Then a sudden squall moved in, blotting out the moon. Standing in the pouring night rain, the men were given a final address by their commanding officer. He congratulated them on performing their tasks quickly and efficiently. In a little more than 24 hours, he told them, they would carry them out again, this time in actual battle conditions.
Twenty days’ rations were loaded aboard the transports – which was more than enough time, it was believed, for victory to be achieved. Further supplies would be flown in directly to the airstrip at Rabi as soon as it had been captured. It would all be over in a matter of days.
At midday on 23 August, a small ceremony took place on the top deck of the Nankai Maru, in which Commander Hayashi, according to tradition, poured beer for his subordinate officers one by one and gave a greeting, before all joined in a toast to the Emperor and to victory. Standing to attention, the young officers of the SNLF sweated in their uniforms under the burning tropical sun. The token serve of beer – not as cold as it could have been – offered little relief.
Under a low cloud at 0700 the following morning, Monday, 24 August, the convoy, consisting of the light cruisers Tenryu – the flagship – and Tatsua; destroyers Urakaze, Tanikaze and Hamakaze; transports Nankai Maru and Kinai Maru, as well as two small and fast minesweepers, pulled out of Rabaul harbour and headed south.
•
At age 31, Flight Lieutenant Henry Robertson, formerly a store manager from the beachside Melbourne suburb of Brighton, was several years older than most of his counterparts in 75 and 76 Squadron. However, the controls of the larger and slower Lockheed Hudson twin-engine bomber demanded skills markedly different from those of the Kittyhawk fighters. Instead of brief but intense dogfights or strafing enemy positions on the ground, Robertson, day after day, in all weathers, would climb into the sky to undertake reconnaissance patrols lasting many hours, drawing on his reserves of intense concentration and stamina, and requiring the steadiest of hands.
Already a veteran of the disastrous campaign in Malaya, where his 8 Squadron Hudsons were virtually wiped out in the Japanese onslaught, Robertson and his crew of two had arrived only recently in Milne Bay with their flight, which had been detached from 6 Squadron, and it seemed that they’d been in the air ever since. One of his crew, Sergeant Frank Carden, said of Robertson:
He earned the highest possible praise from all at Milne Bay who knew his work – he worked almost to the point of collapse. He was later Mentioned-in-Dispatches but this was a poor reward for his efforts and bravery in those dark days … I admired him and had absolute faith in him as my skipper.
Robertson, in one of only four Hudsons to be split off from 6 Squadron and sent to Milne Bay from their base at Horn Island in the Torres Strait, became renowned for never refusing nor questioning a request to fly, and never reporting as being unable to do so. He performed his duties almost to the point of exhaustion. He would take off in the most atrocious weather, often with dreadful visibility, and fly out over the ocean and the islands, where he and his crew would, hour upon hour, peer through the gloom and act as the eyes of the Milne Bay garrison.
No more capable a pilot could have been guarding the approaches to Milne Bay early on the vital morning of 25 August, as Robertson lifted off from the slippery runway at Gurney for yet another first-light patrol. Following a prescribed course, Robertson flew north, through the endless grey cloudbank, through rain squalls and avoiding the towering clouds of tropical cumulus, in which the updraughts could tear off an aeroplane’s wing as if it were a fly’s.
At 8.30, around 150 miles north of Milne Bay, just to the east of little Kitava Island, Robertson noticed the weather begin to break up, and he climbed through a gap to give himself and his crew a better view. With swollen, red-rimmed eyes, under strict intercom silence, the three men scoured the grey, flat ocean below. Suddenly, ‘Skipper, look!’ broke into Robertson’s headphones. Below, some distance off, spread out in double lines, at least seven ships – some of which, he could see immediately, were cruisers – were steaming due south.
Robertson found some cloud into which to vanish, then widened out to begin a long circle of the convoy, using the cloud cover whenever he could. When sure of his position, he radioed in: ‘Enemy convoy sighted – two cruisers, three destroyers, two transports, heading due south, east of Kitava Island.’ Remarkably, he had remained unnoticed by the Japanese.
