Turning Point

by Michael Veitch

  CHAPTER 10

  THE PILOTS SETTLE IN

  On 8 August, the now very operational and very crowded No. 1 Strip, which had originally been expected to serve only one squadron, was given the name by which it would be known for the remainder of its existence: Gurney Field.

  Originally from New South Wales, Raymond Charles Gurney joined the nascent RAAF as a pilot in the 1920s, before accepting a job with Guinea Airways, where he became one of New Guinea’s aviation pioneers, famed for his ability to fly into the smallest of airstrips with the biggest of planes, such as the Ford Trimotor and Junkers transports used in Papua at the time. When war came, his knowledge of New Guinea’s terrain made him ideal to command the newly formed 33 Squadron, based in Townsville, and ex-Qantas Short Empire flying boats were hurriedly pressed into service. It was, however, a mission with the Americans that would be Gurney’s last.

  In May 1942, while seconded to fly with the Americans on a mission from Port Moresby to Rabaul, co-piloting a B-26 Marauder, Gurney’s aircraft became separated from the formation, and arrived over the target well after the rest of the squadron had bombed and left. Despite facing the full force of the Japanese air defences around this vital base alone, Gurney and his pilot proceeded with their attack.

  One of the Marauder’s engines was knocked out, and the aircraft headed south to friendly territory, losing height all the way to the Trobriand Islands, where his pilot made the fatal error of attempting a wheels-down landing on what he believed to be flat ground, but which was in fact a swamp. Most of the crew of five survived, but the two pilots were killed as the aircraft flipped onto its back.

  Gurney was buried with honours in Port Moresby, and his name was given to the vital airstrip at Milne Bay, near to where he had lost his life. It remained a fitting tribute to the man throughout the war and beyond.

  On 7 August, Gurney’s spirit and skill could well have assisted some of the pilots of 76 Squadron, who took off from Gurney Field in pursuit of a formation of enemy aircraft reportedly sighted over Samarai Island. No contact was made with the enemy but, somewhat embarrassingly, the five pilots – not all of whom were inexperienced – overstayed their time in the air and ran out of fuel. Brigadier Field, in an act of foresightedness, had arranged for fuel to be delivered to an emergency strip on Goodenough Island – 57 miles to the north, in the D’Entrecasteaux group – for just such a purpose.

  The locally built airstrip was 5 miles inland, rough and somewhat rock-strewn, but all the pilots managed to land unhurt. A six-day rescue mission was then mounted, with a Tiger Moth dropping supplies while local Papuans were employed to cut the kunai grass and tidy the runway so the Kittyhawks could refuel and take off.

  The rescue was attempted on 12 August. One aircraft tipped on the rough surface and crashed, writing itself off but leaving the pilot unharmed. The others decided to cool their heels a little longer until the runway was improved. The damaged aircraft was not wasted, however. In a remarkable effort, it was stripped of all useful parts – including the complete Allison engine, which was tied to poles and carried through mangroves and onto a beach, to a waiting motor boat, Bronzewing, for transportation back to Gili Gili. With the availability of spare parts being just one of many headaches for the squadron fitters, the effort was greatly appreciated. Upon their return a few days later, the pilots of 75 Squadron were given a stern lecture by their CO, Les Jackson, on the importance of watching one’s fuel gauge.

  It was decided that the two squadrons should each occupy a side of the airstrip, with 75 lining up on the left side of the matting, and 76 on the right. Initially, however, it was more than simply a strip of runway which separated the two groups of young men, and the atmosphere was somewhat chilly. Inevitably, friction was generated between those pilots with experience in Europe and those who had fought during the 44-day defence of Port Moresby, each regarding their own battle experience as more important. Some of the men who had flown in England also seemed to be affecting English accents and mannerisms, which galled the others, who responded sharply when given unsolicited advice on aerial combat.

