The Amazing Journey of a Zero Fighter

 by Ron Cole

It was the world's first Honda Civic. Japan's automobile industry, as we know it today, evolved directly from its pre-Pacific War aviation industry. The A6M Zero Fighter, the Honda T360, Civic, Nissan GTR, they all share the same history, DNA, and design philosophies.

Japan was keenly aware of its own weaknesses in the 1930s and invested heavily in making the most of its strengths. Japan had to import nearly all of its steel and petroleum, which made the country dependent upon foreign powers such as the United States. 

This reality shaped both Japanese industry and its foreign policy. By 1941 the latter had given birth to Pearl Harbor and the Pacific War. By the same time the former had given birth to the Zero Fighter.

The Zero was the brainchild of Mitsubishi's Jiro Horikoshi (1903 - 1982). At that time the world's air forces were flying relatively heavy fighters powered by large displacement engines. They were, to take a metaphor one step further, the muscle cars of the skies. Fast and powerful machines, the idea of facing such aircraft in deadly combat was unsettling to Japanese designers whose job it was to make something better. 

As it is today, there is nothing like extreme pressure to force the best out of innovative and creative people.

What Horikoshi and others (the engine of the Zero was a product of Nakajima Aircraft Company) created will sound familiar to Japanese automobile owners. The Zero was astonishingly light weight, incorporating a Japanese-formulated aluminum alloy that other nations did not equal until many years later. Its engine was small and possessed a decent power to weight ratio but was incredibly fuel efficient for the time. The front-line American fighter of the time, the P-40 Warhawk, had a maximum range of around 600 miles. The Zero Fighter had a maximum range of about 1,600 miles. Its light weight combined with other innovations made the Zero wickedly maneuverable in combat, an advantage that was never really bested by any Allied aircraft throughout the Pacific War. 

Like all assembly lines in Japan at the time, every Zero Fighter was built by men in tabi socks and sandals (zori) by hand. Build quality was extremely high and workers were very skilled in their specialties, a combination in keeping with quality over quantity - a practice that was to Japan's determent as the war escalated. Every Zero was finished in high gloss paint and polished to a show car-like sheen.  

When Allied pilots first faced Zeros in combat during the first phase of the Pacific War through 1942, they were completely outfought, and losses were high. Allied propaganda attempted to counter the demoralizing impact of the Zero by insisting that it was a copy of various American designs, falsehoods that persist to this day. The advantages that the Zero possessed in combat were eventually mitigated by newer tactics that included hit and run dives. 

By the end of 1943 the production capability of the Allies meant that for every Zero put into the air it was likely to face up to 40 opponents. Defeat in war was by then unavoidable for Japan. 

Our A6M2 Model 21 Zero Fighter, s/n 7830 

The cockpit of our Zero Fighter contains only original equipment.

Original Zero Fighters are almost extinct, today. 

After the Pacific War and beginning with the Allied occupation of Japan, all Japanese aircraft in Japan were destroyed. They were typically bulldozed into large piles, sprayed with gasoline or napalm, burned and buried. While that sounds like what bad kids did to their toys in the '70s, it was a dispassionate order handed down directly from General Douglas MacArthur, and it was a response to the wartime effectiveness of the Kamikaze. The concern remained after the war that even a single airplane with an aggrieved Japanese at its controls could inflict a lot of damage upon occupying forces. As a result, virtually everything in Japan that could fly was ordered destroyed, including early machines in museums, civil aircraft, airliners, as well as former military aircraft. Other nations after the war, including Germany, enjoyed some versatility regarding the repurposing of its wartime aircraft. All opted to scrap the majority of their inventories, which helped the world avoid the expected post-war economic recession, but the World War 2 warbirds that fly today often owe their existence due to their post-war utilization as VIP transports, firefighters, air racers, or for sport flying. But no aircraft of any type in Japan was similarly spared.    

Japanese aircraft being burned by occupation forces in Japan post-war. 

