by Bruce Gamble
ON THE MORNING OF THE FOURTH DAY OF 1942, A BRIGHT, CLEAR SUNDAY, a young plantation owner named Cornelius “Con” Page observed a formation of twin-engine bombers flying over his coconut groves. Recruited two years earlier into Lieutenant Commander Feldt’s coastwatching service, Page was an adventurous Australian living on the tiny island of Tabar, just east of New Ireland. Warming up his big Amalgamated Wireless 3B radio, he sent word of the sighting to Port Moresby, which in turn relayed the information to Fortress Signals, the Lark Force communications unit on New Britain: Japanese bombers were headed directly toward Rabaul.
The air raid sirens began to wail shortly after 1100. Given ample warning, the antiaircraft gunners atop Frisbee Ridge waited almost thirty long minutes for the bombers to appear. Finally they droned into view, high above Watom Island off New Britain’s north shore, a perfect V formation coming directly toward the battery. “It seemed impossible to believe that they were bent on destruction,” remembered David Selby, “so serene and beautiful did they look.” The youthful gunners were keyed up, talking and even laughing to hide their jitters. Someone asked Selby, “Can we really fire this time?”
“Too right we can,” he said, “but for heaven’s sake shut up. This is a war, not a Sunday school picnic.”
As the planes came within range, the gun director shouted out elevation numbers and fuse settings to the crews, then yelled, “Fire!” Surprised at first by the ear-splitting noise and the heat reflected from those first shots, the gunners quickly settled down. They got off round after round from the two aging weapons, but even with the fuses set for maximum altitude, none of the shells reached the bombers’ height. The only thing worth celebrating was the successful operation of the Number 2 gun’s cracked breech; otherwise, the men watched helplessly as the formation flew over untouched and dropped their bombs in the vicinity of Lakunai airdrome.
According to Japanese records, a total of sixteen Navy Type 96 Land Attack Aircraft participated in the first strike against Rabaul. Known to the Allies as Mitsubishi G3Ms, the twin-engine bombers were part of the Chitóse Kokutai (Naval Air Group) and possessed a combat radius the Australians could only dream of. The crews were highly trained, but in this case most of their bombs missed. Only three of the 60-kilo, high-fragmentation devices struck the runway, and another twenty killed fish in Simpson Harbor. Disastrously, the remaining seventeen bombs landed in the Rapindik Native Hospital and labor compound.
Designed for antipersonnel use, the so-called “daisy cutters” created terrible carnage when they exploded within the confined area. Fifteen natives were killed outright and fifteen others wounded, many with parts of limbs severed and other horrific injuries from the spinning shards of shrapnel. However, the loss of the natives did not greatly trouble Lark Force, and the contemporary accounts either glossed over the casualties or neglected to mention them at all. Major Palmer, the senior medical officer, stated in his report that the attack had not caused any casualties. Evidently, thirty dead or wounded natives didn’t count.
THE JAPANESE STRUCK AGAIN AT DUSK. THIS TIME THE FORMATION consisted of Type 97 Flying Boats (Kawanishi H6Ks) from the Yokohama Kokutai. With their long parasol wings and slender fuselages tapering upward toward twin rudders, the four-engine planes resembled enormous dragonflies as they paraded overhead. The antiaircraft gunners counted eleven aircraft (Japanese records show nine), but none came within range of the battery. Aiming for Vunakanau airdrome, the flying boats dropped an estimated forty bombs, all of which missed by a wide margin in the rapidly fading twilight.
The next raid occurred on the morning of January 6. Several of the huge flying boats returned to hit Vunakanau again, and for some reason Con Page failed to provide an early warning. Serious damage resulted: A direction-finding station and a Wirraway were destroyed by direct hits, a Hudson was damaged, and the runway was pocked with craters. A single Wirraway attempted to intercept the formation and briefly managed to close within firing range, but the bombers took cover in some handy clouds and soon pulled away.
The following morning another formation of attackers flew over Page’s plantation on Tabar. This time he radioed the alarm, having counted eighteen twin-engine bombers on a course for Rabaul at 1030. Two Wirraways immediately took off to intercept the formation, but once again the anemic fighters failed to make contact. At 1108 the Mitsubishis dropped their bombs on Vunakanau airdrome without opposition, demolishing a Hudson, a Wirraway, and some temporary buildings. Two more Hudsons parked near the runway suffered damage.
