Fortress Rabaul: The Battle for the Southwest Pacific, January 1942-April 1943

by Bruce Gamble

  The accommodations at Seven Mile airdrome were terrible—even worse than at Cloncurry—and the stranded Americans went four days without shaving or changing their clothes. Steinbinder felt like “a bum,” but thanks to the unexpected delay, he and the other crewmen were rewarded with a unique opportunity. In the company of hundreds of Aussies, they were among the few Yanks to witness a minor miracle.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Last Outpost

  AS THE WAR IN THE Southwest Pacific entered its fourth month, Vice Admiral Inoue continued to focus his attention on New Guinea. It was obvious to both sides that whoever controlled the world’s second largest island would dominate the region. By the middle of March 1942, the Japanese held Lae, Salamaua, and Finschhafen, giving them control of the northeast coast. As soon as improvements to the airdrome at Lae were completed, Imperial Navy aircraft merely had to zoom over the Owen Stanley Mountains to attack Port Moresby. The outlook for the Australian garrison was bleak.

  The conquest of New Guinea received enthusiastic coverage in the Japanese press. One newspaper boasted: “Port Moresby is already on the verge of collapse as a result of repeated bombing by the Nippon Navy air corps. The present [efforts] of Nippon Army and Navy detachments completely sealed the fate of New Guinea.”

  Such propaganda had been published virtually every day since the beginning of the Pacific war, and by the spring of 1942, military personnel and civilians alike were brimming with overconfidence. The effect, later called senshobyo (literally, “victory disease”), was most apparent in the actions of military planners. Often displaying complete disregard for the capabilities of Allied forces, they tended to spread their forces thinly over large areas, sometimes extending them far beyond their lines of supply. (A prime example of senshobyo would occur in early April, when Vice Admiral Inoue and Major General Horii received orders to commence the second stage of the Southern Offensive. Instead of concentrating their resources on one objective, they planned simultaneous operations against Port Moresby and Tulagi, hundreds of miles from Rabaul in opposite directions. Even as that operation got underway, Admiral Yamamoto and the Combined Fleet staff began war-gaming the next offensive, the invasion of Midway.)

  At Rabaul and Lae, meanwhile, the 24th Air Flotilla was stretched to the limit as Rear Admiral Goto’s airmen softened up Port Moresby. The land-attackers of the 4th Air Group flew a grueling schedule of long patrol flights every day, weather permitting, in addition to a steady diet of bombing missions. Port Moresby was raided twice on March 10 by a total of eighteen rikko; then five Zeros conducted a strafing attack on March 13, and the following day nine rikko hit Port Moresby again while eight other medium bombers, escorted by a dozen fighters, attacked the Allied airdrome on Horn Island.

  The pace did not let up. On March 15 nine rikko bombed Madang on the northeast coast of New Guinea, after which the 4th Air Group shifted its attention to Tulagi, hitting the anchorage and seaplane base for two consecutive days. Next, the land-attackers returned to Port Moresby for raids on March 19 and 20 before finally taking a much-needed rest. By then, the airmen and ground personnel had been conducting nonstop operations for almost four weeks.

  However, despite the 4th Air Group’s effort to destroy Allied air power at Port Moresby, American B-17s continued to reciprocate by periodically hitting Rabaul. Rather than collapsing, the last outpost on New Guinea frustrated the Japanese with its resiliency.

  FOR THE GARRISON at Port Moresby, the respite taken by the 24th Air Flotilla came as a huge relief. The young militiamen of the 30th Infantry Brigade, whose average age was just eighteen, had deployed to New Guinea with only minimal training. Since then they had endured conditions that would practically drive a man insane. Osmar White, a newspaperman who arrived in mid-February with four other accredited war correspondents, despised New Guinea’s climate.

  Every afternoon and every night it rained. Every night hordes of black, voracious mosquitoes came singing hungrily out of the grass. Every dawn hordes of black, voracious flies came in buzzing thirstily. They slept in clots and festoons on the rafters of the mess. Assaults on them with insecticide at night would bring down a squirming carpet that covered the packed earth floor, but it never appreciably diminished their numbers.

