Target: Rabaul: The Allied Siege of Japan's Most Infamous Stronghold, March 1943 - August 1945

by Bruce Gamble

  Despite the advance warning most of the enemy’s gun pits were unoccupied, guns covered with canvas, when the first wave of B-25s struck. A few gun crews later swung into action, but their fire was light and inaccurate. Once again, surprise had been achieved.

  Of the four active airdromes at Rabaul, Vunakanau was the largest. Its mile-long runway, 135 feet across, was paved with concrete, and a taxi strip of the same dimensions lay alongside. One hundred and fifty revetments lay on both sides of the runway, all interconnected with a network of taxiways. Numerous wooden buildings, including seventy thousand square feet of new construction, served the administration, housing, and storage needs of the base, which comprised approximately two thousand personnel. Even with sixty-seven strafers involved, the size of the airdrome dwarfed individual waves of twelve or thirteen attackers.

  Led by Colonel True, the B-25s spread out to hammer the likeliest targets. Repeating the scene at Rapopo, the strafers created mayhem among the parked planes. The first three waves of attackers, all from True’s 345th Bomb Group, encountered only light antiaircraft fire. Behind them came the two squadrons of the 38th Bomb Group, the 71st with eleven B-25s (one turned back with engine trouble), and the 405th with twelve aircraft.

  Zooming over a small ridge, the 71st Squadron formed a wide front and strafed ten to fifteen enemy bombers in the southeast area and eight to ten fighters in the southwest area. The strafers unleashed nineteen thousand rounds of .50-caliber ammunition while toggling off 642 parafrags. Three aircraft with inline engines were left burning, as were three bombers in the southeast corner of the airdrome. Supply dumps, fuel trucks, and other targets were likewise attacked. One unidentified pilot caught a Zero taxiing along the runway to take off. The fighter stopped and eventually caught fire after being hit by successive strafers. The crews of the 71st Squadron counted at least ten individual fires, and the next squadron confirmed that two of the fires were burning fuel dumps.

  Five airborne fighters were counted over Vunakanau. They made a few timid passes at the B-25s of the 71st Squadron, only one pressing closer than a thousand feet. But when the 405th Squadron approached Vunakanau, additional Zekes appeared and the attacks became more aggressive. The twelve Mitchells, forming a half-mile line abreast, shot up many of the same targets hit by the preceding waves. They also dropped 759 frag clusters on the southern two-thirds of the airdrome. As the formation began to exit the target area, the six B-25s on the right side of the formation were intercepted on the deck by nine Zekes.

  For the next fourteen minutes, a running battle ensued. The enemy fighters pressed in close. Turret gunners reportedly shot down two of the fighters, but the situation turned ugly when a Zeke damaged the B-25 piloted by Lt. Edsal J. Crews. Sensing a kill, additional fighters swarmed in. Pieces of the B-25’s right engine nacelle fell away as the engine burst into flames; then the right landing gear drooped and the tire separated from the wheel. Crewmen in nearby strafers reported that the stricken plane’s turret gunner, Staff Sgt. James J. Patrick, “kept his guns blazing at pursuing Zekes until the end.”

  Knowing he couldn’t get away, Crews called his element leader with iconic last words. “I’m going in,” he radioed as the formation got out over the water. Nothing more was heard, and the B-25 crashed into the sea.

  Considering the intense interception by Zekes, it is interesting that nobody among the B-25 crews mentioned the fighter cover. Where were the P-38s? The likely answer, based on the puzzling lack of reaction by the escorts, is that the Lightnings were too far out of position to intervene. When a few enemy fighters were sighted over Vunakanau, the Lightnings went a-chasing. Unfortunately the rearmost B-25s were left unprotected.

  In their post-mission reports, the P-38 pilots downplayed the interceptors over Vunakanau. In fact, among all the escorts, only the lead element of the 433rd Fighter Squadron reported tangling briefly with four Oscars over Vunakanau. Lieutenant Ralph T. Cleage was credited with flaming one of the Ki-43s, the only enemy fighter downed by a P-38 during the entire low-level phase of the mission.

