by Bruce Gamble
Cox, a senior officer, was important enough to retain for interrogation. So was Cheli, who had taken command of the 405th after Cox went missing. Whether the Kempeitai interrogators learned of this coincidence is not known, nor is what the two men endured in their prisons: Cox at Amron, Cheli at Wewak. In early October 1943, both men were transported from New Guinea to the Kempeitai compound at Rabaul. They were initially held in cell number one, reserved for new arrivals undergoing initial interrogation, but after a few days they were transferred into cells housing other POWs. Cheli subsequently spent about three weeks in cell number five with Jose Holguin, who learned the circumstances of Cheli’s crash-landing. “He did not know how he got out of the cockpit,” Holguin later wrote, “but remembered having to swim to the surface as the airplane was sinking to the bottom. He tried to help his copilot but could not. One or two of his other crewmembers were, supposedly, also captured, but once interrogations at Wewak were finished, around the end of September, he lost track of his men, and as far as anyone knows, they never arrived at Rabaul.”
Cheli was skinny, pale, and depressed. As Holguin, his new cellmate, noted sympathetically: “He had not yet reconciled himself to his new existence and that new existence became more precarious with each passing day.”
IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE August 18 raid against Wewak, three F-4/F-5 Lightnings went out to photograph the airdromes. Due to bad weather, all three returned with unused film. Thus the claims submitted by the returning fliers could not be verified by intelligence experts. When the photographic evidence was unavailable, overlooked, or ignored, war correspondents got a dose of exaggeration. In fact, newspaper headlines announced that the results of the first raid had been revised upward, and now stood at 120 planes destroyed, with another 78 destroyed on the second raid. The aggregate of 198 represented roughly 90 percent of the 225 planes that Kenney claimed were on the airdromes prior to the strikes, suggesting that the attacks had all but wiped out Teramoto’s Fourth Air Army. Enthusiasm for good news overruled common sense, and the stories went out to the wire services.
After the war, the U.S. Army’s official history stated that actual losses to the Japanese were “about half what the Allies initially claimed.” The assessment matches other sources. In his account of the New Guinea campaign, Lt. Gen. Yoshihara Kane, Eighteenth Army chief of staff, wrote: “About August 1943 the air units in New Guinea reached their peak, and … were able to relax to the extent of thinking they could sleep peacefully. But about mid-August, the airfields at Wewak and But were bombed heavily and almost 100 crack planes were lost. Not only were the air troops despondent, but so also were the troops of 18th Army.”
The back-to-back raids had severely depleted the fighter units. Afterward, according to Japanese authors Ikuhiko Hata and Yasuho Izawa, the 13th Flying Regiment had only two operational aircraft remaining; the 68th was down to two, and the 78th had none. Kane went so far as to call the raids “a fatal blow to the air force.” He undoubtedly meant Teramoto’s Fourth Air Army, rather than the entire JAAF, but the point was that the Allies had at last achieved aerial superiority over New Guinea. Within a few weeks, further Allied advances would essentially trap the Japanese. Thereafter, replacement of aircraft and pilots became increasingly difficult, and aerial support of ground operations all but ceased. Similarly, efforts to resupply the garrisons, even those in the north, were curtailed due to the fact that no aerial protection could be provided for the convoys.
Although the two raids had battered Wewak, it was far from finished. Attacks would continue regularly into 1944, with many more casualties among Allied airmen. The JAAF succeeded in bringing in periodic reinforcements to replace losses from the raids, but never regained its former strength in the region. The skies over New Guinea now belonged to Kenney, making it only a matter of time before the Allies also prevailed in its jungles.
*Many Allied airmen referred to the Oscars—and other radial engine single-seat JAAF fighters—as “Zeros.” The ubiquitous usage is understandable: the types were nearly identical in appearance, especially in the blur of high-speed combat.
CHAPTER 10
Primary Colors
DESPITE THE DAMAGE caused by the bombing and strafing attacks in mid-August 1943, Wewak continued to be a thorny target for months. Throughout August and September, Wewak and its satellite airdromes demanded V Bomber Command’s attention. On August 25, Kenney was compelled to wire Arnold that he had already used up 10 percent of his parafrag stockpile. Tossing in a not-so-subtle reminder, Kenny added that because he had designed the parafrag, he should be entitled to a bigger share of the production. Boldly, he asked Arnold to intervene on his behalf.
