by Pacific War Uncensored: A War Correspondent's Unvarnished Account of the Fight Against Japan
The mission on which I was involved made a journey to Sourabaya, and was most interesting, as we flew over the South Sea Islands. Our navigator was able to explain what was below us during the flight, in the same way that a travel courier would with a crowd of tourists. He would point down to some islands and say, “that’s where the Kokoda Dragons are” (there is a legend that some giant lizards as big as dragons lived on one of the islands). We also passed over the Timor Sea that looked a beautiful blue colour, and was very tranquil.
Finally we reached our target in Sourabaya, which was quite a strong Japanese base at that time, and the excitement within the bomber increased. I got my K2 camera together and hurriedly shot everything in sight, until I reached the end of the eighteen-exposure film. Some Japanese Zeros then suddenly appeared and attacked us, so I removed the camera as quickly as I could and started to replace it with the machine gun. As I was doing this the aircraft suddenly took a sharp turn. My balance was not that steady with a stiff leg, and the sudden movement was enough to make me stumble back and fall onto my backside. At the time I was still holding onto the camera and its weight helped to push me down until it finally hit me in the face. The oxygen mask I was wearing protected me from the blow, and in the midst of the fighter’s attack I scrambled as quickly as I could to my feet and put the machine gun into place. But by the time I had gotten myself sorted, there was nothing left to fire at, which made me feel a little foolish.
Our mission had been quite successful however, and we made our return trip without any further incident. After we landed back in Australia though, and I took off my oxygen mask, I found all of my crew members staring at me with horrified expressions. From first impressions it looked as if the whole of the lower half of my face had been removed, as it was completely covered in blood. After cleaning up my face, and on further inspection, the only damage was a small cut on my chin, probably the result of the camera hitting me in the face. Inside the mask though, the blood had nowhere to go, and had just spread itself all over me.
I had to go along with the rest of the crew to the briefing room and describe everything that I had seen. My film was then taken along to the operations room to be developed, but it turned out to be a complete waste of time in every respect. The pictures showed the attacking Japanese Zero fighters miles off as tiny little specs in the distance, and only the corner of some of the land installations that we were supposed to be bombing, and very little else. I felt a complete failure, and somewhat foolish, given my fumbled attempts at replacing the camera with the machine gun.
Harold poses as an aerial gunner in the B24 bomber, on which he participated in the long distance mission to Sourabaya, Java as a cameraman. He operated a K2 camera that inter changed with the machine gun when under fire from Japanese fighters. Author collection
There was, however, one frame that was of great interest to the American Air Force intelligence people. It showed what looked like a spider in the middle of the picture, which on closer inspection turned out to be a perfect picture of a phosphorous bomb exploding. The Japanese had a trick of sending up a fighter that would race ahead of a bomber, and then drop one of these bombs in front of a bomber. I had managed to get a picture of this taking place, so there was at least something that I could be proud of.
The role of the aerial photographer was extremely important, as they provided about eighty-five percent of the Allied intelligence reports. I met a number of these air reconnaissance photographers, including one called Lieutenant Frank Fosket, who was from Colorado and known by his comrades as “Fearless Fosket.” His title was earned with good reason as these photographers had to be fearless; they flew for many miles that could only be covered by a Liberator bomber, in which they would have to stand in exposed positions with no means of personal defence.
He told me that on one mission he was on that the Japanese attack was so fierce that he had to help out by feeding ammunition to the right waist gunner. As he was doing this, the tail gunner reported that his turret had been hit, and then to make matters worse, gasoline started blowing in all over the craft. Number two engine had failed, and number one stalled while the craft was at a thousand feet. Miraculously, though, they managed to regain altitude and the tail gunner started blasting away, and Fosket saw two Zeros go down in flames. But the rudder controls were then found to be damaged, and the plane started to spiral as number one engine again started to stall. The craft load had to be lightened, and ammunition and other equipment were hurriedly jettisoned but this was to no avail, as they continued to spiral down. Finally the order came from the pilot, named Olsen, for everyone to be on standby to bail out. Somehow though, Olsen managed to steer the craft home, which was something of a miracle as the ground crew said they had never seen such a badly damaged bomber make it back. Apparently there were more than three hundred explosive shell holes counted all over the fuselage, with some larger holes indicating it had been hit by heavier calibre cannon fire.
This experience had not deterred Fosket though, and he told me that it was a hell of a feeling sitting in the bomber over a target, with the ack-ack guns firing at you and Zeros flying around. He said that the feeling of vulnerability he got was often wiped away when he came back with some good pictures. Often pictures of target areas were taken from heights of anything between three thousand and twenty-five thousand feet, and Fosket had soon managed to rack up a fair number of combat flying hours. He estimated that he could fly for an average of forty hours per month, and that did not include practice flights.
Another photographer that I met was Taylor Simmons, from Washington, who had been accredited with the finest set of aerial photographs on record during the longest reconnaissance flight over Sourabaya. Simmons, who was formerly an architect, specialised in photo interpretation. In his pictures it was possible to identify almost everything, including the ships scuttled by the Dutch and Americans during the Japanese invasion. Simmons’s clear-cut pictures showed the Sourabaya base area in detail, and I was easily able to identify the Oranje Hotel, where I stayed briefly prior to the enemy attack. It was also possible to see the familiar lines of one United States destroyer, which the Japanese had apparently salvaged.
