by Bruce Gamble
PRIOR TO THE ARRIVAL of Lark Force, aerial defenses on New Britain were nonexistent. That changed in mid-August 1941 when the liner Neptuna delivered a pair of World War I–vintage antiaircraft guns to Rabaul. Crewed by a militia unit of two officers and fifty-two men, the guns had no predictor, no height finder, and only a primitive ring-sight for aiming. Even worse, the breach of the Number 2 gun was cracked, so neither weapon was fired during practice. Instead, the crews trained by pretending to shoot down the weekly mail plane when it approached and departed every Saturday. This resulted in merciless teasing from the regular AIF personnel, but the militiamen redeemed themselves by winning several bouts in a hard-fought boxing tournament.
Aside from the two old antiaircraft guns, there were no improvements in the aerial defenses until December, when an undermanned RAAF composite squadron was transferred to Rabaul from Townsville, Queensland. Led by Wing Cmdr. John M. Lerew, 24 Squadron brought ten CA-1 Wirraways and four Lockheed Hudsons for air defense and reconnaissance. The problem was that neither type of aircraft had been designed for combat.
On the eve of the Pacific war, the RAAF had but 180 frontline aircraft in operation. The service openly admitted that its planes were “not very formidable, the best being Hudsons, Catalinas, and Empire flying boats.” The blunt appraisal, which appeared in the official postwar history, was most notable for the fact that none of the aircraft named were fighters. In mid-1941, the RAAF simply didn’t have any.
The closest thing to a fighter in the inventory was the Wirraway, which derived its name from an old aboriginal word meaning “challenger.” Built under license by the Commonwealth Aircraft Corporation, it was a copy of the renowned North American AT-6 two-seat trainer (the Harvard in Commonwealth service) with a few add-ons: three light machine guns, a more powerful radial engine, and a three-bladed propeller. Despite the improvements, the aircraft was woefully underpowered, with a maximum speed of only 220 miles per hour and an agonizingly slow rate of climb.
The RAAF had known for years that the Wirraway had no business serving as a fighter. During a visit from London in 1937, the inspector general of the Royal Air Force had cautioned that the Wirraway “could only be regarded as an advanced training aircraft.” But four years later, the RAAF still had nothing better to replace it with.
The American-built Hudson was another example of compromise in the RAAF. After starting life as a civilian airliner—the twin-engine Lockheed Electra made famous by the likes of Amelia Earhart—the military export version evolved when the Royal Air Force requested a navigational trainer. The Hudson was not designed for heavy combat duty, but the RAAF employed it in every manner conceivable, from maritime patrol to bombing to long-range reconnaissance. It was reasonably fast at 250 miles per hour, carried a crew of five, and was armed with seven .303-caliber machine guns for defense. However, it proved vulnerable to enemy fighter attack, especially from the rear, and could carry only 1,000 pounds of bombs. Even then its range was severely limited; therefore, the Hudsons in 24 Squadron typically carried half the rated load: two bombs, each weighing 250 pounds.
On December 7, the day prior to the attack on Pearl Harbor in time zones west of the International Date Line, Flt. Lt. John F. Murphy led the first three Hudsons to Rabaul. Landing at Vunakanau airdrome, the crews were dismayed to find no permanent facilities. There was only a dirt runway hacked out of the kunai grass, a “hangar” made from a piece of corrugated roofing supported by four poles, and a few thatch-roofed huts for accommodation. Murphy’s biggest concern was the lack of dispersal sites. With no revetments available, the Hudsons were parked like sitting ducks alongside the runway.
The fourth Lockheed arrived on December 8 after undergoing an engine change. By then, word of the Japanese attacks had reached the squadron. As officer-in-charge of the four Hudsons, Murphy began sending out armed patrols and made his first operational flight on December 9. He attempted to intercept a high-flying aircraft, strongly suspected to be a Japanese reconnaissance plane, but was not successful.
