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

by Bruce Gamble

  Yamamoto later revised the timetable, saying he could “run wild” for six months to a year, but even that was overly optimistic. Exactly 150 days after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the Imperial Navy was stopped cold in the Coral Sea. The Southern Offensive had been blunted.

  Of even greater importance, the Japanese remained unaware that their JN-25 code had been compromised. They also failed to recognize the outcome of MO Operation for what it truly was: a warning.

  CHAPTER 16

  Guests of the Emperor

  A WEEK PRIOR TO THE CLASH in the Coral Sea, the Imperial Navy took control of the POWs in the Malaguna Road stockade. The prisoners seemed to think they would receive better treatment from the navy than their army overseers had given them, but not everyone benefitted. Flight Officer Allan Norman and his Catalina crew, captured on May 4, were held by the 8th Base Force, responsible for the interrogation of new prisoners. Based on postwar evidence, the treatment of Norman’s crew was much more brutal than the Lark Force soldiers and interned civilians had experienced.

  In the aftermath of the Coral Sea battle, the main stockade was quiet for a few weeks. But in late May, the POWs were surprised to see Alfred A. Harvey, a plantation owner, brought in for questioning. Also arrested by the Japanese were Harvey’s wife Marjorie, their eleven-year-old son Richard, Mrs. Harvey’s brother, James S. Manson, and William H. Parker, a close family friend.

  The small group was isolated from the main population, according to David Hutchinson-Smith: “The Japanese herded them in a small room opposite the guard house and allowed them out only to have ulcers dressed or to visit the benjo, and then only under close guard. They were not supposed to speak to anyone, but the lad was allowed out now and then and played ball with the guards, with whom he was apparently a favorite.”

  A few days after their arrest, the family was accused of espionage. The formal charge stated that they had “communicated with the enemy by radio telegraphy and fires,” but no other details were provided. Alfred Harvey, who went by “Ted,” had been a coastwatcher in 1940 and was issued a special crystal for his two-way radio. But early the following year the intelligence organization decided that the location of his radio was unsuitable and withdrew the crystal, telling Harvey his services were no longer required. Apparently this did not sit well with the fifty-seven-year-old planter. Ignoring repeated warnings from his superiors to stay off the air, he continually broadcast “all sorts of silly reports to Port Moresby” on commercial frequencies.

  Harvey was probably his own worst enemy. Neither he nor his family represented any sort of threat to the Japanese, but the Kempeitai were constantly hunting for “Europeans” and two-way radios. In late March, the Imperial Navy established a Minsei-bu (civil administration bureau) to bring New Britain’s native population under Japanese control. Thereafter, islanders were bribed or cajoled into revealing the locations where their former white “mastas” were hiding in the jungle. It was only a matter of time before the Harveys were betrayed.

  Vice Admiral Inoue personally got involved in the case, convening a formal court martial to put the Harveys on trial. The proceedings were held in a vacant building in Chinatown with Capt. Shojiro Mizusaki, the commanding officer of the 81st Naval Garrison Unit, serving as president of the tribunal. Three other naval officers were named as prosecutors, but no legal representation was provided for the defense of the accused.

  During the so-called trial, the Harveys underwent intense questioning for three days. An interpreter assisted them with presenting their answers, but the verdict was preordained. Found guilty of espionage, all five civilians were sentenced to death. Inoue approved the findings and passed the order for their execution down the chain of command to Captain Mizusaki, who, in turn, instructed his adjutant to “dispose of them by shooting.”

  On the appointed day in early June, the condemned Australians were placed aboard a truck that took them from Rabaul down the coastal road to Crater Peninsula. Not far beyond Lakunai airdrome, the vehicle stopped near the foot of Tavurvur volcano.

  It was a desolate, foul place. A nearby pit called the “Malay Hole” had served as Rabaul’s dumping ground for years. The air, already ripe with the stench of garbage, was further polluted with the rotten-egg smell of sulfur. No vegetation grew near the volcano, and the soil, consisting mostly of soft ash and pumice, was easily excavated. It was an ideal location for a burial ground, which was exactly why the Japanese selected it for a crematorium and “war cemetery.”

