At 11.30 p.m., with the troops unloaded and the wounded withdrawn to the ships via the barges, the combined force of marines turned towards the track and, each placing one weary foot in front of the other, headed back towards No. 3 Strip.
CHAPTER 28
NO. 3 STRIP
By 30 August, a strange, expectant lull had fallen over the Allied camp at Milne Bay. For two nights following the battle of KB Mission and its aftermath, the Japanese had remained relatively inactive, and signallers from Gili Gili to No. 3 Strip were becoming used to reporting ‘All quiet’ on the half-hour. For two nights soldiers had sat in lonely vigils, manning soaked machinegun pits, eyes focused on the black wall of jungle in front of them. Nerves were frayed to breaking point. To exhausted eyes that were not permitted to rest, the stumps of coconut trees appeared to get up and move. Guns were drawn and cocked at the sound of bats; men jumped at the thud of a falling coconut. And still came the rain, soaking and incessant. One man remembered beginning the night in a slit trench with water around his knees. By the time he was relieved in the morning, it was up around his chest.
Now the tide of battle would shift towards the incomplete No. 3 Strip, on the eastern edge of the Allied base. It was here that the decisive action of the Milne Bay campaign would be fought.
As they had done at Gurney Field, the Americans of the 43rd and 46th Engineer Battalions had constructed a considerable piece of infrastructure in extremely trying conditions and in a very short space of time. Using bulldozers and ingenuity, by the beginning of the battle they had carved into the jungle a strip runway roughly 5000 feet long and 100 feet wide, running almost down to the beach in a west-north-westerly direction.
On the eastern side, a long knoll – named after the colonial administration house situated at one end as Stephen’s Ridge – met the runway a third of the way down from its northern end, before running back several miles into the jungle. This natural barrier to any approach from the southern beach was augmented on both sides of the strip by parapets of bulldozed earth and tree trunks piled up by the engineers during construction. Beyond the western or Gili Gili side lay the large defensive area where some of the Milne Force units had been dispersed in camps. Behind them was jungle, and more of the ubiquitous coconut plantations.
No. 3 Strip was not yet complete, with the Marston matting still to be laid down. This was not a reflection on the efficiency of the engineers, but due to the proximity of the enemy. For the moment, the engineers had exchanged their tools for .50-calibre and .30-calibre machine guns, although most felt inadequately trained in their use.
Running down the entire length of the recently graded runway was a barbed-wire fence, with a small gap every 100 yards or so, built not to keep out the enemy but to prevent Australian soldiers and other personnel from taking short cuts across the construction site.
The Australians knew that the crucible of the battle would be the point where the Government Track met the centre of the runway before continuing west towards Gili Gili. Approaching from the village of Kilarbo a mile or so to the east, the track hugged the coast for several hundred yards before making a sharp right-hand turn and continuing virtually parallel with the runway before the crossing point. This was the direction in which the Japanese would travel to reach the eastern edge of the runway, while the Australian and American defenders would be on the other side.
The western side of the airstrip, therefore, would form the lynchpin of a comprehensive system of defences. Once again – as Clowes had envisaged all along – the men of the militia would bear the brunt of it.
Having barely rested after their initial defence of KB Mission, Lieutenant Colonel Meldrum’s 61st Battalion dug in along Stephen’s Ridge at the northern end of the strip, with the men of D Company rushed into the position after their eventful trek back from Ahioma. Ordered to stay quiet and not reveal their position, their task was to block any attempt to outflank the ridge via its eastern side. Shots were not to be fired under any circumstances before the battle, and tins were cleverly strung up on wire at ankle height across the track to warn of the enemy’s approach.
At the lower end of the runway, which reached almost to the small beach, were the men of Miles’ 25th Battalion. Unlike in previous engagements, here they were properly prepared, dug in, and in possession of a devastating array of firepower that was suited to the conditions – particularly their venerable Vickers machine guns.
