by Don Dennis
But Smith had little time to consider the options. Already the temperature gauges were hard against their stops, while the engine was trailing a thickening haze of blue smoke and emitting strange metallic noises. He signalled his navigator to tell the crew to make ready to ditch.
Everyone on board had trained for the procedure. It was a simple matter of the radio operator and dorsal gunner taking positions against the fuselage bulkhead facing the tail. The navigator’s position was in a jump seat at the right of the pilot where he could assist with the controls, since Smith needed both hands on the yoke if he was to keep the aircraft straight when it hit the water.
Fortunately they were already heading into wind—a 10-knot nor’-easter by the look of the sea. Lining up, Smith aimed for a position between the shallow wave troughs about a kilometre off the mainland. He pumped at the flap lever. Slowly they lowered, but at fifteen degrees they stopped. Shoving hard on the lever, the flaps moved a few more degrees then jammed.
With only part flap they’d be landing hot. They’d hit the water at 100 kilometres an hour. Fast but not impossible.
No point using the altimeter, he noted, glancing at the shattered instrument. He guessed they were down to about 30 feet and he’d have to do everything by feel: even the airspeed indicator was useless.
The water rushed past, clear and smooth, making it difficult to judge height. He could clearly see the sandy bottom and to his left the aircraft’s shadow, racing up to meet them. At what he estimated to be 15 feet above the water he hauled back the yoke.
The nose came up, but still the Beaufort kept flying, hanging on the Pratt & Whitney, which was now screaming in its final moments of over-boosted torment. Smith felt the shudder of an approaching stall and called to the navigator to close the throttle. The navigator dragged back the lever, then flicked the electric’s master switch. The engine died and for a moment the sudden quiet seemed overwhelming, replaced by the gentle whisper of the slipstream.
Smith had timed the landing perfectly. Nose high, the Beaufort stalled, then hit the water tail-first. He braced, crossed his arms in front of his face and held on to the canopy frame. The next few seconds were a montage of whirling sky, water and sound. He later likened it to being inside a washing machine.
The aircraft pitched forward, nosed under then recoiled, throwing Smith hard against his harness. Then there was silence punctuated by the hiss of water on hot metal.
Behind him, the navigator slammed open the escape hatch. Smith turned to see his feet vanishing through the opening and heard him splash overboard. Glancing down he saw the cockpit floor was already covered in water. They were sinking. With strength inspired by fear, Smith dragged himself from his seat, but a harness strap caught around his thigh. The water was now over his feet and he could hear it gurgling in. Reaching down to his left boot, he gripped the stubby shroud knife he kept sheathed there, dragged it out and sliced through the harness. The strap parted and he struggled free.
Wedging through the narrow gap at the top of the seat, he scrambled up through the shattered canopy and slid head-first into the water between the nose and the port engine. He went under, then felt the aircraft bump past him as it sank. The tailplane slammed into his back then snagged his trouser leg, dragging him with it. Through the clear water he could see the aircraft below him, streaming bubbles as it headed for the bottom with him attached. With the strength of desperation, he put both feet on the tailplane and shoved. He tore free and with lungs bursting, clawed for the surface.
He popped up to find his crew sitting in two life rafts, paddles in hand, looking at him with concerned expressions.
Ten minutes later the crew of Beaufort A9-572 were aboard an American torpedo boat heading back to Aitape, the main Australian base on the north-east coast of New Guinea.
2. SIXTH DIVISION HQ, AITAPE, PNG:
2 MARCH 1945
Captain Roland McKay was the officer in command of the division’s intelligence section. As the G3 Intelligence, McKay directed a staff of fifteen who were responsible for assessing information gathered by units within the division and other agencies in Australia. Located in a row of iron-roofed huts scattered in a grove of palm trees near the headquarters area, the intelligence section was an around-the-clock operation, continually monitoring the enemy’s capabilities and trying to anticipate their intentions. To do this McKay enjoyed a level of autonomy not generally shared by other officers, and this independence enabled him to travel wherever he wanted within the operational area and to gain access to senior officers or the lowliest private soldier almost without question.
