Target: Rabaul: The Allied Siege of Japan's Most Infamous Stronghold, March 1943 - August 1945
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TARGET: RABAUL
THE ALLIED SIEGE OF JAPAN’S MOST INFAMOUS STRONGHOLD, MARCH 1943–AUGUST 1945
Bruce Gamble
First published in 2013 by Zenith Press, an imprint of MBI Publishing Company, 400 First Avenue North, Suite 400, Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA
© 2013 Zenith Press
Text © 2013 Bruce Gamble
All rights reserved. With the exception of quoting brief passages for the purposes of review, no part of this publication may be reproduced without prior written permission from the Publisher. The information in this book is true and complete to the best of our knowledge.
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Digital edition: 978-1-61058-957-4
Softcover edition: 978-0-7603-4407-1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gamble, Bruce.
Target Rabaul : the allied siege of Japan’s most infamous stronghold, March 1943-August 1945 / Bruce Gamble.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-7603-4407-1 (hardcover)
1. World War, 1939-1945--Campaigns--Papua New Guinea--Rabaul. 2. Rabaul (Papua New Guinea)--History, Military--20th century. 3. World War, 1939-1945--Aerial operations. I. Title.
D767.99.N444G37 2013
940.54’26585--dc23
2013027970
Editorial Director: Erik Gilg
Editor: Caitlin Fultz
Design Manager: James Kegley
Layout: Helena Shimizu
Cover designer: Kent Jenson
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
List of Maps
Southwest Pacific Overview
The Rabaul Area Battleground
Rebaul Township
The Central Stronghold
Gazelle Peninsula
Contents
Preface
Prologue
1 A Pirate Goes to Washington
2 Steppingstones: The Elkton Plan
3 New Guinea Graveyard
4 The Heart of Darkness
5 Lethal Moonlight
6 Zeamer and Sarnoski
7 The Big Feud
8 Wewak
9 The Hornet’s Nest
10 Primary Colors
11 The Buccaneers Attack
12 Stormy Weather
13 Bloody Tuesday
14 Redemption for the Pond Lily
15 Carrier Raid Redux
16 Ferdinand the Bull
17 The Twisted Code
18 Transition
19 The Ace Race
20 Feeding Frenzy
21 Fortress Rubble
22 Island of Despair
23 Glory
Epilogue
Appendix A: The Prisoners of Rabaul
Sources
Index
Preface
THE BATTLE FOR Rabaul was World War II’s longest. Some historians might argue that the Battle of the Atlantic, from September 1939 to May 1945, was longer, and chronologically they have a point. But the campaign in the Atlantic covered an area of hemispherical proportions, with clashes occurring thousands of miles apart. Rabaul, a township of less than one square mile, was fought over from January 4, 1942 to August 15, 1945, a near-constant battle spanning almost forty-four months.
Before World War II, the islands of the South Pacific were as mysterious to most Americans as the dark side of the moon. Very few citizens had ever traveled to such remote places as the Solomon Islands or the Bismarck Archipelago, and hardly anyone had heard of Rabaul. What we knew of the South Pacific came from adventure movies, which typically portrayed the islands as dark and foreboding, with mist-shrouded volcanoes, thick jungles, wild animals, and headhunting savages.
The island of New Britain fit that stereotype. The northern end, where Rabaul is, has a long history of volcanic activity. The town lies inside the rim of a caldera, a vast depression mostly filled with seawater. The natural enclosure forms Simpson Harbor, one of the finest anchorages in the Pacific because of its natural protection by steep escarpments and volcanic peaks.
During the prewar years, Rabaul became a bustling, cosmopolitan trade center. Easily the largest town among the islands, it served as the capital of the Mandated Territory of New Guinea. Dozens of plantations and church missions dotted the coastal areas, but beyond those small pockets of development, the island’s vast jungles remained wild. Some of the peoples living deep in the interior still practiced cannibalism and headhunting.