It was the moment that Cyril Clowes – and the entire garrison – had been waiting for, or at least had been anticipating with dread. Now, with the invasion imminent, was he able to assume complete command of all Allied men and assets – including the Americans – at Milne Bay. This stipulation had been insisted upon by General MacArthur, who was loath to allow his US service personnel to be commanded by Australians until it was absolutely necessary. Now, that time had arrived.
Robertson tracked the convoy as long as he could, then turned for home as the weather closed in and his fuel ran low. Landing at Gurney Field an hour or so later, he gave a brief report and was told to rest a little while, as his flying for the day was far from over.
At this point, the pilots of 75 and 76 Squadrons were summoned to their rudimentary briefing tent beside the strip to be told that the moment for which they had been waiting and preparing would soon be upon them. Initially, however, the message wasn’t sinking in. A 75 Squadron pilot, Sergeant Roy Riddell, remembered Intelligence Officer Stuart Collie gravely informing them that the Japanese fleet had been sighted approaching the China Strait. ‘None of us moved or said anything,’ recalled Sergeant Riddell, ‘then there was a pause and Collie said, “The China Strait is NOT in China. It is between us and Goodenough Island – just around the bloody corner!” We were a bit more lively after that.’
An hour later, Coastwatchers on Kitava Island confirmed Robertson’s sighting, and Milne Bay’s Kittyhawk squadrons were ordered to launch an attack. But the weather, which had been particularly bad the last few days, prevented their immediate departure. It was not until 1500 hours that twelve Kittyhawks – an even six from both 75 and 76 – took to the air, with the cloud still so thick that the tops of the coconut trees around the airstrip were obscured in white.
In the meantime, the Japanese fleet had closed to within half an hour’s flying time of Gili Gili, just eight miles south of Normanby Island, having turned due west to sail directly through the entrance of the bay. Formating on the single airworthy Hudson bomber – flown, once again, by the tireless Henry Robertson – the Kittyhawks found the Japanese convoy in just half an hour.
For the pilots, however, this was to be an attack like no other, as they had recently all been transformed into makeshift fighter bombers. Under each of their aircrafts’ bellies was slung a single 250-pound bomb, which they were to use against the Japanese ships. The only problem was that none of them actually knew how to do it. According to Flight Lieutenant Jeff Wilkinson:
We were all bombed-up with 250 lb bombs but unfortunately none of us had ever dropped a bomb from a Kittyhawk before. We were told that the only way to do it was to line up the target – go into a steep dive – start pulling out, count to three and pull the lever to let the bomb go.
Not surprisingly, the resulting attack was a haphazard affair. The pilots did their best, but with a cloud base at a mere 1000 feet above the water, the tactic of diving steeply from a decent height was impossible to execute in any case. Making dives that were far too shallow, the pilots yanked at the unfamiliar release handle which had been hastily fitted into their cockpits and hoped for the best.
Flight Lieutenant Nat Gould of 75 Squadron remembered a wall of flak and flame coming up at him from the Japanese ships; it was only by remarkable luck that not a single Kittyhawk was lost. Bombs rained down and straddled the ships, sending up white plumes of water, and a few vessels suffered some damage from near misses, but none severely. Luck, in fact, according to Nat, played a bigger part than any flying prowess. Lining up on a cargo ship with his single bomb in a shallow dive, he ya
nked the lever and released it, then cursed, seeing that he’d missed the vessel completely. Back at the strip, however, CO Les Jackson heartily congratulated him on a job well done.
‘But I didn’t hit anything,’ said Nat.
‘Well, you nearly hit that destroyer,’ Les replied, convinced Nat had at least caused some damage with his very near miss.
‘Destroyer?’ said an incredulous Nat, ‘I was aiming for the cargo ship!’
More damage was probably done after the Allied pilots swung around for a series of low strafing attacks; on the Nankai Maru alone, this accounted for ten casualties.
Several attacks were repeated on the convoy that afternoon, including a heroic bombing run from Robertson and his crew in their Hudson, but as the sun disappeared, not a single ship had been sunk or turned back. This was to be no repeat of the Coral Sea. As night fell, the convoy steamed on into the bay.
