by Don Dennis
It could be risky; however, the Japanese knew the Boomerang was a reconnaissance aircraft and firing on it would immediately compromise their position. It was also strongly built and could absorb a tremendous amount of damage, so the chances of a first-round kill were low. With four machine guns and two 20 mm cannons he could make life miserable for any challengers, so the odds were in his favour.
A pity, really. Sometimes it was easier to allow an impatient Jap to take a shot at him and give the game away, rather than have to stooge around staring at endless jungle for hours. He could then call in air support or see if a broadside of 20 mm cannon and .303 rounds changed their attitude. The only real worry was those bastards with the 30 mm Oerlikons—one squirt from them in the right place and he’d be a puff of smoke. But staying low was the secret: travelling only a few metres above the trees gave most gunners only a fleeting glimpse of the aircraft.
Today’s sortie, however, wasn’t to find the enemy. If they did fire at him, he’d be reluctant to shoot back in case there were friendlies around.
After fifteen minutes he saw a white streak on the water heading south off to his left. Selecting channel six on the high-frequency radio, he thumbed the transmit button and made a quick call. The answer was immediate, the codeword reply confirming that it was HDML 1321 on its way to Muschu. He considered giving them a quick fly-by, but decided now wasn’t the time for theatrics. He needed to conserve fuel—this could be a long sortie.
Ten minutes later he sighted Muschu and Kairiru Islands, deceptively beautiful in the afternoon sun. He flew down the middle of the strait between the two islands, then east of Muschu he climbed and circled slowly while searching the sea for the Fairmile. It had been 30 kilometres offshore all day, but should now be heading into a position closer to the island. He sighted it in his two o’clock position about 15 kilometres east of Muschu, heading towards the island. Again using channel six, he made a call and received the correct acknowledgment. He checked his knee pad where the mission sequences, call signs and codenames were listed.
So far so good.
The Fairmile had received the mission brief via encrypted radio and understood what they had to do. They would be just out of sight to anyone on Muschu, yet close enough for an inshore dash and rescue if he could find any patrol survivors. It would be bloody dangerous, but the Fairmile could lay down a hefty covering barrage with its Oerlikons, Bofors and machine guns. Meanwhile he could keep the Japanese occupied and deal with any unexpected intruders. And if the timing was right, HDML 1321 would be joining the party in a few hours.
It sounded like a workable plan.
Tapping the fuel gauge, Masters saw he had enough for two hours on station, maybe more. That would give him sufficient fuel for the return flight, plus a small reserve in case of bad weather. He glanced at the mainland. The clouds were still building over the mountains, but along the coast the sky remained clear.
Okay, it’s time for the show, he thought. Tightening his harness, he made a pre-action check, then slid the canopy shut.
He flew west of Muschu, then putting the sun behind him, rolled into a steep dive. Opening the throttle, speed built quickly and soon exceeded 300 knots. Altimeter unwinding, he aimed at the western end of the island. At an altitude of 1000 feet, he began pulling back on the stick. He felt the G forces coming on as he levelled from the dive 150 feet above the trees and streaked over the middle of the island, engine howling and supercharger whistling. Flashing over the hills at the eastern end, he hauled back the stick and climbed vertically. He snap-rolled the little aircraft, counted one, two, three clockwise rotations, paused, then reversed the roll. One, two, three.
He flipped inverted, pulled through, then tucked back down into another dive, this time at half-throttle. Again he howled low over the trees, then allowing speed to wash off, began a wide circuit out over the southern coast.
Masters was thoroughly enjoying himself. For an aircraft someone once described as being built from spare parts, baling wire and Golden Syrup tins, the Boomerang was a bloody marvel. It might not be the world’s greatest fighter, but it was manoeuvrable, strong and very, very noisy. By now every Jap on the island would be aware that he was around, and hopefully, too, were the Z Special blokes.
