by Bruce Gamble
Island of Despair
IN A HERCULEAN but ultimately futile effort, a cadre of mechanics and leftover pilots from Air Group 253 resurrected several badly damaged Zeros. Despite the daily pounding by Allied bombers, the Japanese maintained their morale with the project, even building a complete underground machine shop to manufacture parts that were otherwise unavailable. Topside, working under the cover of coconut palms near the main airdromes, the mechanics pieced together seven fighters. They were airborne over Tobera on the afternoon of March 3 when Maj. Robert P. Keller, who had taken over VMF-223 from Marion Carl the previous month, arrived with a reconnaissance sweep of Corsairs and Hellcats. Keller was credited with downing one, though Air Group 253 recorded no apparent losses. Over the next few weeks more Zeros were lost, but Vice Admiral Kusaka was firmly behind the effort, and the repairs continued. Two Zeros were even modified by removing unnecessary equipment behind the pilot’s seat to enable the installation of a second seat. They became, in essence, fast reconnaissance planes, at least one of which remained in use a year later.
For all the heroic defiance of the effort, the handful of refurbished Zeros had no effect on the Allied campaign. The defeat of Kusaka’s air forces was so complete that Allied medium and heavy bombers began flying unescorted missions on March 9.
With interception no longer a threat, Major General Mitchell’s ever-increasing aerial forces intensified their campaign. Aside from the temporary diversion to wipe out the town and supply areas, the primary goal remained the airdromes. Mitchell pledged to “bomb the fields and keep on bombing them day after day” to prevent the Japanese from ever bringing planes back down from Truk. Because of that policy, more than half the bombs dropped during the SOPAC campaign were aimed at the airdromes. Eventually, however, the effort settled into a stalemate. The runways would be pockmarked with craters at the end of the day, but at night the Japanese labor gangs filled in the holes. Although only a handful of Zeros were in serviceable condition by the end of March, all three navy airdromes underwent repairs after every strike.
Rabaul itself continued to be targeted daily until April 20, when the town was declared 90 percent destroyed. Of the 1,400 buildings originally counted within town limits, only 122 relics remained, their locations “so scattered that it was no longer a paying proposition to try to make it a 100 percent job.”
Similarly, the strikes on Vunapope and the surrounding supply areas were called off after April 6, by which time the structures and storage areas were considered 85 percent destroyed. Scharmach and his people weathered the month-long storm of steel and fire in their two underground bunkers, losing several elderly missionaries who weakened and died from the strain. (The missionaries would have been aghast to learn that SOPAC had actually used Vunapope for an ordnance experiment. During the first ten attacks, when the target offered the highest concentration of buildings, slightly more than one hundred tons of high-explosive bombs were dropped. The result, based on aerial photographs, was the destruction of about 12 percent of the structures. During the next nine raids, the attackers dropped 182 tons of incendiary bombs, which destroyed an estimated 73 percent of the buildings.)
When the missionaries emerged for good from their bunkers, the Japanese battalion had abandoned Vunapope. The 6th Field Kempeitai had officially assumed responsibility for the administration of the internees at the beginning of April, by which time the campus was no longer habitable. For another two months, Scharmach and the missionaries lived in the two tunnels, subsisting on food scrounged from the ruins. In early June, the Japanese decided to move the entire group, now numbering approximately three hundred, into a well-protected ravine in the Ramale Valley, eight miles south of Kokopo. New caves were excavated, a rushing stream provided fresh water, and there was even room to grow gardens. It was all the missionaries needed—along with their faith—to endure the final fifteen months of the war.
With Vunapope razed, the campaign reverted to the earlier routine of daily attacks on the airdromes. The two army fields, Keravat (which was never fully operational) and Rapopo, were considered permanently unserviceable after the third week of April. They received periodic attention, but thereafter the majority of strikes concentrated on the three navy fields—Lakunai, Vunakanau, and Tobera.
In addition, a new policy of night harassment raids by medium bombers was instituted, the intent being to deprive the Japanese of sleep and force them to stay underground. To achieve this goal, the mission schedules were written to send individual bombers over Rabaul in sequence, so that at least one was overhead continuously. For a short time, the B-25 squadrons of the 42nd Bomb Group handled the challenging assignment, flying from their advance base on Stirling Island. But with the arrival of the marines’ first squadron of medium bombers, the 42nd was relieved of that duty, and a new chapter in Marine Corps aviation history began.
