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I Fought the Americans at Midway: A Japanese Naval Officer on the Carrier Kaga

by Lieutenant Commander Sesu Mitoya, IJN

When first I heard of the planned attack on Midway, I was delighted. Like most Japanese naval officers in early 1942, I was sure of Japan's coming victory over the United States. This operation promised good opportunities to win glory for Dai Nippon, and perhaps a promotion.

I was communications officer on the proud aircraft carrier Kaga. Then a lieutenant commander, I served under the command of Captain Jisaku Okada. One of my best friends, Lieutenant Commander Tadashi Musumi, was commander of all the gun crews on board our big aircraft carrier. It was one of the finest ships in the fleet—a happy ship with a fine, tightly knit complement of crewmen and airmen.

Early in April, planning for the invasion of Midway began. This was to be Japan's longest strike eastward, far across the Pacific, almost to the Hawaiian Islands. Its purpose was to seize a distant outpost, beyond which the American fleet could be held. This would cut off American communications with Australia. More important, it aimed to draw out the American fleet, and force it to give battle. We were sure that we could win that battle. How mistaken we were, I know now.

Our operation plan was gigantic. My group, the First Carrier Striking Force, led by Vice Admiral Chuichi Nagumo, was to strike from the northwest, at Midway. Not far south of us, striking straight out of the west, was the main Battleship Force, led by the revered Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto himself. Further south, and coming in from the southwest, was the Transport-Invasion Group, led by Vice Admiral Nobutake Kondo, with a Close Support Group led by Vice Admiral Kurita.

Two diversionary groups led by Vice Admiral Hosogaya were to invade the Aleutian Islands, far to the north, at the same time. They were to seize Adak, Kiska, and Attu Islands there. At least they were successful—for a while. M-Day was set for 7 June.

After the war ended, we learned that the Americans knew all about our plans. By an incredible feat of military intelligence, they had broken our code. Every message radioed from Tokyo or from our ships was perfectly understood by the Americans. They were waiting for us—had we only known it. American naval, air and ground forces were concentrating at Midway.

Late in May, all our task forces sortied from their bases, and headed east, to the attack. En route, we picked up a coded message sent by an American submarine, apparently warning Midway of our approach.

In our Carrier Striking Force, we were not a bit concerned about it. We could not decode the message. But we nonchalantly reasoned that it served our purpose. After all, we wanted the Americans to come out and fight. We had the foolish vanity of self-delusion.

My group was so powerful that we feared nothing. In it were the carriers Akagi, Kaga (my vessel), Hiryu, and Soryu, the mightiest aircraft carriers afloat. With us were the battleships Haruna and Kirishima, plus the cruisers Chikuma, Tone, and Nagara, eleven destroyers, and several submarines. Not far away, in Admiral Yamamoto's force, were the battleships Yamato, Mutsu, and Nagato, the light carrier Hosho, the cruiser Sendai, the seaplane carriers Chiyoda and Nishin, and nine more destroyers. We outnumbered any possible American fleet then known to be in the Pacific.

In fact, we later learned that the American forces at Midway consisted of about two thousand infantry ashore, plus the carriers Hornet, Enterprise and Yorktown, with seven or eight cruisers, thirteen or fourteen destroyers, and a few submarines. This task force waited to the northeast of our invasion track, ready to hit us on the flank.

Late in the day, on 4 June, as we neared Midway, we received reports of air attacks on the southern transport group. Our high optimism began to fade. It was clear that the enemy knew of our approach. Nevertheless, we steamed on.

Far to the north, the Aleutians attack force was having its troubles, too. Our fliers and planes were not well prepared for the cold and fog there. Their engines were failing, and little damage was done, by bombing in thick fog.

All the signs were ominous. But we were so drunk on victories in the opening battles of the war, that we sadly misjudged the danger. The next day, we were in the attack zone.

Before dawn on 5 June, from over two hundred miles northwest of Midway, our first air attack wave was launched from Admiral Nagumo's carriers. Excitement was in the air, aboard the Kaga.

