by Bruce Gamble
Someone’s bombs—either ours or those of the plane ahead—landed very close to two large ships which still were side by side, perhaps caught as they were fueling. The bombs made a brisk pattern of near misses, but perhaps even then they did grave damage to the ships.
The sky became discolored with bursting anti-aircraft fire, which came from a few ships and also from some ground guns near an extinct volcano. Then we turned over the harbor and began to leave the target area.
Behind I could see the town of Rabaul—which from a height of many thousands of feet looks like a delightful vacation spot—the harbor, where at least two and perhaps more ships were burning with a pleasant persistence, and a couple of air fields, one of which was almost completely wreathed with smoke.
The 43rd claimed the destruction of “between six and a dozen large and small watercraft,” with an equal number damaged. Additionally, the crews reported seeing “only two Nip fighter planes,” neither of which attacked aggressively. So the bombers turned for home, many heading toward Kiriwina Island in case they needed to stop for fuel. Several did land there; others put down at Goodenough Island. Throughout the afternoon, damaged B-24s and those with precious little fuel remaining landed wherever practical. Amazingly, only one crew came up short. The Mirage, piloted by Lt. Dorwan C. Wilson, 403rd Squadron, made a forced landing on a reef west of Kiriwina with one engine out. The plane was wrecked and five crewmembers suffered injuries, but all survived and were rescued the next day.
IN RABAUL, THE American POWs reacted to the daylight raid with pride and fear. Holguin remembered that the air raid sirens began to wail at about 1030 Tokyo time (an hour ahead of the local time used by Allied forces). “[A]lmost simultaneously,” he wrote, “we could hear strafing going on and bombs going off in the distance.… However, we could not see the airplanes.”
Despite a promise of an escort to an air raid shelter, the POWs remained alone in their flimsy building. Without the guards around, the prisoners peered through a small window that faced the courtyard, and thus could see the B-24s as they approached from the south and attacked Simpson Harbor. “Even at that distance,” recalled Holguin, “the bomb explosions shook the ground beneath us and rattled the wooden walls. We cheered our men and prayed for them. One of the B-24’s was hit by the Zeros and began trailing smoke as the formation wheeled toward the west and headed for home. We yelled at the plane and crew to keep going and not to fall into the hands of the enemy.”
SEVERAL RETURNING BOMBERS, having landed elsewhere to get fuel, make repairs, or both, didn’t reach home base until well into the evening. Officers and enlisted crewmen alike had to spend additional time giving reports to squadron intelligence officers. The latter, in turn, attempted to correlate accounts, particularly regarding claims for aerial victories. From the squadron level, reports were forwarded to group personnel and then to V Bomber Command or V Fighter Command. The fact that nearly 340 aircraft had started out on the mission (not counting five “weather ships” and several reconnaissance aircraft) meant a long night of fact-gathering for the intelligence personnel.
No one was more eager to hear results than the generals—particularly Kenney. He and MacArthur had spent the day with Whitehead at ADVON headquarters, overlooking Jackson Field. The atmosphere was like a politician’s living room on election night; everyone waited anxiously for the numbers to come in. Reacting to MacArthur’s cautionary estimate that he’d lose thirty planes, Kenney guesstimated eleven losses. When the squadrons submitted their final head counts, Kenney was pleased to initially record his losses as two B-24s, two B-25s, and one Beaufighter. The total was accurate, but Kenney would later correct the figures to reflect the loss of three Liberators, one Mitchell, and a Beaufighter.
Encouraged by the early results, MacArthur wanted to spread the word immediately. But as Kenney noted that evening: “Could not get all the dope from squadrons at Port Moresby and Dobo in time for MacA’s communiqué, so he said to postpone it until October 13.”
It is interesting that Kenney mentioned squadron reports but not photographic evidence. He should have known to regard his squadrons’ claims with caution, as they were prone to exaggeration. Post-strike photographs, on the other hand, showed the real outcome. And on October 12, scores of clear, detailed photos were developed after the raid. Many of the B-25 strafers were equipped with a K-21 aerial camera, installed in the rear fuselage facing aft, which used an intervalometer to automatically take high resolution images with the release of the bombs or parafrags. Additionally, the 8th Photo Reconnaissance squadron put no less than four F-4/F-5 Lightnings over Rabaul, including one that took color photographs.
