by Bruce Gamble
Although most of the plantation owners had evacuated the island, a few courageous individuals stayed behind to spy on the Japanese. Recruited previously into Eric Feldt’s coastwatching organization, they observed the airfield construction from hilltop hideouts and sent trustworthy natives to infiltrate Japanese work gangs. At great risk, the coastwatchers reported each new development by radio, providing Allied commanders with invaluable intelligence about the progress of the enemy airfield. Periodic reconnaissance missions supplemented the coastwatchers’ reports. Photo runs over Tulagi by the former 40th Reconnaissance Squadron (redesignated the 435th Bombardment Squadron in May) commenced on June 18. Three weeks later the “Kangaroo Squadron,” as it was nicknamed, began conducting daily photographic missions over the area. Two Marine Corps officers, Lt. Col. Merrill B. Twining and Maj. William McKean, accompanied the 435th’s mission on July 17. Observing the work on the Guadalcanal airfield, Twining remarked, “I hope they build a good one. We are going to use it.”
Twining knew what he was talking about. Even before the Japanese began work on the airfield, the U.S. Joint Chiefs of Staff had decided on a bold plan to wrest control of the southern Solomons from the enemy. The recent naval battles had revealed that Japan’s vaunted forces could be defeated, and the Joint Chiefs capitalized on the opportunity for America’s first offensive. On July 2, less than seven months after Pearl Harbor, they produced an outline titled “Joint Directive for Offensive Operations in Southwest Pacific Area.” The two-page document named a single objective: the conquest of the Bismarcks and New Guinea.
The plan was ambitious, but the Joint Chiefs broke it down into three separate tasks. The first was the “seizure and occupation of [the] Santa Cruz Islands, Tulagi and adjacent positions”; the second called for the capture of the upper Solomons and the northeast coast of New Guinea; and the third was the occupation of Rabaul and other key positions in the Bismarcks and New Guinea. No timeline was given. The plan would obviously require years to accomplish.
The Joint Chiefs moved swiftly to initiate the first task, named Operation Watchtower. The amphibious assault on Tulagi, initially scheduled for August 1, was delayed six days when the airfield on Guadalcanal was discovered. MacArthur lobbied hard to oversee the operation—the eastern boundary of his area of command, longitude 160 degrees east, cut through Guadalcanal almost precisely at Lunga Point—but he was also dealing with the Japanese invasion of Buna in his own backyard.
As it turned out, the Joint Chiefs already had Admiral Nimitz in mind to command Operation Watchtower. Due to his recent victory at Midway he was a bona fide superstar, not only within the navy but across the entire country. More importantly, he possessed the naval and amphibious forces needed for the offensive, including a division of marines currently being trained at Wellington, New Zealand. Determined to keep the operation a one-man show, the Joint Chiefs arbitrarily moved the boundary of the Southwest Pacific Area to longitude 159 degrees east, thereby placing Guadalcanal and Tulagi within the South Pacific Area (SOPAC), one of three subdivisions of the vast Pacific Ocean Areas under the supreme command of Nimitz.
MacArthur objected vigorously but was pacified when the Joint Chiefs promised to shift command to his jurisdiction for the second and third tasks outlined in the Joint Directive. With that reassurance, he pledged to assist with whatever support he could provide.
It was at this juncture that George Kenney arrived in Australia. After visiting Port Moresby, he discussed with MacArthur the possible roles the heavy bombers could play in the forthcoming operation. Tulagi and Guadalcanal were about nine hundred miles due east of Port Moresby—too far for B-17s with a load of bombs—so Kenney planned to hammer Rabaul instead. He informed MacArthur that he had called a temporary halt to all B-17 missions so that the 19th Bomb Group could make needed repairs and rest its airmen prior to a maximum effort. “When I told [MacArthur] that I planned to put between 16 and 18 B-17s on Vunakanau on 6 August,” Kenney later wrote, “he looked as though he was about to kiss me.”
At daybreak on August 4, The Swoose took off for the United States with General Brett aboard, and Kenney took over as the commander of Allied Air Forces, Southwest Pacific Area.* The following day he flew to Mareeba to impress upon Dick Carmichael the importance of the mission to Rabaul. In his journal, Kenney noted that a B-17 reconnaissance flight over Rabaul that morning had found “100 bombers and fighters lined up on Vunakanau airdrome.”
