The Guns of Muschu

by Don Dennis

  Silently he backed off through the tall grass towards the edge of the hill, then paused. The firing had stopped and he could hear movement as the enemy regrouped.

  How many were there? He’d confronted four, but he’d glimpsed others further down the track. Probably a squad, maybe a dozen.

  Suddenly behind him he heard the grass rustle. He turned slowly. Ten metres away the top of the kunai quivered. Someone was trying to outflank him. Crouching low, Dennis checked his Sten, pushing his thumb into the ejector port onto the cartridges in the magazine to make sure they were still feeding. The rounds moved smoothly and, reassured, he slowly raised the weapon.

  To his front about 20 metres off he could hear the rest of the squad, their footsteps now in parade-ground unison, a steady thump and swish that grew louder as they advanced. He knew their battle drill—they’d be in extended line 2 metres apart, rifles level and bayonets fixed. Meanwhile, from one of his flanks, he could expect covering fire at any moment. He’d be pinned and they’d overrun him. He didn’t stand a chance.

  So where was their fire support? The grass to his right only 5 metres away moved. He heard the click of metal. A machine gun being readied? So close? Twisting slowly, Dennis aimed the Sten. The grass shook again and through it he saw the boots and trousers of a Japanese soldier. Sighting above the man’s belt, Dennis squeezed off three rounds. The soldier groaned and dropped.

  Dennis leapt to his feet, scrambled over the side of the hill, rolled once, then bouncing up onto his feet, slid and scrambled down the slope. Firing erupted behind him, but it went high and wide. Reaching the bottom of the hill, he splashed through a creek, clambered up the opposite slope then rolled under a clump of bushes and lay gasping.

  A sharp pain stabbed through his stomach. Looking down, he saw his shirt was covered in blood. For a moment he thought he’d been wounded, but then he realised with relief that the blood was caused by slashes from the thorny vines he’d forced his way through.

  He took a quick drink from his canteen, then lay listening to the sounds around him. The Japanese were still firing sporadically, but the shots sounded as if they were moving away. After five minutes they stopped completely. For another ten minutes Dennis rested, then knowing if he remained too long he’d never get going again, he crawled from his hiding place and dragged himself up the hill until he reached the crest.

  There he found another track heading north, so he paused, checked the area, then set out again. He had to put as much distance between him and the last contact as possible. The problem was he appeared to be in a concentration of Japanese troops reacting to the Australian advance.

  For another hour he continued, the track eventually winding down into a valley. He’d neither seen nor heard any more Japanese so he decided to rest. Moving off the track he found a lay-up in a grove of trees. From the sun’s position he judged it was almost midday. He’d give himself an hour, then hopefully he’d be able to reach the Australian positions by sundown.

  39. SIXTH DIVISION HQ, AITAPE:

  19 APRIL, 1300 HOURS

  Heavy rain was falling when HDML 1321 motored into Aitape Harbour. The boat nudged into the jetty; the diesels gave a short burst of reverse power, then faded. The deckhands cinched the lines to the bollards and the hull eased onto the fenders, jetty timbers creaking. Major Cardew climbed through the forward companionway hatch, glanced up at the bridge and tipped his cap in farewell. On the bridge, Lieutenant Palmer responded. The two men looked at each other for a moment, then Cardew hurried along the deck and jumped ashore.

  A jeep waited at the end of the jetty. He splashed over to it and climbed in. The drive to Sixth Division HQ was slow, the jeep slipping on the muddy road, wipers slapping futilely against the tropical downpour that hammered against the canvas roof and sides. Beside him the driver tried to make conversation, but Cardew remained silent, deep in thought.

  Already he was working on ways to improve the next patrol—it looked as if they’d have to try Muschu again, irrespective of the risk. What had they learned from Operation Copper? Not much. But he wanted to do it better next time.