Six days later, Flt. Lt. Kenneth J. Erwin hit pay dirt during a photographic mission over Kapingamarangi Atoll, about four hundred miles northeast of Rabaul. The site of a refueling station for Japanese seaplanes, it was the only enemy installation within range of the Hudsons. Making two passes over the atoll that morning, Erwin counted nineteen barges, a variety of shore facilities, and a merchant ship. The latter fired at him with its small-caliber guns.
Erwin returned to Vunakanau and reported his findings, whereupon Murphy ordered a bombing mission. Two additional Hudsons were available, so Erwin guided Murphy and a third crew back to the target area. Finding the merchantman about twenty miles north of Kapingamarangi, the three Hudsons made individual attack runs. “I was the first to drop a bomb,” Murphy wrote later, “and therefore believe I was the first pilot in the Southwest Pacific Area to attack the enemy.” It is a point worth emphasizing: just a week after the attack on Pearl Harbor, a flight of three RAAF Hudsons from Rabaul made an impromptu attack against a Japanese merchant ship. For the record, Australia attacked first, not the other way around.
But dropping a bomb is only half of the equation. Actually hitting a moving target, especially a zigzagging ship, is difficult. The pilots of 24 Squadron had never practiced it in training, and to make matters worse, they had to attack the ship from high altitude to avoid damaging their own aircraft. “At that time we only had instantaneous fuses,” recalled Murphy, “and so had to attack at altitude with bomb sights that were anything but accurate.”
Making two bomb runs apiece, the Hudsons caused no apparent damage. Had they attacked in formation, releasing their bombs in a salvo, they might have gotten lucky. As it was, the merchantman had a relatively easy time dodging the six small bombs dropped individually.
Deeply frustrated by the mission’s outcome, Murphy and the others expected some negative reaction from RAAF headquarters, but no one was prepared for the hostile wave of criticism that ensued. Wing Commander Lerew, arriving at Rabaul with a flight of Wirraways the day after the mission, caught the worst of it. As soon as he climbed down from his aircraft, he was handed a decoded message. “It was addressed to me from the Chief of Air Staff, Sir Charles Burnett,” Lerew remembered. “He expressed clearly his disappointment with the poor effort that had been put up by the squadron in missing the ship and stated that unless better results were achieved, the entire squadron would be replaced immediately.”
Lerew was flabbergasted by the threat from the top man in the RAAF. Burnett, born in Minnesota and raised in England, had spent twenty-two years in the Royal Air Force prior to his appointment in Australia. His criticism seemed to stem from a monumental ego, as though he might force 24 Squadron to improve by sheer will. He had the option of replacing Lerew and bringing him back to Australia in disgrace, but he took no action. Thus, his message accomplished little except to antagonize the squadron.
Lerew was also reprimanded by Wing Cmdr. William H. “Bull” Garing, the senior air staff officer at Townsville, regional headquarters for the North East Area. Using phrases like “wasted effort,” “utter failure,” and “extreme disappointment,” Garing battered the squadron’s performance in a letter that concluded with: “The Empire expects much from a few.” Perhaps Garing intended the words to be inspirational, like those of Winston Churchill after the Battle of Britain, but to Lerew the phrase sounded like a load of drivel. Military historian Lex McAulay gives Garing some allowance for his demeanor, describing him as “a fireball” whose short temper and abrasiveness were not uncommon for the time. Garing had earned a Distinguished Flying Cross during the early months of the war in Europe, and he expected everyone in the RAAF to perform as well as he had against the Luftwaffe.
Fortunately for 24 Squadron, Lerew could tolerate Garing’s abuse. Proud of his Huguenot ancestry, Lerew was stubborn, resilient, resourceful, and occasionally devilish—characteristics that would help him face the numerous challenges that lay ahead.
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apingamarangi Atoll was targeted a few more times during the last two weeks of 1941, but something seemed to go wrong with every mission. The worst culprit proved to be the bombs, which too often failed to explode. Still disgruntled, Lerew’s superiors ordered him to write a detailed situation report explaining the squadron’s failures. He complied but his response contained a measure of the “impish irreverence” he had become famous for. Lerew itemized the numerous handicaps his squadron faced every day: minimal aircrews, lack of maintenance personnel, lack of proper repair facilities, no utility vehicles, poor communication links, miles of rough roads, and finally, “Disappointment in the lack of assistance rendered by the Almighty.”