The Japanese ceased their raiding for the next several days, content to conduct high-altitude reconnaissance flights beyond the reach of the antiaircraft guns. In the meantime, the RAAF organized a unique mission of its own. A specially prepared Mark IV Hudson of 6 Squadron flew from Kavieng to Truk on January 9 and returned with photographic evidence of a major buildup. (The daring flight, which exceeded 1,400 miles, was the longest combat mission yet undertaken by the RAAF.) The serviceable Wirraways at Rabaul were sent on daily scouting patrols, but their few attempts to intercept Japanese snoopers were negative.
The pre-invasion strikes resumed on January 16. Shortly past noon, a flight of nineteen Mitsubishi bombers destroyed a fuel dump, a bomb dump, and a store of flares at Vunakanau. Several hours later, a formation of five Kawanishi flying boats dropped fragmentation bombs on Lakunai, causing minor damage. Based on the systematic nature of the attacks, it was obvious that the Japanese were attempting to neutralize the airdromes while avoiding collateral damage to Rabaul. The Australians correctly interpreted this to mean that an invasion was pending. The only questions yet to be answered were the enemy’s timetable and his current whereabouts.
Ironically, the War Cabinet had already received intelligence reports showing that not one but two enemy fleets were headed toward the Bismarck Archipelago. Inexplicably, that vital information was not forwarded to Rabaul, and the Commonwealth’s indifference ultimately led to a chain reaction of unfortunate events.
ON JANUARY 14, THE NORWEGIAN-REGISTERED FREIGHTER HERSTEIN arrived from Port Moresby with a mixed cargo that included six Bren gun carriers, three thousand drums of aviation fuel, eighty Thompson submachine guns, and approximately two thousand aerial bombs. The wharves and warehouses were already full, so the bombs were stacked in the open alongside Malaguna Road. Lieutenant Hugh A. Mackenzie, the senior RAN officer at Rabaul, did not want the Herstein to be caught dockside by the next Japanese raid, so he cabled his superiors for permission to get the vessel underway as soon as the cargo was unloaded. The request was flatly denied. Instead, the government insisted that the freighter take on a full cargo of copra at the Burns, Philp & Company wharf, and loading began forthwith.
Harold Page tried to intervene on behalf of the Australian civilians, for whom there would be few other opportunities to evacuate. On January 15 he initiated a request to higher authorities for transportation aboard the Herstein for himself and the other men in town. Getting no response, he “continued to pester Canberra for instructions” until finally a terse reply came back several days later: “No one is to take the place of the copra on the Herstein.” The response was yet another example of the Commonwealth’s apathy, only in this case it directly affected hundreds of civilians. Lark Force had already been cast aside to fend for itself, and now Canberra ignored an opportunity to evacuate the non-combatants. Furthermore, the information that two enemy fleets were approaching Rabaul was still withheld. Perhaps the government rationalized that everyone was better off not knowing, the presumption being that a widespread panic might break out if the unvarnished truth were revealed.
R OPERATION HAD COMMENCED DAYS EARLIER. AT 1330 ON JANUARY 14, the South Seas Force Transport Fleet—nine ships carrying more than 5,300 men, hundreds of horses, and thousands of tons of vehicles and equipment—departed Apra Harbor, Guam. The troopships soon met an escorting fleet of warships that included three light cruisers, nine destroyers, and two large minelayers led by Rear Admiral Shima, commanding offi
cer of the 19th Squadron. High above, reconnaissance planes out of Saipan scouted ahead for possible submarines.