Oddly, Kenney had recorded an even higher number the previous day: “Information shows Jap concentration of approximately 150 airplanes, most of them bombers, at Vunakanau airdrome.” The source of Kenney’s information is unknown, but the Japanese had nowhere near that many planes at Rabaul. Whether the figures were an honest mistake or one of Kenney’s grandiosities, he hoped to suppress the enemy’s ability to launch counterattacks against the Guadalcanal invasion fleet. Urging Carmichael to have nineteen or twenty B-17s available for the strike, Kenney informed him that he expected his group commanders to personally “lead their groups in action.”
Unbeknownst to Kenney, Carmichael had not complied with his instruction to halt all bombing missions, possibly because Kenney was not officially Carmichael’s boss when he issued the instruction. On August 2, the day after Kenney’s first visit to Mareeba, Carmichael sent five B-17s to attack shipping near Buna. The Fortresses were intercepted by nine Zeros of the Tainan Air Group and jettisoned their bombs prior to reaching the target, rendering the mission useless. That didn’t stop the aggressive Japanese from shooting down one B-17 and damaging another, costing the 19th a valuable Fortress and the lives of nine crewmen.
THERE WAS GOOD REASON for the concentration of aircraft at Rabaul, and it had nothing to do with Guadalcanal. Having recently put a large force ashore at Buna, the Japanese decided to extend their domination over the Papuan Peninsula by expanding southeastward toward Samarai. Unaware that the Allies were developing a new base at Milne Bay, Vice Admiral Yamada sent a reconnaissance plane over the area on August 3. When the rikko crew discovered the freshly built airfield, the Japanese were horrified. The Allies had obviously been working on it for weeks, and to the Japanese the new airdrome posed “a great threat.” Rear Admiral Yamada ordered all aircraft of the 25th Air Flotilla to gather at Rabaul, such that by August 6 he had amassed thirty-two land attack aircraft at Vunakanau, nineteen Zero fighters and one reconnaissance plane at Lakunai, and five flying boats in Simpson Harbor. Yamada’s force also benefited from the arrival of a new air group that same afternoon. Slated to move to Port Moresby after the conquest of New Guinea was achieved, the 2nd Air Group was a composite carrier unit consisting of fifteen new Zero Model 32 fighters (Mitsubishi A6M3s) and sixteen Type 99 carrier bombers. The planes were delivered to Rabaul by the escort carrier Yawata Maru, which launched its full deck-load a short distance from New Britain. Upon landing at Lakunai, the air group was placed under Yamada’s command. At sunrise the next morning, he would send the entire flotilla against Milne Bay.
Meanwhile, from their base at Tulagi in the southern Solomon Islands, three flying boats of the Yokohama Air Group patrolled their assigned sectors on the afternoon of August 6. Due to reduced visibility caused by heavy rain, they failed to detect the American invasion fleet as it approached Guadalcanal.
DURING THE AFTERNOON and evening of August 6, every operational B-17 in the 19th Bomb Group headed for Port Moresby, but Kenney did not get the twenty aircraft he’d hoped for. Due to maintenance issues and recent combat losses, only sixteen were considered operational. Conflicting accounts credit the 28th and 30th Bomb Squadrons with contributing between seven and ten aircraft, while the 93rd Bomb Squadron provided the balance. During the flight from Mareeba to Port Moresby, the B-17 flown by Captain Harl Pease of the 93rd suffered an engine failure less than an hour from New Guinea. Knowing that Seven Mile airdrome had inadequate repair facilities, Pease elected to return to Mareeba on three engines. After a flight of nearly a thousand miles, the malfunctioning B-17 was
right back where it started.
Of all the pilots in the 19th Bomb Group, nobody had a stronger desire to participate in the big raid than Harl Pease. Raised in Plymouth, New Hampshire, the only son of a prominent family, he’d earned a degree in business management from the University of New Hampshire in 1939. He had served with distinction with the 19th since the beginning of the war, but there is little doubt he was troubled by one glaring failure: he had attempted to rescue MacArthur at Del Monte Field in March but was denied the opportunity due to the pitiful condition of his B-17. It didn’t matter that MacArthur blamed George Brett for the screwup, and it didn’t help that practically everyone in the 19th considered Pease one of their best pilots. His name was associated with the failed rescue attempt. Being a part of the great raid on Rabaul would go a long way toward erasing that stigma.
