by Don Dennis
He watched the soldiers closely, holding the Sten and wondering if it would fire reliably without its daily cleaning. It had just spent more than eight hours totally submerged in salt water so it was anyone’s guess.
One of the Japanese strode to the front of the gun emplacement, where he stood looking out over the water while urinating onto the beach. Dennis held his breath: the soldier could surely see the plank and the footprints, but fortunately he was more engrossed in making piss patterns in the sand. For what seemed an eternity the soldier pissed away, with Dennis wishing he had a Welrod. One slug in the right place and the soldier would be spouting like the Archibald Fountain.
Eventually the performance ended and the soldier went back to his mates and sat down. Fortunately they were all now too engrossed with preparing breakfast to bother with anything else. If they sat around long enough, the rising tide would erase the footprints and the plank would be just another piece of driftwood. Dennis could see the water lapping in now, moving quickly over the sand. Another ten minutes and all trace of his arrival would be gone.
The Japanese were now looking at photos, their lewd gestures a clear indication of what sort of photos they were. Someone lit a cigarette and passed around the pack. Dennis noticed the smoke was drifting north.
He decided the best move would be to put as much distance between them as possible. Gathering his webbing, he crept from the hide, then cut quietly further into the scrub until he was out of sight, then made his way north parallel to the road for half a kilometre before cutting back to it again. Here the road was overgrown with tall grass, with no footprints or signs of other traffic. Walking close to the side of the road he pushed on north.
After fifteen minutes he paused. The sun was above the trees and he estimated the time was about 0700 hours. Already the air was warm, tempered slightly by the sea breeze. Leaving the track, he moved into the undergrowth about 20 metres and found a lay-up near a large tree. Here he could regroup, clean his weapon and get ready for the long trek north to Dagua.
33. ALLIED INTELLIGENCE BUREAU,
BRISBANE:
18 APRIL, 0730 HOURS
The day watch had just taken over duty when a decrypted message was brought to the attention of the section head. It was a situation report from the Japanese 18th Army in Wewak to Rabaul HQ, summarising events over the past 24 hours. Among the items was a reference that was immediately flagged as being associated with Operation Copper.
‘17 April, 0600 hours: Two enemy commandos killed on Muschu.’
The analyst who’d found the reference had been briefed to look for any mention of the lost patrol. This was the second she’d found since they’d landed on the night of the 11th. The brevity of the entry was puzzling, as there’d been no further mention of the size of the patrol, or the fate of the remaining men.
The section head instructed the analyst to re-examine 18th Army traffic over the past three days to see if there was anything they might have missed. Meanwhile, a signal was drafted and sent to 1st Army HQ in Lae. From there the information was passed down the command chain on a limited, need-to-know basis. Recipients included Sixth Division HQ at Aitape and the SRD detachment commander at Lae, Major Richard Cardew.
On receipt of this information at around 0800 hours, Cardew immediately organised a flight to Aitape. Knowing that only two of the patrol had been reported killed raised a glimmer of hope: six were still unaccounted for. If the Japanese had captured or killed them, they would’ve been boasting about it to Rabaul. Chances were they were still alive. So where were they? There’d been no sightings, no radio messages, not a scrap of evidence to indicate their fate.
While Cardew knew that all that could be done was being done, like any responsible commander he needed to make sure for himself. He knew the Navy had put several patrol boats at the Sixth Division’s disposal, so he signalled his detachment commander at Aitape, requesting him to arrange for one of the boats to be made available. Within twenty minutes a message came back that HDML 1321 would be fuelled and ready to go early that afternoon.
At 1100 hours Cardew landed at Tadji airfield where a jeep was waiting to take him to Division HQ. There he conferred with HQ staff, including the G2 Operations, G3 Intelligence and the Officer Commanding the Aitape SRD detachment. Considering the latest information and the possibility that survivors of the patrol were in hiding somewhere on Muschu, it was agreed to postpone any action against the island, pending further advice. The information had arrived just in time, as the first B-24 raid was scheduled for the following morning. Thirty-six aircraft were going to bomb the southeast coast area where the guns were suspected to be, followed by more attacks along the coast during the day by Beauforts from Tadji.