IN WHAT HISTORIAN Robert Sherrod called “the most significant innovation in South Pacific aviation in 1944,” the marines sent several squadrons of “big planes” overseas to serve dual roles of night harassment and long-range daylight bombing. The advent of medium bombers with six-man crews was unforeseen at Marine Corps headquarters, until someone discovered that the army had an excess of several hundred B-25s and saw an opportunity for marine aviation to expand. The Corps, as Sherrod pointed out, “would try anything.” The employment of the F4U Corsair as a land-based fighter was their most famous example of a hand-me-down, and they hoped to see similar success with the B-25s.
The first order of business, upon acquiring the bombers in early 1943, was to designate them properly. Unlike the army’s easy-to-follow system that used logical type designations and model numbers (B-24, B-25, etc.), the navy’s Bureau of Aeronautics created an alphanumeric designation system that included a letter code for the manufacturer. Some seemed logical, such as B for Boeing and D for Douglas, but others appeared random, such as F for Grumman, Y for Consolidated, and J for North American. In the case of the “new” Mitchell medium bomber, its official designation as a patrol bomber manufactured by North American yielded a designator with the same acronym as America’s favorite sandwich: the PBJ.
The first squadron to deploy overseas arrived at Stirling in mid-March 1944. Commanded by Lt. Col. Andrew B. Galatian, Jr., VMB-413 flew a series of daylight formation attacks, typically with nine bombers, to get the crews visually acclimated to the landmarks. Then began the hazardous (yet frequently dull) night heckling missions over Rabaul. All night, every night, a PBJ would circle above Rabaul and the airdromes, dropping a single hundred-pound bomb at five- or ten-minute intervals to deprive the enemy of sleep. A relief crew would arrive every sixty to ninety minutes to maintain the routine—thus it required upwards of nine crews to provide complete dusk-to-dawn coverage. Most of the time the crews were bored, but as Cpl. Samuel M. Keith would later write, the Japanese occasionally made things interesting:
[It was] quite unnerving to look down, see the searchlights come on, their beams probing and intersecting to spotlight us. Suddenly, a blue-white daylight in the dark, and then the automatic fire rising up in an almost lazy procession of embers. Up, up, up … then curving away at the last moment when impact seemed inevitable. Tantalizingly beautiful yet so deadly in their intent …
Keith’s point about deadly intent was underscored by the high casualty rate suffered by the “Flying Nightmares.” On the evening of March 22, Maj. James K. Smith piloted the first of ten PBJs scheduled to harass Rabaul at regular intervals. Approaching the target area at about 2000 hours, Smith was met unexpectedly by a flight of four Zeros from Air Group 253. The PBJ fell in flames with no known rescue of any crewmembers. Later that same night, a second PBJ failed to return from the heckling mission, presumably because of a horrendous storm in the vicinity of southern Bougainville. Later in the same tour, the squadron lost two more bombers to combat. Another loss was narrowly avoided on April 8 when the tail gunner in the Mitchell flown by Capt. Robert “Oak” Millington spotted a night fighter c
losing in to attack. Misidentified as a Ki-45 Nick, the twin-engine stalker was actually a refurbished J1N1 Irving, the same type that had succeeded brilliantly over Rabaul in mid-1943.
The most dramatic loss for the squadron occurred near Rabaul on May 5, when Colonel Galatian led six Mitchells on a daylight strike against Tobera airdrome. A direct hit by antiaircraft fire smashed the port engine of 1st Lt. Glen W. Smith’s bomber, which fell out of control and slammed into the jungle with no survivors. The remaining squadron personnel were forced to acknowledge a lot of empty cots during that inaugural tour, losing five aircraft and twenty-seven fliers. But morale did not waver. Lieutenant James T. Merriman, who flew as copilot with Oak Millington, later wrote: “Our crew and squadron always worked extremely well together, even though we had some horrific losses during April and May 1944. I believe all the crews in VMB-413 were willing to go against the Japs at any moment.”