  A number of naval officers, including Mizusaki and his adjutant, Lt. Yoshio Endo, were already waiting at the site. They watched as sailors got the family down from the truck and lined them up in front of a pre-dug hole. Three other sailors, armed with rifles, were reportedly dejected at having to carry out the execution, especially against the likeable boy, Richard. “I remember hearing some seamen say it was a really miserable scene,” recalled a member of the garrison unit. He believed it impossible that “a young boy could be guilty of any crime.”

  Richard stood between his parents, who held hands as the master-at-arms shouted commands to the firing squad. When the shots rang out, Richard became the youngest Australian executed during World War II. The firing squad was not dismissed until Manson and Parker were killed, after which a work party of native laborers backfilled the common grave.

  AS THE NUMBER of bombing raids on Rabaul intensified, so did the consternation of the Australians held captive in the Malaguna Road stockade. Although no bombs had yet struck the camp or nearby work sites, every attack raised the possibility of a disaster. “The air raids, reconnaissance, bombing and strafing caused us no little worry,” recalled Hutchinson-Smith. “There were 86 raids by the [Allies] during our stay and many a sleepless night we had when there was a bomber’s moon.”

  A few months earlier, the POWs had been surprised when the Japanese granted permission to write letters to their families. It was an unusual offer, the more so because the Japanese promised to deliver the mail during a regular bombing attack on Port Moresby. The prisoners happily obliged, knowing their loved ones would find comfort in hearing that they were alive. Chaplain John May considered it a “remarkable gesture” on the part of the Japanese, but the captors almost certainly had ulterior motives. For one thing, they never revealed the existence of the POW camp to the International Red Cross. Therefore, the letters likely served as a tool for informing the Allies that hundreds of Australians were in close proximity to military targets. To carry the logic one step further, the Japanese themselves would benefit if the Allies decided to restrict the area from future attacks.

  The letters were dropped in khaki-wrapped bundles over Seven Mile airdrome on the morning of April 28. Each bundle wore a long streamer with instructions in English for delivery: “Any person who has received this package is cordially requested to send it over to the Army Headquarters of Port Moresby.” Unfortunately, several bundles overshot the airdrome and were lost at sea, but four parcels with a total of 395 letters were delivered to headquarters and then forwarded to Australia.

  Interestingly, the Allied response was to bomb Rabaul even harder than before, and one of the clearly visible targets was regularly identified as a “military camp.” No apparent effort was made to minimize the risk to the POWs. As time wore on, the prisoners came to dread the raids for two particular reasons. The first was fear of being killed by their own side; the second was disgust with the deplorable condition of the bomb shelters.

  For months, the benjo buckets (clay pots used as toilets) had been emptied into bore holes scattered around the stockade. Eventually every available space was tapped, including the parade ground. Torrential rains frequently backwashed raw sewage into low-lying areas of the camp, including the bomb shelters. Whenever the air raid sirens went off, which happened often, the prisoners were understandably reluctant to jump into the shelters.

  Some men preferred to watch the air raids rather than take cover. The Marauders typically roared in low and fast, and we
re greeted by a hailstorm of antiaircraft fire. Hutchinson-Smith, an expert in the principles of artillery, often laughed to himself at the antics of the Japanese.

  We had a good demonstration at noon one day when we were working on a ship in the middle of the bay. Without warning, a [bomber] came in over Vulcan at about 2,000 feet. He flew on a straight course at that altitude, and did the [Japanese] let go! There were men firing rifles and revolvers, heavy machine guns, light machine guns, and multiple pom-poms. The noise was terrific and when the heavy AA opened up the air vibrated; but on he went, passing over Namanula Ridge. As he did so, the after gun on a transport near our ship came into action. First the gunners forgot to remove the muzzle cover, had perforce to depress the gun to remove it, and then had to re-lay all over again. They were running around the gun chattering like monkeys and tripping over themselves. Finally when they were ready to fire, they depressed too far, fired a good 1,500 feet below the plane, and the blast blew away the front of their sandbag protection.

  Even if a plane came over at 15,000 or 20,000 feet it would be the same performance, with everyone firing furiously. The amount of ammunition they wasted each time must have been colossal, and at night the pyrotechnics were well worth getting out of bed to see.