Although a weapon of the previous war – it even seemed like something of a museum piece compared to more modern weapons – the Vickers was reliable and deadly. Its drawback for mobile infantry, particularly in the jungle, was its considerable weight, and the fact that it had to be transported in two sections. Here, though, with time to set it up in a static position, the machine-gun companies of the 25th and 61st would come into their own. Lighter Bren guns were also set up, with their fields of fire overlapping with those of the Vickers guns, covering every foot of the eastern side of the airstrip.
Machine guns were trained on the junction of the track and the airstrip, where mines had also been laid; to the rear, several 3-inch mortar teams had been set up. Further back still were the 25-pounders of the 2/5th Field Regiment’s 9th Battery. More machine-gun pits were dug by the men of the American 709th Airborne Anti-Aircraft Battery, who placed their 0.5-calibre Browning guns at either end of the strip, and the 43rd US Engineers brought up two of their big half-track vehicles, backing them up to the edge of the strip to provide elevated gun platforms for their .30s and .50s.
In all, several hundred men were dug in along the western edge of No. 3 Strip, waiting for the Japanese to appear, determined they would go no further. For the past two nights, however, they had waited, their weapons at the ready, watching the darkness for movement, but the jungle in front of them had remained empty. Such inactivity was an enemy in itself. With the men constantly wet and unable to get dry or change their boots, their feet were beginning to swell agonisingly, the first sign of ‘trench foot’, the awful condition that had plagued the men of the trenches in the 1914–18 war. At night the temperature dropped, and men in static positions were denied even the opportunity to move about and warm up.
Two long nights spent waiting, in the dark and the discomfort, for the Japanese. When, they asked themselves, were they coming?
•
At Gili Gili, the past two days had been anything but uneventful, even witnessing the only incident of the campaign that could be vaguely described as comical. On the afternoon of 29 August, the entire garrison stood still, struck by the reverberations of explosions coming from the direction of No. 3 Strip. Instantly the rumour flashed around that the Japanese had broken through and were on their way to the centre of the camp. Panic descended, particularly at the rear. Radios were destroyed, files burned and those who had harboured plans to evacuate – despite the dire warnings of Bull Garing – grabbed their pre-packed survival kits and prepared to disappear west along jungle tracks to Mullins Harbour, or even Port Moresby, 220 miles away.
Others went forward to meet the Japanese, taking up positions behind coconut trees, ready to fire on the first figure that moved in the pouring rain. A panicked signal even reached Brigadier George Wootten, who was told the Japanese were about to descend on positions to his west. ‘Well, why doesn’t anyone shoot the bastards?’ was his characteristic response. In fact, Wootten was sceptical, believing that any Japanese advance in his direction would have been noticed, and he had seen nothing.
The panic even spread to the main store, the quartermaster being told by a group of men passing on a truck that the Japanese were close by, prompting him to lay explosive charges in the canteen and blow up a good proportion of it – creating another large bang, which fomented even more panic.
Soon, however, the decided absence of any Japanese deflated the panic, and Major General Clowes issued a general order to stand firm: no breakthrough had occurred, and everyone should calm down. The culprit turned out to be not Japanese marines but
an unfortunate herd of resident Zebu cattle, which the plantation owners kept around to eat the grass between the rows of coconut trees. One of their number had apparently wandered into a minefield and blown itself up, setting off a panic among the remaining animals, which in turn detonated more mines. American machine gunners then opened up on the beasts to prevent them from setting off even more ordnance, before finally, their numbers significantly reduced, they scattered into the jungle.
The panic subsided, but from the men’s point of view, the most tragic aspect of the whole incident was the destruction of a great proportion of the store’s beer, the remnants of which many did their best to secure.
•
There was no levity whatsoever in the following day’s proceedings, which saw a number of small patrols push forward into the Japanese-held area east of the airstrip, and which for the first time revealed to the Australians the depravity of the enemy they were fighting.