The results, described frankly in the squadron’s unofficial war diary, presented a dilemma for the heavy bomber commanders:
When all the pictures were developed, the observed damage wasn’t nearly what was expected, and all afternoon generals and colonels were calling the [reconnaissance] pilots, pleading with them to say that they personally observed 5 warships rolled over and sunk, etc.—they had to, damn it—didn’t 80 B-24s bomb the harbor? Next morning’s A-2 report from the bomber crews substantiated the fact that they can’t even see to work a bomb sight, let alone observe direct hits from 23,000. According to the heavies, they sank everything in the harbor; according to 8th Photo’s pictures, they’re damn lucky if they sank a total of five good-sized ships.
The diarist’s remarks were harsh, but justified. An internal summary published by the Fifth Air Force revealed that of thirty-six bombs dropped by Rogers’ lead element, only three hits were scored—a ratio of 8 percent. Despite such evidence, MacArthur’s communiqué stated: “[O]ur heavy bombers with 1,000-lb bombs sank or destroyed three destroyers, two merchant ships of 5,800 tons each, and one of 7,000 tons, forty-three seagoing cargo vessels ranging from 100 to 500 tons, and 70 harbor craft. In addition they hit and severely damaged a submarine and its 5,000 ton tender, a 6,800 ton destroyer tender, and a 7,000 ton cargo ship.”
Contrary to claims, no warships sank, although several were damaged—none severely. These facts were compiled from a Pentagon group called the Joint Army-Navy Assessment Committee (JANAC). A brainchild of General Marshall and Admiral King, the committee consisted of seven army and navy officers who reviewed information and reports from numerous sources. Among the warships targeted by the heavy bombers on October 12, the special purpose ship Tsukushi and the fifteen-thousand-ton ton oiler Naruto received minor damage, their hulls holed by bomb splinters—one of which may have killed the tanker’s captain. Nearby, the destroyers Mochizuki, Minazuki, and Tachikazi also suffered minor damage from near misses, as did submarines I-77, I-80, and RO-105. Three other subs, moored in deep water, submerged when the bombing began.
The claim that forty-six ships of one hundred tons or greater plus seventy small craft had sunk in Simpson Harbor was outrageous. Only six noncombatants actually sank, the largest being Keishu Maru, a navy auxiliary of 5,880 tons. Three army cargo ships smaller than 550 tons, and two small miscellaneous navy boats—one a patrol craft of 34 tons—were sunk or left partially submerged. MacArthur and Kenney seemed determined to prove the old adage that the truth should never get in the way of a good story.
MacArthur’s press release boasted that the low-level strafers destroyed one hundred Japanese planes on the ground and severely damaged another fifty-one. Additionally, twenty-six enemy planes were shot down in aerial combat. The P-38s were awarded only three official victories, and the B-25 strafers only two, so most of the shoot-downs were credited to various gunners aboard the B-24s. Actual Japanese combat losses amounted to four Zeros (two each from Air Groups 204 and 205) and at least nine others damaged by gunfire, two of them seriously.
Perhaps the greatest accomplishment that day was achieved by the maintenance crews and ground support personnel. Incredibly, only three hours after the last B-25 returned, 108 strafers were declared operational for another mission. Although the B-24s had returned to Port Moresby later, seventy were av
ailable by the following morning, while the P-38 crews at Dobodura and Kiriwina had prepped more than one hundred Lightnings.
A follow-up raid was already in the works, again with emphasis on the heavy bombers. This time, however, the targets would be the many barracks, warehouses, supply dumps, and headquarters buildings in downtown Rabaul. Whether Whitehead and his staff knew that Allied airmen were being held there is unknown—and probably irrelevant. Saturation bombing, as Holguin and McMurria had warned their captors, was bound to begin sooner or later. Certainly the bomber crews had no compunction about hitting downtown Rabaul. As the 43rd Bomb Group’s narrative history explained, “the town area is a target the boys have been itching to hit for a long time.”
The prisoners knew that, but didn’t begrudge the bomber crews. “The thought of dying at the hands of our own brothers was horrifying …,” Holguin wrote, “even though all of us had accepted the fact that we would eventually perish—one way or another.”
*Of the eight Wirraways that took off, six were either shot down or crash-landed and a seventh was damaged.
