Kakimoto, meanwhile, watched his oil pressure drop to dangerous levels, and his engine began to run rough and overheat. Putting as much distance between himself and the hornets’ nest of the Allied airstrip as he could, he successfully put his Zero down on the water and began to swim for the nearby shore.
At this point, two of his fellow Zero pilots, apparently more determined to prevent a downed aircraft from falling into the hands of their enemy than with protecting their own hides, came in to make a series of low and slow strafing attacks in order to sink it. It proved no easy task, and in their repeated attempts to scuttle it, they remained oblivious to Roy Riddell and Squadron Leader Les Jackson, who were prowling above them.
‘Les and I were up at about 1500 feet, [and] the Japanese were just above the water,’ said Roy. Knowing this was the ideal – indeed, the only – method of tackling a Zero with the odds in your favour, the two pilots swooped. ‘Les picked one,’ added Roy, ‘[and] I picked the other.’
Caught unawares at the top of their climb, the two Zeros were simultaneously hit from behind. ‘They were so busy trying to demolish the plane below they didn’t see us. I hit him from about fifty yards, and he got the lot. They both went straight into the water. We were lucky.’
This time, Roy allowed himself to enjoy the victory. ‘I’d been shot at myself over the last few days,’ he said. ‘I remember hitting the button and letting out a great yell of delight.’
Having survived the crash and made it to shore, Kakimoto was then forced to watch the deaths of his two colleagues and was then captured by local villagers, who presented him to the Australians tied to a bamboo pole. Kakimoto was forced to endure the humiliation of captivity for two years, before leading the famous Cowra breakout in August 1944, in which he committed suicide rather than be recaptured.
In all, the Japanese had lost four Zeros and two Val bombers in this single engagement, for the loss of just one Australian, Flight Sergeant Munro. His remains would not be recovered for another year, in the hills 2000 feet above the Hagita Mission. The wreckage of his Kittyhawk, A29-108, was lost, not to be rediscovered until 1988. Curiously, as had occurred with Albert McLeod’s Kittyhawk, part of the undercarriage of an aircraft that was not a P-40 was also discovered. One can only speculate that yet another Kittyhawk pilot had managed to take one of his enemy with him.
Two of the Zeros had been brought down by anti-aircraft fire, and the others by the guns of Roy Riddell and Les Jackson. It had been a disastrous day for the Japanese airmen, with little damage to the enemy to show for it. For the Kittyhawk pilots, however, it was very far from over.
•
Having spent the previous day on the ground, 25-year-old Squadron Leader Peter Turnbull was eager to get back into the fight. Though a quiet man – some in the squadron went so far as to describe him as ‘mysterious’ – Turnbull was a natural leader, and seemingly devoid of physical fear. In the Middle East with 3 Squadron he had flown over 100 operational sorties, become an ace and earned a Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC), for which the citation mentioned, among other things, his ‘magnificent fighting spirit’.
The strain, however, was beginning to tell. Every day, tens of thousands of rounds were being fired by the endless circuit of Kittyhawks, which would land, refuel and rearm, then take off to attack again. Every available man – cooks, guards, orderlies – worked endlessly to reload the aircraft ammunition belts, which the armourers would then pack into the wing boxes and rush back to the aircraft. Bill Deane-Butcher, 75 Squadron’s doctor, summed up the atmosphere in his memoir, Fighter Squadron Doctor:
During this intense flying period the living conditions were appalling. Rain was heavy and our unwashed clothes were constantly wet. With no laundry or showers we were dirty and miserable. Pilots kept flying regardless of diarrhoea and shivering attacks. Tents leaked and there was mud underfoot even in the tents.
The diet of bully beef and biscuits was relieved only when one aircraft demolished a cow! Cooks converged from nowhere to claim fresh meat from the unfortunate beast.
Despite being marked by HQ with ‘Operational Tiredness’, and being overdue for an extended rest from flying, Turnbull led the early-morning patrol on 27 August, and was lucky to escape unharmed when surprised by the Japanese Zeros on landing. When things had calmed down somewhat, he heard reports from other pilots who had spotted troop movements heading towards KB Mission, as well as the two enemy tanks. Roy Riddell clearly remembered taking some shots at them, recalling that their odd yellow-green camouflage in fact made them highly visible.
