by Don Dennis
However, one item did raise a flag with Sixth Division analysts: a series of messages from Muschu to Wewak containing weather observations.
While many enemy headquarters had small weather units that observed and reported regularly, this was a new facility for Muschu. Also, their observations included wind strengths of up to an altitude of 10,000 feet. This indicated that their weather station was more than the usual collection of wind gauges and thermometers normally deployed to sub-units. To calculate winds at different altitudes required meteorological balloons, supplies of hydrogen and a theodolite triangulation system to observe the balloon’s ascent. All of this required a highly trained support team and specialised equipment. While such information was often used for aviation purposes, it was also the type of data used by gunnery command post teams to compute gunnery settings for long-range firing.
This was yet another indicator that Muschu was preparing to take part in Wewak’s defence.
On 15 April, however, the Allied Intelligence Bureau intercept service was able to inform Sixth Division Intelligence that it had received the first clue as to the patrol’s fate. The information was somewhat obscure, being extracted from a radio transmission from Wewak to 18th Army HQ in Rabaul, advising that an Australian commando raiding party of ‘substantial numbers’ had landed on the island during the morning of 12 April. There had been several contacts with the enemy and the situation was now ‘contained and being dealt with’.
What this actually meant was anyone’s guess. The lack of actual numbers and no mention of Australian casualties was, however, seen as a positive sign. If the Japanese had managed to kill or capture any of the patrol they would have made it quite clear rather than use such obscure language to a higher headquarters. SRD agreed, but the outlook wasn’t good. It was obvious that the patrol was in trouble. All that could be done was for the Navy to continue the night time rendezvous as briefed and hope that the patrol could work their way out of their predicament.
After being relieved by another patrol boat, HDML 1321 arrived back at Aitape during the afternoon of 15 April. Its engines had hardly died when a jeep pulled up to the pier and delivered two intelligence officers who went aboard to interview Lieutenant Palmer. While Palmer’s information was detailed—particularly the observations of the island and the mainland during the period they were on station—he couldn’t give them any more information about the patrol. In fact, he noted, there’d been a total absence of lights showing on Muschu during this period—they’d cruised the southeast coast extensively and not seen a glimmer. To the debriefing team this was a significant observation. It was probable that the island was on 100 per cent alert, totally blacked out—another sign that the patrol had been detected and was still on the loose.
While this information was in some ways encouraging, the absence of any contact by radio or light signals indicated that the patrol had either lost all their radio equipment or were moving too fast to stop and operate it, particularly the ATR4 sets which required an antenna to be strung into the trees. But that didn’t explain why they hadn’t used the walkie-talkies— all they had to do was pull out the collapsible antennae and they were on the air. The lack of light signals was an indication that the team had moved away from the coast: if they were on the run it was likely they’d head for thick jungle in the centre of the island where it would be impossible to signal from.
All these assumptions were, of course, only educated guesses. The debriefing team thanked Lieutenant Palmer and his crew for a job well done, then drove back to Sixth Division HQ where they passed on the information to the intelligence staff. Together with the SRD detachment commander, they worked until late that evening, compiling all the information they had in an attempt to assess the patrol’s situation.
Unfortunately their conclusions remained much the same. The patrol was on the run, probably in thick jungle away from the coast. If they didn’t make rendezvous with the patrol boat in the next few days, they would have to assume the men had been killed or captured. Meanwhile, everyone would just have to wait; there was nothing more that could be done.
Unpleasant as the prospect was, operational planning staff now had to consider what to do about Muschu Island. With time running short and another patrol out of the question, the only alternative would be to ‘bomb the island into the stone age’ as one staff officer put it. The commander was sure that the 1st Army would be persuasive enough to have the munitions made available now that Intelligence had gathered a strong case supporting such action. B-24s would work over the most likely area for the guns first, then medium bombers—Beauforts and Bostons—from Aitape and Lae could seek out and destroy remaining targets of opportunity. The Air Force liaison officer agreed and a request was prepared for submission. The Australian Navy would also assist by using several of its frigates—including HMAS Swan, which was already in the area—to bombard suspected defences along the island’s coast.
Meanwhile, as there was still a remote chance that the patrol might make it out, there’d be no action against the island for at least another two days. After that it would become a free-fire zone.
26. MUSCHU ISLAND:
16 APRIL, 0500 HOURS
Dennis woke at dawn. It had rained during the night and he was soaked, the branches overhead providing little protection. His first thought was for his weapon. Despite being held close to his body, a quick inspection showed the Sten’s internals were specked with rust—not enough to cause a stoppage, but enough to be of concern. So again he went through the ritual of cleaning the weapon, using more of his precious gun oil. When he’d finished, he figured he had enough left for one more cleaning. After that he’d just have to pray the weapon kept working, unless he could find a gun oil substitute. Some soldiers used animal grease to lubricate their weapons, but here, apart from the bird life, there weren’t any suitable animals—though he had heard of one soldier who’d shot a duck, roasted it over a fire, caught the fat and used it on his Lee Enfield.