  Conversely, of the 113 strafers that attacked the two crowded airdromes, only the aircraft flown by Crews was lost—a remarkably low price in exchange for the damage the B-25s caused. At Vunakanau alone, the Mitchells expended over a hundred thousand machine-gun bullets and dropped more than two thousand parafrags. Almost nothing escaped damage. The Japanese admitted that nine rikko of Air Groups 702 and 751 burned in their revetments, with three others too severely damaged to repair. Another Japanese source indicated that thirty-six medium bombers were damaged, and a thousand drums of aviation fuel set on fire.

  THE THIRD ELEMENT of the low-level phase, the attack on Tobera airdrome by Beaufighters of 30 Squadron, was not as successful. After taking off late from Dobodura, the Aussies proceeded alone across the Solomon Sea. This was not unusual for Beaufighter crews, who were confident they could defend themselves. The “Beau” had two fat radial engines jutting out in front of its truncated fuselage. The barrels of four twenty-millimeter automatic cannons protruded from the stubby nose; and with six .303-caliber machine guns in the wings, the Beaufighter qualified as a legitimate heavyweight.

  If anyone in 30 Squadron had a right to feel nervous about attacking Rabaul, it was Flying Officer A. G. “Bert” Claire. Two years earlier, he had been based at Lakunai airdrome as a member of 24 Squadron, part of the inadequate defenses sent to fortify Rabaul in the summer of 1941. Albert George Claire was the rear gunner in a Wirraway piloted by Sgt. George Albert Herring. When an overwhelming attack by Japanese carrier planes occurred on January 20, 1942, Claire and Herring were shot down almost immediately. Both men were wounded in the legs and Herring crash-landed on the strip at Lakunai, saving their lives. Now, in a Beaufighter speeding toward Rabaul, Claire would soon find himself back at the scene of a truly harrowing experience.

  At the front of the formation, Wing Commander Boulton faced more problems than just a late departure. Shortly after taking off, one his fighters had turned back, its port engine shut down due to an oil leak. Later, as the formation crossed the Gazelle Peninsula, the Beaufighters met two squadrons of B-25s coming straight at them. Some of the Mitchell crews, heading home after completing their attacks, mistook the Beaufighters for JAAF Sallys. At least one American pilot opened fire, but fortunately his bullets passed through the narrow gap between two Beaufighters. Breaking radio silence, Boulton called frantically to stop the shooting.

  Ten minutes later, around 1055, the Beaufighters reached the threshold of Tobera. With the aircraft stacked to the left in an echelon formation, Boulton increased speed and dropped to treetop altitude. Suddenly, nineteen Zeros appeared. Boulton tried to wheel the whole formation to the right, but the highspeed turn cracked the whip on the two rearmost aircraft. On the outside of the turn, the Beaufighter piloted by Flight Lieutenant Derrick R. “Dick” Stone was overwhelmed by Zeros and crashed two miles east of Tobera. (He was probably the victim of Air Group 204, whose pilots claimed a victory over a “new type B-26.”) The rest of the Beaufighters got away after an extended fight. During the running battle, Squadron Leader James G. Emerton fired on a Zero, then found himself lined up on Rapopo and strafed it “from the lowest possible height.” Three Zeros nipped at his heels for five minutes, but he gradually pulled away with the horsepower advantage of his two Bristol Hercules engines.

  SHORTLY AFTER DAWN on October 12, nine hundred crewmembers representing seven squadrons from the 43rd and 90th Bomb Groups headed to the flight lines at Port Moresby. Robert Cromie, a Chicago Tribune war correspondent, had attended the pre-mission briefing for the four squadrons of the 90th Group, conducted by Lieutenant Colonel Rogers. The crews knew that this would be a monumental event—the first daylight raid on Rabaul in more than nine months—and that the fortress was stronger than ever. Word that the Japanese had 145 fighters on the airdromes was discouraging, yet Cromie was impressed that “spirits were extremely high, despite the usual warnings.”

  On the w
ay out to the flight line, he heard plenty of kidding and banter: “Don’t bomb the geisha houses,” a crewman shouted.

  “Why not,” someone yelled back. “You can kill more Japs there than anywhere else.”

  No one had the willies after that—for a while. To overcome nervousness, wisecracking was certainly better than brooding, and some guys kept it up until the ack-ack shells began to explode.

