The Guns of Muschu

by Don Dennis

  For a moment Dennis stared at the pig, watching the fat ooze from the plump meat and sizzle into the flames. The aroma was now almost overpowering, kicking his salivary glands into overdrive. He wondered if there was a way he could distract their attention, get to the pig and slice off a chunk. But he knew that was impossible, so he suffered in hungry silence.

  From a nearby hut someone called out in Japanese, then a soldier appeared at the door. He strode over to the pig, poked at it with a stick, spoke briefly with one of the men then went back to the hut.

  Quietly Dennis crept away, bypassed the village and continued west through light undergrowth. After half an hour he came to another village, this one crowded with Japanese soldiers. Some of the Japanese were playing a ball game, while islanders looked on, clapping and cheering. Again he skirted the village, only to find another 200 metres away. Working his way around this one proved difficult: people seemed to be everywhere, and several times playing children came close to where he was hiding. He lay totally still, wondering what to do if one of the kids found him, but fortunately none did. Eventually he was able to move slowly away to an area covered with low grass only a few metres from the beach.

  He was about to check the beach when he heard Japanese voices. A group of about ten came from a track further down the beach, then stripped naked and splashed into the water and started playing like children.

  Dennis retreated, quickly finding a hiding place among ferns under a big tree about 20 metres away from the beach. From there he watched the frolicking soldiers until just on dusk, when they left the water and disappeared back up the track. Too late now to move on, he decided to remain for the night where he was. In the morning he’d work out how to get off the island, but all he wanted to do now was sleep.

  27. SIXTH DIVISION HQ, AITAPE:

  16 APRIL, 1600 HOURS

  It had been a busy afternoon for the Aitape Radio Intercept Unit. Located in a high-security area near the northern perimeter of Sixth Division’s base, the unit was a combined operation between the Australian and US Army Signals Corps, supported by members of the Allied Translation and Interrogation Service. In three large airconditioned huts partly concealed behind sandbagged walls, the section was equipped with radio equipment capable of listening in to most of the Japanese radio traffic in the Wewak and surrounding areas.

  At 1500 hours, one of the duty operators scanning the Very High Frequency (VHF) band heard a conversation between two Japanese that he immediately recognised as being of interest. Triggering a wire-recording machine, he noted the time and frequency, then called one of the translating staff to listen in. What had sparked his attention was the frequency of the transmissions. On 47 megacycles FM, it was a band only recently being used by the Japanese, originating (according to US Signals Intelligence) from new backpack transceivers of advanced design. These were still scarce in the New Guinea area and were usually restricted to elite combat units.

  The translator slipped into a seat beside the duty operator and pulled on his headset. A second-generation Japanese–American, the translator was fluent in Japanese as well as several Chinese dialects. After listening for a few minutes he nodded to the duty operator, confirming that what they were hearing was indeed of importance. He then indicated that the direction-finding equipment should be used to locate the transmission’s source.

  What followed was a well-practised procedure. While the transmissions were recorded, other radio receivers were tuned to the same band and the frequencies scanned to determine whether other stations were involved. The direction-finding antennae were also used to locate the signal’s origins. This took several minutes, and involved some careful calculation. As the frequency was relatively new, the process had to be performed manually, as the automatic direction-finding equipment had not yet been adapted to the low end of the VHF band.

  After five minutes, it was determined that the transmissions were originating from the Wewak area, probably offshore. If so, they were likely to be coming from Muschu Island. The operators immediately realised this to be of significance as they’d been briefed to listen out for any reference to Muschu and for any hint of the fate of Operation Copper.

  Once the transmission’s origin was established, other radios were tuned to frequencies known to be used by other units on the island, including the headquarters. The Australian signallers knew that if something significant were happening on Muschu, eventually the Japanese would report it to their higher HQ at Wewak.

  After fifteen minutes of what sounded like rather confused chatter between the two stations, strict radio discipline was suddenly applied. The Japanese operators resorted to formalised military speech, then changed frequencies. It took five minutes for the Australian signallers to track them down again. This time they continued to use formal jargon, giving little away.

  The intercept session lasted until 1630 hours. Then both stations went off the air. Ten minutes later, as anticipated, Muschu’s garrison HQ came on the air with an encrypted transmission. The Australian signallers confirmed that Wewak had replied and acknowledged.

  An hour after the incident, transcriptions had been made of the recordings and a preliminary analysis prepared, which were then sent by courier to the office of G3 Intelligence.

  At 1710 hours, Captain Roland McKay was about to finish for the day and hand over to the night duty officer when the courier from the radio intercept unit arrived. Slipping four typed pages from the heavy envelope he’d been delivered, McKay spread them on his desk. He read the summary first—a half-page describing how a Japanese patrol had been escorting several officers along a track near the eastern end of the island when one of the officers, later referred to as ‘the Colonel’, had been shot from an ambush position. The patrol had then engaged the enemy in what sounded like a very confusing action lasting about ten minutes.

  Equipped with a backpack radio, the patrol had called for assistance from another patrol operating in the area, requesting that they act as a cutoff group to prevent the enemy’s escape.

