by Bruce Gamble
That the defenders took off against such an overwhelming force should be considered one of the great sacrifices of the Pacific war—but not a single medal was awarded by the RAAF. Responding in 1946 to an official inquiry about this grievous oversight, the defense ministry stated that no citations could be issued because no enemy planes had been shot down. By that twisted logic, no man who ever jumped on a grenade to save his buddies would deserve a medal either, because his self-sacrifice caused no harm to the enemy.
AFTER ANNIHILATING the Wirraways, the Japanese concentrated on stationary targets. At Vunakanau, where the 2/22nd Battalion had a few Lewis machine guns for antiaircraft defense, the soldiers had a difficult time compensating for the speed of the enemy planes. This was their first experience with single-engine carrier planes. During previous attacks they had watched as formations of medium bombers and giant seaplanes passed high overhead; but the Aichi dive-bombers and nimble Zeros seemed phenomenally fast as they bombed and strafed from all directions. Among the dozens of bombs that landed on the airdrome, many were duds. Some penetrated up to fifteen feet into the soft earth, and the troops later spent hours digging them out. Miraculously, no one was hurt during the delicate process.
HIGH ATOP THE SLOPES of the North Daughter, Lieutenant Selby’s two antiaircraft guns swiveled around to face a large formation of Type 97 bombers. The old guns put up a steady barrage, but the Japanese came on resolutely, heading toward the eastern shore of Simpson Harbor on a course that would bring them close to the battery.
Stacked in three chutais of nine aircraft each, the formation was led initially by Lt. Cmdr. Takashi Hashiguchi, hikotaicho (air group commander) of Kaga’s carrier attack unit. But he, like Fuchida, was primarily an observer. Shortly before commencing the bomb run, he signaled the crew of the number-two plane to take the lead. Petty Officer 1st Class Tatsuya Sugihara, specially trained at horizontal bombing, moved to the front of the chutai. He was teamed with the unit’s top bombardier, PO Katsuo Yamamoto, whose bomb release would cue the other pilots to drop their ordnance. Some carried six 60-kilogram “daisy cutters,” while others toted an 800-kilogram (1,764-pound) bomb.
One of the latter was carried by Ens. Takeshi Maeda, flying the number-three position in the lead element. When the first two planes switched positions, he removed the safety device from his release mechanism. Moments later, while he prepared for the bomb run, the barrage from the Australian guns rocked the chutai on all sides. “Our aircraft shook a lot from all this antiaircraft fire,” he recalled. “I paid attention to the leading Type 97 and released our bomb, which caused our aircraft to rise up. Suddenly, Sugihara’s aircraft was hit by antiaircraft fire and dropped out of our formation. Then it became engulfed in flames and slammed into the mid-slope of Mt. Hanasaki, a volcano on Rabaul. I believe this was a direct hit, and everything happened in just a matter of seconds. If it had not been on the ‘bomb run,’ the taicho’s Type 97 and our aircraft would have been in danger.”*
Only six weeks earlier, Sugihara and his crew had participated in the glorious attack on Pearl Harbor. Now it was their distinction to become the first Japanese airmen to die at Rabaul.
SOME OF THE DAY’S MOST impressive attacks were made by the Type 99 dive-bombers from Shokaku and Zuikaku. Selby and his gunners had a stadium view as three of the big fixed-gear bombers swooped down on the Norwegian freighter Herstein, still loading copra at the Burns, Philp & Company wharf. Three bombs hit the merchant ship squarely, igniting the cargo of oily copra. In the superstructure, a defiant sailor fought back with a mounted machine gun until the rising flames forced him to evacuate his post. The mooring lines burned through, and Herstein began to drift slowly across the harbor, her hull glowing cherry red.
Another group of Type 99s concentrated on an even bigger ship, Westralia, a former passenger liner that served as a floating coal bunker. An easy target, the stationary hulk was blasted by bombs and sank out of sight.
Carrier planes also attacked Lakunai, dropping bombs and machine-gunning the adjacent coconut groves to destroy the dispersal areas hidden among the trees. The coastal defense battery at Praed Point likewise received attention, after which the Japanese tried without success to knock out the antiaircraft guns. Because they were situated on a razorback ridge, nothing but a pinpoint hit would destroy them. As it was, several bombs tumbled harmlessly into a ravine before exploding.