*Lieutenant Joseph H. Helbert and Lieutenant Benjamin F. Burgess
*Staff Sergeant Ralph W. Powell, one of the side gunners in the crew of Satan’s Sister
CHAPTER 12
Stormy Weather
FORTUNATELY FOR THE POWs in Chinatown, the planned saturation bombing did not materialize. Weather conditions between New Guinea and New Britain had deteriorated overnight. The morning forecast was deemed too unfavorable to launch the medium bombers. That did not stop a predawn launch by Wing Commander Geoffrey D. Nicoll, who led twelve Bristol of No. 8 Squadron, RAAF, from their base at Goodenough Island to attack Simpson Harbor. Details of the raid are sketchy, but the official RAAF history implies that only two crews launched torpedoes—with no observation of results. The only good news, considering the effort, was the survival of all twelve Beauforts.
At Port Moresby, meanwhile, the B-24s began taking off at 0800. Seventy Liberators headed down the coast before turning toward Kiriwina, where they rendezvoused with more than a hundred P-38s. Heading across the Solomon Sea, the formation encountered bad weather. Halfway to New Britain, a massive frontal system extended from five thousand to thirty thousand feet. The front was extremely turbulent, and icing conditions existed above fifteen thousand feet.
The formation separated as various elements tried to penetrate the front. Some B-24s climbed as high as twenty-two thousand feet, but they began to pick up ice—extremely hazardous for the already-overloaded bombers. Planes were barely in control as they pushed through near-whiteout conditions, and one group later reported that Liberators and Lightnings “were seemingly all over the sky.”
Captain Gerald R. Johnson, leading his P-38s of the 9th Fighter Squadron, was in a quandary. Having recently taken command of the squadron, he felt the lonely weight of responsibility as he considered his options. His P-38s were tasked with following the Liberators to Rabaul, but he also had an obligation to protect the lives of his pilots. Wrestling with the dilemma, Johnson continued to press ahead even after his squadron became separated in the icy whiteness of the storm. Eventually the decision was made for him. The heavies could not punch through the front and aborted the mission. Many turned back while others attacked alternate targets south of the front.
The situation became even more dangerous as dozens of aircraft tried to find their way out of the storm. Vertigo, a common outcome of multiple turns in low visibility, became downright perilous to pilots who trusted their sense of balance over flight instruments. Between vertigo and the risk of midair collision, the inside of a turbulent storm was as perilous as any combat mission. In this case, a B-24 and three P-38s were declared missing after the rest of the crews returned to their home fields.
All four aircraft had gone down trying to punch through the storm. Ten men were lost aboard the B-24, and the P-38 drivers, all senior lieutenants, were from Johnson’s 9th Fighter Squadron. He blamed himself for their deaths, but an entry in the 43rd Bomb Group’s history provided a possible explanation for two of the missing aircraft: “Capt. Hughie ‘Slim’ Bonner of Coffeeville, Mississippi, of the 403rd Squadron, and his crew failed to return from the mission and it is feared they collided with a P-38 in the soup. Capt. Bonner was one of the most popular and capable officers of our group.”
The only positive outcome came during the search for the missing planes. A PBY crew spotted a wrecked B-24 on a reef west of Kiriwina and subsequently rescued Lieutenant Wilson and his entire crew of the 403rd, missing since the previous day. So the squadron got one crew back. The smashed remains of Bonner’s aircraft were reportedly discovered on an islet in the Amphlett Group, fifty miles south of Kiriwina, but no trace of the three missing P-38s was ever found.
ADMIRAL KUSAKA, WHOSE Eleventh Air Fleet units struggled daily with aircraft availability, would have been dumbfounded to learn that the Allies were capable of launching almost 270 planes within twenty-four hours of the raid on October 12. Bad weather prevented him from learning this the hard way, but even though he could no longer match Kenney’s strength plane-for-plane, he kept jabbing. A few of the Japanese raids were large, but most were so undersized as to be suicide missions.