  Two other POWs who quietly cheered the B-26s were Theron Lutz and Sanger Reed. The two Marauder crewmen were not interned in the main camp but instead found themselves in a separate enclosure surrounded by wire. “We never saw any other soldiers around except the guards,” recalled Reed. “We were not in a big camp.”

  At first Lutz and Reed had the small Kempeitai compound to themselves, but after a few days they were joined by an Australian fighter pilot, Sgt. David S. Brown of 75 Squadron. Twenty-five years old, Brown had joined the squadron as a replacement fresh out of the training command. He was barely accustomed to the high-performance Kittyhawk (and in fact had already “pranged” one in a landing accident at Townsville), when he flew his first combat mission on April 11. While escorting an A-24 strike on Lae that morning, his fighter was disabled by intercepting Zeros. After bellying in on a tidal flat near Salamaua, Brown was taken prisoner and sent to Rabaul for interrogation. No doubt the Japanese were eager to learn more about the “British” squadron that was giving them so much trouble.

  During the next few weeks the Kempeitai repeatedly singled out Brown, Lutz, and Reed for interrogation. Recently promoted from buck private, Reed could rightly claim to know almost nothing of interest to the Japanese. “At that time I looked about sixteen,” he added. “I played dumb, and I really was dumb.” The Kempeitai tried intimidation, including threats of execution, but it didn’t work on Reed. “I remember one time having a sword held at my throat and being told, ‘You lie,’ and I was lying. I thought that I had had it then but I just shrugged my shoulders and stuck to my story and got away with it.”

  To the frustration of the Kempeitai, Reed successfully maintained his facade of youthful ignorance. Lutz, on the other hand, told them plenty. But he was also clever. When the Japanese compiled the information given by the two Marauder men, the results looked important. In fact, the intelligence was considered so valuable that a report was “telegraphed immediately to Imperial General Headquarters.” Actually, most of the contents were outdated or misleading. For example, the prisoners apparently stated that there were about two hundred P-39 fighters in Australia. This was fairly accurate if the P-400 export model was included, but while one captive claimed there were 150 of them in Townsville, the other said the fighters were scattered across the continent. The contradictory information served no real purpose.

  Similarly, the report to Imperial General Headquarters listed “approximately 30 P-40s in Sydney and Melbourne, 36 bombers (B-26) in Townsville from the 22nd Bombardment Group, also 15 B-17s in Townsville.” At first glance it would seem that Lutz had provided the enemy with sensitive information, but in reality he gave the Japanese figures having no permanent value. Lutz also talked at length about the 22nd Bomb Group’s journey to Australia from the West Coast. The information was of great interest to the Japanese, but it was actually yesterday’s news. Lutz also gave the Kempeitai false information, such as the notion that 150 P-39s would be attached to the 22nd Bomb Group.

  If Lutz’s intention was to give up just enough important-sounding information to keep himself and Reed alive, he succeeded brilliantly. First, he revealed nothing truly vital, such as intelligence about Port Moresby or the capabilities of the Marauder. More importantly, Imperial General Headquarters was so impressed with the information that Lutz and Reed were transferred to Japan. About three weeks after their capture, the two crewmen were put into a small boat that took them out to what Reed later described as an “aircraft carrier.” This was almost certainly the former liner Kasuga Maru, converted into an escort carrier, which had arrived at Rabaul on May 7. The airmen were informed that the ship would take them to Japan, but a short time later sirens and whistles sounded throughout the ship, and the POWs were quickly escorted ashore. No attack came, but it was obvious the Japanese were taking no chances due to the battle taking place in the Coral Sea.

  Lutz and Reed spent three more weeks in the Kempeitai compound before another attempt was made to move them. On May 26 they boarded the merchant ship Naruto Maru, which had arrived four days earlier with a load of ammunition. The two Americans saw Sergeant Brown on the wharf, but he did not board the ship with them. Naruto Maru departed for Japan later that day and docked at Yokohama after an uneventful week at sea. Lutz and Reed faced an uncertain future in Japan, including months of harsh interrogations at a secret intimidation camp run by the Imperial Navy. But both men survived the duration of the war and would learn years later that they had been most fortunate to leave Rabaul behind.