Lowering flaps and flying at 100 knots, he pulled open the canopy then dropped to tree-top level. Passing over the eastern tip of the island, he followed the beach around to the western end, then circled out to sea and repeated his track. It was against his instincts to be predictable, but in this case he knew the risk was justified. If the patrol was down there, they had to be able to get into a position to signal him. As he flew, his left hand rested on the throttle, ready to shove it wide open at the first hint of ground fire.
He varied his course slightly, flew along the northern coast and circled the western end of the island, sighting huts and buildings obviously used by the Japanese which he noted on his knee pad. They’d get the treatment later from Seven Squadron’s Beauforts.
For two hours he kept up the routine, circling, diving, varying the engine speed, and generally making a nuisance of himself. Once he flew so low along the beach on the southern coast he feared a well-aimed coconut could bring him down. But nothing happened—even circling over Muschu Bay, where it was known the enemy had their main HQ, failed to evoke a response. Nor were there any signals from the patrol: no mirror flashes, Verey flares, smoke—nothing.
As a last gesture, with fuel low, he made a slow run up the middle of the island, blipping out V for Victory in Morse by varying the engine note. If the patrol were down there it would give them encouragement. If not, then perhaps it could be considered their epitaph.
Throttling up, he headed east at 300 feet and, 10 kilometres out, passed over the Fairmile, wings rocking. They acknowledged with two long flashes on the Aldis lamp, then he banked away and set course for Tadji.
The Fairmile went about and headed north. Low on fuel, they’d replenish at Aitape and remain on stand-by. Maybe HDML 1321 would have better luck tonight.
36. PNG MAINLAND:
18 APRIL, 1600 HOURS
Dennis had found an unused track winding north and he’d made good progress. For the last hour he’d climbed steadily into high country, the jungle thinning to rainforest crowded with ferns. At the top of a hill, the track ran through a grassy clearing and, pausing beside a tree, he checked it before crossing.
The sun was casting long shadows and the air was still. Already a fine mist was starting to form as a chill descended. It was quiet, the trees unmoving, just a few distant bird calls echoing in the valleys nearby. Cautiously he moved along the track, then stopped.
About 20 metres away to his left, among thick ferns he discerned the outline of a small hut. It had been well camouflaged and it took him a few moments to see it among all the shadows. It looked as if it hadn’t been used for some time, but he remained still, carefully checking out the surrounding area. Seeing nothing he moved quietly across the clearing.
Suddenly a voice shouted and he saw three Japanese near the hut. They’d been lying on the ground and were now scrambling to their feet. One raised his rifle, but before he could fire, Dennis squeezed off a quick burst from his Sten that caught the soldier across the chest. He fell on his face, rifle discharging as he hit the ground. Instead of fighting, the others turned and fled into the forest. Dennis caught one of them with another burst and he dropped. The other dodged around a tree, bark chipping near his head as Dennis swung the Sten on him. Shrieking loudly, he vanished into the foliage followed by another stream of 9 mm rounds.
As two more soldiers appeared from the far side of the clearing, Dennis turned and bolted, making for the track where it dropped down the side of the hill. Bullets snapped overhead as he slipped and skidded to the bottom where he splashed through a creek, then scrambled up the other side into heavy undergrowth. He climbed until he could go no further, then crawled into a clump of bushes under a tree. He was near exhaustion and sat chest heaving,
wondering how much longer he could keep this up. Far behind he could still hear shooting. Gradually it lessened, then stopped.
For ten minutes he rested, listening for the Japanese, but there was no more firing on the hill. He checked his weapon. He’d used more than half a magazine in the last encounter, which left him with about 70 rounds. Removing the magazine he worked the Sten’s bolt—it was still moving smoothly, but it would need cleaning soon. Without oil, that would be a problem. He released the bolt, then replaced the magazine with a full one. At least with the action closed it would limit moisture entry around the mechanism. Again he wished for an Owen gun and cursed the Pommie bastard who’d designed the Sten.
Deciding to stay away from the track, he began climbing, forcing himself through the undergrowth, his feet slipping as the hill steepened. It took almost an hour of exhausting effort to reach the top, then scrambling on his knees onto a grassy knoll, he lay near a fallen tree until he’d recovered.