  The translators could not accurately determine what happened next due to breaks in transmissions between the two patrols, probably caused by manoeuvring in heavy jungle. However, it seemed both units tried to corner the enemy but failed. One patrol commander insisted that they’d only sighted one enemy soldier and suspected they’d wounded him in the encounter, but the other patrol hadn’t managed to react in time and cut him off. This provoked some heated accusations between the two patrol leaders over the radio, until someone stepped in and restored order.

  McKay flipped through the radio transcript. There wasn’t anything more he could glean from the translation of the conversations between the two patrols. However, it did convey a sense of sudden urgency—perhaps even panic—when the Japanese realised that ‘the Colonel’ had been shot. The Colonel was obviously an important man, and losing an officer of such rank to enemy action wouldn’t look good on anyone’s record.

  McKay assumed that the Colonel had probably been shot by a survivor— or survivors—of the Copper team. For a moment he felt a wave of frustration sweep him: here were more clues that Z Special survivors were still on the island, yet despite having overwhelming sea and airpower and thousands of troops on call, it was impossible to help them beyond what was already being done. That very afternoon, the Services Reconnaissance Department detachment commander had confirmed the Navy would have a patrol boat at the rendezvous that night and for the next two evenings, and that the tactical reconnaissance flights would also continue during the day.

  He turned to the last page of the report. There was a note confirming that the radio intercept unit had also recorded encrypted transmissions from the Muschu garrison HQ after the action and that these had been forwarded to the Allied Intelligence Bureau in Australia for priority decryption and translation. It was likely they’d uncover the identity of the colonel killed in the action.

  McKay smiled thinly. He had a distinct feeling he already knew who it was.


  28. MUSCHU ISLAND:

  17 APRIL, 0500 HOURS

  Dawn broke fine and clear. Dennis slept most of the night, despite swarms of mosquitoes that came after sundown. With his face bristled by stubble, he’d grown his own defences against the annoying insects, but they’d persisted and found bare skin around his eyes and ears.

  He waited until it was light enough to see clearly, then not hearing any noise crept out from his hide and walked cautiously along the beach, staying close to the tree line. During the night he’d worked out what he had to do. To swim the strait with his weapon and pack, he needed something to float them on—a log, a fuel drum, anything that would support the weight. With so many villages nearby, there was even a chance he’d find a dugout canoe to make good his escape.

  He scouted along the beach and 50 metres away discovered four barges dragged up above the high-water mark. They’d been badly damaged, probably by aircraft or naval gunfire. Checking each he found the interiors had been stripped, leaving nothing of use. However, stretched between two of the barges he found a large plank. About 3 metres long and half a metre wide, it was almost as big as the surf skis he’d used as a kid. It would have to do—he couldn’t risk searching closer to the villages. Hauling the plank into the scrub nearby he erased his tracks with a palm branch, then went back to the hide.

  Now he had to decide whether to set out during the day and risk being seen, or wait until night. The tide was falling and already the reef surrounding the island was exposed, but with only a low swell running he was confident he could cross it, even if he had to walk across the narrow stretch of coral. Another hour and the lagoon would be totally cut off from the sea, which would make it difficult but not impossible to get his plank across. However, the water inside the lagoon was mill-pond calm and he’d be easily seen from the shore.

  Again he checked his map, working out a rough heading to the mainland. The nearest landing point was Cape Kolang, about 4 kilometres south-west. Staying on course was going to be a problem; he had to avoid coming ashore in the middle of the Japanese defences further east. There the coast was thick with defensive positions, including heavy machine guns and artillery, all manned around the clock.

  Tonight there’d be a partial moon, so once he was within a kilometre of the mainland he should be able to make out prominent features such as Cape Pus or Cape Wom. Much would depend on the currents; however, he figured the tide would still be rising, which would take him well north anyway. Although he was anxious to get going, he knew that his best chance would be at night. He decided to rest until evening, then set out after last light.

  Decision made, he broke out his emergency rations. He was now down to four malt-concentrate tablets, so he munched on two and washed them down with water. Later he could risk searching around for extra food, maybe even go back to one of the villages and raid a vegetable garden.

  Examining his Sten and spare magazines, he gave them a quick clean, deciding to keep the last of his oil until he’d made the crossing. After submersion in salt water it would need a thorough going over, and he’d need all the remaining oil.

  A gentle breeze blew in off the sea and rustled the branches around him. A flock of gulls were circling the lagoon, diving and squawking in the calm water. He leaned back against the tree and dozed.

  At about 0800 hours an explosion shook him awake. Reaching for his Sten, another blast erupted nearby and water splattered down around him. Then he heard Japanese voices chattering excitedly. Thinking he was done for, he was about to open up with his Sten when he heard children laughing. Peering from behind a branch, he saw islanders in the lagoon collecting fish floating on the surface. Further up the beach there was another explosion, and more children dashed into the water to collect the stunned catch. A large school of fish had been trapped by the outgoing tide and the Japanese were methodically working them up and down the lagoon, while the islanders filled their baskets and carried them away in production line fashion.