Responsible to the G2—the senior operations officer on the headquarters staff—McKay had established a reputation as a quiet, intense analyst with a bloodhound-like ability to pursue the tiniest scrap of information. A lawyer before the war, he was aged 29 when he joined the Australian Imperial Force in 1940. Categorised as unfit for active service due to the effects of poliomyelitis as a child that left him with a slight limp, he’d been recruited by the Intelligence Corps, commissioned as a lieutenant and spent the next three years in a department of the Allied South West Pacific headquarters in Australia, where he’d gained an intimate knowledge of the organisational structure of all allied intelligence agencies. Policy in this regard was strict: anyone with such knowledge was considered a security risk if allowed into an operational area, and they were subsequently restricted to mainland postings. Such personnel were often unfairly labelled ‘koalas’—not to be exported or shot at—and although McKay understood the reasons behind such restrictions, it didn’t stop him from trying to gain a transfer to an operational unit. Every month he’d routinely submit an application and every month it would be refused.
However, McKay persisted and in June 1944, with the war turned in Australia’s favour, his badgering paid off. The restrictions were relaxed and he was sent to Aitape as part of the headquarters group, to prepare for the final push against the Japanese in New Guinea.
It was 1500 hours when McKay received a phone call from the Army Liaison Officer (ALO) attached to the Australian Air Force’s Tactical Operations Centre at Tadji airfield. The ALO was a lieutenant with whom he’d formed a close working relationship and who normally at this time gave him a rundown on the day’s air activity for the division commander’s 1600 hours briefing. Today, however, the ALO advised that he’d received information that might affect preparations for a coming operation and a copy was already being couriered to Divisional Intelligence.
Curiosity roused, McKay thanked him then rang off. He glanced through the blast-taped window of the corrugated iron hut. The sun was breaking through rain clouds to the west, painting the Torricelli Mountains with intense colour. A shower had just passed over, cooling the air and settling the dust. The roads would now be slick with mud and vehicles were already sliding on the greasy surfaces. In an hour the mud would again be dust and the air would be heavy with humidity.
Leaning back in his chair, McKay wondered what the ALO considered so important that he was reluctant to explain it over the landline. The nearest Japanese were more than 40 kilometres away and were hardly in a position to eavesdrop. Yet he also knew such caution was never wasted— hundreds of kilometres of cable were strung around the base, out to Tadji airfield and to the battalions operating inland. The Japanese were clever with things electronic, so anything was possible.
Only one operation planned warranted such concern. Since January, Divisional Intelligence had been gathering information for an amphibious landing to capture the port town of Wewak, on the east coast of Papua New Guinea. Scheduled for May, this would pit some 6000 Australians against the remainder of the Japanese 21st and 51st divisions—an estimated 15,000 in the Wewak area. Although conventional military wisdom was to ensure the attacking force had a three-to-one advantage, the operation was expected to be completed quickly and with minimal casualties.
Part of this confidence came from the knowledge that the Sixth Division’s plan called for
a multi-pronged assault that concentrated forces where they’d have a numerical advantage. Coupled with an element of surprise, plus overwhelming air superiority, they’d divide the enemy’s forces and prevent them mounting a coherent defence. It was basically a simple plan— a virtue in itself, as complex battle plans tended to unravel on contact with the enemy.
However, assessments of the Japanese capability to fight varied. Weakened from battle and tropical disease, they were isolated, their supply line from Rabaul in the Papuan province of East New Britain disrupted by the Navy and Air Force. They were desperately short of food and many units were trying to survive by living off the land. In all areas, constant pressure by advancing Australian patrols backed by air support had driven the Japanese into isolated pockets and whittled their numbers. Some units were fighting as tenaciously as ever; others were surrendering after only token resistance.