Other snap-shooters of the air include Staff Sergeant George Ashworth, who could claim the distinction of being the only photographer in this area to have sunk a ship while flying over Manokwari. After Ashworth had taken pictures, the bomber made another run over the target, and Ash-worth assisted in unloading incendiaries on a small amount of enemy shipping. He scored a direct hit on one craft, which caught fire and sank within a few minutes. Ashworth even found the time to take a photograph of his prize.
Corporal Vincent J. Ewadinger was also a photographer on a long-range reconnaissance trip over Manokwari, and during heavy anti-aircraft fire, smoke from the Liberator’s bombs clouded the vertical camera. Despite this he continued to take pictures by lifting the camera (which weighed seventy-eight pounds fully loaded) and taking pictures through a gun port with the help of the waist gunner. The results proved to be perfect, portraying the Liberator’s direct bomb hits on the pinpointed target area with huge smoke columns rising up. The pictures were considered to be so dramatic that the commanding general personally ordered five sets, and I believe one picture was also used for a cover of Life magazine.
It was now August 1942, and I had my 44th birthday with this bombing group up in the Northern Territories of Australia. The boys had gotten some barrels of beer, but keeping them cool in the incredible heat proved to be almost impossible. They managed, however, to find a way round this, by taking a couple of the barrels up in an airplane to thirty thousand feet for more than two hours—this was very effective in cooling the beer off, but I dread to think how much this cost in fuel and American taxpayer’s money! My assignment in the Northern Territories came to an abrupt end though, with a message from Brisbane. I was told that I had to return to New Guinea as soon as possible, where things were now apparently moving on very quickly.
Wau (Wow)
So I packed my things once more and flew back to Port Moresby late in September 1942, and soon found myself back within an old familiar crowd. To my amazement one of the first people to visit me was Gibson of the Blue Trousers. Somehow the news of my arrival had reached the bush telegraph, and there was Gibson to say “Guard Sa!” Once more we took off in a jeep to visit the surrounding area to see how things were developing.
One Sunday afternoon, Gibson and I were out in our jeep when we came across an American transport group who were taking American soldiers up to a place called Wau (pronounced wow). Wau was one of the key targets in New Guinea where the Japanese were quite heavily installed; it offered the benefit of being on high ground clear of the jungle, and was a very important strategic area. One of the things that intrigued me about Wau was its name, and I envisaged all sorts of headlines with the word Wau in it. So I managed to get myself on a flight heading up to Wau, which was an exciting prospect as there was no flat land for planes to land—the runway there was literally on a hillside.
The airfields in Wau had successfully been protected by Australian troops, but on the flight that I took, American troops were being sent there to provide additional support. Our pilot for the trip was Captain Pears Jacques, who I had met before when he was shuttling American Air Corps out of Java to Broome. The circumstances this time were different. Instead of retreating from the Japanese, the Allied forces were starting to hold and push the enemy backwards, which was something that made Jacques very happy. Our heavily laden plane took off into the glaring midday sun, and rapidly gained altitude above the cotton wool cloudbanks that rapidly built up over the Owen Stanley Mountains during the afternoon. The plane, christened Barbara Ann, was part of a squadron, and onboard the other aircraft I could see the faces of soldiers peering apprehensively down at the thick jungle country that was virtually impossible to travel through by foot.
Flying through the Owen Stanley Mountains’ gorges in formation is a tricky business, and I had a bird’s eye view of the countryside while standing between Jacques and his co-pilot. The thickening cloudbanks and treacherous twisting gorges precluded any formation flying, as the proximity of other planes in the squadron became increasingly hard to judge. Jacques took us down a few hundred feet, which brought the forest-clad mountains well within view on either side, with tiny native villages in seemingly uninhabitable regions clearly visible.
We were now starting to reach enemy territory, and the whole crew kept their eyes and ears open. I asked if there was any fighter cover for us, to which I was told by a sergeant peering at our cloudy exterior surroundings, “Yeah, I guess they’re up there somewhere.” We continued to zoom between the sandstone walls of the gorge, and in places derelict mining machinery could be seen. Jacques told me that we were getting close and that the Japanese were now beneath us, which was something he knew for a fact having previously been fired at during his morning run.
We emerged from the gorge, and Wau appeared suddenly in front of us like a picture postcard. Jacques pointed out the runway, which seemed to be tilted at a forty-five degree angle, and remarked that the runway could sometimes be a little “ticklish” during takeoff. We circled and watched other planes in our squadron landing, before we ourselves swooped round to land amongst the eager Australian soldiers.
Our stay at Wau did not last too long, as there was some fighting going on in the area. A lanky green-clad Australian captain took the time to lend me his binoculars, and pointed out a twisting brown road approximately a thousand yards off in the distance. Through the glasses I could see a column of slowly trudging uniformed Japanese infantry, whom the Australians had done battle with that morning. Another Australian officer commented that from the way the Japanese were moving he was expecting another fight to take place during the night. He said that it was amazing how the enemy troops just kept coming, and that they appeared to be dug into the mountain like a colony of ants.