  This went on all morning, the children laughing and playing amid the explosions, joined by adults who used spears to hunt down small sharks and rays that darted about the lagoon in panic. It was surprising no one was hurt as the soldiers hurled grenades into the leaping silver shoal, but he could see they’d done this many times before as everyone worked as a team. He couldn’t help but admire the way the Japanese and the islanders cooperated.

  They stopped briefly for lunch, eating bananas and other fruit, then began again. The fish harvesting continued until late afternoon, when everyone suddenly packed up and returned to the village.

  Dennis ventured out and checked the area, hoping that a few morsels had been left behind, but there were none—the collection teams had done their work too efficiently. So, resigned to the fact that he would have to find food elsewhere, he went back to the hide to await nightfall.

  He dozed lightly until dusk. Then gathering his webbing, he crept out of cover, listened carefully to the night sounds before moving onto the beach. Here he again paused, crouching in the warm sand. Moving quickly along the beach he searched for his plank, but it was gone. He checked again, thinking he was in the wrong place, but after hunting around he found drag marks in the sand where someone had moved it. Walking towards one of the wrecked barges, he saw the plank on the deck, so he climbed up and quietly shoved it over the side, then dragged it into the water. It was waterlogged and floated low, but there was no time to search about for another.

  Removing his trousers, he stuffed them with his boots, weapon and ammunition, then bound them to the plank with vines. Pushing the plank out into deep water, he crawled onto it and used his arms to paddle out into the lagoon.

  Although there was only a partial moon, it was very bright. As he stroked away from shore, he expected any moment to hear the zip of bullets around him. But none came, and he soon reached the reef. There was only a low swell and he crossed it without trouble, then headed out into deep water. Breathing easier now, he checked his course by the moon, set himself into a steady rhythm and began the long paddle towards the mainland.

  29. OFF MUSCHU ISLAND:

  17 APRIL, 1900 HOURS

  Four kilometres off the southern coast of Muschu, an Australian Navy Fairmile patrol boat cruised slowly, lookouts scanning for light signals from the shore. The Fairmile was larger than an HDML by almost 10 metres and more heavily armed. It was also equipped with ASDIC for sub hunting and radar, which allowed it to search beyond visual range and cover a greater area in a shorter time. Fairmiles had operated in the waters around Muschu and Kairiru Islands before, acting as blockade vessels, detecting Japanese craft crossing at night between the islands or the mainland, then turning their 40 mm Bofors or 20 mm Oerlikon cannons loose. Using these tactics the Fairmiles had accounted for dozens of Japanese vessels including patrol boats, barges and possibly one submarine found north of Kairiru Island.

  Tonight though, they’d been briefed not to fire on any target they couldn’t identify as there was a chance a Z Special team would be at sea in their foldboats. It wasn’t known whether the Fairmile’s radar was capable of detecting such small, low-profile objects, so the lookouts had been warned to keep a special eye out for them. The men needed little encouragement: they’d participated in other Z Special operations and although they didn’t know the men on this patrol, there was an affinity between them.

  After closing in near the shore after dark, the Fairmile kept up a steady pace along the coast between Cape Saum and as far west as Cape Samein. It was a bright night with a quarter moon reflecting off the calm water, so if the patrol was trying to escape the island there was a good chance the lookouts would sight their kayaks. In the tiny radio shack, listening watch was being maintained on the team’s emergency frequencies, but again all that could be heard was the hiss and crackle of atmospherics. At about 2230 hours though, the radio operator pressed a hand to his headset, adjusted the gain on his receiver, then sat bolt upright. He’d heard something—the very faint hiss of a carrier wave tap
ping out . . .

  Dah, dit, dit, dah . . .

  It was the letter X, the patrol’s call sign.

  He checked his receiver’s frequency setting. It was 5790 kc, the correct channel for the patrol’s walkie-talkie. Hand poised over the Morse key, he was about to transmit the response ‘Boxer’, but paused. Something didn’t fit.

  The radio operator knew the equipment used by SRD. Their primary high-frequency radio was the ATR4 set, transmitting on a frequency of 4950 kHz. He checked his number two receiver: it was correctly tuned, but all he could hear from it was the faint heterodyne whistle of far-off stations. At this close range the signal from an ATR4 would boom in.

  So why were they transmitting Morse using the SCR36 walkie-talkie? The only explanation was their ATR4s had been lost and the SCR36 was all they had left. Maybe it too was damaged and they were attempting to make contact by keying the press-to-talk switch.

  He tapped out the reply on his Morse key. Then waited. There was no reply, so he transmitted again. Nothing.

  Calling to his offsider, he briefed him to take over the radio watch. He then went up to the bridge to report the incident to the captain.

  The commander listened carefully. Both agreed there was a possibility that the transmission from the island was a ruse. If the patrol had been captured before they’d had time to destroy their codebooks, the Japanese might be trying to confirm the presence of a pick-up vessel in the area by transmitting the call sign in Morse using the walkie-talkie, as an Australian voice would be difficult for them to imitate. Although the brief acknowledgment wouldn’t be sufficient for the Japanese to get a fix on them, the commander ordered an immediate change in course, going about ninety degrees and throttling up a few knots to throw the Japanese off their calculations. He didn’t want to be the first Australian ship to discover that the guns of Muschu were active.