  For their part, the newly arrived pilots from overseas, many of whom had flown the glamorous Spitfire, were irked at having to go back and train for a few hours on an old Wirraway before being allowed to fly the Kittyhawk, an aircraft for which many, initially at least, had little regard. Flight Lieutenant Nat Gould, who had flown with the RAF in England and then in Russia, described the P-40, with its heavier controls, as akin to flying ‘a great big steamroller’, compared to the ‘delicate ballerina’ that was the Spitfire. Later, he would come to appreciate the Kittyhawk’s robustness over the jungle.

  Then, there were the young men – particularly in 76 Squadron – who could boast no combat experience whatsoever, and who felt somewhat like apprentices. According to 75’s redoubtable medical officer, Bill Deane-Butcher, this even extended to the songs the pilots of the respective theatres had picked up, those from Europe having quite a different feel from the Moresby veterans. To counter this, Deane-Butcher led singsongs in the mutual mess tents, where the men of each group had to learn the others’ ballads.

  A novel means – conceived in jest, most likely – was hit upon to differentiate between the men of the two largely identical units: facial hair. Shaving being problematic in the conditions at Milne Bay, a virtue was made out of necessity. The pilots of 75 Squadron, it was decreed, would grow beards but no moustaches, while those of 76 would do the opposite, nurturing the moustache sans beard.

  More significant than all such juvenile rivalries, however, would be the terrible blowtorch of combat itself, the desperate need for mutual cooperation, and the shared experience of living, fighting and dying in this difficult corner of the world, every aspect of which lay far beyond the experience of every man present.

  The climate, too, was a shock for all, but particularly for those with no experience of the tropics. The constant humidity – upwards of 80 per cent – and temperatures which rarely dropped below 30 degrees Celsius sapped energy and challenged morale. The camp for 75 Squadron personnel, such as it was, was situated just a few miles from Gurney Field, but with the dreadful roads, the journey could take hours, the vehicles rocking and bucking hideously on the primitive roads, if not becoming bogged completely. More often than not, men resorted to slogging it on foot.

  Many of the problems faced by the RAAF squadrons at Milne Bay stemmed from the seemingly cavalier manner in which they had been sent there, and the lack of a coherent command structure. Normally, a senior RAAF officer would be authorised to develop strategy and tactics, liaise with the army units, or simply look after the men’s needs, but, bizarrely, it was only after the battle had begun that the RAAF command thought to appoint such an officer, in William ‘Bull’ Garing. Almost nothing in the way of direction was given to the men of 75 and 76 Squadrons at Milne Bay. After proceeding there, they were left to work it out for themselves. The commanding officers, Les Jackson and Peter Turnbull, cannot really be blamed, as they were accustomed to fighting battles according to directed tactics, but not to devising them.

  At one point the situation became almost farcical when a retired wing commander wrote to the director of RAAF Operations, offering his services, but was turned down. Later that month, the CO of RAAF Base Garbutt, in Townsville, Wing Commander Frederick Thomas, was sent up, but only as the Air Liaison Officer to the Army, meaning he lacked any overarching authority. In any case, his attachment ceased on 5 August. Thomas later submitted a report stating that ‘the units … were just haphazardly placed in the area with no central coordinating authority. The result was absolute chaos.’

  Matters such as accommodation and other essential features of life should ‘have really been the job of a small Air Force Command’, Thomas continued.

  [These] were being carried out by individuals with conflicting authority … units of the RSU [Recovery and Salvage Unit] detachment had come from Moresby in a shocking condition … it would appear from the
way they arrived that they had been sent out more for a tropical holiday than ops against the enemy …

  In the circumstances, overall command inevitably devolved to the army and Brigadier Field, but he had no authority to delve into air force matters and would have felt decidedly uncomfortable about doing so. It is to a large extent due to the quality of Field’s – and his successor’s – leadership that an unprecedented level of cooperation was forged between the army and the air force, which ultimately proved an essential factor in the victory.

  First, however, as the army had done on their arrival a few weeks earlier, the men of the RAAF had to come to terms with the elements. As with everyone at Milne Bay, the worst enemy was usually the stinking, ankle-deep mud. For the airmen, it was far more than just an inconvenience, threatening their ability to fly and therefore to fight.

