The Guns of Muschu

by Don Dennis

  The troops stood awkwardly to attention as they listened to the lengthy harangue from their new leader. Finally, after almost half an hour of threats, promises and propaganda, Temura’s pennant was raised to flutter limply in the sea breeze. They presented arms, dutifully shrieked ‘Banzai’ in a parody of a time now gone, then marched off to filter back to their units scattered around the island.

  Temura, encouraged that Tomei’s warning about marauding Australian aircraft had proven wrong, watched the men disperse, then strode into his office to begin his first day as commandant. What he didn’t realise was that the Australian Air Force was under orders to avoid Muschu for the next two days—standard procedure for any area where an SRD patrol was operating. His insistence on maximum attendance had also left the door open for the men of Operation Copper and made their job of reconnoitering the eastern defences a relatively simple one.

  So when he was greeted by an orderly who’d been impatiently waiting throughout the proceedings to convey an urgent message, he treated the man in a somewhat offhanded manner. The message was from a sentry post on the island’s south-western coast, reporting that a section of men returning from overnight duty had found a canoe paddle on the beach.

  At first Temura dismissed the information as irrelevant—there were, after all, hundreds of natives on the island and plenty of canoes. The orderly tried to explain further, but he was cut short by Temura. It was then that Captain Tomei, who’d been listening to the conversation, stepped in.

  It took only a few questions for him to ascertain the situation. The paddle in question wasn’t from a native canoe. It was of the type used by Australian commandos, and it was a clue that an attempt had possibly been made to land on the island. He pointed out the intelligence information received two days earlier indicating that Australian commandos had been sighted by natives in the Cape Wom area north of Wewak, which is why he’d insisted that guard posts on the western end of the island remain at full alert instead of being stripped to attend this morning’s ceremony.

  Temura seemed more annoyed that these personnel had missed his speech than concerned about the threat of a commando incursion, and it took all of Tomei’s patience to control his anger. However, Tomei politely pointed out that until 20 minutes ago, he’d been in command of the island.

  The argument that followed was later described in the diaries of one of the headquarter non-commissioned officers, who wrote that they were now in the hands of an egomaniac who seemed to be living in another world—the actual translation being ‘came from another planet’. To the HQ staff listening in the orderly room, separated only by thatched walls, it sounded like a father lecturing a recalcitrant child, with Tomei speaking in low measured tones while Temura shrieked abuse, claiming that under Tomei’s command the island had become a haven for misfits, and the only honourable thing Tomei could do to expunge such a disgraceful record was to commit seppuku.

  After another half-hour’s delay, Temura issued orders for the patrol on the beach to make a sweep further east to determine whether there were any more signs of the elusive commandos, ignoring Tomei’s suggestion that he also put out a warning to all sub-units around the island. Temura wanted to wait until he had further information rather than send out false alarms within minutes of taking command.

  At this Tomei merely shrugged, then told Temura that as he obviously didn’t need any further assistance he would leave him to his own devices. Accompanied by his orderly, he headed for the little hut near the beach that was to be his quarters for the next few weeks until he flew to Rabaul.

  14. MUSCHU ISLAND:

  12 APRIL, 0900 HOURS

  The Z Special patrol moved south-west expecting to come to the junction that would lead back to their equipment cache, but after fifteen minutes, they realised they were on the wrong track. The front man, Lieutenant Gubbay, suddenly propped, motioned for everyone to be quiet, then crouched down. Ahead was a deserted village—and in the clearing, only 20 metres away, he’d sighted a Japanese soldier. The soldier was standing scuffing the grass with his foot, head down as if searching for something. Gubbay signalled that they would take him.

  Two of them remained concealed to protect the rear; the others moved quietly into position in a half-circle, then on Gubbay’s signal broke cover and surrounded the soldier. Taken by surprise, he stared at the Australians, then slowly raised his hands over his head. Max Weber spoke to him in Chinese, which the Japanese evidently understood, explaining that the soldier was now their prisoner and would come with them. To drive home the point that the prisoner was not to offer any trouble, Weber made it quite clear that if he did so he’d be shot without warning. The soldier was then disarmed, his hands bound behind him and his mouth gagged.