From here he could see the coast about 6 kilometres away, and beyond to the south-east were Muschu and Kairiru Islands. It was a strange feeling being able to see the islands, and it was almost hard to believe he’d actually crossed the strait and made it this far.
Resisting the temptation to stay longer, he moved off the knoll and headed north along a broad ridge line, remaining in high undergrowth and travelling parallel to a nearby track. For almost an hour he continued, then with the sun low in the sky, he began searching for somewhere to hole up for the night.
He’d just found a thick clump of ferns that looked perfect when he heard voices nearby. Crouching behind the ferns, he saw a Japanese patrol approaching along the track. There were eight of them, well spaced and looking more disciplined than those he’d seen so far. They passed by so close he could have reached out and touched them.
Deciding that the lay-up he’d found was too near a patrol route, he waited five minutes then crossed the track, headed into the scrub and descended the hill. Here the jungle opened out into a small flat valley, with huts scattered among gardens. It looked deserted, but he resisted the temptation to raid the gardens for food. Slowly he crept around the perimeter, then stepped into cover when he heard voices ahead.
From a hut only a few metres away, a Japanese soldier stepped out cradling a small child. He sat on a log and played with the child, bouncing it on his knee and lifting it high. For half an hour the soldier played, the child running, laughing and clapping, then lunging into the soldier’s arms. Dennis watched, unable to move in case the soldier saw him. If he did, Dennis would have no choice but to open fire on him, which would probably kill the child as well. Not a pleasant thought, but a choice he’d have to make. Fortunately a Papuan woman appeared at the hut door and called. Lifting the child onto his shoulders, the soldier went back into the hut and shut the door.
Dennis moved on, skirting the village. Once clear, he climbed up the opposite side of the valley onto a plateau covered in rainforest. There he found a perfect hide between the fern-covered buttress roots of a huge tree. As the last rays of the sun seeped through the canopy, he removed his gear and settled down for the night.
37. MUSCHU ISLAND:
18 APRIL, 2000 HOURS
HDML 1321 reached Muschu after a six-hour run from Aitape, the engineer coaxing almost 15 knots from the twin diesels. The sea was calm and they made good time, passing the eastern tip of Kairiru Island at sunset, then standing off over the horizon until last light. That night the moon was a quarter-disc on the western horizon, partly hidden by cloud. The moon’s diffused glow was enough to make the ship visible when they were close in to shore, so Lieutenant Palmer waited until the moon was low over the mainland before heading closer to Muschu.
At 2130 hours they sighted Muschu’s silhouette on the horizon. After taking a compass bearing to the island, Palmer ordered the speed reduced to 6 knots, then went to the chart table and examined his map. With the moon low in the west, the island cast a long shadow from the eastern tip that should allow them to approach Cape Saum without being seen. Later, when the moon set, he’d patrol along the southern coast. The tide was on the rise, so he figured he’d be able to get close enough for the patrol survivors to hail the boat from the shore.
It would still be risky, and there was a very real danger they’d be seen by the Japanese—but even if they were, there was little the enemy could do. While it was known they had heavy machine guns along some coastal areas, they would probably be reluctant to reveal their positions for fear of retribution later. However, if they did open up, his gunners would return fire and he’d be ready with the throttles. They’d done this many times on coastal raids and Palmer knew how to make his boat a difficult target when necessary. It was a risk the crew was prepared to take.
The heavy guns could be a problem though. Palmer knew the capabilities of the Japanese 140. Copied from a British Vickers design, it was a damned good weapon, accurate and quick firing. Manned by an efficient crew it could punch out six rounds a minute, and in close they’d be using open sights—lining the ship up in the crosshairs like a duck in a shooting gallery.