By the end of August, Kenney’s intelligence gurus estimated the Japanese had 118 operational aircraft in New Guinea, primarily at Wewak. More alarming was the count on New Britain (at Rabaul, Gasmata, and Cape Gloucester) totaling more than 280 aircraft, plus 54 at Kavieng and 113 in the Solomons. Even stronger was the enemy’s presence in the Netherlands East Indies, with an estimated 345 aircraft. Kenney was no doubt concerned: after months of effort, the Japanese still had 910 planes in the theater.
Kenney had another dilemma, too. Many of his units were fatigued, yet he was committed to supporting an ambitious list of operations already scheduled for the near future. The seaborne invasion of Lae was set for September 4, to be followed the next day by a massive airdrop over Nadzab, a promising airfield site in the Markham Valley. The amphibious invasion at Finschhafen would commence on September 22.
To maintain aerial superiority over New Guinea, Kenney instructed Whitehead to continue pounding all the coastal strongholds, particularly Wewak. Whitehead also sent raiders to attack the airdromes at Cape Gloucester and Gasmata. He used everything at his disposal, including the RAAF Bostons and Beaufighters of No. 9 Operational Group, hitting five or six different locations almost daily.
But the policy had a downside. In order to maintain the focus on strongholds in New Guinea and western New Britain, Kenney and Whitehead had to keep Rabaul off the target list. Kenney informed MacArthur that he “didn’t have enough strength to handle the Jap air forces at both Rabaul and Wewak.” He would continue hitting the latter until the forthcoming operations were well underway.
MacArthur tacitly approved the proposal, which is odd. By early August, when the conversation occurred, Rabaul had already been ignored for three weeks. Only five nocturnal raids had been conducted during the first twelve days of July. Furthermore, excepting routine solo reconnaissance missions, Rabaul was not targeted at all in August and only once in September. That raid, by nine Catalina flying boats on the night of September 3, proved harmless. It was the only attack during a span of nearly three months; otherwise, the garrison enjoyed a reprieve. Tens of thousands of people could sleep without the disruption of air raid sirens, antiaircraft barrages, and the crumph of exploding bombs.
The Japanese took full advantage of the lull. Vice Admiral Kusaka, who had commanded the naval academy in Eta Jima before taking over the Eleventh Air Fleet, resumed his cultured activities. A diary entry from July listed his casual routine: “Up shortly after 5. Horseback ride on the parade ground. Conference with vice commander. Nap. Conference resumed at 1400. Dinner with 8th Fleet commander, base vice commander, and others.”
As the battle for the central Solomons hit full stride, there were numerous clashes between Kusaka’s aircraft and Halsey’s air units, not to mention bitter jungle fighting on New Georgia and deadly naval actions in the surrounding waters. Nevertheless, Kusaka kept his routine. On the night of July 19, having lost two destroyers, a light cruiser, and eight hundred men in two recent night actions in the Kula Gulf, he sent a strongly escorted convoy down the heavily traveled waterway known as “The Slot” to resupply Kolombangara. The assembled force, described by naval historian Samuel Eliot Morison as “a whopping big Tokyo Express,” included three heavy cruisers, a light cruiser, and nine destroyers—and was easily detected by radar-equipped U.S. Navy Catali
nas, the famed “Black Cats” that snooped at night. Subsequent air attacks broke up the convoy. “The needed supply is stymied,” Kusaka complained. “Our convoy escort group encountered a surprise attack. Lost 2 destroyers and damage to Kumano … ”
Despite the setback, including the loss of 468 men, Kusaka was up as usual at 0500 on July 20 to compile the action report and confer with his staff. And after lunch he enjoyed a “brief nap, calisthenics, and a bath.”