Three days later, an even mightier fleet of warships departed Truk for a prearranged rendezvous with Horii’s force near the equator. Fresh from their recent success at Pearl Harbor, four aircraft carriers of the 1st Air Fleet, commanded by pug-faced Vice Admiral Chuichi Nagumo, would be used to pummel the remaining defenses at Rabaul. Replenished in Japan, the Akagi and Kaga of the 1st Carrier Division carried a total of fifty-four Type 0 Carrier Fighters (Mitsubishi A6M2s, or Zeros), forty-five Type 99 Carrier Bombers (Aichi D3A1s), and fifty-four Type 97 Carrier Attack Aircraft (Nakajima B5N2s) which could be armed with either torpedoes or bombs. Similarly, the 5th Carrier Division (Zuikaku and Shokaku) added thirty fighters, fifty-four dive bombers, and fifty-four level bombers to the arsenal. Additionally, as if such an overwhelming strike force wasn’t enough, Nagumo had the big guns of the battleships Hiei and Kirishima for fleet support. The capital ships were protected in turn by the heavy cruisers Tone and Chikuma, the light cruiser Abukuma, and nine destroyers. Lastly, Nagumo deployed two squadrons of submarines to patrol St. George’s Channel and ambush any Allied ships that might happen along.
For the first few days out of Guam, the soldiers and sailors of Horii’s invasion force enjoyed almost idyllic weather. The conditions changed drastically as they drew nearer the equator. “The heat began to increase all at once,” wrote newspaper correspondent Toshio Miyake. “The decks seemed to be scorched and the cabins felt like steam baths. Sweat ran down our bodies like so many tiny waterfalls.”
Miyake, who was likely aboard the army transport Yokohama Maru with Horii, was privileged if he was allotted some space in a cabin. The enlisted men were packed in the ship’s stifling cargo holds by the hundreds. As far back as 1905, the Imperial Navy had introduced a method called the tsubo system for calculating the amount of personal space for soldiers aboard transports. The problem was that by 1941, the allowance had been cut to two-thirds of its original size, and the box-like holds were fitted with wooden ‘tween decks to make use of wasted vertical space. Each soldier slept and stowed his gear on what amounted to a small platform, the total space adding up to only a few cubic yards.
Private Akiyoshi Hisaeda, from the Ehime Prefecture of Shikoku, kept a diary as he sailed to Rabaul aboard the transport Venice Maru. He described the conditions as “very cramped and uncomfortable,” and noted that the temperature inside the ship reached 43 degrees Celsius (110 Fahrenheit). Life inside the other transports was equally awful. There was little fresh water, and the crude wooden benjos (latrines) were up on the main deck, which also happened to be where the meals were cooked. Down below, everyone was tormented by hordes of flies.
The Japanese soldiers were no strangers to terrible conditions or harsh environments. Their rigorous training system, based on the principle of instant obedience achieved through strict discipline, had prepared them well. From the moment they began training as recruits, they were immersed in a culture of degradation and abuse, a rude awakening for people who had spent their entire lives learning group harmony. Not only were recruits cursed and shamed in front of their peers, they were also beaten regularly. Sometimes they were hit on the buttocks with wooden sticks, other times they were slapped, usually with an open hand but occasionally with the sole from a hobnailed shoe. Many instructors were sadistic, barely more than thugs, and they had tremendous latitude to punish recruits with methods calculated to break down every vestige of individuality. Frequently the entire class or platoon received the same punishment: If one suffered, all suffered.
One of the cruelest penalties was meted out during evening meals. Picked at random, recruits were ordered to recite by memory from the Gunjin Chokuyu, “Emperor Meiji’s Instructions to the Men of the Fighting Services.” First issued in 1883, it exhorted warriors to carry out their duties with loyalty, propriety, valor, faithfulness, and simplicity. The wording was archaic, difficult to memorize, and if anyone made a mistake or forgot a passage, he was forbidden to eat. For recruits already bruised, exhausted, and ravenous from the day’s training, the denial of food was excruciating. After six months or more of such extreme conditioning, the recruits emerged as well-disciplined soldiers, their “bodies and minds tempered hard as steel.” The men of the South Seas Detachment were no different, and could tolerate anything that nature or the Imperial Army could throw at them.
WHEN THE INVASION FORCE REACHED THE EQUATOR AT 0500 ON JANUARY 20, the South Seas Detachment paused to commemorate a special event. In all of Japan’s 2,600-year history, they were the first army force to cross the line. Miyake later described the scene aboard his vessel: “On the day we crossed the equator, all the men, fully armed and equipped, assembled on deck. ‘At this time, when we are about to … advance into the southern hemisphere, we shall pay our respect toward the Imperial Palace,’ said the commander toward his assembled subordinates. Solemnly, and with overflowing emotions, the men presented arms toward the north.”