  An accident delayed the departure of the 400th Squadron and thus Rogers, who would lead the entire effort. The first squadrons to arrive at the rendezvous point burned precious fuel while orbiting, but by 0800 Rogers had arrived. The Liberators sorted themselves into formation. Each of the seven squadrons had been tasked with launching twelve bombers plus a spare to accompany the formation partway and turn back if unneeded. Thanks to the maintenance and ground support troops, eighty-seven of the possible ninety-one Liberators made the rendezvous—a participation rate of 95 percent.

  The B-24s were extremely heavy, each carrying six thousand-pound general purpose bombs and nearly twenty thousand pounds of high-octane aviation fuel. It would be an exceptionally long flight. Rather than taking the heavies over the peaks of the Owen Stanley Mountains, Rogers led them southeast to the tip of the Papuan peninsula, then turned the formation ninety degrees to the left and headed across the Solomon Sea to New Britain.

  Riding with the crew of Satan’s Sister of the 403rd Bomb Squadron/43rd Group, Cromie admired the enormous bomber formation, which seemed to fill the sky. He smiled nervously as crewmembers joked about Japanese ack-ack, and felt “much happier” when a gaggle of brownish-green Lightnings sidled up. Forty-seven P-38s from the 39th Fighter Squadron/35th Fighter Group and 80th Squadron/49th Group met the formation over Kiriwina Island, already more than one-third of the way across the Solomon Sea. But two squadrons did not constitute a potent escort, considering the intelligence reports that the Japanese had 145 fighters at Rabaul.

  Slowly climbing the entire way, the formation continued across the Solomon Sea. Some spares turned back at the designated point, others filled in for dropouts. As the Liberators approached Rabaul, more turned back. From the 65th Squadron alone, five out of thirteen bombers aborted. Citing various difficulties, twenty-five Liberators eventually pulled out, leaving sixty-two in the formation. The mission abort rate was a disappointing 30 percent.

  Pressing on, Rogers led the bombers across the Gazelle Peninsula on a northwest heading from Wide Bay. When he rocked his wings, the B-24s separated into six-plane elements, each assigned specific shipping targets based on the previous day’s photographs. As the elements spread out, the elongated formation became too large for the remaining twenty-eight Lightnings to cover adequately. To make matters worse for the Liberators, the leader of the 39th Squadron didn’t shepherd the bombers all the way to the target; instead he positioned his sixteen Lightnings south of Rabaul to cover the bombers as they egressed. This was apparently prearranged, but it proved to be an unwise division of forces.

  At 21,000 to 23,000 feet, the B-24s covered the last few miles on autopilot, their headings controlled by the bombardiers. In the lead aircraft, Capt. George P. “Ace” Dunmore peered through his Norden bombsight at his primary target: a big destroyer tender (probably Tsukushi, a warship designed for geological survey that resembled a tender). Up on the flight deck, Rogers alternated his scan between the instrument panel and the view forward. The sky ahead suddenly erupted with black whorls of exploding antiaircraft shells. The bursts were large, fired by high-angle shore batteries and naval guns, yet despite descriptions of “a terrific flak barrage,” the fire was ineffective.

  At 1205, six heavy bombs slid from Rogers’s B-24. He held his course a little longer, giving the other five ships in his element time to pickle their bombs. Altogether the lead flight dropped thirty-six thousand-pound demolition bombs, which they claimed sank a destroyer and badly damaged the tender. Behind the lead element came the 319th Squadron, which claimed five hits on merchantmen, reporting two on fire; the 320th was next, claiming near misses and additional damage to the destroyer tender, followed by the 321st, whose bombardiers reportedly sank or badly damaged three unidentified ships.

  As the bombers cleared the harbor, Dunmore stated that he had “hit the target, sir,” but Rogers wasn’t listening. “I was amazed and flabbergasted,” he later wrote, “to see just ahead the biggest swarm of enemy fighters I had ever seen in the air at one time.”

  Air Groups 204 and 253 had launched thirty-four Type 0 fighters, making the decision by V Bomber Command to ignore Lakunai airdrome seem all the more baffling. Slightly more than half the fighters were the same version that had been in service since the early days, the Model 21 Zeke; the rest were clipped-wing Model 22 Hamps and Model 52 Zekes. A noteworthy feature of the newer models was their long-barreled 20mm cannons, which were more accurate than the original version.