My personal interest in Rabaul developed when I began interviewing members of the Black Sheep squadron, VMF-214, who flew their hairiest combat missions over the Japanese stronghold in late 1943 and early 1944. Rabaul was so iconic that they had written songs about it. Wondering what made Rabaul so extraordinary, I began to research its history—and became hooked. I was especially drawn to the story of Lark Force and the tragic sinking of the Montevideo Maru.
While collecting the necessary research for a book, I thought I could narrate the story of Rabaul in a single volume. I was wrong. The tale of Lark Force occupied the first book, originally published as Darkest Hour. Next, I thought I could tackle the forty-four-month air war in a separate volume. Again, I was wrong. There was simply too much history to convey in one book. With the approval of the accommodating staff at Zenith Press, an agreement was reached to end the first volume, Fortress Rabaul, with the death of Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, a crucial turning point in the battle for the Southwest Pacific.
Finally, almost fifteen years after I began the initial research, the history is complete with the third volume of the trilogy, Target: Rabaul.
Or is it? As some readers will undoubtedly discover, I have glossed over segments of important battles that raged over and around Rabaul, paying scant attention to actions on New Ireland, New Georgia, and Bougainville, and barely touching on important campaigns in New Guinea. So there is still plenty of material to cover for as long as historians are interested in exploring the stories behind Japan’s most notorious stronghold in the South Pacific.
In the meantime, it is my fervent hope that the veterans who participated in the siege of Rabaul firsthand will find this work accurate and authentic. If so, I will have achieved my goal.
CONVENTIONS
Consistent with the first two books of the trilogy, time is expressed using the twenty-four-hour military clock, and distances are given in statute miles (unless otherwise noted). Japanese individuals are identified in the Western style with given name first, followed by the surname. Japanese aircraft are identified by the model/year designation and the Allied recognition code name.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am eternally grateful for the support of dozens of friends, colleagues, veterans, descendants, and enthusiasts who have provided assistance, both in the United States and abroad. Sadly, some have since passed away. But they leave an important legacy—their sons and daughters, nieces and nephews—who now carry the torch. The list of those who provided direct assistance, in alphabetical order: Dave Armstrong, Bill Barnett, Ed Bearss, Melvin Best, George Brewer, Ray Buckberry, Leslie Caruso, Michael Claringbould, Peter Cundall, Perry Dahl, Andy Decker, Rick Dunn, Andrew Frost, Mark Faram, Peter Figgis, Darryl Fo
rd, Ken Gasteb, Bill Hess, Carlos Herrera, Curt Holguin, Dave Homewood, Maury Hurt, Sylvester Jackson, John Kepchia, Gerry Kersey, John Kinkaid, Marion Kirby, Bill Krantz, Jim Landsdale, Hap Langstaff, John Loisel, Jim Long, John Lundstrom, Marni Magda, Jim Mahaffey, Robert Marshall, Bruce Matheson, Lex McAulay, Jim McMurria, James Merriman, Joe Nason, Yoshio Okawara, Frank Olynyk, Jon Parshall, Edward Rogers, Luca Ruffato, Henry Sakaida, Jim Sawruk, John Stanaway, Al Sutton, Osamu Tagaya, Vic Tatelman, Justin Taylan, Barrett Tillman, Anthony Tully, Doug Vahry, Roger Vargas, Frank Walton, Bill Webster, Mike Wenger, Ron Werneth, Jay Wertz, David Wilson, Louise Wilson, and James Zobel.
It’s a long list that covers many years. If I’ve forgotten someone, please forgive me.
Finally, I wish to thank Erik Gilg, Editorial Director at Zenith Press, and Christine Zuchora-Walske for their patience and professionalism.
Prologue
THE PROMISE OF R&R in Sydney was a powerful incentive. To earn a week in Australia’s largest city, a crew had to complete twenty combat missions in their B-24 Liberators. Each sortie might last a grueling ten hours over some of the most unforgiving terrain on earth, and most of the targets were defended by aggressive Japanese fighter pilots and numerous antiaircraft weapons. But to the men of the 90th Bombardment Group (Heavy), a hedonistic week of “bars and belles” in Sydney was well worth the risks.
