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

by Bruce Gamble

  The loss of two reconnaissance planes in the area drew attention. “The Japs had become suspicious,” Figgis recalled. “One day a small ship bristling with radio masts and aerials appeared … . We immediately shut our transmitter down and watched the ship sail up and down the coast. Eventually it headed back towards Rabaul, and as we did not see it again, we resumed our normal radio reporting.”

  The long period of waiting for the Allied advance to reach New Britain ended dramatically with the aerial offensive against Rabaul. From October 12 onward, Figgis observed bomber formations and their P-38 escorts as they winged up Saint George’s Channel. Within days, he began collecting additional mouths to feed. Aiding downed airmen was one of his most important responsibilities, but he found it unexpectedly challenging.

  The first two Americans, brought in on the same day, arrived from different directions. Lieutenant Migliacci and Staff Sergeant Henderson, who had survived ditching their B-25 off Cape Orford on October 18, drifted for hours before coming ashore four miles apart. Golpak arranged for their delivery to Figgis two days later. Henderson had been shot through the shoulder, and despite Johnson’s experience with bush medicine, the flier’s condition worsened. Although wary that the increase in activity would alert the Japanese, Figgis decided to stay put until Henderson recovered sufficiently to travel.

  ELSEWHERE AROUND NORTHERN New Britain, the new coastwatching parties delivered by the submarine Grouper made an immediate impact on other downed aviators. One was Hargesheimer, still alive more than four months after bailing out over the north coast of New Britain.

  Having landed in a vast eucalyptus forest on June 5, Hargy spent the first month utterly alone. A clear stream provided fresh water, so his greatest challenge was finding food. He wore a sidearm, and his chute pack contained a machete, matches, two chocolate bars, and a survival guide titled Friendly Fruits and Vegetables. With these and a few other items—mostly his wits and patience—Hargesheimer stayed in reasonably good health. He lasted ten days on the chocolate, but couldn’t find a way out of the dense jungle. Finally he started a fire (using every damp match in the process) and roasted some snails. Days later he stunned a fish in a streambed with a shot from his automatic. Using a green stick for a spit, he enjoyed a feast that night. While hunting edible berries one day, Hargy forgot to tend his fire and was panicked when he returned to his campsite and found the coals “as dead as a gravestone.” That was the closest he came to despair. A few moments later, when he jabbed at the embers with a stick, he saw a puff of smoke. Slowly, almost hyperventilating, he coaxed the fire back to life. “The experience,” he later wrote, “left me with a thorough understanding of why people had worshipped fire.”

  On July 6 Hargesheimer came across a party of natives. One of them, a local headman, carried a generic note left behind by John Stokie, who had helped rescue three Americans during his stint on New Britain as a plantation manager. The note promised that the islanders were trustworthy, and indeed the tribe housed and fed Hargesheimer in their village for the next three months. He had practically gone native by the time an excited runner brought in a fresh note in November, asking him to accompany the bearer. It was signed by Capt. Ian Skinner, AIF. Several days later, Hargesheimer was taken to the camp run by Skinner and Stokie. After nearly five months in the jungle, he was overjoyed to join the Australians, but news that the coastwatchers had just arrived tempered his celebration. There were no plans for an evacuation. That event was still months in the future.

  Hargesheimer was not the only longtime survivor on New Britain. Sergeant Manuel, one of two men who escaped from the first B-17 shot down by a night fighter, had parachuted into Saint George’s Channel on May 21—two weeks before Hargesheimer hit the silk. Legs wounded by shrapnel, Manuel spent five days alone before encountering islanders. He spent only one night in their village after they made it clear that they would inform the Japanese of his presence. Striking out on his own, Manuel had many experiences similar to Hargesheimer’s, though his prized meal was a large snake, and his isolation did not last as long as Hargesheimer’s. Taken in by a more sympathetic tribe, Manuel remained inactive for six long weeks while his wounds healed.