During the flight to Aitape, Cardew had also put together a plan to locate and rescue any survivors. It was a gamble, and one he knew should be put ‘through channels’ for consideration. But there was no time for such luxuries. When he outlined it at the staff meeting, the G2 Operations agreed it should go ‘upstairs’ for a decision. But as the SRD operated almost autonomously, it was felt that if Cardew could pull it all together in the little time available, he should be given every support. They would deal with the paperwork later.
One problem would be the Air Force: Cardew’s plan needed their cooperation. In the closing phases of the Pacific War, the RAAF had become increasingly bureaucratic. The Chief of Air Staff had introduced strict new rules concerning the employment of aircraft in support of Army operations, even going as far as requiring approvals sought from Operational Command Headquarters in Australia for missions in New Guinea that had previously been almost routine. Fortunately, most tactical commanders realised the stupidity of this and where possible ignored the decree.
The G2 sent for the RAAF Liaison Officer, Warwick Masters, a squadron leader who’d been in New Guinea since the early days and who’d flown in the Battle of Milne Bay, a turning point in the New Guinea campaign. It was there the Australian Air Force performed a miracle of ground support, their P-40 Kittyhawks barely getting airborne from the jungle strip before opening fire on the attacking Japanese. They’d burned out gun barrels in that battle, coming in to rearm, then taking off to continue the fight when the enemy was firing on the airstrip. The squadron leader was a man who knew the realities of warfare and had little time for the desk-bound Chief of Air Staff.
When Cardew explained his plan, the squadron leader raised his eyebrows, smiled, then replied: ‘No worries, Major.’
When reminded that an operation of this nature could place a pilot in extreme danger, he merely shrugged, adding: ‘Easy way round that. I’ll fly the sortie myself.’
At 1230 hours Cardew was driven down to the harbour, where he went aboard HDML 1321 and spoke with the commander, Lieutenant Palmer. Cardew had a proposition for him. He wanted to know if it was possible for the boat to get closer to the island—close enough for any survivors to swim out to the HDML. Cardew knew it was asking a great deal, as the coast was littered with uncharted reefs and it would put the ship right under enemy noses.
Palmer understood. He gathered the crew together and explained the situation. For a brief moment there was silence, then someone firmly replied: ‘Anything for the Z blokes, skipper.’
Half an hour later, with Cardew on board, HDML 1321 slipped its moorings, headed out of the harbour past the gathering invasion fleet, and set course for Muschu Island.
34. PNG MAINLAND:
18 APRIL, 1100 HOURS
After travelling along the fringe of the road for several kilometres, Dennis came across six trucks parked on the beach side of the road. The trucks were covered over; most of them were disused. At the same time, he spotted a reconnaissance plane off the coast, flying low over the water. Dennis jumped out of cover onto the beach and waved frantically at the plane— to no avail. The pilot didn’t see him.
Dennis watched the aircraft disappear north. In twenty minutes it would be landing at Tadji. It seemed almost unjust. Here he was,
half starved, staggering through enemy territory while an Air Force ace zipped by in shirt sleeves at two hundred miles an hour on his way back to civilisation. The pilot would soon be enjoying a shower, clean clothes and good food. Plenty of food.
He laughed. Who’s the mug then?
Heading back into the undergrowth, Dennis crouched low and listened. It had been risky exposing himself in that way and he’d think twice before doing it again. Hearing nothing, he relaxed a little. The sun was now high and he was sweating heavily, so he took a long drink from his water bottle, then wet his hair and face. He’d need to find water soon, but that shouldn’t be a problem: last night’s rain had filled many of the creeks and bomb craters.
Again he checked his Sten. He’d used the last of his oil to clean it after the long swim and he’d spread it thinly. Removing the magazine he examined the base of the first round, looking for signs of corrosion, but there were none. Although he’d cleaned all the magazines, he was wary of ammunition that had been in sea water for over eight hours. Fortunately everything looked in good condition, so he eased the bolt forward and replaced the magazine.
