by Bruce Gamble
The Kittyhawk belched smoke, its Allison liquid-cooled engine mortally damaged. Wackett evaded further harm by diving into a cloud, but the engine quit soon after, leaving him to glide blindly downward. He came out the bottom of the cloud to find himself only a thousand feet above the Huon Gulf—too low to bail out—so he rode the silent Kittyhawk all the way down. Several miles out to sea, midway between Lae and Salamaua, Wackett executed a dead-stick splashdown. Shaken by the watery crash, not to mention the sight of a nearby shark, he inflated his yellow life preserver and swam clear of the aircraft.
Overhead, Bruce Anderson was also in trouble. Sometime during the second strafing run he was hit by light antiaircraft fire or bounced by a Zero. When last seen, Anderson was behind and below John Woods, who was himself no higher than three hundred feet. For a moment Woods thought he was being chased by an enemy fighter but then realized that Anderson was behind him, his Kittyhawk streaming smoke. Suddenly the mottled-green fighter rolled on its side and plunged toward a hill. Woods did not actually see it impact the jungle, but he knew beyond a doubt that Anderson was dead.*
No sooner had the remaining Kittyhawks turned for home than two Hudsons from 32 Squadron attempted a bombing run on Lae airdrome. Neither succeeded—the payload from one hit the water short of the runway while the shackles in the other failed to release—and both aircraft were hit by enemy gunfire. Petty Officer Kikuchi damaged one Hudson, piloted by Flt. Lt. Patrick R. McDonnell. Two crewmen were wounded, but the gunners, in turn, evidently shot Kikuchi’s fighter out of the sky. His death in action was later recorded by the 4th Air Group.
Back at Seven Mile, the men of 75 Squadron were thrilled by the success of their first mission. Against the loss of Anderson and Wackett, the strafers reported the destruction of nine planes on the ground. The estimate was actually low, for once, and the raid earned a tribute from the Japanese in a postwar history: “Virtually the entire contingent of planes (nine Zeros and one land-based attack plane) were strafed on the ground and caught fire, and two Zeros were lost in the air. This was the first Allied raid against a Japanese base in which both fighters and bombers participated.”
Despite the mission’s success, the day concluded badly for 75 Squadron as two more Kittyhawks were destroyed during the afternoon in separate operational accidents. Both pilots were rescued; but with Brereton’s crash on takeoff that morning plus the downing of Anderson and Wackett in combat, the squadron’s accumulated losses came to five Kittyhawks.
The only good news came later with the recovery of Wilbur Wackett, who had staggered ashore barefoot nearly nine hours after ditching his Kittyhawk in the gulf. Friendly natives guided him on a four-day journey through the mountains to the village of Bulwa, where a detachment of New Guinea Volunteer Rifles was camped. Weeks later, sick with malaria, Wackett returned to Port Moresby after crossing the Papuan Peninsula almost entirely on foot. Curiously, Wackett reported that he had witnessed two Japanese fighters falling in flames on the morning of March 22. As a result, Peter Turnbull and John Pettit were each awarded an aerial victory, though Kikuchi’s Zero was actually knocked down by the gunners of a Hudson.
THE DAY AFTER Jackson’s surprise raid, in what was undoubtedly a measure of retaliation, nineteen Type 1 bombers from Rabaul attacked Seven Mile airdrome. The rikko arrived overhead at about 1330 on March 23 and dropped their bombs just as several Kittyhawks scrambled. Two fighters got stuck in the mud, and the rest took off barely ahead of the exploding bombs. Fifty minutes later, four Zeros swooped down and strafed the runway, destroying both of the mired Kittyhawks and damaging a third.
One of the Zero pilots, FPO 2nd Class Kyoichi Yoshii, doubled back for another strafing run. As the Kittyhawk pilots had learned the previous day, the element of surprise usually gave strafers one pass at relatively low risk, but making a second run raised the danger exponentially. The angry gunners at Seven Mile underscored the point. Yoshii’s Zero, hit by ground fire, suddenly made a ninety-degree turn and smashed into a hill. His body, thrown clear of the wreckage, revealed that a bullet had struck him in the head. The Japanese would never consider that a pilot had been vanquished by the enemy; therefore, Yoshii’s death was explained as a deliberate suicide dive into a gun emplacement.