  His uniform insignia showed he was a private soldier first class, and his identity papers would later reveal his unit. He was young—about twenty— and looked fit and healthy. Lieutenant Gubbay remarked he didn’t exactly look like the second-line soldiers that Sixth Division Intelligence believed comprised most of the island’s garrison. Positioning the prisoner near the rear of the patrol, they then moved off. However, the prisoner suddenly decided that he wasn’t going to cooperate and despite a shove in the back, stood his ground. Weber warned him again and aimed a Welrod at his chest. The prisoner stared sullenly back.

  Spence Walklate broke the impasse by seizing him by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his pants, then lifting him bodily off the ground. Walklate, who’d been a policeman before the war, was a big man over six feet tall, and in his beefy hands the Japanese soldier looked like a child. For a moment the patrol’s discipline was shattered as Walklate announced in a booming voice:

  ‘I’m marching this bastard into Regent Street Station and charging him with being a bloody nuisance to humanity and resisting arrest.’

  With the soldier’s stubby legs pedalling the air, Walklate frogmarched him along the track, administering solid kicks to his rump with his size 12 boot every second pace. After 20 metres the prisoner decided that cooperation was the best course of action and dutifully behaved.

  The patrol headed back up the track at a fast pace, intending to find the trail that would lead them to the equipment cache. At another junction they turned off towards the sea and followed a track that paralleled the beach. Believing they were still east of their cache they continued west, but after an hour realised they’d gone too far. The mainland was clearly visible and the island of Kairiru couldn’t be seen, which indicated they’d gone a long way past their original landing point. Again they paused to take stock of their position.

  One of the group scouted ahead about 50 metres, where he came to a small clearing near the beach. On its edge among the palm trees were two small huts. The area looked deserted, so he returned and reported his finding.

  There was a quick discussion as to whether they should turn back now— after all, they had achieved the mission’s primary aims. Even so, the absence of Japanese in any numbers seemed odd. Someone quipped that maybe it was a Japanese holiday, or that the war had ended during the night and they’d all gone home.

  Lieutenant Barnes agreed there wasn’t much point in going looking for the Japanese, but said they should check out the huts before turning back. Leaving two of the patrol to guard the prisoner, the patrol spread out and advanced on the first hut.

  Suddenly, a Japanese soldier appeared at the door and ran for the bushes. Barnes shot him mid-stride with his Welrod, the soldier falling with hardly a sound face-down in the grass. After checking the body, they moved into the hut. Inside were two beds, a small cooking area and some fishing nets, but nothing to indicate that it was used for anything other than a rest area for off-duty personnel.

  Moving outside, they closed on the second hut 20 metres away. Peering in, they saw it also had two beds. On one bed lay a Japanese soldier, wearing only his trousers, on his back asleep. Lieutenant Barnes and Gubbay quietly went in. The soldier suddenly woke and dashed for the door, but was felled by a he
adshot from Mike Hagger’s Welrod. He dropped against the wall and slid to the floor. They checked his body, found some papers which possibly indicated his unit and identity, then made a quick search of the hut. Again nothing important was found.

  After another quick discussion Lieutenant Barnes decided that it looked as if the huts were used as a recreation or rest area, possibly for local defences. If they could fix the huts’ position the Air Force could deal with them later. So after sending one of the team back to fetch the others, the patrol moved off, still heading west.

  Three hundred metres further along, the track opened onto the beach. Forming into a defensive position near the end of the track they observed the shoreline. The beach curved south towards a jungle-covered headland, marked on the map as Cape Warbu. The sun glistened off the lagoon, and the rising tide had already partially covered the reef, allowing small waves to reach the shore. A flock of gulls worked the water beyond the reef, squawking and diving. There were no signs of the Japanese, which again struck the patrol as strange.