  In the second half of August, Manuel spent a couple of months venturing out on organized reconnaissance hikes with several natives. Some of the trips brought him close to Vunakanau and Tobera airdromes, where he witnessed the start of the bombing offensive on October 12. Soon thereafter he heard from the islanders about the landing of mastas from a submarine. A few weeks later, native runners put him in contact with Roberts, who was making his way toward Kokopo.

  Manuel continued to go out on recons with the islanders, “his boys,” as he called them. On November 6, he came across the first American he had seen in nearly six months. Owen Giertsen, a P-38 pilot who had ditched his shot-up fighter in Wide Bay four days earlier, wore nothing but shoes, socks, and a pair of white skivvies. They set off together, moving slowly, and in three days walked into Roberts’ camp.

  The jungle network also helped locate Carl Planck, who had ditched his P-38 on November 2 after colliding with an A6M Zero. Islanders took him into their village, where Ed Czarnecki, shot down on October 23, joined him. Islanders then brought the two fighter pilots into Roberts’ camp on November 16. “We were four mighty happy Americans in that Aussie camp,” Manuel later explained. “I had my boys build a large hut for us. They made four beds out of the burlap sacks in which the supplies were dropped to us. Now all we had to do was wait a few days until a submarine popped up to take us home. That’s what we thought, anyway.”

  But of course Roberts and his coastwatching team had just arrived. The Americans would have to wait almost three months for the opportunity to evacuate. During that time, due to the size of the party and their proximity to Kokopo and Vunakanau, the coastwatchers and Americans had to pack up and move the camp three times. It was a time of frustration, particularly after Roberts’ health began to deteriorate, but the combined group succeeded in staying a few steps ahead of the Japanese.

  THE SITUATION WAS not much different for Figgis, once the bombing campaign got underway. By the end of October the Japanese were pressuring the local natives. Golpak was forced into hiding and Japanese patrols moved near the cape almost continuously. No one betrayed the camp, but the islanders, no longer willing to endure the strain of Japanese interrogation, retreated into the bush.

  Additional bad news arrived on October 31, when the natives traveling with Murphy’s party returned to Cape Orford and told Figgis what had happened. Convinced that the Japanese would soon move against him, Figgis decided the camp was no longer tenable. His job had not changed, however. Within weeks, the invasion of New Britain would commence with landings at Arawe and Cape Gloucester. Figgis needed to find a good position from which to support those landings. Headquarters at Port Moresby agreed that the camp should be moved well inland. Even if he could no longer observe the sea lanes, Figgis could provide advance warnings of enemy air attacks. On November 21, with Henderson feeling well enough to travel, Figgis and his party vacated the camp.

  AS LUCK WOULD have it, Krantz, Case, and Miller washed up near Cape Orford that day. The natives who informed them that a masta was nearby sheltered the Americans in their houses overnight. It was a beautiful village, with the houses up on stilts, as tranquil as a painting. The fliers were impressed when villagers showed then the wreckage of a Betty bomber—and boasted that they had killed two of the crew.

  Daybreak brought a scare. Hearing a commotion in the village, Krantz looked seaward and saw four barges, “full up to the gunnels with Japs,” approaching the nearby beach. The three fliers quickly left. “I thought we were being turned in,” said Krantz. “I saw the women all running with their kids, leaving the village, and I really thought we had been betrayed. The luluai was with us and we took off with him. We left in a hurry.”

  After receiving the all clear, the Americans ascended the steep, rocky slopes up to the coastwatchers’ cam
p. They found four well-made native-style huts, with a bright red cloth still covering the table in the main house. A handful of trustworthy “boys,” left behind to guard the site, explained in Pidgin English that the Australians had “gone long bush.” Still, the fliers were delighted to find a cornucopia of goods. They ate bully beef and hardtack “with great relish,” then explored the storehouse, finding stocks of atabrine, quinine, sulfa power, hand grenades, and large quantities of 9mm ammunition. There were still two cases of canned corned beef, some emergency rations, tea, rice, and a variety of dehydrated foods. The fliers stayed for a week, eating well. On November 30, heeding reports from the islanders that the situation was getting dangerous, Krantz and his crew moved into the jungle.