For a moment he thought about it—not so much about the qualities of duck fat for lubrication, but of eating roast duck, preferably one covered in gravy and surrounded by roast potatoes. It was then he realised how hungry he was. The emergency rations were only intended to last a few days and this was his fourth. He unwrapped his compressed fruit bar, sawed off another chunk, then chewed it in disgust. It tasted little like fruit and had the consistency of the modelling clay he used to play with when he was very young. In fact, he decided, it probably was modelling clay peddled to the Army by a fast-talking salesman.
He washed it down with water from his canteen, then unwrapped two of the protein tablets and chewed on them. It wasn’t much and certainly no substitute for roast duck, but it was all he had. Maybe later he could risk shooting a bush turkey or even a pig—then he’d have all the food and lubricant he could handle.
A sharp crack echoed nearby. Dennis flinched and pressed back hard against the tree.
Where did it come from?
Again another sharp cracking sound, this time followed by the rustle of a falling branch. Behind him, on the opposite side of the tree, it thudded into the earth with an impact that shook the tree. Weakened by age and weighed down by rain, the branch had given way. When he peered around the trunk, he saw it was buried in the ground like a spear. If he’d been sitting there he’d now be skewered like a butterfly pinned to a collector’s board.
Quickly he gathered his equipment, slung on his webbing then moved off. He was still in heavy jungle but the undergrowth had thinned, the soft carpet of leaves making for relatively easy going. Setting a course west by the sun streaming through the canopy, he made good progress. After an hour there was no sight of the Japanese, so he rested a few minutes and drank from his canteen. Again he felt hungry but resisted the temptation to eat or even think about food. He could feel he’d lost weight—his webbing had loosened around his waist, so he adjusted the belt until it was snug again. He remembered how his father had once described him when h
e was only six years old: ‘that boy’s going to be like a drover’s dog . . .’
He hadn’t understood the meaning then and wondered what his father would think if he saw him now. At least his ribs would meet with his father’s approval.
Realising the combination of fatigue, hunger and tension was distracting him, he forced himself to concentrate. He needed to fix his position, but that was impossible in thick jungle. He estimated he had about 6 kilometres to go before he reached Cape Samein and it was vital he kept south of the Japanese base area around Muschu Bay.
For another hour Dennis continued west, then the jungle thinned to rising, sparsely covered terrain strewn with volcanic rocks. Climbing, he came to the top of a rise, from where he could see the coast about 3 kilometres south. The sun sparkled off the blue water and he knew somewhere over the horizon the HDML would be waiting. It was frustrating to know rescue was so near.
Further on was a track heading towards the sea, so he decided to risk using it. Carefully he checked and found portions of the track covered in muddy boot prints; however, they’d been eroded by rain, indicating they were at least two days old. Making good time, he’d gone a kilometre when he came to a small thatched hut built into high rocks beside the track. Cautiously he approached, his Sten at the ready. Crouching at the door, he listened, then burst in. The hut was empty, two camp beds and a small bamboo-framed table the only furnishings. For a few minutes he rested, then left the hut and continued south along the track which now ran along the top of a cliff.
He’d gone 50 metres when he found a large automatic weapon of about 30 mm calibre mounted on a tripod near the cliff edge covering an arc of fire that included the beach about a kilometre away. The weapon was in good condition, its breach mechanism covered by oiled canvas. Putting his shoulder to it he heaved, moving it only slightly. Again he heaved, and this time managed to shove it forward until one leg of the tripod skidded over the cliff edge. It toppled suddenly, clattering and crashing down the slope, ripping through the undergrowth and slamming into the rocks below, making a sound like a blacksmith beating steel on a giant anvil. Fearing the noise would attract every Japanese soldier on the island, Dennis bolted along the track, then dived into the undergrowth, crouched behind a large fern and listened, heart pounding.
It was a tatic he learned in his childhood. As kids, they’d raid the local greengrocer’s store, sneaking around the back where crates of empty soft-drink bottles were stored. In those days each bottle was worth a penny. They’d grab as many as they could, then later sell them back to the unwary Irish proprietor. This novel form of recycling earned them good pocket money, until the owner woke up to the scam. From then on it became a challenge—they’d still swipe the bottles, but instead cash them in at another store across town.
The store owner then mounted guard on his dwindling bottle cache, the juvenile raiding party coming to grief several times at the end of his boot. Dennis discovered during one of these raids that a simple way to evade his pursuer was to duck around a corner of the lane, lie low until the enraged Irishman thundered past, then head off in the opposite direction. Little did he know that he was developing skills that would later prove to be life saving.
Now, as he waited, he controlled his breathing and rested his finger beside the Sten’s trigger. Anyone following him would be greeted by a burst of 9 mm which should take their mind off pursuit long enough for him to escape. After five minutes, no one appeared, so he set out again.
Another hour brought him to a junction where a track angled in from the south-east. Along it, not far away, he could hear voices. Not sure whether they were Japanese or islanders, he skirted around the area through the undergrowth, then came to another track about 3 metres wide that led south. Wheel marks indicated that it had once been used by vehicles, but it was now overgrown with grass. Crouching in the bushes beside the track, he was about to cross when a woman appeared. Carrying a woven basket she ambled past him, unaware of his presence, then disappeared around a bend.