After looking at his map and calculating his position, Dennis moved back to the edge of the road and continued north. After another kilometre, the road suddenly ended. A rusted bulldozer peppered with jagged holes lay on its side like a discarded toy; for a hundred metres around, the trees were shattered stumps among water-filled bomb craters. Many of the craters were already sprouting lush grass around the rims, the result of the explosive’s fertilising effect.
Skirting around the area, he moved into the undergrowth and continued walking, staying about 50 metres from the beach. After ten minutes, he paused. Ahead he could hear Japanese voices calling out and the sound of someone chopping wood. Probably a Japanese camp where they were building defences or gathering timber. For a while he listened, trying to gauge its size, then decided the safest course would be to move further inland and bypass it.
Heading due west through light scrub, he found a little-used track that climbed into hilly country. Reluctantly he stayed with it, avoiding other tracks crossing it that were covered with fresh boot prints. After about an hour the track levelled and wound through thin scrub along the top of a narrow ridge, with steep drops on either side. The track was slippery from rain and Dennis cautiously picked his way along the muddy trail.
Coming around a bend, he froze. Ahead were two Japanese soldiers walking towards him, one behind the other. He stepped to the side, pressed into the bushes and cocked his Sten. Suddenly they saw him and panicked. The first soldier tried to swing his rifle up to fire, but in doing so slammed the butt into his mate’s stomach. Knocked sideways the soldier yelped, slipped off the track and rolled screaming down into the ravine.
At the same time Dennis aimed and squeezed the trigger. The bolt slammed home with a hollow clunk. Misfire.
Hands working instinctively, he tried to clear the weapon while charging directly at the Japanese soldier, knowing his only chance if the Sten failed again would be to get under the man’s guard and beat him to death. Instead of taking an aimed shot, the soldier shrieked, turned and fled. Before Dennis could fire again he had vanished.
Heart pounding, Dennis ran along the track until he was clear of the ridge, then scrambled into the bushes and lay low. Checking the Sten, he found a twig lodged in the side breach mechanism, preventing the bolt from closing and the firing pin from striking the round. A small problem, but enough to kill the user—a snag the Australian Owen gun, with its down-facing ejector port, rarely encountered.
Aware that the Japanese soldier would be heading back to raise the alarm, he knew he had to put as much distance behind him as possible. For a moment he allowed himself to speculate about how the hapless soldier would explain the incident. He could hardly admit that he’d clumsily butt-stroked his mate over a cliff, then when faced by a single Australian he’d done a bolter. That sort of confession would earn him an invitation to commit seppuku—if he was lucky.
Ironically, to save face, the soldier would probably claim the ridge was swarming with Australians, and the result would be a hoard of sword-waving Japs heading his way at any moment. Regretting he hadn’t cleared the Sten quicker and put a few bullets between the retreating soldier’s shoulder blades, he set off at a brisk jog. For half a kilometre he remained on the track as it descended, expecting at any moment to be confronted by the enemy. After reaching a junction of three tracks, he decided to remain clear of all trails for a while, so after pausing to listen, he struck out across low scrub for ten minutes, then turned back onto a northerly course.
For an hour he made good progress, but then came to a sago swamp that ran east–west across his path. Wading through it was out of the question: the swamps and rivers on the coast swarmed with crocodiles, and although he’d overcome his fear of sharks, Dennis wasn’t inclined to test his courage against reptiles that had developed a taste for human flesh. The only way around it was to head east. He followed a track around its edge, then managed to cross over near the coast, but further on ran into a succession of small Japanese encampments spread over a wide area. Picking his way around them took almost two hours. Then, after narrowly avoiding a group of six Japanese soldiers who suddenly appeared as he was crossing a dry creek, he decided the coast was too dangerous, so he headed inland again.
