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

by Bruce Gamble

  Lieutenant Colonel True would again lead the low-altitude portion of the mission, but the plan did not mirror the first big raid. This time the heavies would attack first in hopes of temporarily putting Lakunai, Tobera, and Vunakanau out of commission. In theory, the first wave would draw off the enemy fighter forces, after which the Zeros would have to land at the one intact airdrome—Rapopo—to refuel. At this opportune moment, the B-25 strafers would charge in over the treetops and smash Rapopo, hopefully catching the enemy planes on the ground.

  As with the earlier raid, the maintenance and service crews in more than a dozen squadrons outdid themselves. Seventy-seven B-24s from three groups began taking off from Port Moresby shortly after 0700. Three hours later, they formed up and went around the Papuan peninsula to Kiriwina, where they rendezvoused with fifty-five P-38s. While the Liberators and Lightnings joined up, the B-25s began taking off from Dobodura at approximately 1000. Lieutenant Harlan H. Peterson of the 500th Squadron/345th Group had difficulty getting his aircraft started. No one would have faulted him for aborting, but he transferred his crew to a spare plane and took off thirty minutes late, joining his squadron as it orbited at the rendezvous point. By 1100, a total of fifty-four strafers had formed up with their top cover, consisting of three additional P-38 squadrons. They headed outbound, but within thirty minutes another plane from the 500th Squadron experienced a problem and turned back, escorted by the other two planes of the three-ship element.

  The forecast presented at the briefing had called for marginal weather conditions, and for the first hour the skies were relatively clear. But north of Kiriwina, the formations encountered another towering stationary front. For thirty minutes the heavy bombers tried, without success, to find a way around or over the squall line. The recent loss of a Liberator and three Lightnings under similar circumstances undoubtedly influenced a collective decision by the heavies and all the P-38s to abort the mission. The result, ironically, was even worse on this occasion. Twenty-one bombers headed for alternate targets while the remainder dumped their bombs and returned to Port Moresby.

  Or at least most of them returned. Four B-24s were lost after aborting the mission, three of which belonged to the 43rd Bomb Group. All ran low on fuel, although the staff conveniently put the blame on “the damnable combination of weather and Owen Stanley Mountains.” Three of the four crews bailed out over New Guinea—except one pilot and copilot who made a successful belly landing—and miraculously, all survived. However, it took nearly a month for Lt. Warren H. Smeltzer and the crew of the Mitsu Butcher (400th Bomb Squadron/90th Group) to be rescued with the help of local natives. All the fatalities occurred in the ditching of a 64th Squadron/43rd Group Liberator, which got within ten miles of Jackson Field before splashing down in Bootless Bay. Seven of the eleven men aboard were drowned.

  Over the Solomon Sea, meanwhile, True acted like he had not heard the radio calls scrubbing the mission. Flying at the head of the 498th Bomb Squadron/345th Group in a B-25D named Red Wrath, he continued through the squalls toward New Britain. None of the other squadrons—three more from the 345th and two from the 38th Group—broke ranks. Instead the three-ship elements closed up the formation to keep each other in sight while True picked his way through the storm. “The weather was pretty bad,” recalled Tatelman, a pilot in the 499th Squadron. “We were right on the water trying to get underneath it. A lot of us closed up the formation so that we didn’t lose the leader. We could see his airplane clearly because we were so close to it.”

  The B-25s popped out not far from Wide Bay. Flying parallel to the coast, True led the strafers north until they passed the Warangoi River. At Kabanga Bay on New Britain’s Cape Gazelle, the formation turned left. In a matter of hours, controversy would erupt over whether True had missed the calls to abort the mission or chose to ignore them; either way, there was no turning back. As the formation flashed across the beach, the B-25s were mere miles from the target.

  As briefed, the nineteen participating strafers of the 38th Group split off to hit Tobera. Achieving almost complete surprise, the B-25s strafed the airdrome thoroughly and dropped almost two hundred daisy cutters. Crews reported that at least sixteen parked aircraft either burned or blew up. Heavy antiaircraft fire failed to interfere with the attack, although a strafer in the 405th Squadron took several hits, including a shell that “blew off the entire right elevator.” After the B-25s crossed the rim of the caldera, they dropped close to the surface of Saint George’s Channel and turned south toward home. A few Zekes attacked the 71st Squadron, but none pressed closer than a thousand yards and no damage resulted.

