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

by Bruce Gamble

  On November 25, Father Lamarre witnessed twelve captured airmen being taken from the navy compound to waiting vehicles. Guards told Lamarre and other civilians in the compound that the prisoners were going to Japan. Two were Australians from the Beaufort of No. 8 Squadron: Warrant Officer John P. Bailey and Flight Officer Charles W. Vincent. The rest were Americans, including Rippy, Bek, Naumann, Burrus, and four crewmen from the unnamed B-17 shot down by Kudo on May 21: Neuman, Burnside, Mulligan, and George. The other two captives, wounded in the legs, were probably Lt. Marcus L. Mangett Jr. and Staff Sgt. Kenneth P. Vetter from the B-17 Reckless Mountain Boys.

  Wearing blindfolds and wrist bindings, the prisoners were loaded onto two trucks. The two wounded men, lying on stretchers, went in the first vehicle, and the remaining ten fliers rode in the back of a second truck. A third truck followed, carrying about twenty naval infantry. The caravan passed through Rabaul, but did not stop at any wharves. They turned south and made their way around Lakunai airdrome toward the semiactive volcano Tavurvur.

  The terrain near the base of the squat volcano was flat and barren, consisting of gray ash and pumice. Nothing grew there. It was a desolate place, smelling of sulfur, the volcanic soil easily excavated—ideal for digging graves. For more than a year and a half, the 81st Naval Garrison Unit had used the site for carefully orchestrated executions, nearly all of which involved the beheading of multiple prisoners. Decapitation had become something of an art form in the Japanese military. The opportunity to perform one, known as a “test of courage,” was considered a rite of passage. It was a cruel and unusual component in a twisted code of values.

  TO MOST WESTERN minds, the execution of POWs is murder. And the concept of slicing off a head is horrific. Which raises one of the most intriguing questions of the Pacific war: Why did the Japanese, a cultured people known for their devotion to the spirituality and beauty of the natural world, treat POWs with unspeakable cruelty?

  Although a comprehensive answer is beyond the scope of this book, it is possible to examine some of the far-reaching changes that shaped Japan more than a century ago.

  In summer 1907, representatives from Tokyo attended the Hague Convention, a four-month international peace conference designed to expand earlier conferences regarding the conduct of warfare. One important treaty article, the “Convention Respecting the Laws and Customs of War on Land,” contained regulations about the treatment of POWs. Japan signed the treaty in 1907, subsequently ratified by the government in 1912. For the next twenty years Tokyo abided by international laws. The government also participated in the next convention, held in Geneva in 1929, and again the representatives signed the treaty. This time, however, the increasingly militant government did not ratify the articles.

  At the heart of the matter was the military’s revulsion to surrender. Considered fanatical by Western armies, Japan’s no-surrender policy predated the international conventions. During the Sino-Japanese War of 1894–1895, Gen. Aritomo Yamagata, commander of the First Army, issued a radical new order based upon the ancient code of Bushido, long revered by the Japanese as a standard of honorable conduct. To be taken as a prisoner, he proclaimed, would bring great dishonor. Therefore, if defeat was unavoidable, soldiers were expected to die for the Emperor by committing suicide instead of surrendering to the enemy. Over time, as the soldiers and sailors who had been young men during Yamagata’s day were promoted into positions of leadership, his decree evolved into a core value throughout the entire military.

  The Japanese military also experienced a slow but steady deterioration in the value of human rights. This could be seen in the routinely harsh treatment Japanese officers and noncoms inflicted on their own troops. From the beginning of the Meiji period in the late 1800s, the military achieved unswerving discipline through a culture of physical abuse. As Japanese historian Yuki Tanaka would later explain: “Discipline was conducted through bentatsu (the routine striking of soldiers), which was presented as an ‘act of love’ by the officers for the soldiers. Even the Japanese Navy—which was far more Westernized in conduct than the Army—adopted a practice of harsh discipline known as tekken seisai (the iron fist) in the wake of the Russo-Japanese War. It was often called the ai-no-muchi, or ‘whip of love.’”