The Allied bombing hiatus also benefited construction efforts at Rabaul. Engineers began a fifth airdrome in July. Unlike Rapopo, which had taken the army six months to build, or Keravat, abandoned due to poor drainage, the new airdrome at Tobera plantation was completed in less than two months. At just 3,600 feet, its runway was the shortest of all five airdromes, but the absence of Allied attacks helped the labor battalions complete the job quickly.
The lull gave the Japanese an opportunity to resupply Rabaul. Except aircraft, which could be flown in, virtually every necessity had to be shipped from Japan or major supply points in between, such as the Philippines and Truk. The supply lines were long and constantly threatened by Allied aircraft and submarines. Taking advantage of the lull, the Japanese brought in shiploads of rice, bombs, ammunition, fuel, spare parts, and all the other necessities that would enable them to withstand a prolonged blockade.
The siege mentality took root in mid-1943 as the Japanese steadily lost ground in the Solomons and New Guinea. The Allies seemed unstoppable. For Kusaka and Imamura, the only question was whether the enemy would invade or bypass Rabaul. Imamura and his army brass believed the former and went to great lengths to fortify the Gazelle Peninsula. Unlike Imamura, Kusaka and his naval staff anticipated a siege rather than direct assault. Both services, however, stockpiled war material. Oddly, despite the fact that Rabaul had been bombed for months prior to the extended break, the Japanese had done little to protect their supplies. Most of the millions of tons of food, fuel, ammunition, clothing, spare parts, and other essentials—enough to withstand six months of siege—was piled randomly in and around Rabaul. Fuel and ammunition dumps were exposed, and other consumables were stored in flimsy warehouses.
Not until late 1943 did the Japanese began storing supplies more carefully. By that time the 31st Field Road Construction Unit had completed almost four hundred miles of new roads across the peninsula. The roads accommodated the movement of troops and supplies and provided access to hundreds of remote supply dumps scattered among the hills surrounding Rabaul. Most of the roadwork was accomplished by “special details,” a euphemism for POWs forced to perform heavy labor. Many were members of the British Indian Army, captured at Singapore in 1942. Of the more than forty thousand troops taken prisoner there, several thousand were shipped to Rabaul as laborers. Their treatment in squalid encampments and on construction sites was essentially the same as that endured by prisoners on the infamous Burma-Thailand Railway.
DURING THE SUMMER of 1943 approximately one-fourth of the military personnel at Rabaul were afflicted with infection or disease. Most had malaria, but thousands of others suffered from dengue fever, dysentery, or blood and respiratory infections. Rabaul boasted impressive medical facilities, with eight hospitals among the army and navy commands totaling about four thousand beds, yet approximately twenty thousand members of the garrison were sick at any given time. Whether the letup in bombing had a positive effect on public health is open to speculation, but it’s interesting to note that when the bombing finally resumed, the number of sick skyrocketed from 24 to 37 percent.
For the seventy thousand healthy garrison members, the three-month lull was pleasant. Despite the risk of disease and infection, the South Pacific region charmed the Japanese—at least in the beginning. A cultured people, with an introspective admiration for natural beauty and the spirituality of their surroundings, the Japanese typically initially saw New Britain as a tropical paradise. Lieutenant Saiji Matsuda, a junior officer in the 6th Field Kempeitai, described the island with an artist’s eye when he arrived in 1943:
The first time I saw Rabaul, it was truly beautiful. It was like an oil painting in primary colors. I couldn’t help but be struck by the master hand of the god of creation. In the sky, our navy planes bravely flew back and forth, and in the bay, several hundred ships vied for space and gallantry of form. I admired it all as what a battlefield should look like. Morale was high. Natives were cheerful. The Southern Cross I saw in the sky that first night gleamed its silvery rays, giving one a feeling of mystery and romance.
On the beach at the foot of Mt. Hanabuki could be seen soldiers enjoying the hot springs. In the city’s large arenas, citizens were enjoying soccer, tennis and other sports. Trade in local products was brisk, and we did not lack for supplies. In the early morning on the huge athletic field, one could occasionally see the mounted figure of Lt. Col. Tadatake Kimihira (of the cavalry), but the local residents frowned on the fact that the hoofs ruined the green lawns. It was a scene of thoughtless arrogance often displayed abroad by Japanese.