Ending the attack at approximately 1330, the Japanese performed a deliberate aerial pageant over Rabaul to flaunt their power. They had reason to celebrate: out of 109 participating aircraft, only the Type 97 flown by Sugihara had been shot down.
But not all of the others got away cleanly. Describing the mission as “frightful,” Ens. Haruo Yoshino stated that five additional Type 97s were damaged by the heavy barrage from the Australian antiaircraft guns. His own plane was hit in the engine, which caused a disconcerting vibration. The long overwater flight back to the aircraft carrier was particularly nerve-wracking. “I was scared that the engine might stop at any moment because of the vibration,” Yoshino later said. “A bunch of electrical wires in the engine were hit. Around that area fragments from antiaircraft shells were scattered inside. So, I thought that there was something in that area that didn’t explode yet; I desperately wanted to go back.”
Yoshino succeeded in making an emergency landing aboard Kaga, but the crew of another Type 97 was forced to ditch alongside the carrier. The Australian gunners had also damaged a Type 99 dive-bomber. The pilot attempted an emergency landing aboard Shokaku but crashed on the flight deck, killing both himself and the rear gunner. Selby and his young militiamen thought they had downed just one attacker, but their accurate gunnery cost the Japanese a total of three aircraft.
Commander Fuchida felt “like a hunter sent to stalk a mouse with an elephant gun.” Frustrated with the outcome of the mission, especially the wasteful use of precious fuel and ordnance on a virtually defenseless target, he went straight to Nagumo after landing back aboard Akagi and told him it was “ridiculous to use all these aircraft in such an operation.”
IN THE MIDST of the attack, John Lerew had sent an urgent message to Area Headquarters at Townsville: “Waves of enemy fighters shot down Wirraways. Waves of bombers attacking aerodromes. Over one hundred aircraft seen so far. [Strafing] on Praed Point.” After the attack, he fired off an amplifying message. “Sending A16-38 [the lone remaining Hudson] to Moresby with casualties. Two Wirraways useless defense. Will you now please send some fighters?”
But the staff at Townsville could only reply: “Regret inability to supply fighters. If we had them you would get them.”
Faced with the stark realization that no reinforcements were coming, Lerew consolidated the remains of 24 Squadron at Vunakanau. Anything of value that could be brought from Lakunai was placed on trucks, after which the airdrome was rigged for demolition. That afternoon, the personnel gathered at Vunakanau to find a whole new rash of problems caused by the Japanese attacks, including a shortage of drinking water and inadequate facilities for feeding and housing everyone.
COLUMNS OF BLACK SMOKE rose quietly above Rabaul, fed by the burning wharves and copra sheds and the drifting Herstein. Casualties on the ground had been surprisingly light, but eleven sailors from Herstein were dead, and several others had suffered burns. The injured Norwegians were taken to the civilian hospital on Namanula Hill, the only facility at Rabaul with an operating room. They were joined by Bruce Anderson, Colin Butterworth, Albert Claire, George Herring, and Bill Hewitt, all from 24 Squadron, who had suffered an assortment of broken bones and bullet wounds.
The hectic activity at the hospital came to a hushed standstill when a utility truck arrived carrying the bodies of Charles Bromley and Dick Walsh. Alice Bowman, a civilian nurse, later recalled: “The battered bodies were almost unrecognizable as the young men we had laughed and joked with a few days ago. One who looked no older than a schoolboy had been shot through the head. The other lay like a discarded puppet; his shatter
ed, broken body had come down in the sea and his partially opened parachute covered him now like a sodden shroud.”
Arrangements were made to bury the two airmen in the local cemetery, but as there was no time for embalming the bodies, they had to be interred quickly before decomposition set in. The squadron could not provide a chaplain or enough personnel for a proper military funeral, so the Protestant chaplain from Lark Force agreed to conduct a quick memorial service. Early the next morning, Chap. John L. May read the burial rites for Bromley and Walsh as they were laid to rest in the Rabaul Cemetery.
Immediately afterward, the padre accompanied John Lerew and Flg. Off. Geoffrey R. Lempriere, the squadron intelligence officer, to Lerew’s office. “The three of us were much moved by various aspects of our situation,” recalled May. “Not only did we grieve for the loss of the men who had been killed, we were saddened and frustrated by the failure of the Australian authorities to understand what was happening at Rabaul.”