Still concerned about the two Ha-Go light infantry tanks, which seemed to have vanished, patrols were sent forward to locate and, if possible, disable them. Lieutenant Aubrey Schindler was selected from the 25th Battalion, and he set off eastwards along the Government Track with a handful of men on the gloomy morning of 29 August. A more stressful expedition can hardly be imagined, as Schindler probed carefully forward along the muddy road. Communication with his men was by hand signals only. Each soldier’s eyes scanned the road ahead, as well as the jungle verges, for signs of an ambush, taking note of fresh fronds and branches that had fallen to the base of palm trees, which might indicate the presence of a sniper above.
Having covered nearly 2 miles without incident, Schindler’s men rounded a bend a little short of Gama River, where they found the abandoned Japanese tanks. One seemed to have swerved off the road: its belly was jammed up on the verge, its left track unable to gain traction, marooned like a turtle. Surprisingly, they seemed to have been simply left by the Japanese, with not even a sentry to guard them. Schindler later recalled:
[The tanks] seemed to have run out of juice and were abandoned on the side of the track. [One] was facing in the direction of the Strip and all we had to do was blow off the tracks (with two blobs of gelignite and a couple of well directed shots from a rifle) and destroy the engine. It was undefended and seemingly with no Kittyhawk damage and no blood stains.
Author Nicholas Anderson makes the valid point that the tanks’ demise was in no small way attributable to the shooting of Corporal John O’Brien, who, several nights earlier at Gama River, had levelled his Boys rifle at one of the Japanese drivers and delivered a fatal shot. Though the tank was undamaged, its new driver was apparently less skilled than the man who had manoeuvred it into KB Mission, and on this narrow part of the track had evidently lost control and driven it into a bog. The following tank, trying to avoid it, had also come unstuck. O’Brien’s Distinguished Conduct Medal was well deserved.
His feet raw and burning from their many days in mud and water, Schindler was happy to return to No. 3 Strip, his job of neutralising the most significant threat to the Australian infantry at Milne Bay complete.
Another patrol was ordered that day, led by the officer who had already so distinguished himself at KB Mission, Captain Charles Bicks. With just four men, including the redoubtable Lieutenant Herbert Robinson, Bicks set off at dawn to glean as much information as he could about the current Japanese dispositions. After reaching the knocked-out tanks, they cautiously pushed further, past Rabi and towards Gama River, where they began to find Australian and Japanese bodies strewn along the track, dead where they had fallen in the skirmishes of several days before.
Crossing the Gama itself, they made their second gruesome discovery of the day, a former Japanese field hospital. Lying in a row were several Japanese dead, naked except for the bandages covering their leg and head wounds. Then the men noticed that each had a neat bullet wound above the heart. In silence, they contemplated what this meant: their enemy was prepared to kill their own wounded rather than let them become prisoners. There was far worse to come.
Treading down the very same track along which the Japanese had pushed them in panic on the night of the KB Mission attack, the men carefully contemplated every corner, ready to scatter or return fire at the slightest indication of an ambush. In all likelihood, the Japanese were watching them from their jungle hideouts but, loath to reveal their positions to the terrible ground-attacking Kittyhawks, they kept silent.
As they approached the recent battleground of KB Mission, even greater horror was revealed. The Japanese, it seemed, did not confine their cruelty to captured combatants. The first Papuan Bicks’ patrol encountered was a young man who had been bayoneted and shot, his hands tied behind his back with signal wire. Then they found another, and still more. Some were tied to trees, having apparently been used for bayonet practice, their heads slumped down over their broken and dismembered bodies. Others had been disembowelled.
Carefully entering the now quiet compound at KB Mission, the four men saw bodies scattered everywhere, already putrefying in the heat and humidity. Some were alone, some in bunches, resembling piles of used rags. Occasionally Japanese and Australian dead were mingled together.