There had been growing dissent among Australian troops about the need to continue the fight against the Japanese in some areas, fueled by rumours and press reports about arguments between the Chief of the Army, General Thomas Blamey, and Prime Minister John Curtin. These stories told how Curtin wanted to drop all plans for offensives against Wewak and Borneo. Curtin argued that the American invasion of Japan would take place before the end of the year, and as the Japanese would inevitably surrender, there was no point sacrificing Australian lives in operations that couldn’t affect this outcome. He suggested the Japanese be bypassed and isolated until they either surrendered or died of starvation or disease.
For men fighting a vicious enemy in one of the ugliest campaigns of the war, to be suddenly offered an honourable end to the uncertainty of survival and maybe a quick return home, this was an attractive argument— after all, no one wanted to be the last to die in a campaign that was now considered unnecessary.
To confuse the issue, the debate had become clouded by soldierly conjecture and rumouring that Blamey was determined to cover his failings in the early days of the New Guinea campaign; he didn’t want the Japanese escaping to breed with the natives to create a future problem; he wanted leverage at the peace table after the war so Australia could dominate the south-west Pacific. Curtin, meanwhile, was an alcoholic fool unable to stand up to Blamey, was under the control of left-wing unionists and was even dying of syphilis, according to one story.
Soldiers almost universally despise politicians, and Blamey was already unpopular with many New Guinea veterans. For the troops, this was a unique opportunity for double-barrelled criticism and they embellished these rumours in a way only Australians knew how, questioning why they were fighting a beaten enemy instead of leaving them to ‘wither on the vine’, as the press was so fond of quoting.
In response, Blamey’s orders to the Sixth Division were uncompromising: ignore the rumours and proceed with preparations to take Wewak. All units were reminded that the Japanese were far from beaten and any slackening of pressure could see them go on the offensive in a wave of suicidal assaults that could cause more casualties than any proposed invasion.
However, one result of the mounting conjecture was that plans for the Wewak landings were continually being revised to minimise risk. For the intelligence staff, this meant thoroughly investigating any new information that might have a bearing on the enemy’s ability to fight. Not necessarily a bad thing, McKay agreed, but one could only take it so far. It was, after all, a war—and in war men died no matter how thorough the planning.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. A corporal clerk slipped a large brown envelope on the desk, then left. Opening it, McKay took out a single typed page and saw it was a copy of an aircrew debriefing concerning the loss of two Australian Beaufort bombers near Wewak that morning. It told how one of the aircraft, Beaufort A9-572, was damaged by anti-aircraft fire, then flew close to Muschu Island where it again came under fire. The crew of the damaged bomber described the enemy fire as consisting of heavy machine guns and possibly larger-calibre weapons. The pilot also claimed he saw two large artillery pieces near the crest of a hill at the eastern end of the island before ditching the aircraft. A note attached to the report, written by the ALO, explained that a tactical reconnaissance aircraft later sent out to confirm the sighting had found nothing.
McKay paused. The presence of artillery on Muschu Island had been an enigma for the past two years, and this could be the first confirmed sighting of the weapons. He glanced up at his wall map. Muschu was the closer of two islands off the coast of Wewak. Separated by a narrow strait from the larger island of Kairiru, both islands were known to have artillery on their high ground overlooking the sea approaches to both islands. The guns of Muschu, however, were in range of Wewak and could theoretically be used to support the defenders there.
About 4 kilometres from the mainland at its nearest point, Muschu was a flat island skirted by lagoons and beaches, 12 kilometres east to west and 7 kilometres north to south, with low hills at the eastern end. Used by the Japanese mainly as a food supply area, an estimated 700 Japanese were stationed there. These were mainly second-line troops occupied in growing crops, hunting game and catching fish to help supplement the Wewak garrison’s food supply.
The guns on Muschu were believed to be located somewhere in the hills at the eastern end of the island. Installed shortly after Wewak’s capture by the Japanese in 1942, it was assumed they were intended to cover the sea approaches to the port. Captured documents from a detachment of the Tokubetsu Konkyochitai—the naval command echelon—revealed that they were 140 mm naval guns manufactured in 1916. Although old, they were still excellent weapons: copies of a British Vickers design, they were rated more effective than the original, with a maximum range of almost 20,000 metres. However, reports from the US Navy, which had exchanged fire with them in 1943, indicated that the guns were hopelessly inaccurate. Since then they hadn’t fired a shot.