  Conditions were slightly better down at the waterfront. The Catalina squadrons enjoyed decent accommodations and food in the RAAF mess, but the frequency of their long, hazardous missions led to extreme fatigue. Sometimes the airmen flew on consecutive nights, yet they went about their business with quiet determination. George Johnston, another of the war correspondents who covered the fighting in New Guinea, was in awe of the aircrews’ stamina. “Repeatedly I saw men come in after 13-hour patrols, snatch a bite of food and a few hours’ sleep, then roar off again over the reef on another job that would keep them in the air for 14 hours,” he wrote. “I saw them, almost staggering from want of sleep, falling into bunks while the squadron’s incomparable ground staff ‘bombed up’ for another trip scheduled for take-off a few hours later.”

  North of town at Seven Mile airdrome, the living conditions were much worse. Japanese air attacks had demolished all of the permanent buildings, which meant the only shelter from the savage sun consisted of tents and other temporary structures. Aircrews and ground personnel lived in primitive camps scattered among the ugly, scrub-covered hills surrounding the runway. Clouds of mosquitoes brought the inevitable malaria and dengue fever. Sanitation was virtually nonexistent. Latrines, as the saying went, consisted of nothing more than “a shovel and a walk.” The direct result of this casual approach to hygiene was repeated outbreaks of dysentery, gastroenteritis, and other intestinal ailments.

  As bad as the living conditions were, the monotonous diet of army rations did nothing to improve the men’s health or their morale. John Steinbinder, who endured several layovers at Seven Mile, wrote sarcastically: “We have a great variety of food here. For breakfast we have hash, potatoes, hardtack, and coffee; for lunch, hash, potatoes, bread, and tea; for dinner, hash, potatoes, rice, peaches, and coffee, with choice of hardtack or bread.”

  During daylight hours, maintenance personnel and construction crews toiled under the blazing sun, keeping one eye skyward for the next enemy raid. At any moment a flight of Zeros might swoop down undetected, for there were too few warning posts in the mountains between Lae and Port Moresby. The early detection network, such as it was, depended entirely on radio reports based on visual sightings, some of which came from the Japanese side of the mountain range. Probably the most daring coastwatcher on New Guinea was thirty-three-year-old Flt. Lt. Leigh G. Vial, known by his call sign: “Golden Voice.” Assisted by local villagers who periodically delivered supplies to his primitive camps, he observed the Japanese from the hills overlooking Lae, frequently providing the only advance warning of an incoming raid.

  Even when timely warnings were received, most of the Aussies remained at their posts after the sirens began to wail. Major General Basil M. Morris, the senior Australian officer at Port Moresby, issued a directive stating that the men were to keep working until the bombs began to land within two hundred yards, at which time “officers would be permitted to order their men to take shelter.” As if on a dare, the men habitually waited until the last possible second before sprinting to the nearest underground bunker or slit trench. The latter type of shelters were more exposed than a solid bunker, but they offered some protection from the most-feared Japanese bombs, the 60-kilogram fragmentation devices called “daisy cutters,” which exploded into hundreds of jagged shards.

  In addition to the poor living conditions and enemy air attacks, the airfield environment itself was tiresome. Sometimes the runway was hard-packed and dusty, other times slick with mud. And it was almost always under construction as workmen attempted to lengthen it toward Bootless Bay. Heavy rains turned the taxiways into muddy bogs, and aircraft frequently became mired while attempting to maneuver around bomb craters or other obstacles. On several occasions, nervous pilots g
ot stuck while taxiing at high speed to avoid an incoming raid. The airdrome lacked adequate hardstands and revetments, which meant that all of the planes were vulnerable. Those that ran off the taxiways were usually torched by strafing Zeros.

  Despite the detrimental conditions and frequent attacks, the garrison and ground crews soldiered on. Their primary motivation came from the knowledge that Port Moresby was the last outpost between the Japanese and Australia. The government was already talking about conceding the northern half of the continent if New Guinea fell, a threshold that became known as the “Brisbane Line.” Australians were deeply concerned, not realizing that the Imperial Army lacked enough divisions for such a monumental invasion.

  Perhaps the most discouraging situation at Port Moresby was the lack of fighter defense. For weeks the garrison had been promised a squadron of Kittyhawks, the Commonwealth’s name for the American-built Curtiss P-40E Warhawk, but delay after delay ensued, and no fighters materialized. In frustration, the troops began to joke sarcastically about “Neverhawks” and “Tomorrowhawks.” Finally, an announcement came that the squadron would arrive on March 20.