The natives in the tropics, symbolized by the red canna, were extremely passionate. With strange makeup and appearances, the Kanaka people in each village took part in a frenzied group dance called Kanaka Shin Shin. As though they could hardly wait for the sun to set, young men and women with well-used guitars in hand would gather under the palm trees to sing and dance the night away under the soft moonlight. The sight was truly that of a paradise on earth.
In contrast to the idyllic life of an officer as described by Matsuda, the daily routine for enlisted men, especially new arrivals, was not always pleasant. Flight Petty Officer Yasuto Ichikawa, one of the last replacements to join Air Group 705 at Rabaul, remained subordinate to most of the other crewmembers throughout his deployment. In Japan’s military culture, recruits and other lower ranks endured frequent physical abuse. The practice went beyond mere hazing. Mistreatment at the whim of individuals or groups included hitting, slapping, and even whacking subordinates across the backside with a stout wooden stick.
Soon after reporting to Rabaul in 1943, Ichikawa and several other newcomers were sent to the forward airdrome at Ballale Island. Their “welcome” took Ichikawa and his fellow replacements by surprise. “I had no idea that we would be beaten with bats until our backsides became bruised,” he wrote, “after being deployed to the front base in the Solomons. A group of petty officers, who had been appointed to the same rank at the same time as we had been, took us to the palm forest and told us to make a line, only because they had joined the Navy half a year or one year prior to us. We had to listen to their never-ending complaints while suffering mosquito bites. After that, they hit us.”
Life was more pleasant when aircrews moved back to Rabaul. For much of the summer, Ichikawa flew daylight patrols or nighttime harassment raids down the Slot. His possessions were meager. The barracks at Vunakanau, shared by the entire chutai, was a long rectangular building with an aisle down the center and sleeping platforms on both sides. Personal space consisted of enough room to lie down on the platform.
In his contribution to a postwar history of the air group, Ichikawa provided a vivid description of the barracks atmosphere.
The barracks were made of panels which were crudely put together. They were built on the easy slope of a mountain. Although it was deforested, there were still lots of palm trees left. Those trees gave us shade, and because the airbase itself was at the top of a rise, it was relatively cool and comfortable to live there.
The barrack was a flat where about 80 men of a division lived together. However, if a plane did not return, 7 or 8 men of a section ended up missing. Therefore, there was always enough space in the barracks.
Oil drums were placed at the corner of the yard as bathtubs, as if they were there in a construction site.
When we received no raids and did only peaceful reconnoitering and patrolling, senior crew members in loincloths sat cross-legged on their folded blankets which were placed on the straw mat at the barrac
k. Some had left some hair on top of their shaved heads. The hair was about 2 centimeters in diameter and looked like a Chinese pigtail. Some people grew their pigtails below their necks. Some looked very dignified with their finely grown mustaches. They looked older than they really were.
Gambling took place. The men sat in a circle and were absorbed in card games. I was once impressed by a well-mannered senior crew member as he, sitting upright and wearing clean, starched tropical clothes, played the Japanese flute. Some were writing the flight reports of the day, some were writing letters to their families, some were sleeping in mosquito nets, some were meditating, and some were playing kokkuri-san.* One man was cultured enough to paint a picture on the silk cloth of parachutes. Everyone seemed to enjoy spending time in the barracks in his own way.
Unlike many of the Japanese at Rabaul, the reconnaissance and land-attack units of the Eleventh Air Fleet put their lives on the line almost every day. In addition to periodic strikes, particularly over the central Solomons, the “land attackers” flew a daily regimen of long-range patrols. The twin-engine medium bombers, with a superb combat radius, belonged to a unique category in the Imperial Navy known as rikujo kogeki-ki (land-based attack aircraft), abbreviated as rikko. Formed in the 1930s, the specialized group had been created to enable the navy to attack enemy ships from a great distance using aerial torpedoes, but the aircraft also proved adept at level bombing and reconnaissance. With the G4M, the designers at Mitsubishi succeeded in creating a bomber that flew with a top speed of almost 270 miles per hour, had good defensive armament, and could deliver a “Long Lance” torpedo out to a radius of greater than 1,500 miles.