He was now tiring badly. Finding a clump of bushes, Dennis paused to rest. This was the sixth day of the mission and he knew the strain, lack of sleep and want of food was affecting his judgement. He estimated he’d travelled less than 5 kilometres north since landing at Cape Pus, but with all the diversions to avoid the Japanese he must have travelled twice as far. At this pace it would take him a week to reach Dagua. Without food he knew he’d never make the distance. He’d stretched his emergency rations further than they’d been intended and although it was possible to live for many days without food, he also knew it wasn’t possible to spend most of that time climbing up and down mountains being pursued by the Imperial Japanese Army.
So there had to be a way. Food was a priority. Maybe a local village was the answer—there were plenty of them around. Find one, locate their garden and dig up the crop. But even that wasn’t so straightforward. Many of the yams and other vegetables the Papuans grew needed to be specially prepared and cooked—eat them raw and a grown man could be reduced to a mindless husk in minutes.
The problem wasn’t so much in finding food. He’d learned to live off the jungle during his time with Kanga Force, even though in some areas such as the highlands there wasn’t much food to find—the New Guinea jungle wasn’t the fertile Garden of Eden some people imagined. The real problem was that he needed a base from which to forage or hunt. In the heart of Japanese territory this was almost impossible—anywhere else it would have been easy, especially along the coast.
And then there was the simple matter of all the information he carried. He now had detailed drawings of most of the major defensive positions on Muschu Island, and this information had to be delivered. His priority was to get it back to Sixth Division—he owed it to his mates.
So after a short rest he pushed on. One step at a time.
35. TADJI AIRFIELD:
18 APRIL, 1530 HOURS
Squadron Leader Warwick Masters clambered onto the wing of the Boomerang, swung himself over the side of the cockpit and fastened the seat harness. The aircraft had been on the flight line all day and despite a shade canvas strung over the area, the cockpit was like an oven—almost every piece of exposed metal was hot to the touch. He made the pre-start checks, primed the engine then after signalling the ground crew, hit the starter.
The Pratt & Whitney coughed, then swung into life. After a minute’s idle, Masters checked the magnetos, engine temperatures and pressures, then waved the chocks away. Tail waggling as he ruddered the aircraft side to side, he taxied from the revetment, wheels bumping over the steel-plank tarmac. A green light winked from the little wooden control tower and
he swung onto the runway.
Pressing hard on the brakes, Masters dragged the stick back into his stomach and opened the throttle. The engine responded, the propeller whipping dust into a swirling tornado behind the aircraft. He glanced in the cockpit mirror to see it engulf a group of soldiers walking near the end of the strip, blowing one of them into a ditch that had filled with water from a recent rain shower.
Masters smiled as he backed off the power. He hadn’t meant to catch them, but the temptation was always there when the opportunity arose. What he really wanted was to get some air flowing around him. He was slowly roasting; already his shirt was darkened by sweat.
A quick instrument check confirmed all was okay, so he released the brakes, gradually opened the throttle and allowed the aircraft to gain speed. Then, juggling rudder and stick, he lifted the tail, pushed the throttle to take-off power while easing in more rudder to counter the engine’s torque. The whine of rubber on steel ceased as the wheels left the runway. He allowed the speed to build, then pulled the undercarriage retract lever and hauled back the stick. Relieved of drag, the aircraft surged ahead, climbing eagerly. At 300 feet he crossed the upwind threshold, then began a sweeping right turn that took him out over the sea until he was heading south-east parallel to the coast.
Continuing the climb, he levelled at 3000 feet and eased the throttle to cruising speed. At this altitude the air was cooler and he left the canopy open. Ahead the water shimmered in the afternoon sun, the coast a white-fringed green strip. Inland, heavy cumulus clouds were building over the mountains.
Today’s sortie followed a route Masters had flown many times. Staying over the water a few miles off the coast, it would take twenty-five minutes to reach Muschu Island. His mission was to reconnoitre the island and attract the attention of the survivors of the Z Special patrol—if there were any. That meant going in low and slow.