To be absolutely certain his superiors understood the level of his frustration, Lerew closed the report with a deliberate jab at Garing: “The Empire expects much, repeat much, of a few.”
While the Hudson crews struggled to improve their results, the Wirraway flyers had even worse luck. Lerew divided the fighters into two groups, retaining B Flight at Vunakanau and sending A Flight to Lakunai airdrome under the guidance of his second-in-command, Flt. Lt. Wilfred D. “Bill” Brookes. The move was made on the afternoon of December 18, some hours after another encounter with enemy aircraft. Two unidentified reconnaissance aircraft appeared, and four Wirraways attempted to intercept them, but as Brookes later lamented, they were unable to catch the snoopers “owing to lack of speed.” It was a sorry situation when so-called fighters were not fast enough overtake reconnaissance planes.
Lakunai was in need of numerous physical improvements, but Brookes’s detachment consisted of only ten airmen and six ground personnel—not nearly enough men for the necessary construction project. Brookes acquired forty Tolai laborers from the local administration, but even with the extra manpower the RAAF men had to roll up their sleeves and work. Together with the natives they built their own living quarters, constructed dispersal areas among the coconut trees of the adjacent plantation, and lined the taxiways with planks to keep the planes from sinking into the soft volcanic soil. Unaccustomed to heavy physical work in such extreme humidity, the airmen cursed the “lower ‘drome.” Their frustrations mounted as torrential rains periodically washed out the roads and disrupted the single telephone line that linked Lakunai with Vunakanau.
The day after Christmas, a pair of Japanese Type 97 flying boats reconnoitered Rabaul. Again the Wirraways failed to intercept them, so the mechanics stripped the little planes of every unnecessary pound in an effort to increase their performance. The results proved negligible. The Wirraways were simply too underpowered to catch even the largest, heaviest seaplanes in the Imperial Navy.
On New Year’s Day, 1942, the squadron finally enjoyed some success. Ordnance personnel armed four Hudsons with bombs fused for eleven-second delays, allowing the crews to attack “Kap” Atoll at a low altitude without blowing their own tails off. Of the eight bombs dropped, five were direct hits on shore facilities. One was scored by John Murphy, whose copilot, Flg. Off. Alfred S. Hermes, climbed from his seat to observe the results of their attack on a large building. Unfortunately, the delayed-action fuses worked too well. When Murphy released his first bomb, Hermes chimed, “It’s in the front door,” followed a few heartbeats later by, “It’s out the back door.” Murphy laughed it off, happy with the knowledge that he could at least hit a target.
GEORGE JOHNSTON’S rhetorical question about Rabaul would have interested the Japanese. For more than three decades, going back as far as the rule of Emperor Meiji, they had been quietly preparing for war against the West—specifically the United States. Having defeated Russia’s fleet in 1905, the Imperial Navy developed a “fundamental strategy” of one day drawing the U.S. Pacific Fleet into an ambush. Steven Bullard, historian and translator of Japanese military documents for the Australian War Memorial, explained the development of the policy: “The waters near the Japanese mainland were initially chosen as the site of this decisive battle. However, advances in military technology and the changing strategic situation resulted in a re-evaluation in 1936 that moved the site to the seas west of the Marianas (with a reconnaissance line in the Marshall Islands). By 1940, the seas to the east of the Marianas and to the north of the Marshall Islands were the planned location.”
Because of that shift in location, the Imperial Navy developed a forward base for the Combined Fleet at Truk Atoll in the Caroline Islands. Formerly a possession of Germany, the Carolines (along with the Marshalls and Marianas) were occupied by Japan during World War I. The right to govern them was later granted by the League of Nations, but Japan withdrew from the League in 1933, thus freeing herself from treaty restrictions that forbade the fortification of mandated territories. The Imperial Navy began to construct several bases among the islands, and by 1940 Truk had become a formidable bastion, nicknamed the “Gibraltar of the Pacific” by the press. Despite the moniker, the Japanese were concerned about the base’s vulnerability to air attack. The perceived threat was Rabaul, slightly less than seven hundred miles to the south. Never mind that its two airdromes were primitive grass strips without permanent facilities; never mind that the RAAF did not possess any long-range bombers. The new American B-17 Flying Fortresses could reach Truk from Rabaul, and that was enough to cause worry.