 
Our Zero Fighter rolled off of its assembly line in April of 1943. Built under license by Nakajima Aircraft Company, it was one of the last of the early-model A6M2 Model 21s ever built. The first production model of the Zero Fighter, this variant saw action over Pearl Harbor in December 1941 and remained the preferred version of the Zero Fighter among most Japanese pilots throughout the war. It was given the serial number 7830, which was deliberately misleading. The first digit was a random numeral intended to confuse Allied intelligence in the event the aircraft was ever captured, therefore it was the 830th Model 21 built by Nakajima. 

By that time the war was in the process of turning against Japan. The Japanese had finally accepted the loss of Guadalcanal in the South Pacific, a defeat that was far more pivotal in the war than was Japan's loss at Midway in 1942. For the first time in its history, Japan was engaged in a prolonged war of attrition. Nothing in Japanese military doctrine, nor in the planning of its industry, existed to help guide it through what faced their nation. The pragmatism and ingenuity that was embodied in the design of its Zero Fighter had no equal within Japan's leadership. 

Zero s/n 7830 was among 74 new aircraft assigned to a newly created unit within the Japanese Naval Air Force, the 201st Kokutai, and was given the tail code 'WI-129'. The unit was tasked to seize air superiority from the Allies in the South Pacific and buy the Navy enough time to create and train a surface force capable of defeating the United States Navy. That was a great deal to expect from 74 Zero Fighters, even though they were sent to the front piloted by some of the best men the Japanese had, including many who had survived both Pearl Harbor and Midway. The tragedy of the 201st, as it smashed itself to pieces down to the last plane and pilot in combat over the ensuing year, was that it attained an incredible record against its enemy and created more 'Aces' in its ranks than any other unit in the Navy, but its accomplishments remain lost to history due to the fact nearly everyone who witnessed its accomplishments died in action. Zero WI-129, and its brethren of the 201st, tallied an impressive 450 confirmed 'victories' against Allied aircraft during its short-lived existence. 

WI-129 was based near Rabaul, New Britain, Papua New Guinea, at an airfield at the base of an active volcano named Tavurvur. The Japanese had turned the area into one of its most powerful bastions by 1942, though virtually no one enjoyed the experience of the place. While the drama of the war gave rise to a nostalgic song sung by the Japanese entitled, Farewell Rabaul, I shall See You Again Soon, it was remembered by veterans who survived the war as a daily hell of constant air raids, the belching volcano, dreadful heat, humidity, and death.      

The Allies invaded the island of Bougainville, only 275 miles to the southeast of Rabaul, in November of 1943. The invasion was a bold move that threatened Japan's position in the South Pacific, bypassed and cut off their advanced airbase on the tiny island of Ballalae, and put a knife to the throat of Rabaul and the 201st Kokutai. The latter's intended mission was thus subverted, while it and all of Japan's air power in the region were thrown onto the defensive. Often the 201st flew up to three missions a day against Bougainville and their losses were both catastrophic and irreplaceable. These actions created many gallant aces, then as quickly killed them. Since Japanese fighter pilots were rarely assigned to specific aircraft, surely a great many of these pilots flew Zero WI-129. The wear and tear within its cockpit, that is still evident today, shows how hard this airplane was flown during its short career in constant battle. The aluminum pads on the rudder pedals are nearly worn through. The guiderails of the throttle and weapon's trigger system shows the dents and rugged wear caused by a pilot constantly demanding overboost and as quickly cutting back power to whip the aircraft into a tight maneuver, then slamming the lever to the firewall again. At least one of its pilots smoked Chinese cigarettes in flight, as the wrapping paper was found 80 years later under the fuselage fuel tank. He should be forgiven the vice. Another Zero pilot of the time, Saburo Sakai (who I befriended back in the 1980s), once explained, "Many talk about those air battles as though they were times of excitement. It was never such an experience for me. After a typical hard battle, I would return to Rabaul with all ammunition depleted, holes in my fighter, and soaked in my own sweat. More than once my ground crew had to physically carry me out of the airplane, I was so exhausted I could not stand on my own two feet." 