Dennis waited until she was gone, then quickly crossed and headed into the undergrowth. For the next three hours he continued west, seeing and hearing more signs of the Japanese as he neared Cape Samein. At one point the track came to a stream, where he filled his canteen then rested. As he was about to cross the stream, he heard someone humming a tune further along the bank. Cautiously, he peered through the bushes to see a Japanese officer in full uniform at the stream, cleaning his teeth. He hummed and scrubbed away, totally oblivious to Dennis who watched, tossing up whether to put a bullet in his chest or sneak around and slit his throat. Deciding that the sound of the shot or the discovery of the body would alert others, he silently crept away into the undergrowth, leaving the Japanese soldier none the wiser as to how close he’d been to joining his ancestors.
He climbed a small hill and from there was able to glimpse the coast, confirming he was on the peninsula that led to Cape Samein. Down the hill, the undergrowth became thicker and it took him another hour to travel only 1 kilometre. Forcing a way through the tangle of vines was becoming increasingly difficult, and he had to pause to rest more frequently. He’d had little sleep and very little food over the past few days and it was becoming harder to think clearly as well as keep up the pace. However, he had no choice but to keep moving so he fought the temptation to find a hide and curl up and sleep. If he was to beat the Japanese he had to outrun and out-think them. He had to keep moving.
After two hours he again came to the wide track, which was now heading due south and looked to have been recently used. To the north he heard a motor, possibly a barge on Muschu Bay—that meant he was close to the Japanese base area. Along the side of the track, strung between poles were telephone wires, probably linking headquarters with the coastal defences. Resisting the urge to cut them, as the loss of communications would be detected almost immediately and the Japanese would send a team to fix it, he crossed over and headed west into heavily timbered country.
Although the going was easier after another hour, he found he was tiring. He sat near the base of a tree, took a swig of water, then listened. Far off he could still hear the motor faintly chugging, and immediately around him were the calls of birds and the buzz of insects. A breeze ruffled the trees above, creating dancing patterns of sunlight and bringing the musty smell of the jungle.
For a while he wondered about Hagger, Chandler and Weber. Were they somewhere nearby as they made their way towards the cape? And Lieutenant Barnes and his team. Maybe they’d drifted up the coast and were now on the mainland, heading for the Australian lines at Dagua. Would he get back to Aitape, walk into the hut and find them all sitting around playing cards with a place reserved for him at the table? He could imagine Spence Walklate looking up with a grin and asking, ‘What took you so long mate?’
Hopefully they were all safe. He’d known them only a few weeks and yet it seemed he’d known them all his life. But he had a nagging fear that he was now alone.
He wanted to rest but knew he had to reach Cape Samein by nightfall. He was also hungry, almost all his emergency rations gone. What was left he’d save for later—he’d need them to provide energy for the long swim. Again he thought about what he had to do. It was almost 4 kilometres across the strait at its narrowest point to the mainland and he was confident he could make the distance, although in his weakened condition he wondered if he was being overly ambitious. But if he could find some food along the coast, maybe fish or coconuts—anything—he could rest a day to regain his strength, then it would only take him a few hours to make the crossing. Maybe.
Struggling to his feet, he moved on. It was now becoming a matter of determination, putting one foot in front of another, ignoring fatigue while trying to concentrate on checking the terrain ahead for any signs of the enemy. He doubted they’d be searching the jungle for him—there was just too much of it. The big risk would be the tracks where he could be ambushed, but he was counting on the enemy not expecting him to be heading into their mai
n base area. Yet one could never be sure with the Japanese: the only thing predictable about them was that they were unpredictable.
For some reason the Japanese he’d so far encountered were reluctant to follow him into the jungle. They were also noisy—most of them had given their positions away by talking as they moved along the tracks. This was unlike the enemy he’d fought around Wau and Mabu in 1942–43, indicating that Sixth Division Intelligence had been right in their assessment of the quality of the garrison here.
After an hour the undergrowth became thick with wait-a-while vines. Pushing his way through them was exhausting but he forced himself on, parting the vines, twisting and weaving through their clinging grasp as they scratched and tore at his skin. For two hours he moved slowly, then cut and bleeding he suddenly stepped from the undergrowth into a clearing on the edge of a village.
From his position near a cluster of huts the village looked deserted. Crouching low, he moved quickly to a position at the edge of a small overgrown garden that gave him cover and a view into the centre of the village. From here he saw the village was larger than expected, cutting across his path for several hundred metres on either side. Not far away was a woman sitting on a log, suckling a child. Playing around her feet was a small monkey that suddenly stopped, pricked its ears and looked his way. For a moment he thought it had seen him, but then it jumped up on the log and latched onto the woman’s breast beside the child.
Slowly Dennis made his way around the edge of the village then, coming to another group of huts, paused, senses alerted. He could smell something— something very familiar, but what it was he couldn’t be sure. Peering around the corner of a hut, he saw a group of about twenty men and women sitting around a fire with a wild pig roasting on a spit. The islanders chattered away while they busied themselves weaving baskets and mats.
