Aviation Ancestry - December 2010
Spears Hard to Handle: The Japanese Cherry Blossoms of World War II
By Scott Schwartz
“A sublime sense of self – sacrifice must guide you throughout life and death. Do not think of death as you use up every ounce of your strength to fulfill your duties. Make it your joy to use every last bit of your physical strength in what you do. Do not fear to die for the cause of everlasting justice. Do not stay alive in dishonor. Do not die in such a way as to leave a bad name behind you!” – From the “code of ethics” that General Hideki Tojo ordered to be issued to all members of Japan’s armed forces in 1941.
Okha training aircraft: Note the landing skid. Thie Ohka trainer carried water ballast instead of explosives. (Courtesy of the National Museum of the United States Air Force)You are a military flight instructor. You’ve just returned early from a training flight, and you are removing your sweaty flight suit in the blistering summer heat. Your country is losing a war that it had virtually no hope of winning in the first place. You wish that you were still flying combat missions with your comrades, but you are also looking forward to spending the evening in town. Before you can get the flight suit off, however, a loud speaker blares with an order for all pilots to assemble in front of the command post.
Once you and the other aircrew are in front of the headquarters building, your wing commander dismisses those who are only-children, sons of single parents, and first-born children. To those who remain, he talks of how badly the war is going and that your country will be destroyed unless “extreme” measures are taken. Your wing commander goes on to say that a new weapon has been developed – one that will sink any enemy ship it 
This is the cockpit of an Ohka trainer, but it is very similar to that of operational aircraft. Just enough instruments for a one-way trip. (Courtesy of the National Museum of the United States Air Force) strikes. The wing commander speaks a little more slowly as he mentions the “catch” involved with using this weapon. The pilot will not return from his mission. Since pilots are being asked to volunteer for these missions, you can theoretically refuse. You are not afraid to die for your country, but you do not necessarily want to die, either. However, your decision will be public (you have to write “yes” or “no” on your identification card), and refusal to volunteer will bring dishonor to you. In reality, you have no choice. You will volunteer to die.
Such was the dilemma facing Petty Officer Motoji Ichikawa on a hot August day in 1944. A flight instructor at the Aonagahara training base, Ichikawa had seen combat during the battle of the Coral Sea and could hardly be described as a coward. To him, dying during combat was one thing; but planning to die was quite another. Nevertheless, Ichikawa was a product of the Imperial Japanese Navy. He wrote “yes” on his card.
At this point in the war, most of Japan’s experienced combat pilots were dead. Fuel shortages made it impossible to give new pilots decent training. Attempting to penetrate the wall of anti-aircraft fire and the swarms of defending Hellcats made attacking American ships nearly a suicidal prospect anyway. Plus America’s territorial gains convinced Japan’s leaders that an invasion of the home islands was a very real possibility. Whether Japan’s military leaders wanted to somehow reverse the course of the war or merely force America to the bargaining table (and thus avoid the unconditional surrender that was being demanded by the Allies), it is clear that the Japanese wanted to inflict as much damage to U.S. forces as possible.
Contrary to popular belief, many in the Japanese military establishment were reluctant to adopt suicide or “body-crashing” tactics as official doctrine. Even as the war turned against the country, Japanese tacticians believed that the goal in battle was to kill the enemy while at least trying to survive the battle. Yet, as Japanese defeats mounted, there were more and more instances of desperate Japanese soldiers charging superior American forces, only to be mowed down in return. Further, groups of pilots calling themselves Kamikazes were making intentional suicide attacks on American ships, by deliberately crashing into and causing major damage to them.
Given the effectiveness of Kamikaze attacks, it didn’t take long for Japanese Naval officers to start lobbying for the use of suicide attacks as a regular strategy. Although Naval Headquarters staff members were reluctant to go along with the idea, the reality of Japan’s war situation made it clear that there weren’t too many other options. Accordingly, headquarters staff decided to include suicide attacks as part of Japan’s overall strategy.
The “official” body-crashing tactics, though, left open the possibility (however slight) of crew survival. This is because the early plans did not include aerial attacks. Rather, the early strategy involved the use of manned torpedoes and the like. This began to change in July of 1944, after the U.S. successfully invaded the Marianas. Even so, naval leaders continued to resist the use of aerial body-crash attacks, because the deaths of the aircrews were guaranteed under such attacks.
In the meantime, B-29s began making regular bombing attacks on Japan itself. In addition, the Tojo government collapsed twelve days after U.S. forces occupied Saipan. At that point, Vice Admiral Takijiro Onishi – a proponent of aerial suicide attacks – “leaked” a story about the plans to produce body-crash weapons to a large newspaper. In the story, Onishi advocated the use of aerial body-crash tactics as a means of winning the war. He then lobbied the new government for the use of these same tactics. With a flair for the dramatic, Onishi went to the home of one of the new government leaders. There, he wrote the words “RESTORATION OF THE NAVY” with a brush on a large paper scroll. Onishi was then placed in charge of the First Naval Aviation Fleet, a position that would enable him to carry out the plans for aerial body-crash missions.