When the time came to leave we said our farewells to the Australian troops, exchanging cigarettes, news of the war and good wishes. Then off we soared back into the sky, after bumping along the angled runway. Wau’s importance was made even more apparent from the air, with it’s aerodrome strategically placed, and it was hardly any wonder that those brave soldiers were fighting so hard to defend it. Jacques took the plane over the twisting brown track and pointed out to me the column of Japanese marchers. He swooped low over them, and I would have approximated there were about two hundred troops amongst their numbers along with two grey covered vehicles. As the enemy soldiers gazed up at us, we regretted not having a good-sized bomb to drop on them. Further along the mountain we passed Japanese garrison huts, with wispy smoke from the kitchens wafting in the air and figures scurrying around under the shadow of the airplane.
Soon though, we were back among the considerably thickening cotton wool cloudbanks. These were testing conditions for Jacques, who had already flown ten hours that day, although he was happy to do it, as he knew how important it was to support the troops in Wau. Eventually we were into the final home stretch. As we landed back in Port Moresby I remarked to one of my crewmembers, “Well that’s one way of spending a pleasant Sunday afternoon,” to which he replied, “Is it Sunday today?”
I then settled down to write up my story about Wau, and handed it into the censors as usual. Once more though, I found myself in the middle of a great deal of trouble, and the next thing that happened was that I was called in front of a General Jennings. He said, “You’ve been to Wau! Didn’t you read the directive?” I said, “What directive?” Apparently the “Directive” had been stuck up on the bulletin board for a couple of days, and it said that no correspondents were allowed into the Wau area. General Jennings said that he would have to report the incident, which led to me being expelled from New Guinea. I was told that I had to be at an air transport base the next morning at 5 o’clock to fly down to Brisbane, where I had to report to the director of public relations to learn exactly what my expulsion entailed.
I went down the next morning to get my flight, but no sooner had I boarded the plane then the order came for everyone to get off. Apparently the Japanese were attacking the north of New Guinea, in the Bismarck Sea area. I didn’t see the point in hanging around, so I managed to get myself onto one of the B25s that was leaving to fight the Japanese over the Bismarck Sea. This proved to be quite a successful operation in which the Japanese were defeated. When we got back I had a very good story to report, thanks to General Jennings, and once again I went to the transport centre ready to fly down to Brisbane.
One of the first things I did when I got there was to sit down and write my story of the Bismarck Sea Battle. Brydon Taves and another United Press man had by this time gotten themselves a little office, where I sat down with my typewriter, wrote my story and then sent it off. As it turned out I was the only correspondent to get the story out. The irony of this was that I would not have gotten the story if I hadn’t received the expulsion!
I then went down to see the director of public relations, a Brigadier Errol Knox, later to become Sir Errol Knox, who in peacetime was a newspaper proprietor. He was in full sympathy with any newspaperman who had gotten into trouble for pursuing a good story. However, he was a Brigadier and had to obey orders the same as anyone else, so all he could do was to shake his head, and undertake to find out exactly what was to become of me.
After this I managed to get myself an aeroplane ride down to Melbourne, and was tremendously happy to join up again with Marie and Pat. Marie was teaching in a school in Melbourne, and Pat was on a break from Tintern, a boarding school she had been attending. One memento that I bought back with me was a crayon portrait that the official war artist Bill Dargie had drawn of me. He later became Sir William Dargie, and painted the official Australian portrait of the Queen. The picture that he created of me took approximately twenty-nine minutes to complete, and I am very proud of it.
C
hristmas 1942 was far more enjoyable than the previous one in Singapore. However, it was not long afterwards that I was told to get back to New Guinea, and no further mention was made of my previous ex pulsion. The war in New Guinea was now moving forward with a great rapidity. It was clear that the Australian and American forces were gradually getting the upper hand, and that the Japanese were slowly but surely being driven out of the island.
Harold outside a more established United Press office in New Guinea. Author collection
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The War in New Guinea, Hans Christian Anderson, and General MacArthur
One of the biggest problems to the Allied forces was a disease called scrub-typhus, which was similar to malaria, and was caused mainly by mosquitoes or other insects. The American forces in particular imposed very severe restrictions on their troops. They were never allowed to expose any body parts and had to wear long sleeve shirts, gloves, and nets hanging over their helmets to protect their faces. There were also strict orders that nobody should expose themselves during daylight hours.
One day when Gibson and I were driving around in a jeep, we were stopped by some American military police. I was wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a short-sleeve shirt, and was told by the police that they would report me for this breach of regulations, something that I had no idea even existed until that point. I had to appear in front of a Colonel Julius Blank, who was a medical officer and had been sent out to the Far East by Washington to specifically investigate the effects of scrub-typhus and malaria on the troops. He was very interested in me, and the fact that I was able to drive around with parts of my body uncovered and yet not fall victim to these diseases. After thorough examination and investigation, the only conclusion that could be drawn was that I had spent so much time in this climate that my body had become immune. I was quite an object of curiosity for him.