The twenty-mission policy, announced in January 1943, generated plenty of excitement among the group’s four squadrons. Since their arrival in Australia the previous November, the crews had suffered one catastrophe after another, losing eleven B-24s and eighty-four men. That most of the fatalities had resulted from accidents or unexplained disappearances, not combat, hung over the group like a curse. Weary in body and soul, the men needed something to look forward to—exactly the sort of motivation that a week of fun in Sydney would provide.
Their temporary home, an airfield slapped together in a remote section of Queensland, seemed conjured up from some alien landscape. Surrounded by murky tropical rainforests on the Cape York Peninsula, the isolated territory was known as Iron Range. “There was no town, no village, no farmers or ranchers that I ever saw at Iron Range,” recalled one pilot. “There were some crude docking facilities in its sheltered harbor a few miles from the airstrip, but I never saw anyone tending them.”
The base itself, although brand-new, was utilitarian—and utterly drab. When the crews weren’t flying or preparing for missions, they passed the time in their tents, waited in long lines for unappealing army chow, and obsessed about Sydney. There would be real beds with clean sheets in Sydney; restaurants, too, and nightclubs, and theaters. And all the liquor they could drink, and thousands of friendly women. For some crews, especially those nearing the magic number, the anticipation was almost overwhelming.
Group headquarters attempted to spread the combat assignments evenly among the four squadrons. For a week at a time, a squadron would deploy to the forward base at Port Moresby, New Guinea, and conduct a few missions. The rotation looked equitable on paper, but in practice the assignments were lopsided. On January 16, for example, the twelve crews of the 321st Squadron completed a week at Port Moresby and returned to Iron Range to learn that they would go back into combat three days later.
Some crews griped about the short turnaround; others saw opportunity. The squadron’s two most experienced crews had just completed nineteen missions, putting them on the cusp of the big prize. The commanding officer, Maj. Cecil L. Faulkner, led one. A lanky reservist, Lt. James A. McMurria, led the other. The competition between the crews to reach twenty missions was friendly, but spirited.
As ordered, Faulkner led his twelve Liberators back to New Guinea on the afternoon of January 19. At Ward’s Strip, carved from scrubby hills five miles from Port Moresby, the B-24s were parked in individual revetments, their earthen walls piled as high as the bombers’ twin tails. The nearest Japanese airfield was only 185 miles away, across the Owen Stanley Mountains. Port Moresby had already endured nearly one hundred raids, making it inevitable that formations of Mitsubishi twin-engine bombers would soon drone high overhead, or a covey of Zeros would swoop down the mountainside for a strafing attack.
Despite the threat, the men of the 321st were motivated to fly another week of missions. As the squadron’s operations officer, McMurria had Faulkner’s blessing to schedule his own crew for the first event, a solo reconnaissance of enemy shipping lanes between New Guinea and the Bismarck Archipelago. After a predawn takeoff, McMurria’s crew would reconnoiter several Japanese strongholds, but there was little reason to expect trouble during the ten-hour circuit.
The weather was a different matter. A steady rain drenched the airdrome as McMurria and his copilot, Lt. Robert R. Martindale, began their preflight routine at 0400 on January 20. Inside the makeshift meteorological office, a bleary-eyed weather officer explained that heavy thunderstorms were blocking the preferred route over the mountains. It was off limits until daylight. Treacherous even in good weather, the mountains soared above thirteen thousand feet very near Port Moresby. Their slopes were already littered with many wrecked planes.
McMurria could neither proceed without the weatherman’s authorization nor tolerate an hours-long delay. He proposed an alternative. After taking off he would climb to the northwest, flying parallel to the mountains until the sun rose, at which time he could transit over the peaks safely. The sleepy meteorologist approved the plan, signed the necessary paperwork, and returned to his cot.
Joining the rest of the crew at their revetment, McMurria and Martindale inspected their bomber, a Consolidated B-24D Liberator, by flashlight. The four-engine aircraft was the heaviest land-based bomber in operation at that time. With a full combat load of bombs, machine-gun ammunition, fuel, and ten crewmen, it tipped the scales at twenty-eight tons. That weight rested on two large main wheels and a smaller nose wheel. On that dark, rainy morning, McMurria had to use full throttle on opposite sides to break the big bomber out of the muddy revetment.