  True led three squadrons of the 345th Group over Rapopo with similar success. The 498th and 501st went in first, strafing and dropping hundred-pound daisy cutters. Captain Orin N. Loverin, commanding officer of the 499th, led his squadron through a wide 360-degree turn south of Rapopo to gain some separation. The maneuver gave Loverin and his pilots more space, but it also felt like a false start. The tension that had gnawed at Tatelman and his fellow pilots the whole way across the Solomon Sea was extended while the squadron circled around.

  But then, with the press of the trigger, the tension evaporated:

  The airplane kind of jumped a bit. It was exciting and also kind of a shock the first time, with all that noise and clatter of the guns and the vibration. Oh gosh, it shook the plane. When we came back from a mission, the crew chief would know where to look for cracks and loose rivets.

  On the mission to Rapopo on October 18, I was flying Baird’s right wing and we were in line abreast across the area. I was on the right edge of the runway. And the noise, and the dust, and the bomb smoke and the confusion and the guns going off and the bombs exploding … I was afraid that with just a little bit of movement to one side, Baird would be in my line of fire. So I really had to keep my head in what the hell I was doing.

  When the first two squadrons crossed the northern threshold of Rapopo and roared out over Saint George’s Channel, a reported forty Zekes attacked them. A warning issued by an outpost on the coast of New Britain had prompted Air Group 201 to send up sixteen Zeros while Air Group 204 launched twenty-six. The combined force was milling about in anticipation of a clash with P-38s when the B-25s arrived.

  For twenty-five minutes, the Japanese pilots harassed the strafers as they sped around the tip of Cape Gazelle. The B-25s tightened their formation, benefiting from one another’s top turrets and waist guns. By hugging the wave tops, they discouraged the Japanese from diving aggressively. Even so, some enemy pilots reportedly misjudged their rate of descent and cartwheeled into the sea. Turret gunners claimed ten Zeros shot down.

  While True led three squadrons over Rapopo, the tail-end outfit had a different agenda. Armed with two thousand-pound bombs apiece, the B-25s of the 500th Squadron, led by Lt. Max H. Mortensen, were to “bomb and strafe shipping between Vunapope and Lesson Point as part of a coordinated assault on targets in the Rabaul area.”

  But the coordinated plan no longer existed. There were no heavy bombers to crater the runways at Lakunai and Vunakanau, no P-38s to protect the strafers against marauding Zeros. After deciding to forge ahead without fighter cover, True probably should have altered the plan. But nothing was changed, so Mortensen and his pilots peeled off from the main formation to comply with the original orders.

  Grouped in two elements, the six aircraft swung out from the left flank of the formation and headed toward Vunapope, the Catholic mission along Saint George’s Channel west of Kokopo. The American crews were probably unaware that approximately 350 missionaries and civilians, including a bishop, were being held there as prisoners, but the captives were certainly aware of the American planes overhead. With their uncorked engine exhaust snarling, the B-25s zoomed over the twin spires of the impressive white cathedral and strafed several supply dumps alongside the waterfront. Two sizeable ships were anchored just offshore: the army cargo-passenger transport Johore Maru of nearly 6,200 tons, and a smaller merchantman of about 5
,000 tons. Farther out in the channel, heading straight for Kokopo, the 167-foot sub-chaser CH-23 cut a wake with her twin diesel engines.

  Mortensen’s three-plane element went after the unidentified cargo ship. The leader dropped one of his thousand-pounders and Lt. Raymond A. Geer dropped two; all three missed, although their geysers drenched the ship with seawater. The strafers reported enthusiastically that the near misses rolled the vessel over.

  Sweeping to the right, flying so low that their prop wash rippled the surface, Mortensen’s trio then charged at the sharply pointed prow of CH-23. Mortensen missed with his one remaining bomb, but Lt. Thane C. Hecox Jr. timed his two bombs beautifully. With fuses set to detonate after a delay of four to five seconds, the bombs landed slightly ahead of the ship. The sub-chaser’s forward progress made up the difference. A monstrous explosion seemed to obliterate the small warship, prompting the American crews to believe, justifiably, that they had destroyed it. Indeed, CH-23’s bow was blown off, and the ship was in imminent danger of sinking; however, its proximity to the shore enabled the crew to beach it. After extensive repairs, CH-23 eventually returned to service.

