The Guns of Muschu

by Don Dennis

  Accordingly, it had been agreed to postpone all action against the island for another seven days. The Navy would keep the rendezvous for a few more nights, and the Air Force would maintain their daily reconnaissance flights. Until further information was received, the patrol was now officially listed as missing in action.

  McKay read the situation report again. It wasn’t going to make a great deal of difference, but at least they’d accounted for six of the enemy. On the statistics of war, it wasn’t a good kill ratio. He dismissed the thought, cursing himself for becoming so mercenary.

  Then he noticed that one of the names of the Japanese dead had been flagged by the translation service. It was Colonel Hitoshi Watanabe, killed on 16 April.

  So they’d got Watanabe? That was an unexpected bonus. He glanced down the page to the referenced footnote. It was a translation of an administrative message to Rabaul, dated the same day advising that Lieutenant Commander Otomo would replace the deceased Watanabe as the officer commanding the Muschu gun battery.

  There it was, the first piece of information positively linking Watanabe to the gun battery and confirming that it was operational. One sentence in a mountain of seemingly innocuous administrative traffic that revealed more information than it should.

  Information that, by all indications, had cost eight men’s lives.

  42. PNG MAINLAND:

  20 APRIL, 0800 HOURS

  For the first time on the mission Dennis slept well. Being in the high country, the mosquitoes and insects weren’t as annoying and this, coupled with deep fatigue, meant he’d slept until dawn. After waking he lay listening to the sounds around him, the birds not nearly as raucous as in the low country. Thankfully there was no indications that the Japanese were anywhere around.

  He cleaned his Sten, using the last of the antiseptic cream to lubricate the bolt and spring. Spreading out his map, he tried to fix his position. It looked as if last night’s diversion around the Japanese camp had pushed him further inland than expected, but he couldn’t be sure until he could get a good view of the surrounding country. Deciding to head west, he moved off, continuing near the creek until it petered out as the terrain steepened. He pushed on up the slope, the rainforest thinning to sparse wooded country covered by low grass.

  Low clouds touched the peaks around him and the air grew cold. After two hours he reached the top. Here he had a good view of the surrounding hills, but he couldn’t see the coast. Even so, he was able to calculate an approximate position on the map, which put him about 9 kilometres southeast of Dagua. If he was right, it meant he should now be within the Australian forward line of advance, as Dagua was the furthest position south when they’d set out on the mission eight days ago.

  So the best plan was to head closer to the coast, which should increase his chances of contacting an Australian patrol.

  After taking a compass bearing he moved off, going down the side of the hill back into rainforest, then into a valley before crossing a shallow stream and climbing up the other side. He moved stealthily, alert to the sounds around him, but apart from birds and small animals there was nothing. Once in the distance he heard an aircraft drone past high overhead, but that was the only indication that there were humans anywhere near. It was as if the Japanese had abandoned the area, falling back before the Australian advance.

  At about midday he paused at the top of a low hill. To the north he could hear a sound like waves on a beach, mingled with engines—either vehicles or boats, he couldn’t be sure. So he decided to make for the sound, figuring there was a good chance it was made by the Australians.

  Swinging north along a sloping ridge line, he crossed through grassy country, pausing regularly to listen. Occasionally he heard the sound of engines, but they seemed to be in different places every time he heard them—probably the sound echoing up the valleys, he decided.

  After two hours he came to a hill. Climbing to the top, he at last could see the ocean. Almost due north off the coast was Unei Island, and a few kilometres east of it, the long low outline of Paris Island. He now knew exactly where he was—5 kilometres inland from the coast and about 9 kilometres east of Dagua. This was a little further away than he’d expected, but because he’d now fixed his position he could navigate accurately. Choosing a route on the map that curved him north-west, and staying on the ridge lines, he calculated he’d be able to make good time—he’d certainly make the coast in another hour or so.

  Setting out, he hadn’t gone far when he found a track just off the top of the hill. Running beside it through the trees was a telephone cable. Obviously this was a major route, but after examining the trail he saw it hadn’t been used for a very long time, so he decided it was worth the risk.

  He removed the Sten’s magazine and worked the action to make sure the bolt was free, then replaced the magazine. Walking quickly, he followed the track through open country along the ridge line, then after twenty minutes he stopped. Ahead, coming from where the track wound through a clump of trees, he heard voices. Quietly he moved off the track over the edge of the ridge into long grass and waited.

  He didn’t recognise the voices: they didn’t sound like Japanese, nor did they sound like natives, but he wasn’t prepared to risk finding out who they were. Cocking the Sten and applying the safety catch, he went down the side of the ridge, then after 200 metres broke left to confuse anyone who might have followed. He then cut back until he came to flat ground at the bottom of the hill, coming out on the edge of a native garden.

  He quickly cut through it to a wide stretch of high kunai grass. He was about to move into the grass when ahead he saw the roof of a very big Papuan hut, possibly 10 metres high and almost 30 metres long. He’d seen these before: they were community huts, usually belonging to a native tribe with several hundred warriors, so if they weren’t friendly he could be in big trouble. Suddenly nearby he heard voices.