Everyone was exasperated, particularly with the government’s mindless inefficiency. The 17th Antitank Battery had been supplied with only twenty rounds per gun, all solid shot, useless for anything but target practice. No other ammunition had arrived from Australia, but in December the garrison had received plenty of turkeys for Christmas Dinner. “It would not be too much,” May continued, “to say that we felt bitter.”
After venting their frustration, the three men hatched an idea that evolved into one of the most famous messages in RAAF lore. May, who had graduated from the University of Tasmania with a degree in liberal arts, was well versed in Latin and knew of a centuries-old legend that bore similarities to their present situation. “At about that point in the talk between the three of us,” he recalled, “there was some reference to the gladiators in the Roman arena, and the recollection of the salute which the Roman historian Suetonius, in his Life of Claudius, says was given by the gladiators. Translated, it reads, ‘Hail, Emperor, those who are about to die salute you.’ It seemed appropriate to alter these words to, ‘We who are about to die salute you.’”
The Latin translation required only three words, “Morituri vos salutamus,” which May provided to Lempriere for encoding and transmittal. The defiant message, all the more clever because of its simplicity, originated from Rabaul at 0845 hours on January 21. Historically the message has been attributed to Lerew, but credit for suggesting the phrase and providing the Latin belong properly to Chaplain May.
About three hours later, a reply came back from the forward area headquarters at Port Moresby: Lerew was to proceed there and assume command of a new squadron being cobbled together from the remnants of 24 Squadron and other units. Bill Brookes would then take over the “Rabaul detachment,” having received a spot promotion to acting squadron leader. Lerew had not been demoted or sanctioned, but as one RAAF historian later put it, the brass in Melbourne plainly wanted “the chief gladiator … removed from the arena.”
Lerew had his own ideas. If he complied with the order, he would have to fly the lone remaining Hudson, which could be put to better use transporting the wounded men. If not evacuated, they would be at the mercy of the Japanese when the invasion finally came. Thus, it was an easy decision on his part: he ignored the order.
CHAPTER 4
Desperate Hours
FROM MELBOURNE TO Townsville, from Port Moresby to Rabaul, Australia’s military leaders were anxious to learn the whereabouts of the Japanese fleet. With 24 Squadron all but wiped out, the task of locating the ships went to a small detachment of 20 Squadron operating from a forward base in the Solomons. At dawn on January 21, a twin-engine Catalina flying boat piloted by Flt. Lt. Robert H. Thompson lifted off from the calm waters near Buka Island, just off the northern tip of Bougainville. The long reconnaissance flight, expected to last twelve hours or more, would not be altogether uncomfortable for the eight-man crew. Suspended beneath the Catalina’s parasol wing was a spacious V-shaped hull with enough cabin space for several bunks and even a small galley. Thompson and his crew relaxed as the “Cat-boat” paralleled the coast of New Ireland, but they kept a close watch on the ocean below.
The copilot, Flt. Lt. Paul M. Metzler, was at the controls approximately six hours after takeoff when he spotted what looked like “a number of gray logs” on the surface. Thompson, sitting to Metzler’s left, counted four cruisers and reported them by radio to Port Moresby. But before he could transmit additional details, bursts of antiaircraft fire exploded nearby. Steering the Catalina into a nearby cloud, Metzler caught “a hazy glimpse” of Zeros taking off from the deck of an aircraft carrier.
Unaware of the threat, headquarters at Port Moresby ordered the Catalina to maintain surveillance. Taking over the controls, Thompson poked in and out of the clouds at eleven thousand feet to give the crew an occasional look at the ships below, but the game of hide-and-seek lasted only a few minutes before the enemy fighters reached their altitude.
Led by WO Yoshio Kodama of the Zuikaku fighter unit, a three-plane shotai of Zeros attacked the Catalina from astern. Thompson hauled back on the controls, pulling the big plane around in sweeping turns while Metzler tried to direct the gunners over the intercom, but the Japanese fighters were much too agile. Their gunfire shredded the lumbering seaplane.