Loudspeakers barked: "Aviators assemble for the strike!" And soon after, "Launching stations, ready? Start engines!" Shattering uproar bellowed on the flight deck, and livid streaks of engine exhausts flamed in the darkness.

Launching lights illuminated the deck. "Commence launching!" sounded from the bridge. The air officer swung his green signal lamp in a circle. One by one our Zero fighters roared forward, and leaped into the air. Cheers of crewmen echoed above the engines' roars. Then the dive bombers followed. Soon over one hundred planes, from all the carriers, were in the air. Then the second wave planes moved into positions for launching.

Somehow, I was worried, despite the general excitement. We were dangerously near Midway, and with hardly more than a dozen planes left to guard the carrier force.

Fully alerted American defense planes met our planes over the Midway islands. A fierce air battle exploded as our dive bombers dove in to hit installations on Sand Island and Eastern Island. We lost four bombers and two fighters, while little effective bomb damage was done. Our second wave results were much the same.

On board Kaga, about 0500, the alarm bugle suddenly sounded: "Air raid!" Our remaining fighters quickly raced out to intercept. Reports flashed through my Communications Center, confused and uncertain. Enemy planes here, there, all about us. But we could see none.

At 0700 we saw them for the first time. Six came from one side, four from the other. They looked like torpedo planes. Our fighters wheeled to meet them. Our cruisers and destroyers opened up with rocketing anti-aircraft fire.

Black bursts of explosions dotted the sky all around the on-rushing American planes. Still they came on, hardly above the sea's surface. Our Zeros dove through our own anti-aircraft fire, guns blazing at the Americans. One by one, three of the torpedo planes spouted flame and smoke, and then crashed into the sea.

The others kept bravely on. Then they released their torpedoes. As the planes swung away we could plainly see their white star markings. They were B-26s. Only three got away. Not one torpedo hit its target as our ships turned and maneuvered to avoid them.

At 0850 our own planes returned. With furious speed our carrier crews labored to re-arm them. While this went on, I received word from Admiral Kondo's force that an enemy force of a carrier and cruisers and destroyers was approaching. We turned to meet it.

At 0930 we launched planes again. Fifty Zeros sped to meet another American force of fifteen torpedo bombers. We were too many for them. None of the American planes got through to our carriers. We watched one speck after another, high in the sky, spark into flame and plummet down, trailing black smoke.

On board, our men cheered and whistled wildly as our planes scored. Then another group of six planes came in at us, charging in again and again through the anti-aircraft fire. The Americans were brave. Torpedoes streaked the water. But luck was with us. None struck.

Zero after Zero exhausted its ammunition, and returned to our decks to re-arm. While service crews cheered our pilots, the planes were hastily re-armed and launched again and again. At 1020 it happened that most of our planes were on deck, readying to take off again. Bombs were carelessly stacked in piles near the planes. We seemed to be winning steadily.

Suddenly a lookout yelled "Dive bombers!" I looked up. Five black, fat-bellied planes were hurtling down at us. I recognized them at once—American Dauntlesses.

As I looked, tiny black specks detached themselves from the planes. The specks grew larger. Bombs, coming right down on us!

I was standing on the flight deck, near the tower. Quickly I dove flat to the deck. The horrible scream of the dive bombers rose to a shriek. Then a crashing roar shook the Kaga. A bright flash glared, through the sleeve I held over my eyes. Then another blast—and another.

A gush of hot air washed over me. We were hit—hard! The barking of anti-aircraft guns began to be mixed with a rushing, roaring sound. We were afire!

I leaped to my feet. Horrified, I saw gaping holes in the flight deck, near the amidships elevator. The elevator was a twisted mass of metal, half drooped into the hangar. The deck plates were a crazy jumble of torn metal.

On deck, many planes were overturned, in flames. Some stood tilted on their wings, tails up. Orange flame and black smoke boiled up through them, belching out of their tails like chimneys.

I could see, not far off, the Akagi and the Soryu. They too were aflame, with black smoke rolling from their decks. It seemed unbelievable. In seconds our invincible carrier force had become shattered wrecks. Tears welled to my eyes. It was a terrible scene.