  Tanaka, one of the first Japanese scholars to objectively study his country’s war crimes—and then publish them for a Western audience—attributes the military’s behavior to a steady corruption of Bushido. By the time of the Asia-Pacific war, General Yamada’s original notion of death with honor had been warped into an ideology known as gyokusai: literally, “glorious self-annihilation.”

  Curious why so many of his countrymen had committed heinous acts during World War II, Tanaka evaluated numerous aspects of the system. “Japanese military forces,” he concluded, “tended to undervalue the strategic importance of minimizing casualties. This tendency increased as the emperor ideology gained hold over the minds of the Japanese people and reached its peak during World War II, when the gyokusai ideology emerged. Gyokusai held that a soldier was expected to fight to the end for the emperor. Even when the situation was becoming hopeless … the Japanese military command, instead of trying to minimize casualties, forced gyokusai on its soldiers … further diminishing its manpower.”

  In addition to these ideologies, the military harbored a dangerous combination of racism and nationalistic fervor. For generations, the Japanese had believed themselves intrinsically superior to all other races. Theirs was not a brash, chest-thumping egotism; instead they projected an attitude of quiet arrogance. Their essential religion, Shinto, asserted that Japan was of divine origin, founded by the mythical Emperor Jimmu about 2,600 years before World War II. Shinto doctrine proclaimed that Jimmu was descended from a sun goddess. The people believed unflinchingly in the emperor’s sovereignty and divinity, and also believed they were favored by the gods. Ergo, the Japanese were the superior race.

  Many Japanese also followed the principles of Buddhism and Confucianism. Both emphasize the importance of knowing one’s place. Not only did the Japanese believe their rightful position was at the top of the world order, but they saw the rest of the world’s nations as inferior and decadent, lacking honor. As proof of their own superiority, the Japanese would point to the fact that in their 2,600-year history they had never been defeated in battle. This generated even greater nationalistic sentiment. By the start of the Asia-Pacific war, the nationalistic ideologies were at fever pitch.

  The Japanese viewed their Asian neighbors with contempt, but they also loathed whites, particularly the British and Americans. Shintaro Uno, a Kempeitai intelligence officer during the war, detested the United States. “Americans were damned bastards to me then,” he admitted. “I burned with hatred for them.”

  Another factor in the corruption of Bushido occurred between the wars, with a shift toward an emperor ideology. Tanaka noted, “The military doctrine of unquestioning obedience to superiors was heightened by the fact that such orders were explicitly given ‘in the name of the emperor’: the chain of duty was thus made explicit at each stage, and the responsibility for acts was transferred up the chain to the emperor.”

  The emperor ideology led directly to a lack of accountability. Individuals were no longer responsible for their actions—a concept that spread through the military like a disease. At the end of the war, many Japanese personnel accused of war crimes simply shrugged off the acts they had committed without shame. As Tanaka put it, “They honestly believed that responsibility rested with the military, the state, and ultimately … the emperor.”

  For prisoners of the Japanese, the twisting of the ancient samurai code had grim ramifications. Although Tokyo invested heavily in modern weapons, the Japanese knew they could not match Allied firepower. Infantry training emphasized combat at close quarters, where big weapons were useless. Japanese soldiers were skilled at hand-to-hand fighting with swords and bayonets, which also let them demonstrate the fighting spirit they believed was inherited fro
m their samurai forebears. Many hours of training were devoted to the army’s principal weapon, the Arisaka Model 38 rifle—and to the Model 30 bayonet affixed to the rifle’s muzzle. Exceeding fifteen inches in length, the bayonet was a fearsome weapon in the hands of a skilled soldier.

  The wickedly long bayonet was just one example of the military’s fascination with cold steel. Swords were particularly revered, for they evoked the spirit of the samurai. With the rise of nationalistic fervor in the 1930s, Western-style swords and sabers previously issued to military officers fell out of favor. They were replaced with Katana-style swords—those slender, gracefully curved blades known universally as “samurai swords.” Mass-produced for the military rather than handmade by traditional smiths, they became standard issue for officers and most noncoms. Many Japanese considered the factory-made swords inferior, and replaced them with finely crafted blades, sometimes purchased directly from sword smiths, but often accepted as gifts or rewards.