  The Marston mat runway was immensely strong (indeed, pieces of it are still propping up fences in Papua New Guinea today), but its perforated design meant the mud underneath would ooze up, covering the runway in liquid patches often inches deep. One ground crewman likened the sight of landing aircraft to ‘watching high-powered speed boats on a lake’. More dangerous still was the damage inflicted on the Kittyhawks themselves. If not washed off quickly, the mud which covered the aircraft on landing would harden on the wingtips, affecting its aerodynamics and manoeuvrability, and slowing its forward speed considerably. Being a heavy aircraft, the Kittyhawk required a high landing speed as well as a good deal of flap, but these were prone to severe damage from the mud thrown up by the wheels. One fitter recalled spending more time repairing bent flaps than fixing bullet holes inflicted by the enemy.

  To lessen the danger, some pilots would pull their flaps up fully as soon as their wheels hit the runway, making for a faster but riskier landing on the wet and slippery runway. Aircraft could skid wildly for hundreds of yards. Mud smeared Perspex and wheels, bound up brake drums, and found its way into the Kittyhawk’s six half-inch machine guns, causing stoppages and pitting vital parts with rust. Alarmingly, great patches of the runway were observed to be sinking into the mud as the runway’s use increased, prompting the American engineers to improvise a solution: a grader fitted with a rubber strip would scrape the mud off to the sides on a daily, or even twice daily, basis. Later, gravel was graded over the matting in an attempt to settle the slush, but this created the new problem of stones being flung up by the tyres, rattling like shrapnel against the underside.

  Even taxiing the aircraft was a nightmare. The Kittyhawk’s great long nose obscured the forward view of the ground at the best of times, but here, a false turn on the Marston mat could see a wheel slip over the edge and become bogged. Woe betide any pilot who did so, as a serious rocket from the commanding officer for wasting the already exhausted ground crew’s time was inevitable.

  A unique solution to this problem was employed where possible, as photographs of 75 and 76 Squadrons at Milne Bay will attest. To assist with taxiing, two crewmen would climb up and sit at the aircraft’s wingtips, from where deft hand signals could guide the pilot along the narrow lanes to the dispersal areas. At the same time, the men’s bodyweight helped prevent the dreadful bouncing which occurred as the Kittyhawks travelled along the usually uneven surface.

  In July and August, while the elements that would make up the ground battle were still manoeuvring into position, the air war was well underway. From the moment of their arrival, the 75 and 76 Squadron Kittyhawk pilots, as well as the Hudson crews detached from 6 Squadron, began long patrols of the area, ever watchful for the Japanese naval force that was expected to invade at any time. Flying Officer Arthur Tucker, who, a few months earlier, had been a novice during the fight for Port Moresby, was now one of the veterans of 75 Squadron. His logbook records that he began the long trip north from Lowood on 20 July, making his way in stages through Rockhampton, Townsville, Cooktown, then Horn Island and across the sea to Port Moresby – ‘400 miles of drink!’ wrote Tucker.

  On 26 July, along with many fellow pilots, Tucker touched down at ‘Fall River’. As soon as was practicable, the pilots began standing patrols. Tucker’s logbook: ‘August 1 – shipping recco –2.24 hours – 480 miles.’ After the surprise attack by the Japanese on 4 July, more patrols were mounted, with Tucker recording flights of around two hours on each of the next three days. Never had he contended with such atrocious flying weather, details of which he also recorded: ‘August 6 – standing patrol – 24,000 feet – 2.35 hours. Complete overcast. Rain to sea level. Landed with 13 gallons.’

  In an interview recorded several decades after the war, Tucker remarked that, initially at least, there was not nearly as much aerial contact as he had expected. ‘However,’ he said, ‘I don’t think we could emphasise enough how difficult the flying was, even when the Japanese weren’t bothering us.’

  Here is his description of Milne Bay:

  … a strange place, a little like an open-ended shoe box with mountains on one side rising 3000 feet straight out of the water like a wall. In all the weeks I was there, I think [I] only ever saw the tops of those mountains on a handful of occasions. The clouds rose like a sheet to 6000 feet from horizon to horizon.