  In a central location overlooking the beaches on the southern side of the island, Cape Warbu was a logical area for defensive positions, so the decision was made to continue the reconnaissance onto the cape, then turn and follow the coast back to their equipment cache. There they would wait until nightfall, then paddle out to the rendezvous point and signal the HDML.

  Everyone was in high spirits as the mission had gone better than expected. They had gathered valuable intelligence—one small but important piece of information being the network of tracks along the coast, which any landing force would need to mark carefully to avoid confusion.

  They waited five minutes, then after assuring themselves the beach was deserted, they moved out, staying close to the tree line and widely spaced. All they had to do now was reconnoitre the cape, then another hour should see them safely back at their lay-up area.

  15. MUSCHU ISLAND:

  12 APRIL, 0915 HOURS

  Corporal Buzuki’s belly was making rumbling sounds he feared could be heard a hundred metres away. Patrolling the beach with four men spread out either side of him, he tried to keep his mind from wandering to thoughts of food. He was used to three meals a day and for him, missing breakfast was unheard of since his time with the infantry. Once slim and athletic, he was now overweight, his trousers and shirt stretched tight around his stomach. The wound that left him with a shattered left leg had long since healed, however a convenient limp and regular gifts of crayfish to the medical officer were enough to keep him on the island. But now as he trudged through the sand with sweat stinging his eyes, he wished he hadn’t taken such a liking to sago or bananas.

  His runner had returned after half an hour with orders to keep the beach area under observation until further instructions arrived. For the next two hours they’d sat concealed among the palm trees, watching the paddle on the sand as if expecting it to suddenly come to life and make a dash for freedom. When word eventually came from HQ, they were ordered to check for signs of any enemy landing along the coast to the east as far as Cape Warbu. Buzuki tried to conceal his displeasure—they’d already spent most of the night awake and he’d not eaten for almost fourteen hours. Now he and his men were expected to walk 5 kilometres or more in the blazing sun in search of an enemy they believed either didn’t exist or had long since gone. As they approached Cape Warbu, rifles at the high port, he wished he had never sighted the paddle in the first place.

  Nearing Warbu from the east, the Australian patrol passed beneath a cliff where they could see camouflaged machine gun positions, one of which appeared to be a 20 mm Oerlikon. There was no sign of the Japanese, so they moved on, then paused 20 metres from an outcrop of rock that had long ago tumbled from the cliff and spread across the beach. In the lead, Lieutenant Gubbay signalled everyone to take cover. As one, they moved off the sand into the tree line at the beach’s edge and waited. Gubbay went forward 10 metres then froze. A few metres ahead atop a high boulder was a tripod-mounted heavy machine gun, aimed out to sea. From behind the boulder a Japanese soldier appeared. He stood looking at the lagoon then stretched sleepily, broke wind, then removed his shirt and sat down on the sand. For a moment all watched him as he sunned himself, then Gubbay signalled the patrol to move forward and make ready to take him prisoner.

  The soldier lay oblivious to the patrol as they approached, weapons ready. Max Weber called to him in Chinese, but after opening his eyes and bolting upright, the soldier merely grunted and shook his head. A big man—almost six foot tall—he slowly stood then, jaw clenched, eyed his opponents as if searching for a weakness. Four of the patrol surrounded him and Weber repeated his question in Chinese, but again the soldier shook his head.

  Lieutenant Barnes indicated he should put his shirt on and this he understood. Slowly he shrugged it on, then stood defiantly looking around him. The insignia on his sleeves indicated he was a sergeant in the Kaigun Rikusentai—the Japanese marines. As Z Special personnel wore neither badges of rank nor unit insignia when on patrol, it may have appeared that he’d been captured by soldiers of only private rank. Someone remarked that he looked ‘very pissed off’—to be captured by soldiers of inferior rank was obviously a disgrace.

  After checking the sergeant’s pockets and finding identity papers in his wallet along with a photo of a woman and child, Weber bound his hands at his back. They hadn’t expected to capture a second prisoner, but seeing this one was a marine non-commissioned officer they realised he could prove valuable.