Pease was determined to participate, but all of the 93rd Bomb Squadron’s combat-worthy planes were now at Port Moresby. Nevertheless he looked over the remaining bombers, and one stood out. Bureau number 41-2429, an early model B-17E, wore an unusual camouflage paint scheme and a catchy name: Why Don’t We Do This More Often. Chronologically the bomber was practically new, having rolled off the Boeing assembly line only seven months earlier. But now, because of the rigors of combat, she was an old plane; a relic, beyond war-weary. A survivor of the Philippines, she had flown numerous missions over the past seven months, and her engines were tired. She also had a history of electrical failures and had recently aborted several missions. The squadron’s engineering officer, Lt. Vincent Snyder, had restricted the Flying Fortress from further combat duty.
But 41-2429 also had a redeeming quality—a legitimate claim to fame—and Pease was undoubtedly aware of it. A few days after his own failed attempt to rescue MacArthur, Why Don’t We Do This More Often had carried the general to safety with Capt. Bill Lewis at the controls. The serendipity of finding the bomber at Mareeba was hard to ignore. The old gal was still flyable too; she just wasn’t supposed to go into combat. However, in his capacity as the operations officer for the 93rd Bomb Squadron, Pease didn’t need anyone’s approval to fly the B-17 to Port Moresby. Loading up the crew, which included his copilot, Sgt. Frederick W. Earp of the RAAF, Pease crossed the Coral Sea for the third time that day, and arrived at New Guinea in the middle of the night.
Upon reaching Seven Mile airdrome at 0100, Pease encountered opposition. Vince Snyder, who was piloting a B-17E named Queenie on the mission, objected vehemently when Pease showed up at the proverbial eleventh hour with a “defective plane.” Snyder had a valid argument. Not only had he declared the bomber unsuitable for combat, but an electric fuel pump was now inoperative in the B-17, and Pease’s crew had to borrow a manual pump from Maj. Felix Hardison’s bomber, Suzy-Q.
Seeking an ally, Pease turned to Hardison, the commanding officer of the 93rd Bomb Squadron. Hardison knew that every bomber was needed and agreed to let Pease join the mission. However, when Snyder requested that the newcomer be assigned to the center of the formation for protection, Hardison declined. Individual positions had already been designated, and the B-17s were parked accordingly. That didn’t matter to Pease. He would take the last available slot on the outside of the formation, flying on the wing of his best friend, Capt. Edward M. Jacquet. In the meantime, Pease and his bone-tired crew cared only about resting a few hours before the big event got underway.
At 0730 on August 7, the first Flying Fortress rumbled into the air, but the mission started to go sour almost from the beginning. As one bomber accelerated down the dirt strip, it veered suddenly off the runway and cracked up on a pile of rocks. Miraculously, the bombs did not detonate. The crew, walking away with only minor injuries, reported that a runaway supercharger had caused the airplane to go out of control.
The remaining fifteen bombers formed up over New Guinea without incident. Seated in a 28th Bomb Squadron B-17E, Dick Carmichael led the formation toward Rabaul at twenty-two thousand feet. But soon more trouble cropped up, forcing two B-17s to abort, one with an engine malfunction, the other with electrical failure. The formation had been reduced to thirteen planes, but ironically, Why Don’t We Do This More Often kept pace.
AT DAWN ON August 7, the 25th Air Flotilla was poised to take off for the planned strike against Milne Bay. But the event was suddenly disrupted by frantic, plain-voice radio calls from Tulagi and Guadalcanal. A massive assault by American ships, planes, and marines was underway against both locations. Recovering from his shock, Rear Admiral Yamada sent three rikko to find the American fleet. Shortly thereafter, Vice Admiral Tsukahara transmitted a message from Eleventh Air Fleet headquarters on Tinian, urging the 25th Air Flotilla to “destroy the enemy invasion forces with all its might.” Tsukahara then boarded a flying boat and headed for Rabaul to personally take command of the naval forces in the Southeast Area.
Yamada ordered the units at Vunakanau and Lakunai to shift their targets to the Tulagi-Guadalcanal area. This generated considerable excitement among the aircrews, especially the pilots of the Tainan Air Group. The distance to Guadalcanal was approximately 650 statute miles, and Zeros had never before been called upon to fly such a tremendous distance for combat operations. The fourteen-cylinder Sakae radial engines were thrifty, but the fighters would need every ounce of fuel in their 330-liter detachable belly tanks to complete the mission. For that reason, against established doctrine, the pilots were instructed not to release the tanks prior to engaging enemy aircraft.