IN A DECISION that surprised both MacArthur and Halsey, who anticipated a full-out assault on New Ireland, the Joint Chiefs of Staff suddenly announced on March 14 that unoccupied Emirau Island would be seized instead—and as soon as possible. Just six days later, the 4th Marines bloodlessly occupied the small island, which lay eighty-five miles northwest of Kavieng. The decision by the Joint Chiefs was wise, inasmuch as the island’s level topography was ideal for the rapid development of airfields. In an accomplishment that was becoming routine, if not mundane, Seabees completed the first of two airstrips in a matter of weeks. As soon as the fields became operational, fighter and light bomber squadrons moved forward to maintain pressure on Rabaul and Kavieng.
Shortly thereafter, the little island played host to some of the most famous personalities to ever visit the Southwest Pacific—and to the most famous aviator to ever fly missions over Rabaul.
By early May 1944, the opera was over. With the seizure of Emirau, together with the occupation of the Green Islands and the Admiralties, the ring around Rabaul was complete. Although the proverbial fat lady would not sing for many months yet, the battle for the Southwest Pacific was clearly decided. Bull Halsey, who had directed much of the campaign’s success, was called to a conference with King and Nimitz in San Francisco. There he learned that he would be relieved of the SOPAC command the following month and return to sea as commander of the Third Fleet. Returning to Noumea after the conference, Halsey initiated a farewell tour around the vast geographic area he had commanded since October 1942.
He traveled first to Emirau, the farthest and most recent of the many islands his SOPAC forces had invaded or occupied in the past eighteen months. Addressing a huge crowd of soldiers, sailors, and marines who “had broken the back of the Jap,” he announced his departure, praising the men as “a great fighting team.” His farewell speech on May 25 was emotional as well as heartfelt, but the troops were not solemn for long. Almost immediately after Halsey’s address, they were entertained with knee-slapping hilarity by the day’s headline event, a United Serviceman’s Organization (USO) performance of The Bob Hope Show.
The show probably occurred during the early stages of Hope’s tour, which eventually spanned thirty thousand miles and more than 150 performances. The iconic comedian’s opening monologue, with plenty of rapid-fire one-liners, poked fun at flying, the tropics, and even Eleanor Roosevelt, who had made a famous tour of her own to the South Pacific in 1943. The variety show featured music by guitarist Tony Romano, songs performed by Frances Langford, and dance numbers by Patty Thomas and the girls of Hope’s troupe. For an hour, Hope and his performers helped the men get their minds off the war. Even after the performers packed up and flew to the next island, there were plenty of jokes to retell and laugh about for weeks to come.
At approximately the same time that Halsey bid farewell and Hope scored a hit with his variety show, the most famous aviator in the world spent a month with VMF-115 on Nissan and Emirau. His association with that particular squadron was no accident. The outfit was commanded by Maj. Joe Foss, who had trained the brand-new squadron for a year at MCAS Goleta outside Santa Barbara. As a Medal of Honor recipient and shareholder in the aerial victory record, Foss had spent a great deal of time on what he called the “dancing bear” circuit, making public appearances to sell war bonds and support the war effort. Because of his proximity to Hollywood, he hobnobbed with a who’s who of the movie and entertainment industry, including Bob Hope. But the man who impressed him the most, and who became a close personal friend, was Charles A. Lindbergh.
This was the same hero of the first nonstop flight across the Atlantic, but the “Lone Eagle” was also an outspoken prewar isolationist, and now had millions of detractors. President Roosevelt had denied Lindbergh’s request for active duty status, so he went overseas—with the navy’s support—as a technical representative for United Aircraft, the parent company for the Vought F4U Corsair. In that capacity, under the guise of lending his long-distance expertise to show pilots how to extend the range of the Corsair, he flew combat missions with different squadrons.
During the last four days of May, Lindbergh flew several patrols over Kavieng with Foss’s squadron. He then moved over to the Green Islands and flew with Maj. Bob Keller’s VMF-223. On June 7, Lindbergh flew a Corsair as an “observer” with Keller and several other pilots on a patrol over Rabaul. With his eye for aerial landscapes and grand scenery, he appreciated the wide palette of colors as the blues of ocean and sky blended with the dark, jungle-clad islands and thick white clouds. Observe he did, finding himself mesmerized by the view from eight thousand feet above the once-vaunted fortress, with its “bomb-pocked town” and the relics of partially sunken ships in the harbor, a vista smeared by black puffs of antiaircraft bursts and dirty clouds of exploding bombs dropped by B-25s and dive-bombers.