On deck, and in the Ready Room, burned and mangled men writhed and groaned. Deep in the big carrier's vitals rending explosions shook her. As fire spread, the heaps of bombs and torpedoes began to explode, with shattering blasts. Spraying steel fragments ripped the bridge. The Kaga was an inferno, with scorched, blackened men staggering about in helpless confusion.

The fire control officer, Lieutenant Fiyuma, came to the bridge. There I was awaiting orders, near Captain Okado. The captain stood and stared, half-dazed, like a man in a dream.

Fiyuma reported that all passages below were afire. Most of the crew were trapped, burning inside the ship. We had to go to the anchor deck quickly, if we wished to escape. The carrier was beginning to list ominously.

Crewmen were laboring valiantly to try to stop the enormous fires—in vain. All power was off. Many men were torn to pieces by the repeated explosions. Surgeons worked like automatons on endless lines of torn bodies. As fire-laden air erupted from the ship, many men collapsed with suffocation.

I spoke to Captain Okada, trying to rouse him from his stupefied reverie. It was now near midday. Our destroyers, Hagikaze and Maikaze, could take off survivors. Unless we abandoned ship soon she would take us all down with her.

The captain shook his head vaguely. "I will remain with my ship," he said. More planes were coming in. I went to the Ready Room, to try again to contact the men below in the Engine Rooms.

While I was below, other bombers struck the Kaga. Where they came from, I do not know. When I rushed back to the bridge—there was no bridge. A direct hit had smashed the ship's nerve center. Captain Okada and Fiyuma were dead. My good friend Musumi was dead, too. Commander Amagay, the air officer, as senior-surviving officer, had assumed command.

About an hour later the Kaga was a blackened hulk half-tilted over. Then, to add to our misery, someone shouted "Torpedo!" A submarine had loosed a torpedo at us.

Holding my breath, I prayed as the deadly tin fish came at us, leaving a white wake behind as it approached. It struck. But by some miracle it did not explode. A dud! It broke in half. Some of our men, swimming nearby, after being blown overboard, swam to the floating section of the torpedo. Ironically, the deadly weapon served them as a life raft.

Finally, at 1600, Commander Amagay ordered "Abandon ship!" We began to send men down ropes to our waiting destroyers. The Kaga was a vast funeral pyre. Over eight hundred men, nearly one-third of her crew, were dead.

We watched with tears in our eyes as our proud Kaga settled deeper and deeper. Boiling smoke and pillars of fire shrouded our beloved ship. At 1800 she seemed to leap in the water as two terrific explosions shook her. Then, still stately in death, she sank forever beneath the waves.

Not far away, Soryu and Akagi went down, too, with black pillars of smoke marking their graves. We turned to follow Hiryu, the only carrier left of our great Striking Force. It was 6 June, a fateful day for Nippon.

Planes from the last carrier reported dire news. The American fleet was closing in for the kill. In it were no less than three carriers—Hornet, Enterprise, and Yorktown.

Huddled aboard the crowded destroyer Hagikaze, we looked at each other in silent wonder. But Admiral Yamaguchi, on the Hiryu, chose to go on fighting. The Hiryu's planes rose to launch another attack. Weak and exhausted as we were, we survivors of Kaga cheered as the Zeros zoomed over us, bound to engage the enemy.

An hour later the planes returned—half of them. They had hit the Yorktown. But while they were gone the sky was full of American planes, attacking the Hiryu and our destroyers. Surely a hundred planes attacked the last of our carriers.

At 1700, torpedo bombers, hidden in the glare of the setting sun, got through the curtain of anti-aircraft fire of all our ships. Thirteen planes hit the gallant Hiryu. Others hit the battleship Haruna and cruiser Tone. As darkness fell, Hiryu was a blazing hulk. Her last planes had no haven when they returned. We were defeated, indeed.

So, as night mercifully hid us, our shattered fleet turned for home. The Hiryu was scuttled by torpedoes from our own destroyers. The long, harried retreat west began.

But we were not yet finished. At dawn, as American planes hovered on the horizon, we turned for a last blow at our invisible pursuers. We had only a few spotter planes and two light carriers to see for us. Of radar we knew nothing.

