On April 18, 1943, Lieutenant Takeshi Morisaki led his six Zero fighters over the jungle of Bougainville, scanning the skies for any sign of a threat. Below and ahead of him, two Betty bombers carried the most valuable man in the Imperial Japanese Navy, Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, toward the airfield at Ballale. Morisaki had positioned his fighters in what he believed was an ideal defensive formation, high above and slightly behind the bombers, ready to block the classic dive-and-strike attack American fighters favored. But the threat, when it came, did not arrive from the sea or from high altitude.

It rose from below and behind, low over the jungle canopy, where the green camouflage of the P-38 Lightnings made them nearly invisible. By the time anyone saw them, it was already too late. This mission, which would pass into history as Operation Vengeance, had been set in motion days earlier when a routine radio message was transmitted from Yamamoto’s own headquarters. The Admiral’s assistant had sent word to the smaller airbases in the region that Yamamoto would be conducting an inspection tour, flying from Rabaul to Bougainville on April 18.

The Japanese had no reason to believe this message was anything but ordinary. But American code breakers had broken the Japanese naval cipher, and the transmission was intercepted and deciphered. The Americans now knew that the architect of Pearl Harbor would be briefly within range of their land-based fighters. It was a long shot by any measure.

Yamamoto’s flight path would take him over heavily defended Japanese territory, where fighters and anti-aircraft guns were plentiful. The interception point sat at the absolute limit of the range of the only Allied fighter that could reach it, the P-38 Lightning, the longest-ranged fighter in the Pacific War. Even if the Americans timed everything perfectly, they would have only fifteen minutes of combat time in the target area before they had to turn back for Guadalcanal. The plan called for two groups of P-38s, one flying high for cover and one flying low for the attack.

Colonel John Mitchell would lead twelve aircraft as top cover. The attack, or Killer Flight, would consist of four planes flying just fifty feet above the water, in radio silence, approaching from underneath and behind. Captain Thomas Lanphier would lead this group, with Lieutenant Rex Barber alongside him. On the morning of April 18, both the Japanese and the Americans took off from their respective bases, but only one side knew what the other was doing.

The American launch from the 339th Fighter Squadron did not go entirely smoothly. Two of the Killer Flight’s P-38s developed mechanical problems and had to be replaced by aircraft from the top-cover group. These replacements were Lieutenant Besby Holmes and Lieutenant Raymond Hine, joining Lanphier and Barber. Once the formation was sorted out, both groups of Lightnings set off on their long, low-level run toward Bougainville.

A few hundred miles away, the Japanese were also taking off. The flight consisted of the two G4M Betty bombers and six Zero escort fighters. The Zeros quickly split into two groups of three, positioned above and slightly behind the bombers. On the left side flew Petty Officer Toyoitsu Suino, Petty Officer Shoichi Sugita, who was the current kill leader of the 204th Air Group, and the flight leader, Lieutenant Takeshi Morisaki.

On the right side were Petty Officer Yasushi Okazaki, Petty Officer Kenji Yanagiya, an ace with seven or eight kills to his name, and Chief Petty Officer Yoshimi Hidaka, another ace with around twenty kills, serving as element leader. Morisaki kept his fighters in a crisp formation, scanning the horizon for any sign of enemy aircraft. For now, all he saw was open ocean. It was around 9:30 in the morning when Yamamoto’s transport arrived over Bougainville.

The destination, Ballale Airfield, had just come into view, and the bombers began to lose altitude for their approach. The escorting Zeros were now above the jungle, still watching the sky over the Pacific side. They had convinced themselves that if any threat came, it would come from the sea. They were wrong.

The P-38s of the 339th were already on the scene, but they were not coming from the sea. The Killer Flight approached from low altitude, coming from the six o’clock position, directly behind and below the Japanese formation, exactly where the Zeros were not looking. The green camouflage of the American fighters blended with the jungle below, making them all but invisible until they were almost on top of their target. Lanphier later recalled the moment of discovery.