  Possessing a handmade Katana sword was important, yet many officers and noncoms wanted something more: the opportunity to wield it. By early 1942, Japan’s POW camps were overflowing with hundreds of thousands of prisoners. The Japanese viewed them as subhuman. They had dishonored themselves by surrendering, and therefore deserved to be punished. This became an excuse for a “cutting test” for cherished swords. In addition, newly commissioned officers and even some reserve cadet programs pushed for a “trial of courage” as part of their field qualifications.

  Such was the case for Lt. Shozo Tominaga, newly graduated from a commissioning program in Hiroshima. In mid-1941, he reported to the 232nd Regiment, 39th Division in the Yangtze Valley near Chungking to qualify as a platoon leader. The China War was four years old when he arrived, and the seasoned troops made him acutely aware that he was untested in combat. A “trial of courage” was arranged for Tominaga and twenty-two of his fellow officer candidates. They were told, in fact, that if they did not perform a beheading they would not qualify.

  On the appointed day the candidates were brought to field where twenty-four Chinese prisoners squatted near a burial pit. A crowd of officers had gathered to watch the spectacle, which began with a demonstration of the proper technique. An instructor used a dipper of water to wet the blade of his sword, then beheaded a kneeling captive with a single stroke.

  Revolted by the jets of blood spraying from the victim’s neck, Tominaga could scarcely breathe. But his fellow candidates began taking their turns. He was fourth in line:

  When my turn came, the only thought I had was, “Don’t do anything unseemly!” I didn’t want to disgrace myself. I bowed to the regimental commander and stepped forward. Contrary to my expectations, my feet firmly met the ground. One thin, worn-out prisoner was at the edge of the pit, blindfolded. I unsheathed my sword, a gift from my brother-in-law, wet it down as the lieutenant had demonstrated, and stood behind the man. The prisoner didn’t move. He kept his head lowered. Perhaps he was resigned to his fate. I was tense, thinking I couldn’t afford to fail. I took a deep breath and recovered my composure. I steadied myself, holding my sword at a point above my right shoulder, and swung down with one breath. The head flew away and the body tumbled down, spouting blood. The air reeked from all that blood. I washed blood off the blade then wiped it with the paper provided. Fat stuck to it and wouldn’t come off. I noticed, when I sheathed it, that my sword was slightly bent.

  At that moment I felt something change inside me. I don’t know how to put it, but I gained strength somewhere in my gut.

  We returned to our companies. Until that day I had been overwhelmed by the sharp eyes of my men when I called the roll each night. That night I realized I was not self-conscious at all in front of them. I didn’t even find their eyes evil anymore. I felt I was looking down on them.

  Tominaga’s admission that he felt strengthened by the decapitation indicates clearly that he had bought into the corrupted version of Bushido. By cutting down two dozen emaciated prisoners, he and his fellow candidates qualified as platoon leaders.

  Many Japanese believed that if they beheaded a man, they gained mystical power from their samurai ancestors. As a result, thousands of POWs were murdered just to provide their captors with psychopathic thrills. “Most officers did this,” confirmed Uno. “If they didn’t, their authority was weakened. The men would say, ‘He’s nothing but appearances.’ Nobody wanted to be called ‘spineless.’”

  Uno, who beheaded more than forty prisoners, later provided a disturbing glimpse into the psychological effect of the killings:

  It might sound extreme, but I can almost say that if more than two weeks went by without my taking a head, I didn’t feel right. Physically, I needed to be refreshed. I would go to the stockade and bring someone out, one who looked as if he wouldn’t live long. I’d do it on the riverbank, by the regimental headquarters, or by the side of the road. I’d order the one I planned to kill to dig a hole, then cut him down and cover him over.