  At the designated time, four fighters approached Seven Mile. A large welcoming committee rushed to the runway, cheering wildly, throwing hats in the air, and waving towels over their heads. But elation turned abruptly to panic as the fighters zoomed down and opened fire. Men scrambled in all directions as yet another strafing attack by enemy Zeros began. Although the raid caused little damage, the uncanny timing of the 4th Air Group was a cruel joke.

  THE PROMISED FIGHTERS really did exist. Formed in early March at Townsville, 75 Squadron received an allotment of P-40Es set aside by the U.S. Army. Ground personnel and a few pilots were drawn from 24 Squadron, which had been operating Wirraways from Garbutt Field and Horn Island since evacuating from Rabaul, but most fliers were transferred from other squadrons across Australia. Six pilots were combat veterans, including five with experience against the Germans in the North African desert. The soon-to-be commanding officer, Sqn. Ldr. John F. Jackson, was officially credited with downing six Axis aircraft while flying Hurricanes and Tomahawks. Squadron Leader Peter Jeffrey had scored five victories with the same outfit, 3 Squadron. Even more impressive, both in name and combat record, was Flt. Lt. Peter St. George Bruce Turnbull, with nine Axis planes to his credit. But only one pilot in the new squadron had ever faced the Japanese. Bruce Anderson, a veteran of 24 Squadron, had unsuccessfully attempted to intercept Kawanishi flying boats over Rabaul in January. Later that month, during the heavy carrier attack that preceded the Japanese invasion, he had crashed on takeoff, injuring both legs. After convalescing in an Australian hospital, he rejoined the squadron at Townsville.

  Trained in great haste, 75 Squadron encountered trouble almost from the beginning. The first fifteen Kittyhawks were scheduled to reach Townsville on March 7, but during a transit flight from New South Wales, ten of the fighters encountered terrible weather that resulted in the loss of three aircraft and two pilots. Over the next two weeks, training mishaps wiped out three more fighters, leaving only eighteen available for operations in New Guinea.

  On the morning of March 21, after an overnight stop at Horn Island, the Kittyhawks were prepped for the long flight to Port Moresby. Peter Jeffrey led four fighters up a few hours ahead of the rest, reaching the New Guinea coast at approximately1400 hours. After orbiting south of the harbor while their identity was positively established, the Kittyhawks proceeded toward Seven Mile. But not everyone got the word that friend-lies were approaching, and a machine-gunner opened fire at the fighters during their final approach. Other trigger-happy defenders joined in, their accuracy alarmingly good. All four Kittyhawks were damaged, two of them severely, and a bullet missed Jeffrey’s head by less than an inch.

  But the near-disaster was quickly forgotten. Soon after the Aussies landed, a lone Japanese reconnaissance bomber appeared over Seven Mile. The crew of the Type 1 rikko, piloted by CPO Heihatchi Kawai of the 4th Air Group, may have anticipated a routine mission when they left Rabaul that morning, but they were in for a surprise.

  John Steinbinder, still stranded at the airdrome, was one of the few Americans to observe the ensuing action, which he later described in his diary: “Just after the P-40s landed, a Japanese reconnaissance ship came over and proceeded dropping bombs. 2 P-40s took off and cut off its retreat and then began a dogfight the likes of which I’ll perhaps never again see.”

  Steinbinder’s view from the ground was limited, but what he recorded was accurate. Flight lieutenants Wilbur L. Wackett and Barry M. Cox jumped into the two airworthy Kittyhawks and took off to bushwhack the reconnaissance plane, which snooped around Port Moresby almost every afternoon at about the same time. While they were scrambling, a quick-thinking RAAF communications officer ordered the radioman on duty to hold down his transmitter key—a simple but effective method of “jamming” the frequency—which prevented Kawai’s crew from reporting the presence of the Australian fighters. The outcome was witnessed by hundreds of men including Steinbinder, who evidently thought the fighters were American: “Our P-40s made 5 passes at this bomber,” he wrote, “before the darn thing finally blew up in mid-air.”

  The twin-engine Mitsubishi not only burst into flames in view of practically everyone on the ground, its meteoric plunge to the ocean was regarded as a miracle. The garrison, having taken the enemy’s aerial punches on the chin for two months without fighting back, went into a frenzied celebration. One exuberant witness was Osmar White: “We onlookers fell on one another’s necks, howling hysterically with joy,” he wrote. “For miles around, men found they had business at the airfield. They came roaring up the road on lorries, cheering and laughing. They stopped, poured out of the vehicles, and stood staring with a mixture of awe and disbelief at the fighters on the ground.”