Meanwhile, the Kittyhawks that had scrambled aloft were unable to intercept the fast, high-altitude bombers. The squadron’s first attempt to defend Port Moresby was not merely disappointing but fruitless. Worse, the destruction of the two fighters stuck in the mud brought the squadron’s losses to an unacceptable level.
As a matter of routine, notification of the accrued losses was forwarded up the chain of command to RAAF headquarters. Within hours, the high command granted permission to pull the squadron back to Horn Island if necessary. The choice was left entirely to Jackson.
A former rancher with an affable personality to match his big physique, John Jackson understood the importance of the situation. One way or another, his decision would impact the lives of hundreds, perhaps thousands of Allies. His men affectionately called him “Old John,” partly because he had fought in North Africa, and partly because he was thirty-four, a family man. They trusted him, revered him, which ultimately made his decision easy. Knowing that 75 Squadron had already done wonders for the morale of the beleaguered garrison, and that pulling out would have a devastating effect on everyone, Jackson chose to stay. In electing to face the enemy head-on, he had absolutely no doubt that Port Moresby would be attacked more relentlessly than ever.
THE JAPANESE did not disappoint. During the last week of March the 4th Air Group raided Port Moresby no less than four times. For the airmen of 75 Squadron, the days were filled with alerts and periodic scrambles, some of which developed into heated combat. Two more pilots were killed by the end of the month, and aircraft losses to all causes reached eleven Kittyhawks. Inevitably a few fighters needed significant repairs, lowering aircraft readiness even further. On the morning of March 30, exactly five were available for combat duty.
The Japanese were poised to wipe out 75 Squadron. With just a small measure of additional effort they probably would have accomplished it, but the 4th Air Group suddenly halted operations for several days beginning on March 28. Although the break was temporary, it proved enormously beneficial for the Australians.
The reason for the unexpected hiatus was attrition. During the past month the 4th Air Group had lost seventeen Zeros and six land-attack planes to all causes, including five fighters destroyed in air-to-air combat. The irony was that Rear Admiral Goto did not realize how desperate the situation was at Port Moresby. Although his aircrews claimed to have destroyed fifty-six enemy planes during March (more than the total number of planes the Allies possessed in the region), Goto remained conservative with his attack plans. Just when the Australians were holding on by their fingertips, he gave them a reprieve. As a result, the Japanese missed their best opportunity to knock out Allied air strength at Port Moresby and completely dominate the skies over New Guinea.
CHAPTER 13
New Guinea Interlude
IN AUSTRALIA, SLIGHT GAINS in troop strength were finally being realized as ships from the United States offloaded thousands of personnel at the port cities of Sydney and Brisbane. For many Americans, the long journey had been unforgettable, if only because of the discomforts. The 80th Pursuit Squadron, for example, reached Brisbane after twenty-two days aboard a vintage passenger ship. According to the squadron’s official history, the voyage had in no way resembled a pleasure cruise.
There were approximately 2,500 troops aboard the Maui, which had served as a troop transport in World War I. Living conditions were poor. The men sleeping in the holds attempted to clean their quarters, but the Maui was an ancient craft and its holds defeated their efforts. No amount of scrubbing could remove the odor which clung to the Maui from its former service as a cattle boat… . Water was scarce and showers could be taken only when it rained. Personnel were given the choice of either drinking their daily cup of tea or sha
ving with it; most men preferred to shave with salt water. The shortage of liquids, however, was confined to water, the officers’ bar being well-stocked.
Not all of the crossings were so uncomfortable. Elegant liners brought their share of men and material, such as Queen Mary, converted into a troopship and camouflaged with shades of gray paint. She docked at Sydney on March 28 carrying 8,400 soldiers and airmen, including the ground echelon of the 43rd Bomb Group (Heavy). The group operated four squadrons of B-17s, but the flight echelon was not scheduled to arrive for several months; therefore, the ground troops were assigned to maintenance depots where they fixed battle-weary aircraft and assembled new planes.