  TWO DAYS PRIOR to the departure of Lutz and Reed, Marauders appeared over Rabaul for the last time. Six were scheduled to take part in the attack on Vunakanau airdrome, but in a familiar reprise, half of the assigned bombers either failed to get off the ground or turned back because of mechanical trouble. Only three aircraft of the 408th Bomb Squadron reached Rabaul on the morning of May 24, and they found much of the Gazelle Peninsula obscured by a layer of clouds. Locating a hole in the overcast, the trio dived down and attacked Vunakanau out of the northwest at just 1,500 feet. Heavy, accurate flak damaged two of the three B-26s over the target area, but they dropped their bombs and caused considerable damage of their own, burning down the Genzan Air Group’s headquarters and damaging four land attack aircraft, one of them severely.

  Although there was no interference from Japanese fighters, 1st Lt. Harold L. Massie realized within minutes that the right engine of his B-26, Imogene VII, had been mortally damaged. Feathering the prop, he kept the Marauder in the air long enough to reach Wide Bay. Once again the B-26 proved difficult to ditch on just one engine—the landing speeds were simply too high. Imogene VII hit the water hard, and two enlisted crewmen went down with the wreckage. The six survivors, helped to shore by native villagers with canoes, suffered an assortment of injuries. Corporal Dale E. Bordner, the radio operator, was unconscious; 2nd Lt. Marvin C. Hughes (navigator) lay in a native hut with a deep gash in one leg and cuts on his feet; Staff Sgt. Jack B. Swan (photographer) had a broken shoulder. The other three—2nd Lt. Eugene D. Wallace (copilot), 2nd Lt. Arthur C. King (bombardier), and Massie—had sustained an assortment of cuts and bruises.

  What truly dismayed the survivors were the things they lacked: food, weapons, and adequate clothing. They had no flashlights, no matches, or any of the simplest tools for survival. All the men except Gene Wallace had discarded their shoes or boots in the water. For six men with one pair of shoes, the odds of survival were not just grim, they were downright alarming.

  As the Marauder men would soon discover, the jungle would not feed them despite its lush growth. Eric Feldt, the director of the coastwatching network, likened the jungles of the Southwest Pacific to “a desert,” and he had the collective experience of twenty years in the
islands to prove it. “At its best,” he wrote, “the food the jungle can supply is only enough to sustain life, and under a prolonged diet of jungle food, mental and physical vigor decline until there is no ability left to do more than barely support life itself.”

  The survivors’ one stroke of luck was that they came ashore in Wide Bay, where some of the native villages still showed allegiance to their former white mastas. Learning to communicate with the natives using Pidgin English, the flyers heard about a man who looked like them and lived “nearby.” Wallace had the shoes, so he hiked for three hours with native guides to meet Father John Meierhofer, a missionary from Salzburg, Austria, who ran the Roman Catholic mission at Kalai. Months earlier he had stubbornly refused to help the soldiers of Lark Force, but now he gave Wallace some disinfectant and bandages and told him about another white man who might help.

  After three days’ rest it was Massie’s turn to set out. He was gone for two weeks but succeeded in locating Leslie John Stokie, thirty-nine, a hardy transplant from Victoria who had lived on New Britain for many years as a plantation manager and a territorial police officer. Returning to Wide Bay, Massie learned from the headman of the local village that food was running low. The Americans began a series of moves between other villages and John Stokie’s hideaway, dividing themselves into small groups to lessen the demands on their hosts, never staying too long in one place. Gradually they worked their way inland, intending to cross New Britain at its narrowest point, the twenty-mile neck separating Wide Bay on the south coast from Open Bay on the north. Unfortunately the native foot trails became strenuously steep in the island’s interior. They also passed through the domain of a mysterious warrior tribe, the Molkolkol, rarely seen but widely feared for their stealth and ferocity. Meanwhile the castaways were gradually becoming weaker. By late June they were on the verge of collapse, both physically and emotionally, and within a few weeks only two men still had the strength to walk. On July 27, Massie and Art King journeyed northward alone, hoping to find Stokie, but that was the last their crewmates saw of them.