  One area for improvement was communications. Although the patrol had gone completely off the air, there was a possibility it was due to radio failure. He knew it was a remote chance for all sets to go at once, but the radios used were notoriously susceptible to water damage, especially the ATR4. It was an old design, originally intended for bushfire services in Australia—not military work. The Americans were producing some new compact, powerful radios, which was exactly what they needed. He’d applied for them almost six months ago, but they’d been given the run-around by the Defence Department in Canberra and he was still being plagued with questions from public servants as to why existing equipment wasn’t suitable.

  Weapons? Maybe they needed more firepower—there wasn’t a soldier on earth who wouldn’t welcome more. There were plenty of alternatives, including the Browning 9 mm automatic pistol to replace the faithful Smith & Wesson revolver. The Owen gun could replace the Sten—why the Special Operations Executive insisted on keeping the British weapon he didn’t know. Some very impressive automatic assault rifles were now being used by the German Wehrmacht in Europe—last-minute developments that thankfully were now too late to make a difference to the outcome of this war, but an indication of what the future held.

  A major difficulty was patrol extraction, especially in an emergency. Insertion wasn’t that much of a problem, almost anything could be used to get in: patrol boats, submarines, foldboats, swimming—whatever suited the situation. It was getting back out when the enemy were fully alerted that was difficult. It was then that a quick response time was essential for survival.

  On the run back to Aitape he’d discussed the problem with Palmer. Cardew had suggested that if SRD was considering going back to Muschu then they should be based closer. Vokeo Island could provide a good forward base. There were no Japanese there and it was only a couple of hours from Muschu or Wewak. Put a detachment on the island—it didn’t have to be anything elaborate, just men, tents, supplies and a good radio setup. Palmer agreed: he knew the island and there were sheltered bays where the HDML could anchor.

  The more Cardew thought about the idea, the more he liked it.

  Even so, the reaction time for an emergency extraction could still be too slow. Patrol boats had to remain out of sight during the day, and even the fastest torpedo launches could be seen approaching for almost twenty minutes or more. Parking a submarine off the coast was one option, but subs were scarce resources, rarely able to devote time to small operations.

  In Europe they were using aircraft with short take-off and landing capabilities to get their agents in and out. That was hard to do in the Pacific with everything covered with thick jungle, but it had potential. In Java and Timor, Section Three were already using PBY seaplanes successfully.

  The list went on. There had to be better ways of doing everything. After the war, someone needed the foresight to sit down and objectively examine the use of special operations. There was still entrenched prejudice against them by many senior officers, who seemed more concerned with preserving their traditional empires than winning the war. The concept was proven: special operations could yield results that far outweighed their costs, both material and human.

  The key to it all, however, was the quality of those men willing to risk their lives in such ventures. Now he had to account for eight of the best. Unfortunately, he couldn’t write those compassionate, descriptive letters that had become so fashionable lately. As much as he wanted to, the truth of their deaths had to wait until the war was over. Until then their loved ones would have to be content with the harsh reality of cliched wording on Commonwealth letterhead and perhaps a visit from the padre.

  They deserved better, Cardew thought.

  Cardew failed to notice that the jeep had stopped outside the Sixth Division HQ. The driver was looking at him wondering whether the major’s damp face was caused by yet another bloo
dy leak in the jeep’s canvas roof.

  40. PNG MAINLAND:

  19 APRIL, 1400 HOURS

  Dennis rested, dozing lightly, to be woken after an hour by approaching aircraft. A flight of three Beauforts flew up the valley so low he could see the pilots and for a moment he was tempted to try to attract their attention. Realising the futility of doing so, he watched them disappear towards Wewak, their engines echoing from the hills around him. Stiffly he got to his feet. His body ached in a dozen places and a wave of nausea swept him. He shivered and for a moment feared he was coming down with malaria, but then realised it had rained while he slept and he was soaking wet.

  The dizziness slowly passed. He checked his Sten by working the bolt with the magazine off to spread the remaining grease through the mechanism. It was stiff, but after a dozen cycles again moved smoothly.

  Removing the cartridges from all his magazines he counted a total of 42. He filled one magazine with 30, which he placed on the weapon; the rest he loaded into another magazine that he slipped into his waist pouch. He’d be surprised if the Sten would continue to fire reliably on automatic, as the heat would quickly burn out the remaining lubricant, but he wouldn’t know until he tried.