In the ventral tunnel at the rear of the Catalina’s fuselage, LAC Kenneth G. Parkyns endured a terrifying experience as he tried to fight back with a Lewis machine gun. Zeros bored in again and again, firing directly at his position. Parkyns was hit several times, but amazingly the wounds proved to be mostly superficial.
The three Japanese pilots expended more than one hundred cannon shells and 1,400 bullets at the Catalina, concentrating much of their gunfire in the flying boat’s midsection. Leading Aircraftman James L. Cox was killed while manning a machine gun in one of the side blisters, and four other crewmembers were wounded in the main cabin. Suddenly, the situation turned even more nightmarish as the fuel in the perforated wing tanks ignited. Streams of flaming gasoline poured from the tanks down into the cabin, creating an inferno that temporarily engulfed Sgt. Leo T. Clarke and Cpl. John Perrett.
Up in the cockpit, Thompson rolled the big aircraft into a tight, spiraling dive while Metzler worked the throttles to keep the aircraft under control. Flames from the punctured fuel tanks also spread across the upper wing surfaces, eating away the fabric covering the ailerons, which made controlled flight nearly impossible.
The Catalina appeared to be in its death plunge, but as Metzler later explained, there was still time for a miracle:
The Japs were not firing at us, but we were going down fast enough for an imminent crash. Then everything happened at once. Thompson heaved back with both hands on the heavy column. At the same time I pushed both throttles right open, the nose came up and we were level. Next instant the Catalina touched the water faster than any Catalina had ever done before. The first skip must have been a good two hundred yards and with each succeeding skip the boat charged through the water with a noise like thunder. We abandoned ship before it could explode, with the boat still doing a good rate of knots; in fact it careered around us several times burning and crackling like a bushfire. All the Very [flares] of various colors exploded like fireworks, one after another. Finally it came to rest and burnt right out in the middle with the nose and the tail tilting up, and then disappeared with a terrific hiss of salt water on hot metal.
The body of airman Cox went down with the plane, but everyone else managed to jump from the burning seaplane. However, Clarke and Perret soon died from their horrible burns, leaving five survivors in the water with no raft. Among them, only Thompson had escaped without some sort of wound. Metzler, a strong swimmer, thought he could see the mountains of New Hanover in the distance and got the men started in that direction.
Two hours later they had barely made any progress when someone shouted, “Christ Almighty, here comes a bloody cruiser!” The Japanese heavy cruiser Aoba slid alongside the swimmers, who started performing the Australian
crawl to show they had plenty of stamina. “Keep swimming,” advised Thompson. “Don’t turn or look around, and for the love of God, don’t wave at the bastards.”
But the Aussies had only two choices: drown in the Bismarck Sea or be taken prisoner. Wisely they chose the latter. Aoba’s crew saved them from certain death, and the ship’s medical officer treated their wounds. Transported to Japan, all five Australians survived the duration of the war in various POW camps.
WITH THE NEAR-ANNIHILATION of 24 Squadron over Rabaul on January 20, Vice Admiral Nagumo had come close to fulfilling his main objective, the destruction of enemy air power in the region. But there were still a few airdromes to neutralize on New Ireland and New Guinea. Even as Bob Thompson and his crewmen winged toward their fateful encounter, Nagumo launched the necessary strikes.
Soon after dawn on January 21, fifty-two aircraft from Akagi and Kaga bombed Kavieng. Reports of the early morning attack were received by Fortress Signals, the communications unit at Rabaul, which also picked up the grim news that Thompson’s crew had found the Japanese fleet off New Ireland. Throughout the day, as additional messages arrived from Port Moresby with updates about the Japanese fleet, the picture gradually developed in all its frightening clarity. An enemy invasion force consisting of four cruisers, at least two carriers, five to seven troop transports, and numerous other ships was converging on Rabaul.
Colonel John J. Scanlan, the commander of Lark Force, realized that the enemy would be within gunnery range of Rabaul by nightfall. A decorated veteran of World War I, he gathered his staff for a hasty conference. Scanlan’s first order was to evacuate the encampment on Malaguna Road, which was completely exposed to naval bombardment. It was a wise decision, but in the next breath Scanlan issued a puzzling instruction: the troops were not to be told about the approaching enemy fleet. Instead, they were instructed to prepare for a battalion exercise lasting two or three days. As a result, the Aussie soldiers loaded their haversacks with only a minimum of supplies.