Fighters and other relatively small planes were shipped to Australia in crates, whereas most multi-engine aircraft were flown across the Pacific, a hazard-filled odyssey that took days to accomplish. On March 22, the first flight of sleek new Martin B-26 Marauders safely reached Archerfield Municipal Airport outside Brisbane after six days in transit from Hawaii. The following week, the inherent dangers of the ocean crossing were starkly illustrated when no less than three Marauders were lost—at least two due to storms—with only one crewmember recovered. Despite the tragedies, the 22nd Bombardment Group (Medium) was ready to move a squadron of B-26s up to Townsville on March 29 to commence training for combat operations. Three more squadrons would follow as soon as their flight echelons were in place.
At about the same time, 17 officers and 784 enlisted men of the 3rd Bombardment Group’s ground echelon relocated from Brisbane to Charters Towers, an old mining town southwest of Townsville. The group possessed few aircraft until the following week, when a squadron of A-24 Dauntless dive-bombers arrived. Remnants of the Far East Air Force, 27th Bombardment Group (Light), the crews had seen action in the Philippines and Netherlands East Indies. Their senior officer, Lt. Col. John H. “Big Jim” Davies, assumed overall command of the group at Charters Towers and assigned the Dauntlesses to the 8th Bombardment Squadron.
On the last day of March, a contingent of eight A-24s led by Capt. Floyd W. “Buck” Rogers moved up to Port Moresby. Two of the Dauntlesses were damaged on landing, but the crews received an enthusiastic welcome as the first American squadron based in New Guinea. The honor wore off quickly, however, as Rogers came down with dengue fever. One of the A-24s was apparently plagued with mechanical problems, resulting in the availability of only five aircraft for the squadron’s first mission the following day.
Six Kittyhawks of 75 Squadron escorted the five A-24s, led by 1st Lt. Robert G. Ruegg, over the mountains to Lae. Finding the airdrome socked in by clouds, Ruegg swung his dive-bombers south to Salamaua, considered a secondary airdrome by the Japanese. The Dauntlesses dropped five 500-pound general-purpose bombs on the structures adjacent to the runway, reportedly starting fires amid the wreckage. Otherwise damage was limited. On the positive side, no Japanese planes tried to intercept the raiders.
Flying a solo reconnaissance over Lae on the morning of April 4, John Jackson daringly descended to five hundred feet and roared down the strip, strafing planes and men. Encouraged by the results, he decided to lead another fighter sweep against the airdrome that afternoon. Surprisingly, the Japanese had taken no precautions to shelter their aircraft. The five participating Aussies found a row of bombers lined up along the north side of the airstrip, mirrored by another row of fighters on the south. The outcome was all too predictable. Several of the exposed planes burst into flames, sending up columns of black smoke that could be seen from a distance of twenty miles.
Just as predictably, retaliation came the next morning. In a coincidence of numbers, seven Type 1 bombers escorted by four Zeros attacked Seven Mile airdrome and were intercepted by seven Kittyhawks. Les Jackson was credited with shooting down a Zero in flames (the 4th Air Group acknowledged a corresponding loss), but the bombers were successful, blowing up vital stores of gasoline and ammunition.
Despite the aggravation caused by the raid, the general outlook at Port Moresby improved dramatically that afternoon as a steady stream of combat planes landed at Seven Mile. By sundown, the dispersal area was packed with more aircraft than the garrison had ever seen at the airdrome: six B-25 Mitchells, nine B-26 Marauders, six P-39 Airacobras, and three B-17 Flying Fortresses. Judging from the unprecedented number of bombers, it was obvious that something big was about to happen.
For the Allies at that point in the Pacific war, “big” was a relative term. A plan had been devised to attack two locations on New Britain simultaneously: the Marauders and Flying Fortresses would hit Rabaul while the Mitchells pounded the airdrome at Gasmata. Scheduled for the morning of April 6, the dual raids represented the most ambitious event yet attempted from New Guinea. Even the airmen were keyed up. John Steinbinder, back with his regular crew, was uncharacteristically nervous. “Don’t know why, but I feel that this is going to be disastrous,” he wrote in his diary. “I must be getting hysterical or something. I’m afraid I’ve been on the ground too long.”
Trying to grab a few hours of sleep in the oppressively warm night, Steinbinder and his fellow crewmembers stretched out on cots or even on the wings of their fully armed and fueled bombers. They were restless, prepared to take off on a moment’s notice should the Japanese attack, but the night was quiet.