  While Mortensen’s element went after the warship, Capt. Lyle E. “Rip” Anacker’s element attacked Johore Maru. Strafing all the way in, the gunships set fire to the superstructure. Each then dropped their thousand-pounders. One bounced off the main deck and into the water. The other five struck nearby—three or four close enough to qualify as near misses—and the explosions noticeably lifted the vessel. The bomber crews claimed it as sunk, but it escaped serious damage. (Five days later, halfway to the Philippines, an American submarine torpedoed and sank Johore Maru.)

  No sooner had Anacker’s flight swooped over the ship and begun to flee across Saint George’s Channel than a covey of enemy fighters attacked. Air Group 253 at Tobera had launched twenty Zeros, which scored hits almost immediately. The right engine of Tondelayo, Lt. Ralph G. Wallace’s gunship, belched smoke and vibrated severely. From atop the fuselage, the turret gunner could see a hole where a cylinder head should have been. Wallace set the controls for single-engine operation, retarding the throttle and feathering the number 2 prop, and the other two B-25s slowed their speed to match his. Following protocol, Wallace became the de facto element leader. Anacker in SNAFU tucked in behind Wallace’s left wing to provide protection, while Peterson positioned his B-25, Sorry Satchul, on the right.

  The Japanese reacted to the cripple like sharks to blood. At reduced speed, three medium bombers could not fend off the frenzied Zeros indefinitely. Again the B-25s hugged the wave tops, closing ranks to combine their firepower as they tried to escape eastward over Saint George’s Channel. But one of the Zeros got to Peterson. The left engine burst into flames. With hydraulic power lost, the landing gear dropped from the nacelle, creating unwanted drag. Sorry Satchul rapidly lost speed. More Zeros swarmed in, one diving too low. He smacked into the water, his death witnessed by his wingman in Air Group 253. With no altitude to spare, Peterson’s aircraft soon hit the surface, tail first, and then slammed down with a tremendous splash. Crewmen aboard the other bombers watched as seven or eight Zeros strafed the ditched plane mercilessly. No one aboard the B-25 was believed to have gotten out alive.

  The five remaining B-25s banded together for survival, slowed by Tondelayo. They made it around Cape Gazelle and turned south toward home, but saw what appeared to be “40 to 50 Zekes, Haps and Tonys” waiting for them at five thousand feet. In addition to the naval fighters from Lakunai and Tobera, it is likely that a few army fighters joined the fracas. Although no operational units were based at Rabaul—the Fourth Air Army’s regiments were in New Guinea—a small rear echelon or elements of a unit transitioning through Rabaul may have participated in the attacks.

  Kiriwina was still three hundred miles distant when the badly mismatched fight began. Several enemy fighters made passes at Mortensen’s trio, but the Japanese could see that one of the B-25s had a feathered prop; thus the majority concentrated on Wallace and Anacker. For over an hour, from Cape Gazelle all the way down the New Britain coast, the Japanese made pass after pass from all directions. The only salvation, from the strafers’ perspective, was the fact that the enemy fighters could not attack from below—not while the B-25s flew a mere thirty feet above the water.

  One Zero pilot demonstrated a fearsome level of audacity—and flying skill—by deliberately dropping into the narrow gap between SNAFU and Tondelayo. Described as “a mean-looking bastard,” the scowling pilot boldly held his position for longer than a minute, daring the gunners in either plane to open fire. None did, fearing that if the fighter suddenly flitted away, their bullets would hit the other B-25.

  The upper gunner aboard Tondelayo, Staff Sgt. John A. Murphy, spun madly while firing short bursts at the crisscrossing fighters. When he ran out of ammunition, the engineer and radio operator grabbed several belts from the forward compartment and passed them over the bomb bay so Murphy could reload. They also assisted by watching the gunner’s feet to see which way the turret was pointed, so that they could call out any targets approaching from behind. Murphy was credited with shooting down several fighters, and the Japanese tried desperately to blast his turret. One came close, penetrating one of the turret’s Plexiglas panels with an armor-piercing round. The bullet missed Murphy but nicked a pressurized fuel line.