The rest is history, too. In a wild series of battles, the next day, both sides lost more ships. One of our submarines sank the carrier Yorktown and the destroyer Hamman. Our cruisers Mogami and Mikuma and the destroyer Arashio were crippled. We were harried and driven west, towards home and safety. Fortunately, foul weather hid our withdrawal.

On 7 June all contact with the enemy was broken. Hidden by fog and foul weather, our battered fleet limped for home.

So ended the dream of Japanese empire. The only small prizes we had won were two rocky islands in the Aleutians, Attu and Kiska, neither of which we would be able to hold. The peak of Japanese power had been reached, and passed. From this point forward the road of Nippon was ever downward, into the depths of slow, sure, and bitter defeat.

The catastrophe at Midway had been the turning of the tide—and deep in our hearts, we Japanese knew it. Thenceforth the fatal tide of war drove us inevitably on to final calamity and to the soul-tearing sorrow of capitulation.

It has been said that Midway was an American victory of intelligence. That is true. Not only did the Americans know our every move, but we dismally failed to locate the enemy forces. So it happened that a smaller American fleet destroyed our scattered groups piecemeal, one by one.

In truth, our worst error was caused by our vanity. We underestimated our adversaries, to our chagrin and pain. This was unforgivable, when we well knew the bravery, skill, and boldness of the Americans. We were blind with conceit and overwhelming confidence. Even so, had we had the secrecy and surprise we imagined, the outcome might have been different.

The final accounting, after the battle, told the full story of our defeat. We had lost four major aircraft carriers—Kaga, Akagi, Soryu, and Hiryu, and two cruisers—Mikuma and Mogami; plus damage to the destroyers Asashio and Arashio, the destroyer escort Tanikaze, the transport Haruna, and the oiler Akebono Maru; as well as about 325 planes and thousands of men.

The Americans had lost the carrier Yorktown and the destroyer Hamman, plus over 140 planes. Compared to the loss of our four carriers, the backbone of the Japanese fleet, the American losses were small.

As for me, I was in the depths of despair as we plodded west. Never again was I to sail aboard a carrier. Staff and command officers who lose their ships do not get promotions. I was to spend the rest of the war at dull, stupid paperwork, ashore. For me, the days of battle glory were over for good.

But at least I can say this: When Japan fought the epic battle of Midway, in the bright noon of her glory, I was there, serving the Mikado and Dai Nippon.

Kaga, 1941, shortly after her reconstruction.

 
Diorama by Norman Bel Geddes, depicting the attack by USS Enterprise (CV-6) and USS Yorktown (CV-5) dive bombers on the Japanese aircraft carriers Akagi, Kaga and Soryu in the morning of 4 June 1942. The diorama was created during World War II on the basis of information then available. It is therefore somewhat inaccurate in scope and detail. This angle of view depicts Soryu (attacked by Yorktown aircraft) in the middle distance, with Kaga and Akagi (both attacked by Enterprise aircraft) as the closer two burning ships.

Diorama by Norman Bel Geddes, depicting the attack by USS Yorktown (CV-5) and USS Enterprise (CV-6) dive bombers on the Japanese aircraft carriers Soryu, Akagi and Kaga in the morning of 4 June 1942. The diorama was created during World War II on the basis of information then available. It is therefore somewhat inaccurate in scope and detail. This angle of view is essentially the reciprocal of that shown in the previous photo. It depicts Soryu (attacked by Yorktown aircraft) in the center foreground, with Kaga and Akagi (both attacked by Enterprise aircraft) as the two most distant burning ships. The burning ship at far right is a light cruiser, which had been erroneously reported to have been hit.

Diorama by Norman Bel Geddes, depicting the attack by USS Nautilus (SS-168) on a burning Japanese aircraft carrier during the early afternoon of 4 June 1942, as seen through the submarine's periscope. Nautilus thought she had attacked Soryu, and that her torpedoes had exploded when they hit the target. Most evidence, however, is that the ship attacked was Kaga, and that the torpedoes failed to detonate. The ship shown in this wartime diorama does not closely resemble either of those carriers.

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