After the bombs fell, Keller led his Corsairs down to strafe targets of opportunity. Lindbergh fired a lengthy burst into a long wooden building, and one of the division leaders took his wingman down to strafe a row of trucks, destroying five. Another pair of Corsairs followed suit, diving on three trucks in the face of light machine-gun fire. One of the junior lieutenants, John C. Perkins, did not rejoin the formation after rolling in on the trucks. No one saw what happened to him—that was the bane of being Tail-End Charlie—and Perkins was declared missing in action.
Throughout his several missions, Lucky Lindy did not pick up so much as a bullet hole, but the loss of a fellow pilot over Rabaul demonstrated how serious the risks still were.*
No one flying over Rabaul was invincible. Even without aerial opposition, the missions were perilous. On a rotating schedule, the three navy airdromes continued to receive almost all of Strike Command’s attention. The Japanese responded by keeping the greatest concentration of antiaircraft guns around the three fields. Despite the efforts by dive-bombers to take out the guns, Japanese artillerymen swarmed from their underground bunkers and filled the sky with projectiles and shell fragments. It did not necessarily take a direct hit to bring down a plane—often a near miss was enough. Even ground fire would do the trick, as Lieutenant Perkins discovered on his fatal strafing run. When pilots bottomed out of their dives, with treetops rushing past at hundreds of miles per hour only a wingspan below, there was absolutely no margin for error. Nor was there room to compensate for sudden damage from enemy gunfire. Many a plane, hit during its dive or while pulling out, simply plowed straight in. The pilot had no time to react before the plane left a scar of broken trees on the landscape, with a roiling black pyre to mark his final resting place.
Sometimes, a plane came down more or less intact. And in some cases, the ultimate outcome was more unfortunate than being killed on impact. A large strike on May 21 provided a good example. Twenty-four TBF Avengers took off from Bougainville and joined with twenty SBDs for a raid on Vunakanau—a coordinated attack that included Thirteenth Air Force B-24s, P-39s, and RNZAF fighters and dive-bombers. Approaching the airdrome from the southwest at 12,500 feet, the eighteen Avengers of VT-305 descended to their push-over altitud
e, then rolled in for the attack over the long concrete runway. After releasing their five-hundred-pounders, the TBFs scattered like waterbugs, running flat out over the jungle to get clear of Japanese machine guns and automatic weapons. To pull up would only sacrifice airspeed while also exposing the big, heavy “Turkeys” to even more enemy guns.
Four of the squadron’s aircraft suffered minor hits. Another TBF, hit in the engine, caught fire, and the pilot radioed that he had to make a forced landing. After telling his two crewmen to tighten their harnesses, Ens. Donald D. Atkiss set the crippled plane down in a bone-jarring belly landing between the coconut trees. Other than slight wounds, Radioman 2nd Class John B. Kepchia and Aviation Ordnanceman 2nd Class Richard I. Lanigan were relatively unhurt, but Atkiss had suffered a disabling injury when his chest impacted the control stick.
They had come down about three miles southeast of Vunakanau. At first the fliers entertained thoughts of trying to reach the coast, but soon they became hopelessly lost. Exhaustion set in from carrying the injured Atkiss through the underbrush. Completely frustrated at every turn, feeling as helpless as hunted animals, they were gradually surrounded and then captured by Japanese troops. Initially they were held in a cave, probably in the vicinity of Vunakanau, while the Japanese decided what to do with them. Execution was certainly not out of the question. Finally, after two miserable weeks of harsh interrogations, beatings, and a starvation diet, they were transported to the Kempeitai camp at Tunnel Hill in early June.
THE PAST THREE months had seen many changes in the jungle prison run by the 6th Field Kempeitai. After the removal and presumed execution of at least thirty-one prisoners on March 5, conditions in the cave improved considerably, with no more than two dozen captives remaining. Each day, five or six of the ablest POWs were taken out to perform manual labor. Holguin was capable of working, albeit slowly, as his injured back continued to heal; Murphy, having lived on New Britain for years, was mentally tough and physically rugged; McMurria, although tall and gangly, his joints swollen from beriberi, was also relatively fit.