One dramatic example was an attack on October 15 against Oro Bay, just south of Dobodura. Fifteen Vals of Air Group 582, accompanied by thirty-nine Zeros, attempted to hit Allied shipping in the anchorage. The Japanese claimed five transports sunk or damaged, but as Kenney noted in his diary, the vessels sustained “little apparent damage.” The cost of the effort was enormous. Intercepted by fifty-four P-38s and eight P-40s, the attackers were torn apart. Fourteen Vals and five Zeros were splashed—this according to Japanese records. American claims were exaggerated, yet the intelligence officers approved official victories for twenty-six dive-bombers and eighteen enemy fighters. Gerald Johnson’s three victories—two Vals and a Zero—elevated his overall score to five and helped ease his remorse over the debacle in the storm two days earlier.
Despite the severe losses, the Japanese tried again two days later. No outdated, fixed-gear dive-bombers this time: Air Group 582 had only one upgraded Model 22 Val available after the disaster on the 15th. Instead, Kusaka sent a fighter sweep. At approximately 1000 on October 17, four squadrons of B-25s out of Port Moresby approached Dobodura, where they would stage overnight for another crack at Rabaul. Some were preparing to touch down when they were shooed away by a red alert: a large formation of enemy fighters had been detected to the southeast, coming in low over Oro Bay.
The fifty-six Zeros almost got to Dobodura unseen. The outcome might have been disastrous for the Allies, but instead the Japanese were intercepted from several directions by forty-three P-38s and three P-40s. The dogfight over Oro Bay was evenly matched, with a slight numerical advantage to the Japanese. The Americans, however, gave slightly better than they got: eight Zeros were shot down (actual Japanese losses) in exchange for four P-38s and a P-40.
One of the Lightnings bested that day was flown by Tommy McGuire, already an ace in the 475th Group. Wading into a flight of seven Zeros, he shot down three but was overwhelmed by the remaining four. One got on his tail and tore up the Lightning with cannon and machine-gun fire. Wounded by 20mm shrapnel in several places and a bullet in the wrist, McGuire jumped from his burning fighter. During his freefall, the detached oxygen mask flailed his face and eyes, temporarily blinding him.
Still, McGuire was lucky. A PT boat pulled him from Oro Bay. After his injuries healed in an Australian hospital, he returned to his squadron. Although he would not survive the war, McGuire became the second-highest-scoring ace in American history, only two victories shy of the record eventually set by Dick Bong.
IF KUSAKA WAS jabbing at the Allies, Kenney was counterpunching with uppercuts and roundhouses. And he occasionally landed a haymaker. After attacking Rabaul with over 300 aircraft on October 12, he launched approximately 270 the next day, though the attempt was thwarted by bad weather. After
that, to keep the Japanese army units on their knees, Kenney sent a heavy raid against Wewak on October 16.
The next big attack on Rabaul was set for October 18, weather permitting. On October 17, Lt. William Southard took off from Schwimmer airdrome in an F-5 Lightning and photographed Rabaul—primarily Rapopo and Lakunai—escorted by two fully armed P-38s. On the return flight, V Bomber Command ordered Southard to land at Dobodura to expedite distribution of printed photos to medium bomb groups.
Enlargements of the photos were available the next morning. Flight crews often had little advance knowledge of their target until the briefing began, but in this case word got out when the B-25s of the 345th Group staged to Dobodura the day before the mission—and were almost caught up in the fighter sweep. Rumor had it that they would attack Rabaul the next morning, causing many crews a restless night. Lieutenant Victor W. Tatelman, a pilot from Terra Haute, Indiana, could not shake a sense of unease: “It was after 0300 and sleep was elusive. I had just fallen asleep when the operations clerk nudged me awake through my mosquito netting. The thought of Rabaul brought on a cold sweat as we dressed in silence. [Captain Julian B.] Baird and I walked down to the mess tent; stomach too tight—no food, just coffee—and then on to the briefing.”
Though they knew about the target beforehand, the tension was palpable. A heavy cloth covering the map at the front of the operations tent would be pulled back with a flourish, adding to the drama. “When the intelligence officer removed the cloth,” recalled Tatelman, “and we saw that the target was Rabaul, everybody in the tent gasped. It was a rough feeling.”
Lieutenant James M. Mahaffey listened to the briefing with both fatalism and blind faith in the modified gunships’ firepower: “Rabaul was well defended, they said. And it was. The Japs had a lot of fighters there and a lot of antiaircraft. We were a little apprehensive about Rabaul, but we knew the enemy couldn’t stand up to our machine guns. And the only way they could get us was shooting straight up. I never did worry about the missions much. I just took it for granted I might get shot down.”