Shortly after midnight the crews were roused from their makeshift beds to eat breakfast and attend final briefings. The B-17s began rolling down the runway at 0200, and the B-26s took off an hour later, the idea being that the Marauders, with their superior speed, would make up most of the difference and hit Rabaul in coordination with the Flying Fortresses. The last to take off were the B-25s, whose target was the airfield at Gasmata.
The dual missions, almost completely overlooked by historians, represented some significant benchmarks. Foremost was the fact that both the B-25 Mitchell and the B-26 Marauder made their combat debuts over New Britain on April 6. The coincidence of the two most famous American medium bombers of World War II fighting their first action on the same day over the same Pacific island has rarely, if ever, been pointed out.
More importantly, at least to the Japanese, the mission on April 6 represented the first attack on Rabaul by Allied medium bombers.
THE SIX MITCHELL BOMBERS en route to Gasmata were hot. Not as in overheating, or fast, but stolen. Or so the legend goes. As of a few days earlier, the 3rd Bomb Group’s only aircraft were the dive-bombers absorbed from the old Far East Air Force. The other squadrons had been promised B-25s for weeks, but none had arrived. The situation improved, however, when someone discovered twelve brand-new Mitchells parked at Archerfield near Brisbane.
Curiously, the bombers wore serial numbers that identified them as property of the Netherlands East Indies Air Force. They were, in fact, the first B-25s delivered out of a contract for 162 Mitchells purchased by the Dutch from North American Aviation. Ferried across the Pacific just before the Netherlands East Indies capitulated, the twelve bombers were regarded as orphans by the 3rd Bomb Group. Following the age-old rule of “finders-keepers,” the group requisitioned them on short notice, and later took four more without authorization, generating numerous tales about how the planes were “stolen” from the Dutch.
The Dutch flags on the B-25s had been painted over by the time “Big Jim” Davies led them toward Gasmata on April 6. To conserve fuel for the eight hundred-mile round trip, each aircraft carried eight 300-pound high-explosive bombs, about half the rated bomb load. Roaring over the enemy airstrip at five thousand feet, three B-25s attacked the northeastern area of the airdrome and placed twenty bombs in the runway area. The other two Mitchells attacked the southeast quadrant, but their bombs were dropped early in the face of heavy antiaircraft fire. At least one B-25 was damaged by shrapnel from an air burst, but no crewmen were wounded and all aircraft returned safely to Seven Mile.
THE FORTRESSES of the 40th Recon Squadron did not enjoy such good results on April 6. The plan called for the B-17s to bomb Vunakanau airdrome ten minutes before
the B-26s arrived over Simpson Harbor, but the concept was overly optimistic. On virtually every previous mission the squadron had encountered a significant problem, either with the weather or mechanical troubles, and this event was no different. Two of the three B-17s turned back for various reasons, leaving Lt. “Dubby” DuBose to press on alone. He made it to Rabaul without incident, flew two dry runs over Vunakanau to coordinate the timing with the expected arrival of the B-26s, and then dropped his bombs on the third pass.
By that time the crew could see enemy fighters taking off. In addition, as navigator John Steinbinder later put it, bursts of antiaircraft fire were “breaking all about,” so DuBose prudently turned toward Port Moresby. The left outboard engine sputtered and quit a few minutes later, making the lone B-17 vulnerable to enemy fighters. The Japanese did not attack, however, and the return flight to Port Moresby was completed on three engines. Upon arrival the crew claimed the destruction of two aircraft parked at Vunakanau, but the Japanese recorded no corresponding losses.
THE FIRST MISSION by B-26s did not fare much better. The crews of the 19th Bombardment Squadron/22nd Bombardment Group, previously based at Langley Field, Virginia, had spent the better part of a year overcoming several glitches with the new aircraft. Designed for speed, the Marauders boasted two of the most powerful aircraft engines currently available, the Pratt & Whitney R-2800 eighteen-cylinder radial. The bomber’s wings were thin and relatively short, prompting wisecrackers to nickname it the “Flying Prostitute.” (As the saying went, the engines appeared to have no visible means of support.)