  The cheers and backslapping continued when the remaining fourteen Kittyhawks arrived. Almost immediately, John Jackson began to plan an attack against the nearest Japanese base, Lae airdrome. Reconnaissance photos taken earlier that day showed numerous planes lined up along the strip, and Jackson was eager to go on the offensive.

  Ten Kittyhawks were available the next morning for the mission. If Jackson had any personal worries prior to his first combat against the Japanese, one may have been the fact that his own younger brother was scheduled to participate. Flight Lieutenant Leslie D. Jackson, nine years younger, was untested in combat but eager to match his brother’s score.

  As the Kittyhawks began taking off, Plt. Off. John LeGay Brereton swerved to avoid a parked Hudson and ran off the runway at high speed. His fighter caught fire and was eventually destroyed, but not before Brereton was freed from the cockpit.

  Now down to nine fighters, Jackson led the attackers in a thrilling climb over the sharp peaks of the Owen Stanley Mountains. As the Kittyhawks weaved among the clouds, backlit by the early morning sun, at least one Aussie pilot was profoundly touched by the splendor of his surroundings. The cumulonimbus clouds resembled “glorious silver mountains” to Flg. Off. John W. W. Piper, who was awed by the vista and yet keenly aware that he would soon be attempting to kill people. To the twenty-four-year-old from Armadale, Victoria, the conflicting emotions were nearly overwhelming.

  After crossing the mountains, the Kittyhawks separated into two groups and dived toward Lae. Peter Turnbull held four fighters overhead to provide top cover while John Jackson led the rest down to strafe the airdrome. His plan worked to perfection, catching the Japanese off guard. The Kittyhawks executed a wide, sweeping turn over the Huon Gulf and attacked from seaward, out of the rising sun. Racing in at low altitude, Jackson and Piper targeted a row of Zeros parked neatly in the middle of the runway. Off to one side, Bruce Anderson, Barry Cox, and Flg. Off. John A. Woods aimed at another row of aircraft.

  Each of the Kittyhawks had six Browning M2 .50-caliber machine guns in the wings. When the pilots pressed the trigger on their control stick, the collective firepower of thirty heavy machin
e guns cut a wide swath down the long rows of parked planes, igniting several blazes.

  After the first pass, Jackson boldly swung his fighters around to strafe the airdrome from the opposite direction. The pilots maneuvered without mishap and roared back down the strip. Blinded momentarily by thick columns of black smoke, they fired into the parked planes a second time, Piper dipping so low that the wing of his Kittyhawk struck the propeller of a Zero. The impact ripped one of the machine guns from its mount and damaged a main structural spar, but the sturdy fighter held together.

  But that second strafing run gave Japanese antiaircraft gunners time to man the batteries, and a pair of Zeros suddenly appeared. Flight Petty Officer 3rd Class Seiji Ishikawa and his wingman of the same rank, Yutaka Kimura, had departed from Lae an hour and twenty minutes earlier on routine patrol. Spotting the slender Kittyhawks, which they mistook for British Spitfires, the two Japanese dived toward the top cover element led by Turnbull. A third Zero, flown by FPO 3rd Class Keiji Kikuchi, managed to get airborne just before the airstrip was turned into a shambles by the strafers.

  Seeing the aggressive Zeros, the Aussies flying top cover shed their belly tanks and engaged the enemy. Turnbull and Flt. Lt. John H. S. Pettit each fired at different planes, yet their bullets seemed to have no effect. Wilbur Wackett discovered that only one of his six guns was working, but he gave chase to a diving Zero without hesitation.

  The son of Sir Lawrence J. Wackett, a pioneer of the Australian aviation industry, young Wilbur may have been feeling invincible after helping to shoot down the reconnaissance plane over Port Moresby the previous day. As he dived after the Zero, now some two thousand feet below him, he all but ignored a second enemy fighter that came into view. This was probably Kimura, who lined up on Wackett even as he maneuvered his Kittyhawk into a firing position behind the leader. A few heartbeats later, Kimura pumped numerous rounds into the fuselage, engine, and cockpit of Wackett’s fighter.