  The Americans had no idea where Figgis and his party were, but at daylight the next morning, Krantz saw a sight that stirred his soul:

  I’m never going to forget it as long as I live. I was out on a rise and heard the roar of engines. All of a sudden a B-25 came right over, and its turret was swinging. I followed the sound of the engines and looked toward the horizon, and they were making a drop. I could see the parachutes coming out of the bomb bay. It was quite a ways off from where I was standing, but when the B-25 banked away, I saw the chutes open. I was so damn proud to be an American that day, thinking, here I am in this dire circumstance, and this B-25 is my country. It was just remarkable.

  Krantz knew approximately where the coastwatchers were, for the supplies had beenx dropped on Figgis’s camp. Later that day a runner brought a note advising the Americans to “follow this boy and bring all of the firearms.”

  Upon reaching the inland camp on December 2, the newcomers were greeted by Figgis, who wore a classic Aussie slouch hat. He introduced them to Migliacci, Henderson, and the rest of his party, then gathered their service information. After that, he saw to their needs.

  In a wartime jungle camp deep inside an enemy-held island, the needs were diverse. Krantz later outlined Figgis’s careful attention:

  He took care of our cuts and sores, put sulfa power and bandages on them, and then he gave us shorts and shirts and shoes. He gave us each a revolver. He fed us, and then he got on the radio and reported that we were with him, and that we were from the Bunker Hill.

  He was very friendly. We were relieved to be with him. We had food, quarters, and medical attention. The next big thing was: How soon could we get back to our own forces? I wanted to get back to my squadron. Well, we found out it wasn’t feasible. But we didn’t know that at the time. They weren’t taking any people off, not until the day we left.

  THE DAY THEY left turned out to be months away. During the interim, the marooned aviators created complications for Figgis beyond the extra mouths to feed. The army fliers didn’t have much respect for the navy fliers, and vice versa, a situation that mystified Figgis and his assistants. As the days and weeks passed, everyone’s nerves were rubbed raw. Krantz became especially irritated with one of the army fliers, whom he considered “a real whiner.” But that paled in comparison to his disdain for a marine pilot who arrived weeks later.

  On January 14, 1944, during a strike on Simpson Harbor by navy and marine light bombers, Zekes shot down a TBF of Marine Torpedo Bombing Squadron 232. The crew’s experience was similar to that of Krantz and his men. After ditching their identical plane in Saint George’s Channel, the marine crew exited safely and drifted in their raft to New Britain’s coast. They spent a couple of weeks in a village, learned of Figgis’s camp, and set off with the help of several islanders. The radioman, infected with malaria, had received some “Japanese quinine” from the natives, but traveled only a short distance before collapsing. Rather than arranging for native carriers to assist him to the camp, something done routinely in the islands, the pilot sent the sick man back to the village with a few islanders. He and the remaining crewman then proceeded to Figgis’s camp.

  Krantz, Case, and Miller, who had supported each other throughout their ordeal, resented the pilot’s decision. Krantz in particular was disgusted that he had not only left one of his men to an unknown fate, but seemed ambivalent about it. The situation only made the enmities between military branches seem more pronounced.

  Wisely, the coastwatchers avoided involvement. “I was aware of some friction among them,” recalled Figgis. “It did not seem to be personal, but a question of USN versus USAAF and Marines. Personally, I had no trouble with them, because I am sure they felt obliged to keep their feuds to themselves and not to worry me about them. They all knew that if they were ever to return to their units, cooperation with me was essential.”

  With seven stranded fliers and his own party to feed, Figgis was more worried about his dwindling supplies. The situation worsened when a supply drop, evidently conducted by a green bomber crew, went wrong. The drop was made at high speed, as in a bombing run, and the parachutes broke. “Our supplies came tumbling down in free fall,” remembered Figgis. “Bags of salt were a danger as they crashed through the trees, ripping off branches and bursting open when hitting the ground.”