Roughly two weeks prior to Petty Officer Motoji Ichikawa being asked to volunteer for the suicide missions, Lt. Commander Tadanao Miki, a designer at the Naval Aeronautical Research Laboratory, was asked to report to the laboratory Chief’s office to meet with a man who had plans for a new type of “glider-bomber.” This irritated Miki, because the laboratory was in the midst of a crash (no pun intended) program to design jet-powered aircraft based on German design data. He did not have time to discuss yet another cockamamie plan for a new “super-weapon.” None of the previous proposals had ever been built, because the guidance systems (one of which was a heat-seeking device- imagine that!) were too advanced and impractical.
Nevertheless, Miki dutifully reported to his Chief’s office, where he was introduced to Sub-Lieutenant Shoichi Ota. The Chief prompted Ota to continue the conversation that had been taking place prior to Miki’s arrival – the discussion of a “sure-hit” bomb. Ota then produced a drawing depicting a small craft suspended beneath a Mitsubishi Betty bomber. The little craft did not have a propeller or landing gear. Ota explained that the new aircraft would be powered by a rocket engine.
Miki, having no idea what was coming, and figuring that he would be presented with another “cutting edge” guidance system idea, asked about it. When Ota did not answer, Miki asked the question again and said that he was talking about “…the device to make sure that it hits the target.” Ota replied that a man would be “on board.”
Miki was incredulous, asking “What?!” Trying to appear unfazed, Ota explained that the little aircraft would be carried by the bomber until the target was in range. At that point, the pilot would climb into the small cockpit; the craft would then be jettisoned. There would be just enough propellant to get the manned flying bomb to its target and to allow the pilot to dodge defending aircraft. Miki was outraged. After calling Ota an idiot, Miki yelled that this thing would not be produced.
The reader should keep in mind that Miki was not naïve about the purposes for which even conventional aircraft were being used at this point in the war. However, he rationalized that his job was to design and produce aircraft, with the decisions about their final use being decided by those in combat zones. But to design an aircraft specifically for suicide missions was too much for him. That is, until Ota explained that he would fly one of the missions. Miki was taken aback by Ota’s dedication.
And so work was begun on what became known as the Ohka (“Cherry Blossom”). The aircraft was supposed to be powered by the same chemical rocket engines that powered the German Me-163 Komet. This fuel used in these engines proved to be too unstable, so a jet engine was considered. However, development of this engine was progressing too slowly, so Miki and his design team settled for solid-propellant “gunpowder” rocket engines.
What eventually emerged from the laboratory was basically a large (2446 lbs.) flying bomb that was equipped with a small, rudimentary cockpit. The only operational variant, the Model 11, had a range of about 23 statute miles, which meant that its lumbering mother airplane had to spend more time being exposed to enemy fighters. Not surprisingly, many Ohkas and their carrier aircraft were shot down before they could launch their attacks.
Still, with its extremely high diving speed (over 500 mph), the Ohka was almost impossible to intercept, once it was launched. Seven American ships were sunk or damaged by Ohka’s. In one case, an American destroyer was attacked by two Ohka’s. One missed the ship completely. The other one passed completely through the ship, with very little resulting damage.
To many of us, the idea of constructing an aircraft specifically designed for suicide missions is incomprehensible. From the Japanese point of view (at the time), the idea was very practical. Besides being difficult to shoot down (once launched), the Ohka’s explosive was contained in the front of the aircraft, which maximized the explosive effect. Young men, many of whom could barely fly, could be taught to fly the Ohka (a training version with a landing skid was produced) in less time that it would have taken to get them proficient in a conventional airplane. Still, the Ohka was not easy to fly, and there were accidents.
It should be noted that the men who flew the Ohka were not emotionless robots. Many had misgivings about flying these missions and expressed their fears privately. In one case, an Ohka pilot confided to a comrade that he was afraid that it would “hurt” when he struck his target. His companion told him not to worry, because he would be blown to pieces before he could feel any pain. Some pilots, who had transferred from conventional units, expressed resentment at having to fly their last missions in what they considered to be a cobbled-together contraption. Plus, Ohka pilots at one base actually rioted in response to the harsh treatment that they were receiving from their superiors.
Although devastating when they hit their targets, the Ohka was deployed too late to affect the course of the war. Even so, the Ohka and “conventional” kamikaze attacks exacted a terrible toll, with over 12,000 American servicemen killed as a result of these attacks.
And what became of Ota, Miki, and Ichikawa? Ota actually stole an airplane three days after the war ended, supposedly intending to mount a suicide attack. He wound up ditching in the ocean and was picked up by a fishing boat. Fearing that he would be arrested as a war criminal, he hid out in a fishing village – surfacing only occasionally to borrow money (which he never paid back) from other surviving Ohka pilots. He was last seen in 1949.
Tadanao Miki refused to discuss the development of the Ohka and refused to release any of his documents after the war ended. That changed when he happened to see an American documentary entitled Test Pilot, which chronicled the development of the Bell X-1 rocket plane. Something about the X-1 being carried aloft and released by its large mother plane seemed familiar to him, and he decided that his war-time work might have some scientific value.
As for Petty Officer Ichikawa, he died in 1980, after his aerial survey company went bankrupt. In poor health, he spent his last days living alone in a run-down room.