  Another round from the same burst did even more harm. Tondelayo’s copilot, Lt. Edward J. Hicko, felt he wasn’t doing anything productive while the pilot manhandled the damaged plane, so he pulled out his service automatic, cracked open the side window, wedged the gun barrel against the window frame, and popped away at Zeros. While he held the pistol in his right hand to reload it, a Japanese bullet pierced his back. The slug passed through his intestines, exited his lower abdomen, then nearly severed his right thumb before damaging the grip of the automatic. Due to the racket of gunfire and the engine outside his window, Hicko didn’t realize immediately what had happened. The discovery of the wound stunned him; he refused to comprehend that he had been gut-shot.

  The engineer, Staff Sgt. Weldon Ishler, was sickened by gas fumes. He punched a hole in the bulkhead of the bomb bay, discovered the damaged fuel line, and wrapped the line with a rag, using his bare hand as a clamp. This reduced the leak to a trickle, but he could not hold it indefinitely. Periodically, the radio operator took over. The fight rolled on. In the rear of Tondelayo, empty brass casings piled up beneath the turret. Up front, Hicko slumped in his seat, holding his hand against his abdomen as blood seeped between his fingers.

  The enemy fighters would not slack off. Damage began to accrue. The turret gunner aboard SNAFU, Staff Sgt. Robert T. Henderson, was just as busy as Murphy. While frantically trying to reload his guns, Henderson was wounded by slugs that smashed through the Plexiglas. He fired a few more rounds before the guns were empty again. When the next enemy fighter bored in, he could only crouch behind the armor plate while bullets smacked all around him and chunks of Plexiglas rained down on his head.

  Another crewmember aboard SNAFU, Staff Sgt. George M. Hardy Jr., was hit in the head. He made his way forward and got medical help from the navigator, Lt. Gerome A. Migliacci. While Migliacci administered first aid, a bullet sliced his ear and struck Hardy in the shoulder. Right after that, Migliacci noticed the fire. The bomb bay was crackling with bright flames, too involved already for a handheld fire extinguisher. But Migliacci tried anyway. Afterward, he moved forward and informed Anacker about the situation. The pilot merely glanced over his shoulder and nodded, then turned right, easing alongside the island’s shoreline. If a fuel line had been hit, Anacker had to ditch quickly before a fuel tank blew.

  The crew of Tondelayo noticed SNAFU’s turn. Unable to see the fire, they wondered aloud where Anacker was going. The answer came moments later as the B-25 splashed down midway between Cape Orford and Waterfall Bay. The tail of SNAFU hit first, and then the nose slammed hard into the water. This time, Zeros did not cruelly strafe the he
lpless survivors. Four men emerged from the plane before it sank: Anacker, Migliacci, Henderson, and Hardy. All were alive, although Hardy was dying, evidently from his head wound. Migliacci, whose Mae West had inflated properly, cradled Hardy until he stopped breathing—and did not let got until the body turned cold and pale. Anacker had surfaced late, coming up within fifty feet of Migliacci, but after they exchanged a few words, the pilot drifted away, never to be seen again.

  That left just Migliacci and Henderson. Both struggled for several hours before reaching the shore. Henderson had a partially inflated raft, while Migliacci, initially pushed seaward by the currents, had only his Mae West. Over eight hours, their swimming and paddling caused a four-mile separation. Both men had the good fortune to be found the next day by natives from separate villages. They were led up a steep mountain to the camp of an Australian coastwatcher, who radioed word of their survival in his daily report.

  After SNAFU slid away, Tondelayo faced the Japanese pilots’ full wrath. Still two hundred miles from Kiriwina, Wallace and his crew continued alone. Flying much of the time at minimum altitude, Wallace maneuvered the B-25 skillfully. The dual horizontal stabilizers and twin rudders helped immensely as he skidded from side to side, throwing off the enemy pilots’ aim. Sergeant Murphy ran out of ammunition in the power turret, but Wallace still had his battery of eight guns in the nose. If a fighter crossed in front or attempted a head-on pass, he would haul back on the control column and fire a burst. He achieved no recorded hits, but his crew claimed that Wallace’s uncanny maneuvering caused four enemy fighters to hit the water. At a point due north of Kiriwina, Wallace turned directly toward the island, still 160 miles away. Enemy fighters kept up their assault even as Tondelayo headed across the Solomon Sea, but the numbers dwindled until only one obstinate pilot remained. The fighter kept pace for a short while, and then reportedly performed two or three slow rolls in salute before turning back toward Rabaul.