In the late afternoon, amid the urgency of the building Japanese attack, Turnbull decided to mount one last sortie in the fading light. Only two Kittyhawks took to the air: his own and that of his wingman, the experienced Flight Lieutenant Ron Kerville, an excellent pilot who Turnbull knew was skilled enough to handle a landing on the difficult strip, even in poor light.
Turnbull was cheerful as they prepared to take off, giving Ron a slap on the back. ‘Don’t worry, old chap,’ he said. ‘If your engine conks out, just swim for it!’ As he was being strapped in, he quipped to his ground staff: ‘Well, boys, if I don’t come back, tell my mum my last words were “Stuff the air board!”’
The two Kittyhawks roared down the runway into the early dusk, creating the usual spray of muck in their wake. Making a wide arc, Turnbull patrolled down the coast towards KB Mission, while Kerville provided cover above. As usual, visibility was poor, and the trees hid almost everything from view, but just as the light began to fade, Turnbull spotted one of the tanks as it broke cover making its way up to KB Mission. He banked and made a low, strafing pass, opening up on the tank from just 600 feet. His orange tracer lit up the gloomy sky and bounced off the steel surface of the tank, the shells ricocheting crazily.
Then, when he was almost level with the treetops, Turnbull’s aircraft made a sudden brief, near-vertical climb, flipped over and vanished into the jungle below. Watching in horror from above, Kerville made a desperate call over the radio/telephone. ‘Red Leader’s down! Red Leader’s down! Christ! Ground fire, I think. They got him!’ There was no fire and no explosion; the aircraft simply vanished, swallowed up by the canopy of green.
After the war, Kerville recalled the event:
Turnbull carried the dive very low and his aircraft, during the recovery, turned over, hit the trees and disappeared into the dense undergrowth. I called up on the radio in the hope that perhaps he was not badly hurt – but unfortunately he was killed.
There was conjecture for some time as to the cause of Turnbull’s crash. When his aircraft was found a week later, it was seen to have carved a 100-yard gash across the jungle floor, the trees wrenching off the propeller, radiator, windshield and part of one wing. Turnbull’s body was strapped upright in the cockpit, but no bullet holes were found, either in him or the aircraft. It seemed that, brilliant pilot though he was, Turnbull, exhausted, had misjudged his height, possibly clipped a tree and pulled up too quickly into a high-speed stall, transforming the aircraft into little more than a mass of falling metal.
Back at Gurney Field, the loss of Turnbull was received with shock, the ground crew and airmen waiting vainly in the dark for any sign of a miracle. A distraught Keith Truscott had to be restrained from taking off to strafe the Japanese in the dark. When he had calmed down, leadership of the squadron passed to him.
A week later, 76 Squadron’s medical officer, Norm Newman, buried Peter Turnbull beside the beach. A machine gun from his aircraft, Kittyhawk A29-92, is on permanent display at the Australian War Memorial.
Later, in a letter to Peter Turnbull’s mother, Ron Kerville gave an account of her son’s death:
It was just about dusk when we took off together to attack a Japanese tank located on the roadway right on the shore of Milne Bay. Peter was in good spirits as we talked over the method of attack and as we flew out to locate the target he told me exactly what to do if my engine failed – ‘Hop out old boy and swim for it.’
He was really happy to be flying again after a few days on the ground. He told me to keep top cover – watch his attack and then follow him in. As I did so, I saw his aircraft dive from about 600 feet and from about 500 yards out to sea. His guns opened fire in a long burst – tracer could be seen flying in all directions from the tank and I could not tell whether it was return fire or Peter’s own fire. He carried the dive very low and his aircraft during the recovery turned over, hit the trees and disappeared into the dense undergrowth.