  Out into the Pacific, the cloud ceiling would rise to 2000 or 3000 feet, but the meteorological conditions inside the bay brought that down to 700 or 800 feet. As the pilots patrolled at more than 20,000 feet, they would look down at the top of the thick layer of cloud and feel decidedly uneasy.

  The aerial battle, when it came, would, they knew, take place beneath that cloud, as the Japanese attempted to attack the airfield and its installations. This would put the Kittyhawk pilots at a grave disadvantage. The only real edge they had over the far more manoeuvrable Zeros was their ability to dive and escape after attacking from above. With low cloud cover, such a tactic was virtually impossible. Any pilot who tried it down there would end up in the sea.

  Now that the Japanese had discovered and attacked Gurney Field, the Allied cloak of concealment was made redundant. Radio traffic was thus permitted, making the lives of the pilots considerably easier – although, as Port Moresby had shown, radios in the tropics proved consistently unreliable.

  Since the strafing on 4 August, however, the Japanese had remained oddly conspicuous by their absence, and the aerial attacks that everyone had expected to now commence on a daily basis failed to materialise. Where, asked every man at Milne Bay, were they? Although they could not know it at the time, more than 600 miles to the east, luck had intervened.

  CHAPTER 11

  SILENT CYRIL

  In the official history of the Australian Army’s war with Japan in New Guinea, published in 1959, author Dudley McCarthy makes a point of footnoting almost every individual serviceman (and one or two women) discussed in his vast and exciting narrative. Whether their part in the great struggle was large or small – be they general or private – each player is given their own minute biography in the form of a footnote at the bottom of the page.

  Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Meldrum, for example, the commanding officer of the 7th Infantry Brigade’s 61st Battalion, which was to play a pivotal role in the Milne Bay battle, is introduced on page 160. At the bottom of the page, a footnote details Meldrum’s service number (QX55238), his date and place of birth (1892, Lanarkshire, Scotland), the unit in which he served during the First World War (2nd Light Horse Regiment), his home town (Balmoral, Queensland) and the various commands of his long career. Curiously, the soldier’s civilian career is also included. In Meldrum’s case, this was ‘Conveyancer-at-Law and Valuer’. One can only think that the author pursued this to emphasise the fact that the forces which defeated the Axis powers of the Second World War were essentially civilian armies, summoned in a moment of terrible crisis, and which then melted back to their former peaceful occupations. To the modern reader, it adds a small dab of colour to the picture of a person’s life.

  A page or so later, we learn of a Private W.C. Whitton (QX36055), a bank clerk of Yeerongpil
ly, Queensland, who was killed in action on 27 August, the first night of the battle. Then there is Warrant Officer 2nd Class D.R. Ridley (QX49636), 29 years old, a builder’s labourer from Brisbane.

  The footnote for arguably the most important figure in the story of Milne Bay, however, is almost unique. Listed beside the name Cyril Albert Clowes, Major General commanding Milne Force and overall leader of all Allied forces for the battle, is much of the familiar information – birth date and place, and so on – but his career is listed simply as ‘professional soldier’. Indeed, it is hard to imagine this quietly brilliant warrior having embarked on any life other than that which he pursued for nearly forty years, spanning two world wars, and which climaxed spectacularly in August and September 1942 at Milne Bay. The author describes Clowes as ‘learned, cautious and taciturn’.

  •

  The doors had barely opened at the Royal Military College, at Duntroon in Australia’s brand-new capital, Canberra, in 1911, when nineteen-year-old Cyril Clowes and his younger brother, Norman, strode in to be counted among the college’s first intake of cadets, along with two other men Cyril would encounter years later in New Guinea, George Wootten and Sydney Rowell.

  As children, the Clowes boys had been inseparable, and caused much amusement as the ‘trotting brothers’ who would run as a pair rather than walk to their school, Toowoomba Grammar, simply as a way of keeping fit. The military was already instilled in their blood. Their father, Albert, had arrived from England and practised as a dentist in Warwick, Queensland, but his passion was the military, and at the time of the First World War he was a major in the local militia, in charge of the Warwick Light Horse.