  My everyday sword was a Showa sword, a new one with the name Sadamitsu. My other sword was called Osamune Sukesada. It was presented to me by my father and dated from the sixteenth century. Sukesada was a sword made for fighting. It cut well, even if you were unskilled. It wasn’t a particularly magnificent sword, but it was the kind the samurai in that time of constant warfare appreciated. It was the best sword for murder. With Sadamitsu, you really couldn’t take a head with a single stroke. The neck was cut through, but [the head] didn’t fall. Heads fell easily to Sukesada.

  Utterly contemptuous of prisoners, Uno killed them for sport. Yet his actions and beliefs are not difficult to comprehend, considering the developments that occurred within the Japanese military. The suicide mentality, the corruption of Bushido, and the rise of emperor ideology—together with the routine use of “iron fist” discipline, deep-rooted racism, and the collapse of accountability—all contributed to a complete disregard for human life. Individually, each was a serious flaw. In combination, they created monsters.

  WHEN THE POWs arrived at the site near Tavurvur, coolies had already dug a trench six feet wide, fifteen feet long, and four feet deep. Standing off to one side, ten graduates of reserve officer cadet school tensely awaited what was probably their first “cutting test.”

  Mangett and Vetter, the two stretcher cases, were offloaded first and carried to the south side of the hole. Next, the other ten POWs shuffled into a line facing the length of the trench. Behind them, the naval infantry formed a semicircle. And then everything stopped. Agonizing minutes dragged by while the condemned prisoners stood quietly, their wrists bound with wire that dug into their skin, their minds racing with the realization that they were about to be killed. Several feet away, the two wounded men lay on their backs. The Japanese guards, the adjutant, and the cadets stood by as well.

  Ten minutes passed. Finally, a big American sedan pulled up. One of the spoils of war, shipped all the way from Guam or Singapore, it carried Vice Adm. Naosaburo Irifune, commanding officer of the Eighth Naval Base Force, along with his chief of staff, a high-ranking representative of the Eleventh Air Fleet, and then Captain Kiyama.

  When the senior officers were in position to observe, the adjutant barked orders. The two wounded airmen were lowered into the pit. More commands sent two of the guards to edge of the hole. Aiming their long bolt-action rifles downward, they shot the two fliers where they lay.

  Next, five of the blindfolded aviators were led to the edge of the pit and forced to their knees. Five cadets carrying katana swords stepped into place, each standing to the side of and slightly behind a prisoner. One at a time, bracing their legs widely, the cadets raised their swords high over their heads and decapitated the POWs.

  The remaining five captives had it worst. Although blindfolded, they could smell the nauseating, metallic stench of spilled blood, as gallons of it soaked into the ground around the five headless corpses. Kicks and well-aimed rifle butts sent the fliers to their knees in the soft, sticky earth. And one by one, they
were murdered in the same fashion.

  Irifune, Kiyama, and the others watched to see if the cadets performed their “test of courage” unflinchingly. After the prisoners’ heads and corpses were rolled into the pit and buried, Kiyama gave a brief speech to the assembly. Finally, as one of the enlisted observers noted gladly, the proceedings concluded “just in time for the midday meal.”*

  *This total number includes deaths that occurred at sea during the transit from Singapore to Rabaul.

  *A postwar statement by Corporal Yasuo Sato of the Special Naval Landing Forces yielded most of the execution details presented here. However, the last portion of his statement seems patently embellished. Sato claimed that two POWs tore off their blindfolds, jumped up, and started to run, only to be cut down by rifle fire. But the gravesite was later unearthed, revealing that the corpses had been bound at the wrist and the legs—making that part of Sato’s story implausible.

  CHAPTER 18

  Transition

  AFTER THE SECOND carrier raid on Rabaul, the Allied campaign shifted. The Fifth Air Force would never again return to the stronghold in an offensive capacity. An unplanned lull ensued.

  Kenney, happy to focus his efforts elsewhere, later wrote, “About this time the Torokina field at Empress Augusta Bay was completed sufficiently to base SOPAC fighters there to cover strikes by the B-24s of the 13th Air Force from the field at Munda on New Georgia. By agreement between General MacArthur and Admiral Halsey, SOPAC took over the responsibility for continuing the neutralization of Rabaul, leaving me free to devote more attention to Wewak, which was beginning to build up again.”