The final combat of our Zero Fighter was fought in the skies over Bougainville. A .50 caliber bullet struck WI-129 in its fuselage fuel tank, which would have caused gasoline to leak into the cockpit. Its pilot was faced with a grim decision. Rabaul was 250 miles away, but Ballalae Island was 50 miles to the south. Ballalae

had a usable airstrip but had been cut off from supplies. Its garrison had begun to seed crops on the runway. Several men attempted to swim the distance to Bougainville but were never seen again. Almost every day, and for the duration of the war, Allied bombers used the tiny island for bombing practice.

Our Zero Fighter and its pilot successfully navigated to Ballalae and accomplished a good wheels-down landing. The aircraft would have been pushed into the jungle as quickly as possible to hide it from enemy aircraft. No attempt was ever made to repair or replace the fuselage fuel tank. Its guns were soon removed for use in base defense. There is some evidence that other equipment was removed, possibly to help keep a few other Zeros flying. Over time the constant air attacks holed the airframe with bomb splinters, but WI-129 survived the war more or less intact. The surviving Japanese were repatriated between 1946 and 1947. All of their equipment was left behind, and Ballalae reentered its lonely existence as an uninhabited spot in the vastness of the South Pacific. 

A New Adventure

There might have been time, during the 1950s and 1960s, for someone with unique foresight to have come to the rescue of many historic warbirds in only one part of the world - the South Pacific. The ruggedness of the terrain, the vast distances between former island air bases, the brutality of the climate, the underdevelopment of the local economies and low human populations all conspired to make it hard for anyone to easily destroy the machines of war in the region. Unfortunately, just as some, mostly in the West, started to take notice that the once great air armadas of every nation had already been nearly wiped out, the scrapping industries in countries like China and Indonesia arrived on the scene with mechanized methods to more cheaply exploit the region's easy money. 

By the time the pioneers of warbird preservation, like the renown Charles Darby, arrived in places like Papua New Guinea with notebooks and cameras to document what might be saved, they found only the few leftovers; some aircraft too remote to have been worth melting down, and lots of hacked to pieces hulks, scant evidence of the goldmine that had awaited them if they'd only arrived a few months or years earlier. 

I came onto the scene of warbird preservation in about 1984. I was a mature 15-years-old, so to be fair, I was as quick about taking up the cause as my age permitted. My near constant companion was a book written by the aforementioned Charles Darby titled Pacific Aircraft Wrecks and Where to Find Them (Kookaburra Technical Publications, 1979). I drafted my friends into joining a club I vaingloriously named the International Aero Research Society. I did all the work. 

Early one morning I received a call from Japan, which, in those days of long-distance charges and rotary phones, was an astonishment. It was Nobuo Harada, the legendary founder of the Kawaguchiko Museum near Tokyo and one of the wealthiest entrepreneurs in all of his country. He'd heard about my efforts to draw attention to the world's last known Japanese G3M 'Nell' bomber that was then resting in fair condition near Rabaul, New Britain. Besides being the last of its kind, it had flown with the famous Mihoro Kokutai that had participated in the sinking of British warships Repulse and Prince of Wales, an event that marked the end of the battleship as the primary offensive weapon on the sea. An aviation archeologist and good friend of mine, Brian Bennett, had visited the site earlier that year and had taken dozens of important photographs, which he'd mailed to me. I forwarded copies of them to Japan. It was, in retrospect, my first 'assist' within an arena that would become a lifelong passion and profession. I'd helped instigate a process that would, hopefully, prevent an important historic aircraft from going extinct.  

In 1974 the government of Papua New Guinea passed wide reaching legislation that prohibited the salvage and export of war materials including aircraft from its territories. The Soloman Islands soon followed their example, as did other infant island nations such as the Federated States of Micronesia. 