  He took a long drink of water then shot a compass bearing to a hill about 5 kilometres north-west. The country was now steeper than he’d expected and he was tiring badly. There was no way he could keep the schedule he’d set for himself. The best he could hope for was to reach the hill before nightfall, then with luck he’d probably be able to make friendly territory sometime in the morning.

  A gentle breeze was blowing in off the sea and the cloud cover was thinning. The sun broke through, painting the valley and surrounding hills in the gold-green light that came only after rain. Dennis cinched his belt another notch, took a drink from his canteen, then moving quietly went back to the track. Standing in cover he observed the track for five minutes, his hearing adjusting to the sounds around him. Except for a few birds and the rustle of the wind there was silence. The surface of the track looked unmarked, no footprints or bent grass to indicate it had been used recently.

  Stepping out of cover he moved off, the stiffness gradually easing as his muscles warmed. After ten minutes he was walking at a brisk pace, the track winding through the middle of the valley with high grass either side. For an hour he kept going until the valley broadened into an area cut by a wide river, now almost dry. He knew this had to be the Hawain River, which meant he was getting very close to the Australian lines.

  Downstream about half a kilometre, a long row of huts were tucked under the trees along the bank. He could see Japanese moving about, and stacks of cut logs and other equipment including motors and piping used to pump water from the river. It looked like a major base camp, so he marked it on his map, taking compass bearings to nearby hills to confirm the position. After waiting to make sure no one was close, he dashed across the stony river bed into the grass on the other side. Pausing to listen and to ensure no one had seen him, he then continued along the track as it climbed back up into dense, hilly country.

  After a short climb, the track swung south along a ridge that headed towards the mountains further inland. Checking his map and compass, Dennis found the direction to the hill that was his objective for the day. To stay on course meant leaving the track and climbing down into a valley where he could follow a creek that led up to the hill. It was a short but steep climb through heavy undergrowth, but one he could manage. The sun was now low and he wanted to reach the hill by last light, so after slinging his Sten, he went over the edge, using vines to steady him. After 20 metres the slope became steeper and he scrabbled at the damp earth to stop himself from sliding away. Clutching a thick vine, he was easing down the embankment when, without warning, the vine snapped.

  He fell back, tumbling down the slope, crashing through foliage, grasping at vines in a desperate attempt to stop his fall. His right leg tangled in a vine and he jerked to a stop. Heart pounding, he lay on his back, head protruding over a drop of 10 metres. His Sten was dangling by its strap from his right arm, his pack pushed to one side beneath him. Twisting his body he looked around, then froze.

  He was on the edge of a large Japanese camp, with maybe a dozen or more huts scattered around among the trees. Directly below him was a long, thatched hut, and outside it a line of Japanese soldiers holding mess kits. They were talking and laughing as they filed into the hut.

  As if taunting him, the aroma of cooking food drifted up. For Dennis it was a precarious situation, but the humour of it didn’t escape him. If the vine holding his leg snapped, he’d fall through the flimsy roof of the hut into a swarm of Japanese soldiers. For a moment he wondered how they’d react to the sudden arrival of an uninvited dinner guest. His next thought was that if he had to fall, then maybe he could make his entry a little more interesting by coming through the roof, gun blazing.

  Slowly he retrieved his weapon, pulling it up on its sling. He managed to wrap it around his shoulder and secure it close to his chest. Glancing back, he watched the last man go into the mess hut—fortunately they’d all been too busy keeping their eyes on the food to look up.

  By twisting and wriggling, he was able to move his body back onto the slope. At least now he was concealed by bushes, but every movement dislodged small rocks and clumps of earth that dropped onto the hut’s roof. Fortunately the roof was woven from layers of heavy palm fronds, which muffled the sound. But Dennis decided not to risk any further movement—dislodging a large rock would not only alert the soldiers, but also risk hitting him on the way down.