I called up on the radio in the hope that perhaps he was not badly hurt – but fortunately he was killed instantly, for which we were all thankful as the target was 400 yards inside enemy territory. The thought of him being in Japanese hands at that stage of the struggle was not a pleasant one. Although he passed on, I assure you Peter’s spirit still lives in the squadron of which he was so proud – we will never forget him.
CHAPTER 24
THE FIGHT FOR KB MISSION
At KB Mission, the men of the 2/10th Battalion had fanned out and searched its 200 acres as best they could. Many were intrigued to inspect the bodies of Japanese soldiers killed in the skirmish with Bicks’ men the night before. Some were surprised at the standard of their uniforms, which were well made, with padded helmets sporting the Japanese naval anchor signifying them as marines. Many had leather water bottles – some filled with tea – and neatly rolled puttees around their ankles. Some Australians expressed their surprise at the apparent height of their enemies, having expected to encounter shorter, scruffier men.
In the weakening light, Dobbs now took command of even the smallest detail of the defence, spreading his men in a rough perimeter around the few buildings, cleared areas and small rubber and coconut plantations of the mission compound, personally selecting not only all the defensive positions but also, in many cases, the individual soldiers who would occupy them.
When some pointed out that there were no tools with which to dig in, Dobbs pointed at the many sturdy coconut trees and stumps behind which they could take shelter. At one stage, he mused to a private that the coming battle could well become ‘another Tobruk’, referring to the epic eight-month siege in North Africa the year before, in which he had played a part.
Somewhat more concerned with the here and now, the men attempted to scoop out the ground using their tin helmets, but found it in most places to be an impenetrable mesh of vines and runners. Battalion adjutant Captain Theo Schmedje was moved to voice his concerns. ‘I don’t think we’re in the right position for defence, sir,’ he told Dobbs. ‘We are in the killing ground.’
‘I appreciate that but we have to get into position quickly as I think an attack is developing,’ replied Dobbs.
A reluctant Schmedje had no choice but to accept the decision.
Finally relieved, Captain Bicks could at last withdraw his exhausted men of the 61st Battalion back along the track towards the next Australian strong point of No. 3 Strip. As darkness set in, they struggled through mud that was at times thigh-deep, each man having to hold onto the equipment of the man in front to make their way.
Coming in the other direction, the tail end of the 2/10th made their way towards the mission, the sound of squelching footsteps punctuated by the clanking of rifles and equipment. Occasionally a small torch or match would cast a ghostly pall of light on the passing faces. In the gloom, the two columns of warriors exchanged greetings – ‘Good onya mate … Well done, Dig … Give it to the bastards …’ as one headed back to safety and the other moved up into battle.
The 435 men of Dobbs’ four stripped-down companies were arranged defensively in a rough oval shape, intersected by the Government Track, with Dobbs’ battalion HQ in the centre. On the beach side of the track, facing the expected direction of the Japanese attack, was Captain Brocksopp’s C Company, with Miethke’s B Company beside him on the mountain side. Behind them, A Company and D Company held the rear, under Captains Sanderson and Matheson respectively, with instructions to cover any withdrawal, and to counterattack if an opportunity presented itself.
As it had been impossible to dig any defences, men huddled with their machine guns and rifles in twos and threes around the bottom of coconut and rubber trees, or dispersed among the bushes. A line of shallow drainage ditches cut through the mission to the sea, and these too were occupied by men.
Captain Schmedje spent his time reconnoitring various paths of retreat, should the position – as he grimly suspected it would – prove unable to be held.
Two patrols were sent out east along the Government Track with the double task of determining the movements of the Japanese and locating Turnbull’s crashed aircraft, but in the failing light nothing was seen. The final order passed around to every man was, first and foremost, not to move, under any circumstances. In the 2/10th Battalion’s history, Purple and Blue, Lieutenant Colonel Frank Allchin recalled, ‘This being the unit’s first experience of a night operation in the jungle, orders were firm that there must be no movement after dark, nor during any fighting, unless along a route that was clearly defined … any other movement could be presumed to be enemy movement.’
Captain Miethke remembered it somewhat more bluntly: ‘Dobbs said that anybody who moved would be shot at, in case it was a Jap.’