There were supposed to be two Betty bombers, but the flight leader counted three at first, then corrected himself. There were two. And there were six Zeros, which had not seen the Americans. Lanphier immediately turned, knowing that those six Zeros meant they had found their target.

The warning came over the radio: bogies at eleven o’clock high. For the Americans, the sight of the six escorts and two bombers woke everyone up. They had planned for one bomber. Now there were two, and they had to make the most of the moment.

Mitchell gave the order. Lanphier and his wingman broke off and headed toward the bombers. But the Americans could see the three Zeros on the left side of the formation beginning to descend, and they knew that the moment they rolled in on the bombers, those Zeros would be on their tails. Lanphier turned sharply left and climbed into the Zeros as they came down.

Barber continued after the bomber, firing into its right engine, then through the fuselage and into the left engine. The right engine was smoking badly. He brought his fire back to the fuselage, and as he centered his aim, the bomber seemed to stop in midair, then came up on one wing. Barber shot past, barely missing the upturned wing.

He looked back and saw that the bomber had leveled out, but it was smoking heavily and going down, less than three hundred feet above the tops of the trees. Kenji Yanagiya, flying on the far right, farthest from Yamamoto’s aircraft, later recalled the moment in detail. They were delayed in spotting the P-38s, their color making them very hard to see against the jungle. By the time the squadron leader saw them, the American fighters were already very near the bombers.

The Zeros immediately turned down to repel the attack, and they managed to do that, but as they climbed up to prepare for a second wave, Yanagiya looked down and saw that Yamamoto’s plane was already smoking and heading into the jungle. The second bomber, the staff plane, was turning toward the ocean to the right. Yamamoto was almost certainly already dead before his plane ever crashed. A bullet from one of the P-38s had struck him in the head.

He was likely killed instantly, and even if he was not, he would have certainly been killed in the crash a few seconds later. For the escorting Zeros, it had all happened too fast. By the time any of them could react, it was over. The Zero pilots dove in and scattered the American fighters, but the P-38s were not there to dogfight.

They turned away and ran, having already accomplished their goal. The Japanese pilots turned back and landed at their own airfield, all except for Kenji Yanagiya. As the Americans began their flight back toward Guadalcanal, Yanagiya spotted a lone P-38 cruising at nine thousand feet. He decided to go after it.

He fired, striking the aircraft. American fighters did not burst into flames easily, but this one started smoking and leaking gasoline. Yanagiya turned back for base and was the last to land, because he had chosen to chase that enemy aircraft. That P-38 belonged to Lieutenant Raymond Hine, one of the replacements in the Killer Flight.

He was seen smoking badly in one engine, but at last contact he was still flying, trying to make it home. He never returned. He was the sole American loss of the mission, and he was never seen again. When the six Zero pilots returned to Rabaul, they felt as though they had failed.

They had survived unscathed, but their leader was dead. They were not assigned any blame for what had happened; it was clearly a preplanned American ambush, and the Japanese had been desperately outnumbered. But that did not change how the young pilots felt. After such a brutal loss under their watch, their purpose changed.

They were not just fighting for honor anymore. They held themselves responsible, and they charged themselves with fighting wildly, shooting down as many American aircraft as possible, and purchasing redemption through a glorious death for Japan. That redemption came quickly for more than one of them. On June 5, 1943, a state funeral was held for Admiral Yamamoto.

It was a rare and closely followed event, and all of Japan mourned the loss of their most valuable leader. Less than forty-eight hours later, the 204th Air Group began a massive aerial campaign against the Guadalcanal area, the same region the American P-38s had come from. On June 7, 1943, the Zero pilots from the Yamamoto mission were fueled with more anger than usual, having just heard of their Admiral’s funeral the day before. Their Zeros were outfitted with twin bombs under their wings, assigned to glide-bomb an Allied airfield.