  Lieutenant Barnes ordered the machine gun destroyed and Sapper Dennis volunteered. He quickly climbed up to it, dismantled the gun and threw its components into the sea. To ensure it wouldn’t function even if the parts were found, he damaged the heavy recoil springs by hammering them with a rock. As he climbed down from the gun position, he noticed a thatched shelter behind the boulder. Quickly, his Sten gun ready, he checked the shelter and found six hammocks, all recently used.

  He returned to the patrol and told Lieutenant Barnes, who agreed they appeared to be near a major defensive position and that perhaps they’d be pushing their luck to continue further. With an extra prisoner on their hands it would be too difficult to move quietly, so it was time to get back to their lay-up and wait until night. Dennis was ordered to take charge of the new prisoner, then the patrol shook out and moved off.

  As soon as the patrol began moving, the Japanese sergeant sat down and refused to budge despite a hefty prod by Dennis. To emphasise the point, Dennis drew his Welrod and pressed it to the man’s head. Still he refused to move. Dennis called to Barnes, suggesting that the only way to make the marine sergeant comply would be to carry him slung on a pole between two men like a trussed pig.

  Barnes shook his head, ordered Dennis to shoot the sergeant if he continued to refuse, then moved off.

  Pressing the Welrod to the man’s temple, Dennis repeated his order. It was obvious the marine sergeant understood its meaning and the consequences, but he merely grunted, stayed sitting, jaw clenched and refused to budge.

  So Dennis squeezed the trigger. The weapon misfired.

  The sergeant remained motionless, staring ahead. Dennis re-cocked the Welrod, put it to the man’s head and repeated the order. Again he grunted and refused to move.

  Again Dennis squeezed the trigger. Again the pistol misfired. He cocked it but this time it was obvious the firing-pin spring was broken, so he hurled it out into deep water then, without warning, flicked off his Sten’s safety catch and put a single round in the sergeant’s brain. The dead man crumpled forward onto his face, a pool of blood spreading from the wound onto the sand. Dennis left him and caught up with the patrol.

  They now headed inland from Cape Warbu, intending to pick up one of the tracks that ran parallel to the coast. By now they were becoming used to the deceptive maze of trails that crisscrossed the island and were careful to remember identifying features each time they came across one. After about 20 minutes of moving through heavily wooded jungle
they found telephone cables strung low between the trees running north–south. Eager to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the Japanese that would undoubtedly be at either end of the lines, they turned ninety degrees to the cable direction and continued, a compass bearing confirming they were headed north-east.

  Movement was slow through the heavy undergrowth. After two hours they came to a track they recognised as the one leading to the deserted village at the eastern end of the island where they’d originally captured their prisoner. Continuing on and skirting the village, they found the track that led to the bunkers along the clifftop between Cape Saum and Sup Point. From there it was a simple matter of identifying the trail that led back to the lay-up position. Relieved that they’d finally found the right track, they rested for ten minutes then started back towards their kayaks.

  16. MUSCHU ISLAND:

  12 APRIL, 1100 HOURS

  On the beach half a kilometre west of Cape Warbu, Corporal Buzuki signalled a halt. He’d heard something that sounded like a muffled shot, but it was too faint for him to be sure. In the waters off to his right, beyond the reef, a flock of gulls wheeled and squawked as they dived on a school of fish, so he decided he’d confused the sound with their shrieks. Looking at the others, he cupped a hand to his ear with a questioning expression, only to receive shrugs and raised eyebrows. None of them had heard anything, so he put it down to his imagination. Tired, thirsty and hungry, all he wanted to do was finish the patrol, satisfy his grumbling stomach, then flop on his cot for the rest of the day.

  Wiping the sweat from his brow, he signalled the patrol to move on. With resigned looks they obeyed, one of them cursing loudly as a small wave swept up the beach and splashed over his boots. The sun was high now and their small peaked caps provided little protection. The water in the lagoon was rising with the tide and looked cool and inviting. Buzuki tried to concentrate, but found his mind wandering to thoughts of home, his children and better times.