  Crouching down in the high grass he waited. To his left about 10 metres away the kunai grass tops moved. Crouching lower and bringing the Sten up slowly he flicked the change lever to single shot. If he was going to be confronted by hostile Papuans he’d need to make every round count.

  A long line of native bearers moved out of the grass into the garden area. They were carrying water cans and passed by only metres away. Then in the middle of the line Dennis saw a soldier. Tall and broad for a Japanese, he looked a big ugly brute. Dressed in jungle greens, his webbing was of the crossed strap pattern and he wore an old felt hat with its side turned up.

  Behind him the line of natives kept coming from the kunai grass, some of them jabbering excitedly. The soldier suddenly swung around, a Lee Enfield rifle gripped in his hands, and barked out in a voice Dennis would never forget.

  ‘Keep those natives quiet back there or the bloody Japs will hear them!’

  43. SIXTH DIVISION HQ, AITAPE:

  20 APRIL, 1600 HOURS

  Major McKay looked around the office for the last time. It wasn’t much, just some plywood panels dividing the hut, two green filing cabinets, a field desk and a large, somewhat weary map pasted on a wall. It had been home for almost a year now. Strangely, he’d miss it.

  In the morning he’d take up his new posting. If all went according to plan, in less than a month he’d have a new office in Wewak. That would be interesting—he wondered who was using it now. Chances were he’d have to rebuild: the size of the supporting fleet and the extent of the pre-landing bombardment would probably level every building in the town.

  He’d just buckled up his briefcase and was about to leave when the door opened and a clerk came in with a message flimsy. For a moment he feared it might interrupt his plans for the evening—he was going to have a few farewell drinks at the mess, then pack his kit ready to fly to Dagua in the morning. His successor could handle any of the petty dramas that inevitably arose during the night.

  The message was from the 2/7th Commando Company, operating south of Dagua on the advance to Wewak. It had been sent in Slidex, a cum
bersome code of the day that meant the message was annoyingly short on detail, posing a hundred questions that left McKay shaking his head in disbelief.

  Survivor Copper patrol, Spr E T Dennis located map reference 0500 2190. In good health.

  For OC, SRD from Spr Dennis: The bastard from the bush has returned.

  EPILOGUE

  At Sixth Division HQ, Sapper Dennis’s unexpected appearance on the mainland was initially greeted with disbelief.

  While Operation Copper had been classified as secret, even in the most disciplined of military environments word spreads like ripples in a pond, so the fact that the patrol had been missing was common knowledge among most HQ staff.

  Before long there was the inevitable speculation about what had happened and how Dennis had managed to survive—there was even a rather absurd suggestion that he might have been an elaborate Japanese ‘plant’, but all this was quickly dismissed when further information began arriving.

  There was no doubt that it was NX 73110, Sapper E.T. (Mick) Dennis, somewhat worse for wear, but definitely the larrikin himself. One of the reasons his bona fides were so quickly established was the fact that when Dennis had come across the Australian patrol, the very first soldier he’d seen turned out to be an old friend—Sergeant ‘Fatty’ Osborne of the 2/7th Commandos, with whom he’d served in Salamaua and Mubo in 1942 and 1943.

  Taken to the 2/7th forward base camp, Dennis was immediately among old friends, most of whom he hadn’t seen since they’d pulled out of New Guinea in 1943. After some food, which he immediately threw up, he gave a quick outline of his story to the Lieutenant in Command—by now almost the entire Sixth Division HQ was clamouring over the radio for more information and he was anxious to get them off his back. It was as though they feared Dennis would suddenly roll over and die without explaining his extraordinary feat of survival.

  After this initial debrief, Dennis set off with a heavy escort on a two-hour march back to the main base at Dagua. There he was given a small meal, which this time he held down, and he was then questioned by the unit’s intelligence officer. The information he’d gained during his mainland trek was of particular interest, as this was the area into which they were now advancing.

  From Dagua, late in the afternoon, Dennis was driven by jeep to But. Here at last he was able to relax a little. He was given a long hot shower, clean uniform and a going over by the medical officer. It was estimated he’d lost almost 12 kilograms during his ordeal, but apart from coral gashes and some other cuts and assorted bruising plus two very sore feet, he was in good physical condition. After further debriefings, he was flown the following day by Auster back to Aitape.

  For the next two days he was thoroughly debriefed by officers from the Allied Intelligence Bureau, Sixth Division Intelligence and the Aitape SRD detachment commander. Every point of his story was checked in detail, much of his information about Muschu being verified by aerial reconnaissance in the following days. The SRD had already begun an investigation into the operation, in an effort to learn from it for future operations, and Dennis’s information was vital.

  From his story, it was evident the patrol had been plagued by bad luck from the moment they’d left HDML 1321. The currents that forced them south of their original objective hadn’t been accurately assessed, and this was just the beginning of a chain of events over which they had little control. The tide information was correct, but the currents swirled around the island in an unpredictable pattern that was impossible to factor into the mission without extensive local knowledge of the area. Ironically, although the currents swept them onto the reef west of Cape Barabar, it also gave them a temporary reprieve—as they’d discovered, their intended landing zone was right beneath a major defensive position.