Because of fuel consumption, the newly arrived Model 32 Zeros of the 2nd Air Group would not be used for the mission. Some of the improvements in the new version—shorter wings with squared-off tips and a larger, more powerful radial engine—made the Model 32 faster and more maneuverable than its predecessor but at a significant reduction in range. Thus the 2nd Air Group’s fighter component would remain at Rabaul to provide aerial defense.
The Type 99 dive-bombers were another matter. Although they, too, lacked the range to complete the round trip, Yamada decided their offensive potential justified the cost of sending them on a one-way mission. The navy had established a floatplane base in Shortland Harbor, but it was doubtful the dive-bombers would make it even that far on the return trip. Therefore, Yamada ordered the seaplane tender Akitsushima and one of the new Type 2 flying boats to take up positions southeast of Shortland Island, where the carrier bombers were most likely to ditch.
Beginning at 0950, eighteen Zeros of the Tainan Air Group took off from Lakunai, though one later turned back because its landing gear would not retract. Approximately fifteen minutes later, twenty-seven Type 1 rikko of the 4th Air Group roared aloft from Vunakanau, and at 1045, nine Type 99 dive-bombers of the 2nd Air Group took off from Lakunai on what was certain to be their final flight.
By the time the American B-17s approached Rabaul an hour later, the fifty-three Japanese warplanes were well on their way to Guadalcanal.
DICK CARMICHAEL’S thirteen heavy bombers had been pushing northward for better than three hours. After bouncing through the intertropic frontal system and weaving between towering clouds, they found the conditions somewhat better over northwestern New Britain. Visibility improved even more as the formation, still at twenty-two thousand feet, reached the designated Initial Point and turned southeast for the bomb run. Grouped in a V of Vs, with the Fortresses of the 28th Bomb Squadron in the lead, the formation resembled a broad arrowhead pointed toward Rabaul. In the lead ship of each three-plane element, the bombardier hunched over his Norden bombsight. During the fifteen-minute run-in to the target, the pilots “slaved” the autopilot to the bombardier’s control. There weren’t enough bombsights available for every plane, therefore only the lead aircraft of each element carried one. The other bombardiers simply dropped their bombs on the leaders’ cue.
Hoping to avoid early detection, the formation maintained radio silence throughout the flight, but the Japanese had a good warning system in place. The navy operated several radars, including two long-range sets near T
omavatur Mission. Usually working in tandem, they provided 360-degree coverage out to a distance of ninety miles. The radars were augmented by observation posts and listening stations scattered across New Britain, the latter equipped with large, tuba-shaped horns designed to collect and amplify the sound of approaching planes. Given plenty of advance warning, numerous interceptors were airborne when the Fortresses approached Rabaul.
The first Rei-sens attacked just as the B-17s opened their bomb bay doors, several minutes before reaching the drop point. Estimates by American crewmen that twenty fighters intercepted them were fairly accurate. Lieutenant Yoshio Kurakane led fifteen Model 32 Zeros of the 2nd Air Group into action, joined by Johji Yamashita with eleven Model 21 Zeros of the Tainan Air Group. The fighters made effective frontal attacks, spraying 7.7mm bullets and 20mm cannon shells as they slashed between bombers at closing speeds of almost five hundred miles per hour. After diving clear of the Fortresses’ guns, they zoomed back to an advantageous altitude before initiating another attack.
Inside the bombers, gunners spun their turrets or pivoted their hand-held weapons back and forth, squeezing off bursts, trying to fire ahead of the onrushing Zeros. The interior of a Flying Fortress was all metal—a simple framework of aluminum covered by a thin outer skin—which for the crew was like being on the inside of a giant drum. The entire plane shook from the recoil of the machine guns, and the pounding gunfire reverberated loudly. Acrid smoke drifted through the fuselage, accompanied by the clatter of hot brass shell casings against the metal floors. The steady throb of the Wright Cyclone engines and the rush of the slipstream through the bomb bays and gun ports became background noise, punctuated at times by the bang of enemy cannon shells or the eerie zing of deadly shrapnel. Bullets rattled against the outer skin and buzzed through the fuselage with the sound of angry bees. Men cursed and ducked instinctively at the near misses, or grunted softly when their bodies were torn by unseen objects traveling almost the speed of sound.