  So he remained there, held by one leg, on his back, upside down on the slope, listening to the sounds of happy Japanese eating their evening meal.

  It was an hour or more after sunset before the last man left the mess hut. The moon was low in the sky, shedding a soft light that was easy to see by. Dennis watched as the cooks cleared away the table scraps, then emptied them into a pigsty near another hut. When they left, he was able to wriggle around, free his leg, then crawl along the slope until he was at the edge of the encampment.

  He couldn’t see any sentries, but knew they’d have them somewhere. So slowly he crawled away, circling the area until he found the creek line. There, still on his stomach, he slid down the bank, took a long drink and refilled his canteen. Slithering up the bank, he crawled into the scrub, staying low for 20 metres before standing.

  After waiting and listening, hearing nothing but the night sounds of insects, he decided to take advantage of the moonlight and keep moving. Following the creek, walking through low undergrowth about 10 metres from it, he made good time up a narrow valley for another two hours.

  As the moon sank behind the mountains, he decided he could go no further. Exhausted, he found a lay-up among bushes away from the creek, removed his gear and made himself comfortable for the night. Before dozing off, he offered thanks to whoever it was who was looking over him. So far his luck had been extraordinary. He hoped it would continue.

  Just one more day?

  41. SIXTH DIVISION HQ, AITAPE:

  20 APRIL, 0700 HOURS

  Friday, 20 April 1945 was to be a significant day in various parts of the world. In Berlin, holed up in his bunker, Adolf Hitler celebrated his fifty-sixth birthday as the Russians swarmed towards the city. That same day Nuremberg, where Hitler had staged his massive orchestrated rallies, fell to the Americans who, knowing it was the Führer’s birthday, promptly staged their own parade, the giant swastika above Nuremburg Stadium’s main arena concealed by a huge stars-and-stripes flag specially made for the occasion. They even flew in a US Army band along with 5000 Hershey bars for distribution to the local population, to remind them that Germany was now under new management.

  In the United States, Professor Robert Oppenheimer was reported to have expressed doubts to his colleagues about the dangers of the new atomic weapon they were developing, fearing that when detonated it might trigger a chain reaction in the atmosphere that could s
ee the Earth disappear like a giant seltzer pill.

  For Captain Roland McKay, G3 of Sixth Division Intelligence, several events made the day memorable. The first was when he arrived in his office that morning. On his desk was a signal from 1st Army Lae, confirming his promotion to Major. He’d be taking up a new posting on the staff of Sixth Division forward headquarters in the coming Wewak operation.

  The promotion gave him some satisfaction. If he’d been a career man, it probably would have been even more satisfying, but he’d already decided that when the war was over he’d be returning to his former profession as a lawyer. Peace-time armies were notoriously neglected and the prospect of sitting around reminiscing about past campaigns and trying to predict future ones held no attraction for him.

  The second item arrived half an hour later. The courier C-47 from Darwin had landed early, the result of unexpected tailwinds, and his clerk brought in a file containing the latest analyses from the Allied Intelligence Bureau radio intercept and translation unit in Brisbane. One of these reports had been marked for his attention, so he opened it first.

  It was an extract from a situation report transmitted by the Japanese 18th Army in Wewak to their higher HQ in Rabaul. Among the administrative trivia were the names of six Japanese soldiers, all described as being killed in action on Muschu Island. Alongside each name was the date of death: 12, 13, 14, 16 and 17 April. There were no explanations as to how they were killed but he immediately made the connection with Operation Copper. Muschu had been off limits to the Australian Air Force and Navy during this period, so this had to mean that some of the patrol had survived until 17 April, possibly longer. Again there was no mention of more Australian casualties, so there was a chance survivors of the patrol were still on the island.

  McKay had talked with Cardew about the results of his venture two nights ago, which was 24 hours after the last killed-in-action date shown in the situtation report. Cardew strongly believed that if any of the patrol were still alive, they would’ve seen the Boomerang fly past and done their best to make contact with HDML 1321. However, he did admit there was still a remote possibility they were in hiding, unable to signal.