  The interceptors attacked aggressively as soon as the B-24s turned southward to begin the long trip home. Repeating the method Zeamer and his crew had witnessed over Bougainville, the Zeros raced ahead, keeping just beyond the reach of the Liberators’ guns, until they were five miles ahead. Rogers had to admire their coordination as some fighters broke right and others broke left, initiating head-on passes from both sides. Also watching the attacks was Maj. Clarence R. “Kip” Chase, Kenney’s aide, who rode with Rogers as an observer. From a side window, Chase counted eighty-seven individual attack runs by mottled green Zeros. Rogers estimated a similar number on the opposite side, plus gunnery passes from above and below the formation.

  One 20mm shell punched a hole in Rogers’s left outboard fuel tank, just aft of the number 1 engine. Although the tanks were lined with self-sealing material, the Liberators had a bad reputation for burning. Rogers could see fuel leaking uncomfortably close to the engine’s hot exhaust outlets. He then noticed that one of his wingmen had lost an engine to enemy gunfire. As the running battle progressed, all six Liberators in the lead element were eventually hit.

  The firepower of the newest B-24s—which featured a nose turret with twin .50 caliber guns—partially minimized the attacks. Rogers would later write that he “could see Zeros flying to pieces.” But that did not preclude him from calling for help from the P-38s. Unfortunately, none came. Rogers did not see a single escort for the remainder of the mission. There had been too few to begin with.

  Farther back in the formation, one element of P-38s from the 80th Squadron did intervene. According to the squadron’s combat narrative, the flight leader knew that fighter cover was lacking:

  Captain [James] R. Wilson attacked a Hamp which was diving on a formation of B-24s just leaving the area. He had been unable to release one of his belly tanks, but no other P-38s were in range of this Hamp; in order to save face in front of the B-24s, Capt. Wilson attacked with his belly tank still on. The Hamp passed through Capt. Wilson’s fire and within 30 feet of his P-38, so close, in fact, that Capt. Wilson was able to observe that the Jap pilot was a big fellow and quite frantic. A second later the Hamp began to burn. It was the only plane destroyed by the squadron that day.

  Besides Wilson’s victory, the Lightnings were ineffective. Determined attacks by Air Groups 204 and 253 continued against the forward B-24s long after they left the target area and were back over the Solomon Sea. “From radio conversations,” noted Rogers, “the other flight commanders were all having their difficulties and I began to wonder if any of us would get back. The Japs had followed us out seventy-five miles and were still attacking us as fiercely as if the fight had just begun.”

  Eventually the Zero pilots got what they wanted. Pistol Packin’ Mama, piloted by Lt. Hampton E. Rich of the 321st Squadron, was hit hard during the egress. With three engines out or damaged, Rich lost airspeed and altitude quickly and radioed that he was attempting a water landing. He ditched successfully in the vicinity of Wide Bay. However, while Rogers and others watched in horror from above, several Zeros swooped down and strafed the floating bomber until it burst into
flames. Rogers was “positive there would be no survivors.”

  Another damaged B-24, piloted by Flight Officer Donald K. McNeff of the 400th Squadron, stayed with the formation for almost ninety minutes after the bombing run. Last seen off New Britain at 1330, McNeff was lagging about a mile behind. A crewman in another bomber noted that the fuselage of the B-24 had been “shot up,” otherwise the plane “did not appear to be in trouble.” However, neither the Liberator nor any of its crew were ever seen again. Where and why the bomber stopped flying are unknown.

  IN CONTRAST TO the fierce interception the lead elements of the 90th Bomb Group experienced, the 43rd encountered almost no opposition. The enemy fighters had been drawn far to the south, chasing down the Liberators flown by Rogers and his forward elements. Free from distractions, the 43rd Group’s bombardiers had a rare opportunity to conduct textbook bombing.

  In the tail-end 403rd Squadron, Cromie had a fabulous view from Satan’s Sister:

  A few miles ahead I saw what looked like smoke hanging low along the water’s edge. It was Rabaul. By leaning a little way out into the slipstream, I could see a couple of Jap ships beginning to circle frantically in the outer harbor.

  From the other window I saw dozens of Jap ships, most of them still motionless, and a number of bombs bursting among them, throwing water high into the air and leaving black smoke hanging where the bomb had split the water.

  As Powell* and I watched, we could see one ship disappear momentarily as some sharpshooting bombardier scored a direct hit. Then, as we came over the harbor, I lay down and peered thru the bottom turret to see our brown beauties of bombs drop into space to begin the long trip down.