Realising the ships were not to be stopped, Clowes relayed the following message to all Allied units at Milne Bay:
Every indication attack by enemy imminent tonight or early hrs tomorrow – Troops will stand-to in battle positions until further notice – Attack may be supported by fire of Warships and Bombers … All localities will be held with the utmost vigour and determination.
Later that evening, Clowes summoned his brigade commanders Field and Wootten, RAAF boss Garing, the chief medical officer and his general staff to his headquarters. Here he laid out the situation as he understood it. Everyone had their orders, he said, and reminded them of the importance of their strategic position, which – for the Allied situation in Papua, the Pacific theatre in general, and the threat to Australia specifically – must be held. The Japanese were to be resisted by every man to the best of his capacity. He wished the assembled men the best of luck.
Filing out of the small room, George Wootten turned to Clowes’ chief of staff, Fred Chilton, and simply said, ‘Fuck them!’
The Japanese were on their way – but where would they land?
CHAPTER 18
BLOOD ON THE WATER
After nightfall had seen off the last of the air attacks against the Japanese convoy, the ships regrouped and resumed their course towards Rabi. Many of the untested troops had been shocked by their first taste of gunfire. On the Nankai Maru, Paymaster Captain Moji was also shaken, having previously experienced high-altitude bombing attacks, but not the low-level terror of the Kittyhawks raking the ship with gunfire before deafeningly roaring away. There were ten dead sailors laid out on the deck under the bridge, including the ship’s chief signaller, who had received a bullet in his abdomen and died instantly.
When calm resumed, welders went to work patching the holes punched into the landing barges by the Kittyhawks’ bullets. Extra rations were distributed to the troops – three meals of rice wrapped in bamboo leaves – and tea was brewed for their water bottles.
At 11 p.m. on Tuesday, 25 August, the sea was calm and misty, with a half moon shedding a feeble light on the shore, which was otherwise dark. Suddenly, the great engines of the Nankai Maru were stilled, and in the deafening silence the ship drifted in the calm, black water. A signal had been received by the lead cruiser, which carried on its bridge a local who could guide the ship through the bay: a former Gili Gili plantation worker from Buna. This, he indicated, was the landing point.
The shrill blow of a whistle was followed by the sound of boots on the metal deck as men clambered up from the holds below, and the soft clinking of rifles and equipment as they assembled on deck. No-one spoke. The landing master on the bridge ordered the lowering of the first barges, and the men, just as in training, descended the short stairway, filling up the barges in an orderly fashion so as not to upset the trim.
Fifteen minutes later, like black shadows, twelve barges carrying the first of the more than 800 men of the 5th Kure and 5th Sasebo SNLF departed for the dim shore. Neither a beach nor a headland could be made out.
Onboard, Captain Moji watched them vanish into the darkness and held his breath, anticipating the sound of gunfire. But as their motors receded, silence reigned once more. In his head, he repeated the words of the orders given for the Rabi operation: ‘At dead of night, quickly complete the landing in the enemy area and strike the white soldier without remorse … smash the enemy lines to pieces and take the aerodrome by storm …’
After a surprisingly short time, the sound of a barge could again be heard, becoming louder as it returned to the ship through the sea mist. All those watching anxiously on the deck leaned over as the now empty boat pulled up alongside. ‘What’s happened?’ a voice called down to the helmsman.
‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘No resistance. First landing company ashore okay.’
Almost in disbelief, the second group now assembled on the deck for their departure. Surely, thought Moji, it could not be this easy? As the barges departed again, a shuttle began between land and shore. Barges packed with rows of helmeted marines headed off into the night, while others, empty, returned.
As more and more of the men were landed, still without any sign of resistance, the relief on the ship was palpable, and something approaching a lighter tone took hold. Then, approaching from the east, Moji’s ear caught the growing note of a different engine. All on board heard it too, and peered into the darkness, towards the open sea. Suddenly, the air was alive with the yellow flashes of gunfire.
