediately to the rail, perched there for a moment, then leaped. 

Windmilling his arms and legs, the sailor gleefully shouted “30 days leave!” all the way into the water.

When Holly Crawforth got forward, sailors were evacuating the wounded—putting life jackets on them, looping lines around their torsos, and lowering them painstakingly to the water. The process, Crawforth remembered, “was just too slow. Finally, all we could do was put jackets on them and drop them over the side.”

Crawforth got to a knotted line hanging from one of the forward gun tubs. He didn’t get very far on the line—maybe ten feet. “The man above me lost his grip and peeled the rest of us off as he fell.” 

Crawforth hit the water hard and plunged deep. When he finally surfaced, Crawforth tried to use his life belt but it was torn: the last of the CO2 used to inflate it just bubbled out. He ditched the belt and began swimming.

Larry Collins jumped from the rail still wearing his helmet, and when he hit the water the chin strap wrenched his jaw and his teeth dug deep into his tongue. Collins’ mouth filled with blood as he swam away to windward. Finally, he turned on his back and inflated his life belt. Survivors gathered together and waited. St. Lo was drifting downwind and still exploding. “Her whole port side flew up in the air, and pretty soon she was gone.”

It had taken the wounded St. Lo barely thirty minutes to sink. She carried with her to the bottom of the Philippine Sea the extinguished lives of 140 sailors and airmen. There were more muffled explosions once she’d submerged and then, all at once, silence. The Divine Wind had claimed St. Lo as its first kill.

There was little for Tom Van Brunt and his shaken crew to do now. A landing refuge had been pulled out from under him and, along with it, who knew how many good friends and squadron mates. Using right rudder, Van Brunt nosed the Avenger west toward Leyte and Tacloban where, with more than a little luck, he, Frederickson, and South were able to land in one piece. Burt Bassett, Van Brunt’s University of Florida fraternity brother was standing near the runway as Van Brunt’s shrapnel-ridden Avenger touched down and taxied to a stop. He was surprised to see Van Brunt emerging from the cockpit—they’d not seen or heard from each other since before the war. They had some catching up to do. The day was over for both, they’d each lost a ship, but they’d each come through it without a scratch.

Back in his headquarters in Manila, Onishi received reports from the surviving observer pilots from the morning missions out of Mindanao and Mabalacat. The first strike reported hits on at least two carriers, with each set ablaze. The results of the second strike—Onishi knew it had been led by Seki—were even better: four American carriers hit, with at least two severely damaged. Sensitive to the imperative of supplying inspiring results to his emperor and his countrymen, Onishi fairly leaped to the conclusion that his body crashers’ morning work had sunk six aircraft carriers. “Okay,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. “Now things will start rolling.”