In the red glow of the map light, Palmer examined the suspected location of the guns. On a low hill about 30 metres above sea level, they commanded a broad arc covering the southern coastal area of the island, and were well placed to cause big problems to the landing force in Wewak Harbour. He could understand why the Army was concerned: he’d seen the damage a 140 mm shell could do. Against the steel hull of a warship it wasn’t pretty. Against an HDML’s wooden construction the result would be catastrophic. But as the Sixth Division’s Intelligence Officer had suggested, if the Japanese were preparing the guns for the defence of Wewak, they weren’t about to sacrifice them by exposing their position to sink one Australian patrol boat.
Even so, he’d be taking a big risk by bringing the boat so close to shore— the Japanese might find it too tempting not to try a quick shot or two. Taking a sheet of paper from the log pad, Palmer overlayed the map and traced the shoreline. Marking the distances and contours, he made a quick calculation. Then he pencilled his proposed course around the island on the map plot. Satisfied, he tapped the First Officer’s shoulder, pointed to the map and explained that tonight they had to remain inside the line he’d drawn.
The First Officer raised his eyebrows and shrugged. If the skipper wanted to commit suicide then so be it.
Palmer flipped off the map light, lifted his binoculars and scanned the island’s brooding silhouette. They’d soon find out whether Six Division’s theory was correct.
In the ship’s radio shack, Major Cardew sat on a cramped seat beside the radio operator, listening to the hollow crackle and hiss of atmospherics. There was still hope that the patrol would suddenly radio in, and he willed their signal to break through the clutter of background noise. But the closer they drew to Muschu, the quieter the radios seemed to become. The patrol’s ATR4 sets were capable of transmitting for hundreds of miles, so he knew it wasn’t a matter of range. Even the little SCR36 walkie-talkies were capable of a range of 10 kilometres or more at night over water.
Cardew was beginning to face the inevitable prospect that all the patrol were dead or the survivors had been captured. The loss of eight men was a severe blow to a small unit like the SRD. Sure they’d lost men before— too many times—but eight would be the biggest loss they’d taken since Operation Rimau. April wasn’t shaping up as the best of months for Z Special—Department Three had already notified two men lost in Java, and it was suspected another patrol was in trouble in Borneo. He could sympathise with their commanders. Like him, they’d be doing everything they could to rescue their men and spending the time in between anguishing about whether there was something they could have done to prepare them better. At the end of it all would be an investigation, not so much to pin blame, but hopefully to learn from the experience to better equip or train the next patrol. Ironically, with the war nearing an end, he wondered if the lessons learned would survive, or if they
would be confined to a musty archive, never to be seen again.
Removing his headset, Cardew leaned back and rubbed a hand through his hair. He was tired. The last six days had been a bitch, but he reminded himself it probably amounted to nothing compared with what the men of Operation Copper had endured.
He needed some fresh air. Leaving the radio shack he headed for the companionway.
Lieutenant Palmer had timed the approach to the island perfectly. The moon was now totally hidden by cloud, with just a diffused glow lighting the western sky. He’d brought the ship in to half a mile off Sup Point and could feel the swell beginning to rise as the water shallowed. Cardew had joined him on the bridge and together through binoculars they strained to see the shoreline. Here the land was in total shadow, and they could barely make out the white water as the waves foamed low over the reef. They could smell the island—a conflicting cocktail of perfumes and pungent odours that both delighted and repelled.
Palmer eased the boat north towards Cape Saum, venturing closer to the shore until they were less than 100 metres from the reef. He was navigating by feel, measuring every swell as it passed under the boat by the way it moved, ready to power up and head away at the slightest hint of the back-drag from a big wave. It was here that the patrol’s first rendezvous had been scheduled for the night of 12 April, but they’d not made it. So why would they now? It was a question both men left unasked for fear of having to answer.
For almost an hour they remained, engines softly idling, standing watch and willing the foldboats to materialise from the darkness. Below, the rum-laced coffee was waiting. It would be bad luck not to have it ready. The radio operator strained at his headphones, radios tuned, listening to the empty hiss and crackle of atmospherics. Even the engineer, standing between the slowly turning diesels, waited anxiously for the order to power up that would tell him the men were safe. All reached out, praying for a miracle.