  After Figgis’s stern admonishment over the radio, the next drop was perfect: a slow approach, flaps down, nothing broken or damaged. While waiting several days for the attempt, however, the inhabitants of Camp Figgis were reduced to a diet of rice and fresh shoots from the tops of palm trees.

  FORTUNATELY FOR THE coastwatchers and stranded airmen, evacuation plans were in motion. Operation Dexterity, the invasion of New Britain, had commenced in December 1943 and achieved the desired results. In a reversal of the situation endured by Lark Force two years earlier, Japanese troops were withdrawing along the trails from the western end of the island to Rabaul. The only difference, besides the direction of travel, was the scale of defeat. Whereas approximately a thousand members of Lark Force had initially “gone bush” after the Japanese rout in January 1942, many thousands of starving, ragged Japanese streamed eastward in the spring of 1944.

  MacArthur had originally intended to make his preliminary landing at Gasmata in mid-December 1943. That plan was scrapped after intelligence reports and photo reconnaissance showed that the Japanese were preparing for an assault there. In late November, at the recommendation of his naval advisors, MacArthur changed the landing site to Arawe (more accurately Cape Merkus), about ninety miles west of Gasmata, with the assault scheduled for December 15.

  The landings, conducted by the 112th Cavalry Regiment using rubber boats, met surprisingly stiff resistance. Additional waves were delivered by LTV-1 and LTV-2 amphibious tractors, and by day’s end 1,600 soldiers were ashore. The Eleventh Air Fleet retaliated with raids over the first few days, with Figgis providing early warning from his new camp. The Japanese claimed phenomenal results, including the alleged sinking of numerous transports, warships, and landing craft, but actually the raids were ineffective.

  Eleven days after the preliminary landings, the 1st Marine Division went ashore at Cape Gloucester. These were the battle-tested veterans who had taken Guadalcanal; relieved after four months on that pestilential island, the division had moved to Melbourne, Australia. Nearly a year later, well rested and regrouped, the marines landed on New Britain the day after Christmas. Eleven thousand troops secured the beachhead, but faced difficulty moving forward because of inland swamps. The marines found themselves in a tough fight against determined units of the Japanese 17th Division. The terrain was difficult to negotiate because of mud, swamps, massive tree roots, and heavy jungle—its canopy so thick that no sunlight penetrated. The Japanese took advantage of the terrain’s chokepoints, using them to create fields of fire from networks of reinforced machine-gun bunkers and mortar pits built with coconut logs. With minimum camouflage, the nests were difficult to see. The combination of cunning defensive works, oppressive jungle, monsoonal climate, and enemy tenacity challenged the marines every step of the way.

  The island itself seemed determined to stop them. A mild earthquake in late December killed more than a dozen marines with falling trees. A heavy
naval bombardment had preceded the landings, loosening the root systems and leaving some trees on the precarious rims of shell craters.

  During an eastward push through that nightmare of jungle, swampland, and concealed bunkers on January 2, 1944, marines of the 7th Regiment encountered fierce resistance at a place called Suicide Creek. Among the many casualties that day was Pfc. Edwin C. Bearss, hit by enemy machine-gun fire in the left forearm, right shoulder, left heel, and left buttocks. But not all in one burst; rather, the Japanese gunner kept shooting Bearss after he fell. He survived due to the heroics of fellow marines and navy corpsmen, and believes his wounds had a positive influence on his postwar career as a battlefield interpreter.*

  After two months of bitter fighting at Cape Gloucester, the Eighth Area Army at Rabaul ordered the withdrawal of the 17th Division. The retreat started out orderly, but additional marine landings farther up the coast of New Britain created extreme hardship for thousands of Japanese. Although MacArthur no longer planned to launch an all-out invasion of Rabaul, many stragglers became trapped by a cruel combination of New Britain’s mountains and lack of food. During patrols from his coastwatching hideout, Figgis observed enemy soldiers who were “in a far worse state than the worst of the Australian survivors from Rabaul two years previously.”