  As suspected, the ATR4 and SCR36 radios proved unsuitable for this operation due to their susceptibility to water damage. However, Dennis went to great lengths to point out that what might have saved seven men’s lives wasn’t necessarily better radios. If they’d had waterproof torches they could have signalled the HDML, arranged a pick-up and left the island that first night. Instead, they’d tried to make do with standard-issue torches bound with electrical tape. The torches had leaked, short-circuited and the water destroyed the batteries within a few hours of them landing. These were simple pieces of equipment that the supply system had failed to provide and for that there was no excuse.

  After interviewing Dennis, the Aitape SRD Commander believed there was still a remote possibility that some of Lieutenant Barnes’s group had survived. Considering the distance the current had taken Dennis, there was a chance it had carried some or all of them north of Cape Wom, so the Navy’s patrol boats were requested to patrol close to the shore where possible. They were also tasked to check nearby islands and as far away as Vokeo. However, no trace of them was ever found. They were later assumed to have drowned or been taken by sharks.

  As for the other missing personnel—Signallers Hagger, Chandler and Sergeant Max Weber—Dennis knew very little about their fate. The last he’d seen of them was approximately midday on 14 April after they’d all gone back to the equipment cache to retrieve the radios. It was then while returning to their lay-up near the bomb crater that they’d encountered the ambush, and the resulting action was a confused blur. While Dennis held off the Japanese using the Sten, the other three had scattered, and he was certain they’d escaped. He’d checked the rendezvous later in the day and again the following morning, but there was no sign of them having been there. On that point he was absolutely certain.

  The SRD was already aware of the fate of two of the group, their deaths being revealed by radio intercept as having occurred on 17 April although their names or the exact circumstances of their deaths weren’t mentioned in the report. During the debrief Dennis wasn’t informed of this, as to do so would reveal the existence of the radio intercept unit. After the Japanese surrendered, their fate could be determined, but until then the file would remain open.

  After the debriefing, Dennis was flown to Madang. Here the medical officer gave him a thorough going over, then told the assorted intelligence agencies and anyone else who thought they would like to have Dennis explain his story again to leave him alone. He needed to rest and anything else they wanted to know could wait. The medical officer recommended him for immediate home leave.

  For the next six days Dennis rested, doing little but sleeping and eating. While he was at Madang, the Officer Commanding 1st Australian Army, South-West Pacific, General Vernon Sturdee, after being briefed on his ordeal, recommended Dennis for the Military Medal. A small ceremony took place on the parade ground and the citation read out, but Dennis would have to wait until after the war before he could receive his award. There were several hurdles yet to be crossed before the way was cleared— one of them apparently caused by an old antagonist who’d recently been shuffled out of Sixth Division HQ to an administrative post in Brisbane, where he attempted to delay the award process.

  On day seven, Dennis was pleasantly surprised when HDML 1321 cruised into the harbour. The celebration that followed he later modestly described as being ‘memorably rowdy’.

  The next day Dennis boarded HDML 1321 and they motored down the coast to Lae, where he reported to the SRD that afternoon. More debriefing sessions followed, and again Dennis stressed that for the want of waterproof torches seven lives might have been saved.

  The following day he was flown by C-47 to Brisbane, then on to Sydney.

  For Mick Dennis, the war was finally over.

  The information Dennis provided was put to good use within hours of his rescue. Even though he’d been almost constantly pursued, he’d never forgotten the aim of his mission. He’d continually maintained his notebook and maps, marking enemy positions, sightings, structures—anything he considered might be valuable later.

  The first conclusion arrived at by Sixth Division after examining all the data was that invading Muschu wouldn’t be worth the casualties that would inevitably r
esult. The defences were too well prepared, and the maze of tracks on the island indicated that the enemy enjoyed a significant home-ground advantage. It would be much simpler just to isolate the island and keep the enemy neutralised there.

  Meanwhile, to avoid having an enemy literally within shooting distance of Wewak during and after the Australian landings, Sixth Division drew up plans to eliminate as many of the enemy defences as possible.

  The aerial bombing of Muschu was extensive. A number of large raids using 30 or more B-24 Liberators hit the southern coast line, one of these concentrating on the location of the naval guns. Tactical Reconnaissance sorties later confirmed that the bombs were on target and the area was extensively cratered. Muschu was also heavily shelled by Australian Navy sloops and corvettes. HDMLs, including HDML 1321, then prowled the coastal waters targeting areas located by Dennis with their machine guns and cannons. Beauforts from Tadji continued to strike targets on the island up to and after the invasion. Interrogation of Japanese prisoners after the war indicated that this period was particularly hazardous for the garrison, which until then had enjoyed a relatively peaceful existence.

  On 10 May 1945, the landings at Wewak went ahead. Australian losses were 451 killed and 1163 wounded. By comparison, 7200 Japanese died in the campaign.

  During the landings, the guns of Muschu remained silent.

  The war dragged on, with the Japanese withdrawing further into the remote high country, hemmed in and harassed by the Australians advancing from Aitape, Wewak and Lae. On 15 August, after atomic bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan surrendered.