During the tumultuous summer of 1941, the increasingly militant Japanese began to actively formulate a plan for war. Imperial General Headquarters laid the groundwork for a massive operation called the Southern Offensive, a multi-pronged invasion designed to swiftly overwhelm territories held by Great Britain, the United States, and the Netherlands East Indies. The main component, the Southern Army, would invade the Philippines, Malaya, and other important territories, while a smaller organization called the Nankai Shitai (South Seas Force) captured Guam and the Bismarck Archipelago.
During a briefing on the Southern Offensive presented to Emperor Hirohito on November 3, the occupation of Rabaul was identified as one of the primary goals—a testament to its vital importance in Tokyo’s strategy. Three days later, Imperial General Headquarters issued orders to the army and navy to mobilize their forces for war.
As an independent unit under the direct command of Imperial General Headquarters, the South Seas Force was created to establish a strong defensive perimeter of island bases around the territories seized by the Southern Army. Combined with existing fortifications, Japan would control the Pacific from the Kurile Islands southward to the Gilberts in the Central Pacific, then westward through the Solomons and Bismarcks to New Guinea, and finally around Java and Sumatra to Burma—a chain of strongholds more than twelve thousand miles in length. As the linchpin of what the Japanese called the Southeast Area, Rabaul would be developed into an impregnable military complex, a hub from which to launch additional campaigns and further extend Japan’s grip on the southern hemisphere.
In other words, the Japanese planned to transform Rabaul, with its huge anchorage and excellent topographical features, into the mightiest fortress in the Pacific.
THERE WAS GOOD REASON for a direct chain of command from Tokyo to the South Seas Force. The Imperial Army and Navy were parochial, neither one willing to be subordinate to the other, particularly at the start of what promised to be a glorious offensive. But with Imperial General Headquarters in charge of operations, the typical rivalries were avoided. As insurance, the services were bluntly ordered to work together. The South Seas Force, for example, received Great Army Instruction No. 992 on November 8, 1941, which emphasized, in part: “The army and navy will cooperate.”
There wasn’t an officer alive in either service who would dare to question the directive’s legitimacy. Every direct order in the Japanese military system, whether written or verbal, was regarded as though Emperor Hirohito himself had issued it. As a result, the army and navy components of the South Seas Force not only cooperated but conducted a near-flawless operation against Guam.
When the Southern Offensive commenced on December 8, Tokyo time, several troop transports and a sizeable
convoy of Fourth Fleet warships were already en route to Guam, an American possession in the Mariana Islands. Land-based naval aircraft from Saipan softened up the island’s defenses for two days, and when the invasion troops stormed ashore on December 10, the garrison of 153 U.S. Marines and the local militia surrendered within minutes.
After securing Guam, the South Seas Force spent the rest of December preparing for the invasion of the Bismarcks. On January 3, 1942, Maj. Gen. Tomitaro Horii and his battalion commanders flew more than 630 miles to Truk for a planning session with their navy counterparts. Boarding the cruiser Kashima in Truk lagoon, they met with Vice Adm. Shigeyoshi Inoue, commander of the Fourth Fleet, and hammered out the various details of “R” Operation, as the coming invasion was called. The meeting concluded with the signing of a cooperation agreement between Horii and Inoue, ostensibly to satisfy the dictates of Tokyo, after which Horii and his staff flew back to Guam.
The following day, the Imperial Navy’s 24th Air Flotilla received orders to begin attacking Rabaul from its base at Truk. Having already conducted several high-altitude reconnaissance flights over the area, the aircrews were undoubtedly anxious to initiate combat. None, however, could have foreseen that the air war over Rabaul would continue unabated for almost four years. The longest battle of World War II was about to begin.