The bodies of the two 2/5th Field Regiment forward observation officers, Lieutenants Gilhooley and Baird, were found beside a hut – and then came the most chilling discovery of all. Tied to a number of trees was a group of Australian soldiers in shorts, indicating them to be from Bicks’ own 61st Battalion. Multiple puncture wounds attested that they too had been used in bayonet charges. Their limbs were smashed by multiple gunshot wounds, no doubt inflicted before they died, and their faces had been mutilated beyond recognition. Bicks and his patrol were sickened, and enraged, by the discovery.
In stunned silence, they progressed to where 11 Platoon had made its stand. As they moved between a series of huts a little further on, they heard a trio of chattering Japanese soldiers, oblivious to the Australians’ presence. Probably they were bringing rations to their forward positions. Wasting no time, Bicks and Robinson – a renowned crack shot – raised their rifles and killed two of them on the spot. The third, much to their consternation, escaped. The killing did little to assuage their rage.
Turning back along the Government Track, they began the slog back towards No. 3 Strip, trying in vain to process what they had just seen – the cruelty, the barbarity, the utter pointlessness of it all. It was the first they had seen of the depths to which Japan’s soldiers were capable of sinking, a level that was utterly alien to them. To kill in battle was one thing, but to inflict such agonies on surrendered soldiers, let alone on civilians, was, to these young Australians from ordinary backgrounds in a peaceful country, something much worse than war. This was a darkness – perverted, sadistic, and far beyond human.
CHAPTER 29
THE GREATEST BATTLE
As the sun began to go down on Sunday, 30 August, the Japanese emerged from their hiding places in the jungle. Despite the day’s rest, many were already weary. Days of hunger, acute discomfort and the permanent danger of air attack were wearing them down, even before battle commenced. Like the Australians, they were permanently wet, grossly underslept and suffering the effects of sodden, swollen feet.
There was some room, however, for optimism. The reinforcing convoy had at last enabled some decent rations to be brought up, and the new men of the 3rd Kure and 5th Yokosuka – still fresh for the fight – imbued their weary comrades with a revitalised spirit. Despite the difficulties, the Australians had, for the most part, been swept aside, and just one more effort was now needed to dislodge them completely. The Japanese sensed success, as one marine’s diary, captured afterwards, attested: ‘The concerted attack has been ordered … All of us are in good spirits … Nothing but serving the Emperor … We make our sortie, all hopeful of success.’
It was a simple enough plan: the 5th Kure would arrive at the airstrip first and begin the attack, providing the battering ram to charge the airst
rip and seize it. They would then be backed up by the newer units of the 3rd Kure and 5th Yokosuka, as they arrived along the track and were funnelled forward into the battle, before pushing on to the main Allied camp beyond. None of these units, however, possessed the single devastating weapon for which the Australians had found no answer: the tanks.
The Japanese marines were confronted with their once mighty metal monsters as they moved up the track. The implications of their demise dawned slowly on the soldiers as, quiet with dread, they passed them by. Their most potent weapon now would be a handful of anti-tank guns, which could also be used for infantry support. But these were heavy – over 660 pounds – and had spoked wooden wheels which stuck constantly in the mud, and had to pulled out by the cursing, exhausted men.
It had been a difficult night’s march westward, with the 5th Kure’s Commander Hayashi once again leading the way. The newer units found the track particularly hard going. Their light split-toe boots were sucked off in the mud, and in the rain and the dark, men tripped and stumbled. Soon, large gaps opened in the line of advance between the units. The progress began to slow, then backed up and stalled around Wahahuba Beach where they had started.
It was past 2 a.m. when the first elements of the 5th Kure reached Kilarbo. Some men were surprised at the lack of resistance they met, at each bend expecting to be fired upon, but the jungle on this night was silent. What were the Australians up to? Where were the ambushes and roadblocks that they’d met along this road during the previous night attacks? Had the enemy already retreated? Had the road to the airstrip and the base beyond been abandoned?
The sky was thick with cloud and drizzle and offered no light. The soldiers placed white paper discs on the backs of their helmets for those behind to see, and officers donned white armbands so they could be recognised, but even these were virtually invisible in the gloomy tropical night.
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