The reasons for this only became apparent in late 1944. A diary taken from a captured Japanese artillery officer noted that he’d spent six months on Muschu as part of the gunnery team. He described the gun battery as beset with problems, including second-rate gun crews, and lack of fire-control equipment such as rangefinders and gunnery calculators. Reports from other sources supported the diary, including information captured from a Japanese engineer unit describing how the gun mounts were on unstable ground and couldn’t withstand the shock of firing. Attempts to reinforce the mounts had failed—there wasn’t enough concrete or reinforcing steel available. From this it was deduced that the battery would be ineffective in any coming actions and could be discounted as a significant threat.
Even so, there had been many attempts to locate the guns and put them out of action. The island had been kept under almost constant air reconnaissance, the Australian Navy regularly shelled the area, and the Air Force had flown bombing sorties over the island, peppering every likely gun position. It had been assumed that the guns, if they were still there, were either damaged or abandoned. But now that there had been an actual sighting, the pilot’s description raised concerns in McKay’s mind. If the guns were protected by anti-aircraft weapons, the Japanese clearly regarded them with some value. Could it be that the guns were still serviceable and the assessment of their capability was wrong?
McKay knew that at short range—about a kilometre—using open sights and aimed like a rifle, the guns could be deadly; any greater distance would require a large element of luck to hit a moving or even stationary target without rangefinders. These facts had already been taken into consideration. During the landings there’d be aircraft on call that could deal with the guns if they were foolish enough to fire on the invasion force. They’d be reduced to scrap within minutes of the first round leaving the barrel.
However, what now concerned him was that if the guns were defended, they might be harder to neutralise than anticipated, resulting in a longer duration of firing. One-third of the Australians, designated Florida Force, would be landing on a beach east of Wewak, well inside the range of
the guns. With landing craft crowded into the area, even the most incompetent gun crew would eventually hit something—and a single strike by a 140 mm shell on a crowded deck could cause hundreds of casualties. Although they’d compromise their location and be blasted into scrap, it would be just the type of suicidal gesture that appealed to the Japanese.
It wasn’t only the guns that were of concern. Prisoner-of-war interrogation, captured documents and wireless intercepts indicated that there’d been an increase in activity on the island. Unfortunately, accurate information about Muschu was scarce, and assessments of the actual strengths of the Japanese units on the island hadn’t been revised for some time. Opening a file, McKay examined the latest Sixth Division Intelligence Summary for the area. Taken from documents captured on the mainland in February, the summary outlined the enemy dispositions on Muschu and Kairiru:
A document and maps, dated 22–25 September 1944, deals with the defences of Kairiru–Muschu Islands in great detail. The troops allotted for the defence of Kairiru aren’t detailed but the weapons allotted total 4 mountain guns, 22 13 mm guns, 22 heavy machine guns, and 13 light machine guns.
Approximately 700 troops are named as forming the garrison on Muschu Island, made up of the following units:
63 Anti-Aircraft Unit
5 Shipping Engineer Unit
1 Company 115 Regt (Inf) and 1 Machine Gun Company
31 Machine Cannon Company
33 Machine Cannon Company
It is considered that these elaborate defence measures were made when it was possible an amphibious operation might be mounted by United States forces, with their typical use of overpowering air and naval support. The garrison may not have subsequently been maintained at the same high strength.
It was generally agreed that the garrisons had not been kept up to their original strength, but as there was no doubt that the Japanese were anticipating the Australian attack on Wewak, exactly what role would Muschu now play in its defence? Were they going to use it to launch counterattacks on the Australians? Hardly likely due to the logistics involved, but still a possibility considering that the Japanese were in a suicidal frame of mind. Even a few determined men with explosive-laden barges or fishing boats could create havoc.