A soft, drizzling rain set in as the men huddled in their positions on the ground. Wrote Allchin: ‘The men were quiet and doubtless some seized the opportunity to sleep.’ Others kept watch. No smoking was allowed. Minimal talking was permitted, but in any case, no-one felt like chatting.
At around 7.30 p.m., in almost pitch dark, the rumble of an engine was detected somewhere towards the east. It grew louder. Then the changing of gears was heard, making it sound like a delivery truck struggling up a hill; then came a slowing-down, as the vehicle appeared to negotiate a creek or narrow bridge. Over 400 pairs of ears strained to listen above the pattering of the rain.
The sound of the engine grew closer, and paused. Then occurred one of the most peculiar incidents of the entire campaign, as KB Mission was bathed in the sound of singing. Every Australian there that night heard it. From the Japanese, the sound of a single voice – purportedly a fine one – chanting from somewhere deep in the jungle. This was then taken up by a group of voices in a different position, but seemingly closer to the Australians, then by yet another, till all were singing in perfect unison. Hundreds of voices from different points of the jungle joined in.
The cycle was repeated three times, its purpose as enigmatic as the sonorous tones themselves. Whether it was a religious rite or battle song, the passing down of orders, or a way to unnerve the enemy remained a mystery; nothing like it was ever witnessed again in the many subsequent battles in which the Australians faced the Japanese. In the rain, the Australian soldiers listened to the peculiar, even beautiful sounds, and gripped their weapons tightly.
Like nocturnal ghouls, the Japanese marines of 5th Kure slid out of the safety of their daytime hideouts and emerged into the night, armed and ready for battle. Forming their usual lines of four abreast behind the two rumbling tanks, they spread out along the eastern boundary of the mission.
A bright light pierced the trees in the distance, then edged closer. Then a moment of rare comedy, as a booming voice, which turned out to be that of Lieutenant Colonel Dobbs himself, rang out: ‘Put that bloody light out!’ The order was not obeyed. Everyone saw the joke but Dobbs himself. Perhaps, in his dogged refusal to believe in the presence of the Japanese tanks, he could not now fathom the notion that they had suddenly materialised on his battlefield, or perhaps he genuinely thought one of the 61st’s Bren gun carriers was rumbling around with its headlights on. The men, however, knew exactly what it was – and, more pertinently, that their Boys anti-tank rifles were currently several miles away.
‘Poor old Jimmy Dobbs – he’s lost his glasses,’ mumbled one soldier to another as they allowed themselves a grim chuckle.
Twenty minutes later a second tank rolled up the Government Track t
o join the first, their powerful headlights sweeping back and forth across the grounds of the mission. Then, slowly, they both rumbled forward, and the battle for KB Mission began.
•
One of the Bren light machine guns opened up, the bullets ricocheting harmlessly off the tanks’ armour plates. Rifle fire came from everywhere, trying to knock out the piercing lights, but to the frustration of the Australians the tanks appeared impervious to their bullets. In fact, as was later discovered, the powerful lamps were cleverly recessed into the body of the vehicle, shielding them from direct fire.
A burst of machine-gun fire from the tanks’ two 7.7- millimetre machine guns swept back and forth, spraying red, blue and green tracer. Beside and behind the tanks, the Japanese infantry worked in unison with the lumbering steel monsters. Time and again the pattern was repeated: the tank would advance with its blinding beam, sweeping back and forth and looking for targets and firing, then halt and switch its light off while the infantry caught up. Then the light would come back on and the firing recommence.
In the scrub around the perimeter, Japanese gun positions were set up and an intense firefight ensued. Small-arms and Bren gun fire poured down on them, and great cheers arose from the Australians as several positions were destroyed. For the first hour or so the tanks stayed close to the Government Track, moving and firing with impunity. Then the dark was suddenly illuminated by fire, as tracer bullets set alight the grass roof of one of the huts; despite the rain, it burned fiercely. Suddenly silhouetted, a section of C Company was forced to escape towards the beach, from where they resumed firing.
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