After taxiing carefully into position on the downwind end of the duty runway, McMurria braked and waited for a flash of green light from the rickety control tower. He and Martindale peered through the dark windscreen. The rain-slicked runway, paved with interlocking steel planks, glistened in the beams of the B-24’s landing lights, but the wing-mounted lights barely cut through the rain. Two rows of flickering smudge pots along the edges of the runway provided the only other illumination.
The green light flashed and McMurria pushed the four throttles forward, revving the Pratt & Whitney engines to their combined maximum of 4,800 horsepower. Behind him, Sgt. Leslie H. Burnette, the flight engineer, monitored a panel of gauges—a half-dozen for each engine—for signs of trouble. McMurria released the brakes and the Liberator lurched forward, gaining momentum slowly.
Halfway down the runway, still well below takeoff speed, the wing lights picked up a disturbing sight: mud and gravel covered an area on the right side of the steel planking. The heavy rains had caused a washout. Moments later the landing gear plowed into the slurry, slewing the aircraft to the right. McMurria chopped the throttles and stood on the brakes, holding his breath while the heavy aircraft slid along the wet steel. The planking ended and the B-24 skidded into the overrun area, finally coming to a stop uncomfortably close to disaster.
After letting out a few expletives and regaining their composure, McMurria and Martindale carefully turned the Liberator around. Back on the steel mat, they taxied to the washout and stopped, letting the engines idle while they inspected the landing gear for damage. The skid had caused no harm, and only the right side of the runway was covered with sludge. McMurria was confident that he could get airborne on the next attempt, if he hugged the left side of the runway.
Twice previously, on rainy nights like this, the 90th Group had lost bombers and their entire crews to takeoff mishaps. The airfield duty officer arrived and offered to cancel the mission because of the close call; however, McMurria, with visions of S
ydney dancing in his head, declined. “Let’s go,” he said.
And that was good enough for his crew.
This time, the B-24 lifted off normally. McMurria gave due respect to the mountains, keeping the craggy range off his right wing until the bomber climbed to twenty thousand feet. Over the northern highlands of New Guinea, the skies cleared. The crew began to relax as the sun warmed the Liberator’s interior.
Their first objective that morning was Wewak, a coastal settlement almost five hundred miles north of Port Moresby. Formerly the administrative headquarters of the Sepik District, the village had been occupied without a fight the previous month. Allied reconnaissance flights periodically monitored enemy activity, but the only noticeable changes thus far were improvements to the grass airstrip, previously used by a Roman Catholic mission.
Unknown to the Allies, Wewak was primed to become a key airbase complex for units of the Imperial Japanese Army Air Force (JAAF). In late December 1942, Imperial General Headquarters decided to reinforce Wewak and the village of Madang, two hundred miles to the south, with a full division each—one transferred from Korea, the other from North China. In a cooperative effort dictated by Tokyo, ships and aircraft of the Imperial Navy shepherded the convoys to New Guinea, and a small naval base force arrived to establish a civilian administration, or minsei-bu, at Wewak.
Unaware of these changes, McMurria began a gradual descent toward the northern coast of New Guinea. Approaching Wewak, where they anticipated only light antiaircraft fire from one known gun position, the crewmembers were stunned by the number of ships crowding the harbor. Even more disconcerting, some two dozen Japanese aircraft were parked wingtip to wingtip on the grass airstrip.
The B-24 had arrived just hours after the convoy dropped anchor in the harbor. Transports were already busy offloading troops of the 20th Infantry Division. A far bigger threat was posed by the fighters of the Imperial Japanese Navy Air Force (JNAF): twenty-one Type 0 carrier fighters, known universally as Zeros, had deployed to Wewak from the flattop Junyo. McMurria and Martindale counted at least six Zekes, the Allied recognition name for the model A6M2, taking off from the grass strip to intercept the Liberator.