A few hours later, the Zeros were in the air with dive bombers, nearing their target. American fighters were scrambled to intercept. The Zero pilots of the 204th initiated their glide attacks from around twenty thousand feet, dropping their bombs on the island airfield below. But just as they pulled up from their bombing runs, enemy fighters arrived, a mix of Army P-38s and Marine and Navy F4F Wildcats.

An all-out battle ensued in the air, with tracers flying across the sky and aircraft from both sides taking hits. One of the first to go down was Petty Officer Yasushi Okazaki. An American fighter got behind his aircraft, hit him, and his Zero went down in flames. He was the first of the Yamamoto escorts to die a glorious death.

He was not the only loss that day. Chief Petty Officer Yoshimi Hidaka, the ace with around twenty kills, was also struck, his Zero going down in flames. He was killed in action, the second loss from the April mission. But another incident on that day was even more gruesome than a quick and fiery death.

Kenji Yanagiya, recently promoted to petty officer, had just finished his glide-bombing run on the airfield on the Russell Islands when two F4F Wildcats pulled in behind his Zero and opened fire. Despite his attempts to evade, their rounds found their target. His fighter was hit directly in the cockpit. As he tried to escape, a bullet entered the cockpit from behind and went directly through his right hand, which was holding the control stick.

It took off most of his right hand, leaving only his small finger. His plane spiraled out of control, and the Wildcats left him for dead. But miraculously, Yanagiya regained control of his Zero, using his left hand to take over the controls. As he leveled off, he realized his leg had been seriously hit as well, and he was bleeding profusely.

With no other options, he turned for the nearest Japanese airfield at Munda and tried to survive the flight. For the next few minutes, with one hand shot off and his right boot filling with blood, he began to feel lightheaded. Recognizing the serious risk of passing out from blood loss, Yanagiya started yelling at himself in the cockpit, desperately trying to keep himself awake. Somehow, it worked.

As he approached Munda Airfield, he faced another problem. He had no right hand, and the landing gear and flap controls were on the right side of the cockpit. He had no way to reach them without letting go of the control stick. So he came in and crash-landed, wheels up and with no flaps, screeching to a stop at Munda Airfield.

Japanese Marines pulled him from the cockpit and immediately began to care for him, amputating his right hand and doing everything possible to stop the bleeding. Against all odds, he survived. A few weeks later, he was sent back to Japan to recover. Another Yamamoto escort had been pulled from the front.

Meanwhile, the fighting continued, and the three remaining pilots from the Yamamoto mission were still hungry for blood. On June 16, they got another chance. A large group of Allied transport ships was spotted off the coast of Guadalcanal, and the 204th Air Group attacked in full force. They were intercepted by a large American fighter force, and that day the Japanese paid a heavy toll.

More than twenty aircraft were shot down as American P-38s dealt a devastating blow. In the dogfight, one more escort pilot from the Yamamoto raid was lost. The flight leader, Lieutenant Takeshi Morisaki, was shot down and killed, achieving the glorious death he no doubt had been aiming for. That brought the number of fighting pilots from the Yamamoto mission down to just two.

Two weeks later, a similar strike was ordered against Allied shipping at Guadalcanal. Another loss was incurred. Chief Petty Officer Toyomitsu Suino went missing at some point during the engagement and was never seen again. Based on the information from the battle, it was assumed he had been shot down and killed.

In just four months following the loss of Yamamoto, four of the six Zero pilots had been lost. Only two remained alive, and only one remained at the front lines. That was Flyer First Class Shoichi Sugita. Like his fellow pilots, he took the loss of Yamamoto personally and swore to himself to avenge it.

But he had a different approach. Instead of seeking a glorious death, Sugita wanted to survive in any way possible, because he saw redemption differently. He believed that shooting down as many American aircraft as possible was the best way to exact vengeance. Over the coming weeks and months, he did exactly that.