The move was initiated based upon their collective realization that their economies were based largely upon tourism, and many international tourists were beginning to take an interest in seeing the sites where World War II took place. New growth jungle and water-filled bomb craters were only so visually interesting without plenty of aircraft wrecks strewn around. The legislation also intended to appeal to the locally popular opinion that rich foreigners were removing items of value from the local people without fair compensation. A lot of the latter had in fact been happening since the war, and it mattered little weather or not war material vanished due to being scrapped by Chinese companies or due to being carried off to an American museum. 

What resulted from both culminated into multiple political footballs over who owned what and where any money went. It wasn't just between outside interests, like Western aircraft preservationists, and representatives of local governments. There were conflicts between local government jurisdictions and landowners, village elders, and local law enforcement. 

Violence was not unheard of. 

One of the world's last Japanese 'Val' dive bombers being salvaged, Ballalae 2019 

Amid all of the drama that would seriously make an interesting Hollywood film, there has been one common thread that I've personally witnessed recur over and over again. The names have changed over the years, but there has always been at least one Westerner who has managed to undeservedly win the trust of local governments by proclaiming themselves to be the anointed protectors of those government's war materials. They've often successfully torpedoed most honestly brokered salvage negotiations over the last thirty years. I've encountered this particularly the case regarding Yap, which is part of the Federated States of Micronesia, but it's happened everywhere. 

In 2012 I was working with the Wings Museum of Surrey, United Kingdom, and representatives of the state of Yap regarding the possible salvage of some very select aircraft parts on the island. The Wings Museum had recovered the substantial remains of a Japanese B5N2 'Kate' torpedo bomber from Russian-controlled Shumshu Island in the Kuriles, but they lacked wings and other parts. Yap had the remains of two 'Kates' on their territory that possessed the parts the museum needed to preserve and display what would then be the world's only complete example of the aircraft type. A rare chance to bring the 'Kate' back from the dead.

The International Group for Historic Aircraft Recovery (TIGHAR) had conducted a very objective and scientific assessment of the remaining World War II aircraft on Yap in 2006. The conclusion of that assessment (which was published online and remains available for anyone to read) asserted that the aircraft had in many cases remained well preserved, but that in recent years corrosion had rapidly accelerated. The report offered many creative suggestions regarding what could be done to help preserve the aircraft on the island in the interests of local tourism and preservation in situ, but obviously pointed out that all of those measures would merely slow down the inevitable deterioration of aluminum alloys in the salty, tropical, open environment. With that assessment in hand, I felt confident that I could appeal to reason. I offered the manpower and limited funds necessary to implement some of the measures suggested in the TIGHAR report to help preserve certain important aircraft in situ, in exchange for two Japanese B5N2 'Kate' torpedo bomber wings and an engine. There was nothing in that particular negotiation for me, personally, besides the chance to see something good happen. 

The world's last 'Kate' bomber, wasting away on
Yap Island c. 2012

At first all went well. Then, a few weeks in, I received a call from an Aussie who offered to help in the process. It was soon clear that he wasn't so much interested in helping but intended to hijack me. He became rude and hostile when I explained that, yes, indeed, I intended to see some parts removed from Yap but that we could do much to help extend the life of other aircraft on the island in fair exchange. He talked over me. Nothing would leave Yap. The end. I reconnected with everyone who'd been open minded up until then but was given the brushoff. I'd encountered Yap's Western 'minder'. The negotiations were dead. 

The Wing's Museum eventually sold off their incomplete 'Kate'. It's still incomplete all of these years later. The parts on Yap, along with all of the other rare aircraft resting there, continue to deteriorate. Nothing has ever been done on the island to implement any of the measures suggested in 2006 to extend the life of the aircraft in situ, and nothing has been allowed to leave the state for preservation elsewhere. 

That story, with variances in location, subject, and detail, is a typical example of what has happened time and again across the South Pacific, with few exceptions.

A New Life for WI-129, and Ten Other Rare Warbirds