Without a doubt, the assembled troops also listened to motivational speeches designed to bolster their fighting spirit. One contemporary example, written by an Imperial Army lieutenant soon after the war began, drew upon the samurai ethics of ancient warriors:
When we fight, we win. When we attack, we capture. The results of our recent glorious battles are acknowledged by all…
The Imperial Family is the light, the life, the pride of Japan. In truth, Japan is Japan and the Japanese are Japanese because of the Imperial Family. From this consciousness the Japanese spirit is born. A loyalty is born, which utterly disregards the safety of the home and family—even one’s own life—for the welfare of the Emperor and country…
It is obvious that the road before us is not easy. We need strong determination to establish the New Order in Greater East Asia. Governors and governed must unite purposes and push ahead fearlessly with a single object in mind. Here I want to raise my voice and declare: “Carry out your duty with the Japanese spirit.”
The spirit of Bushido has been spoken of from olden times in these words: “Among flowers, the cherry; among men, the warrior.” With this spirit hold your ground without yielding a step, no matter what wounds you may receive, and thus make your end glorious by carrying out your duty calmly.
The soldiers were reminded constantly of the values extolled in the Gunjin Chokuyu, of which propriety was a keystone. “Inferiors should regard the orders of their superiors as issuing directly from Us,” the instructions stated, which literally meant that verbal or written orders were to be construed as coming from the Emperor. This explains why the Japanese sometimes staged mindless banzai charges or committed suicide en masse without hesitation: they were merely complying with orders. In simple terms, it was relatively easy for a soldier to sacrifice himself at a superior’s bidding. The alternative—refusing to die on the behalf of the Emperor—was the ultimate dishonor. Indeed, it would cause the soldier’s family far more grief than his demise. The concept of surrender was so alien to the Japanese that they treated their own captives with absolute contempt. A man who willingly capitulated was as good as dead: something less than human.
IN ADDITION TO THE SPECIAL COMMEMORATION, THE SOLDIERS OF THE South Seas Detachment were treated to a naval spectacle on January 20. Nagumo’s powerful carrier fleet arrived on schedule at the rendezvous point, and soon more than one hundred aircraft began taking off for a massive strike on Rabaul. In all, the attack force consisted of eighteen Nakajima bombers and nine Mitsubishi fighters from the Akagi, twenty-seven Nakajimas and nine fighters from the Kaga, and nineteen Aichi dive bombers each from the Shokaku and Zuikaku. Their leader was Commander Mitsuo Fuchida, renowned as the airborne commander at Pearl Harbor.
Adhering to Fuchida’s strike plan, the aircraft gathered in three formations, the smallest numbering twenty planes, the largest more than fifty. Fuchida sent them off in three different directions, and at a prearranged time they turned inbound to attack Rabau
l. Observing from one of the Nakajimas as the attack unfolded, Fuchida realized that his tactics were unnecessary. With such a massive force at his command, he “felt like a hunter sent to stalk a mouse with an elephant gun.”
AT MIDDAY ON JANUARY 20, CON PAGE REPORTED THAT TWENTY AIRCRAFT had just passed over his plantation.* Despite the advance warning, the antiaircraft crews at Rabaul were unprepared for the swiftness and ferocity of the Japanese attack. “The first indication of action,” recalled Gunner David W. Bloomfield, “was our six remaining Wirraways wheeling and diving over Blanche Bay and not too far in front of our position. At first we thought that they were practicing maneuvers. Suddenly several aircraft swooped on them with amazing speed. It was like hawks attacking sparrows.”
Two Wirraways were already patrolling the skies over Rabaul when Page’s warning was received, and six more took off to intercept the attackers. However, one crash-landed at Lakunai due to engine failure, leaving only seven fighters to face the incoming raiders. But which way to turn first? The Wirraway pilots began to receive conflicting radio warnings in rapid succession. A formation of thirty-three planes was reported over Rabaul, having sneaked in undetected from the west, and another group of fifty enemy planes was spotted over the Duke of York Islands, just minutes away in the opposite direction. No wonder it looked as though the Wirraways were practicing maneuvers: the Australian pilots turned every which way as they tried to meet multiple threats.