•
Having left Ahioma just after midnight, the little flotilla of Bronzewing, Elevala and Dadosee chugged through the dark with some of the men of 16 and 17 Platoon, D Company, 61st Battalion, which had been withdrawn from the eastern end of the bay. The boats hugged the shore as they made their way west towards Gili Gili and safety. On board Bronzewing, which had once been a regular sight on Sydney Harbour, Sergeant Jim McKenzie could not shake the images of those mysterious shapes he had seen at dusk on the water a few hours earlier.
Distributed around the boat were 22 men of the platoon, many sick with malaria. The skipper, a Papuan, had been instructed to steer close to the shore at about 200 yards, making from headland to headland. Following a few hundred yards behind in the Elevala, Major Harry Wiles tried to keep sight of both Bronzewing and the slower Dadosee, cursing the little boat to try and keep up.
As Bronzewing crossed Wanaduela Bay, the skipper rose up on his haunches and peered ahead at something in the semi-darkness. ‘Look!’, he called, pointing. ‘Boats!’
Sergeant McKenzie could make them out too. He turned to the skipper. ‘Whose boats? Ours?’
‘No!’ he replied slowly with a solemn shake of the head.
Along the shoreline, McKenzie noticed what he thought to be the twinkling of lights, and felt something pass over his head. ‘God almighty!’ he shouted. ‘Muzzle flashes!’
All hell now broke loose. The little three-boat flotilla had run straight into the Japanese landing party as it disgorged its invasion army. From behind, Major Wiles later noted that Bronzewing seemed suddenly ‘surrounded by fire’.
Bullets shattered the glass windows and splintered the sides of the boat. Not liking his chances, the skipper jumped over the side. McKenzie took control and steered towards a dark patch of shoreline, knowing that his slow boat stood no chance of outpacing anything on the water.
On the Elevala, Wiles found himself ‘running directly towards two strings of enemy landing craft, one travelling towards the beach … the other moving out’.
Onboard Bronzewing, Private George Thurlow picked up his .303 and began returning fire, but doubled up and fell dead as a bullet ripped into his chest. Another soldier made for a Bren gun on the forward deck but was forced to retreat by a line of intense fire.
Now the landing barges began to pursue them; one of the Japanese destroyers was also bearing down on them, the soldiers aboard firing their weapons. McKenzie put his craft’s nose to the shore and shouted, ‘All overboard for yourselves!’ The Bronzewing was abandoned. Then came the awful rattle of a machine gun as the Japanese commenced sho
oting the soldiers in the water. McKenzie remembered:
I dived deep and swam underwater. Every few times that I surfaced, the noise of gun fire and whack of bullets kept me low. Reaching the beach I scrambled through undergrowth to good cover and then across the road and up a jungle path to high ground.
Half the 22 men on the Bronzewing were killed in the water or captured and later executed by the Japanese. The survivors managed somehow to scramble ashore through the mangroves, swimming as quietly as they could, as any splashing attracted a stream of fire from the Japanese guns. Eventually they slipped away in ones and twos, regrouped and then, heading inland, made their way back to Ahioma. The way forward, along the Government Track to KB Mission and Gili Gili, was now well and truly blocked by scores of disembarking Japanese soldiers.
Following behind the Bronzewing, the Elevala and Dadosee were lucky enough to evade the Japanese, before likewise pulling in at a quiet part of the shore, where, almost under the noses of the enemy, the men were landed and the boats abandoned.
The Dadosee had had its own particular adventure. As she chugged down the bay at dusk with her unreliable one-cylinder engine, a tent fly was hoisted as an extra sail to nudge along their progress. Standing beside Private Kevin Hazell at the helm, Captain Leigh Davidson felt comforted by the presence of a large grey ship – an Australian cargo transport bound for Gili Gili, he assumed – which travelled for a time alongside him.
After passing the ship slowly by, a second vessel then loomed out of the darkness, which Davidson thought odd, as there was only room at the small Gili Gili wharf for one large ship at a time. A voice called out from the lookout at the bow, ‘Look out, Kev – big ship ahead.’ This time the Dadosee passed even closer, directly under the darkened side of the great vessel. Then every man on board felt his blood run cold: Japanese voices could clearly be heard on the deck above them.
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