Sugita quickly began to rack up kills in the South Pacific, paying the Americans back in the very missions where his fellow escorting Zero pilots were lost. He shot down American fighters time and time again, Wildcats, P-38s, any adversary he encountered. By late summer, he was not only the leading ace of the 204th Air Group but the overall ace leader of the Solomon Islands campaign for the Imperial Japanese Navy. Documentation of kill claims is hard to come by due to Japanese recordkeeping, but by best estimates, at this time Sugita likely had around forty kills in the South Pacific.

In August, however, he met a worthy adversary. During an attempted intercept against American bombers, Sugita was caught in the sights of an enemy fighter and hit in the engine. His Zero caught fire and began going down. Then, in what was an unpopular move for Japanese pilots, Sugita bailed out, parachuting down into friendly territory.

He landed alive but severely burned. After being treated, he was sent back to Japan to recover, just like Kenji Yanagiya. This left two surviving Zero pilots from the Yamamoto mission, both recovering from combat injuries. But their story was not over.

In March 1944, seven months later, Shoichi Sugita had recovered enough to fly again. As one of the highest-scoring aces in the war for Japan, his skills were very much needed. He was sent to Guam, where he began to fight again. In the next few weeks, he raised his score even more, downing American bombers and fighters at a staggering pace.

Things were not going nearly so well for the rest of the Japanese Navy. During the summer, his unit, the 263rd Air Group, was essentially completely exhausted, having taken heavy losses during the Marianas Turkey Shoot in June. The remaining six aircraft of his unit were ordered to fly to a base farther back from the front lines to be transferred. During this flight, they were ambushed by American Hellcats, and the Navy fighters hit all of the Zeros in the flight.

Sugita was the sole survivor. His plane was hit badly and his navigation equipment was shot out, but by mostly intuition he made it to his destination, one of the only living members of the 263rd Air Group. Still not giving up the fight, he was transferred to a new group and continued to fight until October 1944, when his new unit, the 203rd Air Group, was reorganized as the first official kamikaze special attack team of the Imperial Navy. This unit was not made up of kamikaze pilots themselves but was assigned to fly escort for the suicide bombers, protecting them and confirming the results of their attacks.

After serving there, he was moved to one final unit based near Okinawa in early 1945. With around seventy kills to his name, he was one of the most prized assets in the Imperial Japanese Navy. On April 15, 1945, his career came to an end. During a scramble to intercept American aircraft, Sugita’s plane was just getting off the ground from the island of Kyushu when F6F Hellcats of the US Navy arrived.

Vulnerable and an easy target, his fighter was hit as it tried to get airborne, crashing just beyond the runway and killing the last frontline member of the famous Yamamoto flight and one of Japan’s most storied aces. This left one other living pilot from the Yamamoto mission: Kenji Yanagiya. After losing his right hand, he eventually recovered enough to be assigned to train pilots in Japan, promoted to warrant officer. He served this position well but never saw combat again, finishing the war with eight victories and residing in Tokyo after the war.

For many years, he did not speak of his role in the Yamamoto mission, carrying responsibility for what had happened. That changed in the 1970s, when he was discovered and interviewed by a Japanese author. Then, in 1988, he was invited to a meeting at the Admiral Nimitz Museum in Texas, with all the surviving P-38 pilots from Operation Vengeance. He shook hands with Rex Barber and the other American pilots, as historians and veterans alike celebrated one of the most famous events of World War II.

Warrant Officer Kenji Yanagiya finally passed away in 2008 at the age of eighty-eight, the final Zero pilot from the Yamamoto raid to go. Whether he was fully redeemed from his role in that fateful April day in 1943 was a question he likely carried to the end. But of the six young men who had set out to escort their most valuable leader, five had died fighting in the South Pacific, and the last survivor had lost his right hand in the skies over the Russell Islands.

All of them had spent the rest of the war trying to make up for a single moment when the enemy came from below, unseen, and took from them the man they had been trusted to protect.