by Bruce Gamble
When the United States entered World War I, Kenney wrote to the War Department and requested aviation training. By early June he was back at M.I.T. for ground school, after which he completed basic flight training at Mineola, New York. He then sailed to France and underwent additional training before receiving an assignment to the 91st Aero Squadron, a reconnaissance outfit that specialized in photographic missions during the last months of the war. Kenney was highly decorated after making several flights deep into enemy territory, earning both a Silver Star and a Distinguished Service Cross, the latter pinned on by Billy Mitchell. Kenney also scored two confirmed aerial victories, but he was much more concerned about the high mortality rate among his own squadron mates: only one in four of the 91st’s original cadre of pilots survived the war.
After the war Kenney enjoyed a steady rise through the ranks, displaying a talent for innovation gleaned from the lessons of combat and his previous experience as an engineer and businessman. He was the first to mount a machine gun inside the wing of an airplane (a pair of .30-caliber guns in a De Havilland in 1922) and is generally credited with the invention of the parachute bomb. He was also blessed with an abundance of energy as well as confidence, attributes that offset his small physical stature. According to biographer Thomas Griffith, Kenney stood “five feet, five and a half inches tall,” but that half-inch lends an optimistic note to the measurement. In photographs, Kenney almost always appeared significantly shorter than the individuals around him. His face, highlighted by a fleshy lower lip and a prominent scar on his chin, enhanced the bulldog image.
Described by Time magazine as “a cocky, enthusiastic little man who can inspire his flyers with his own skill for improvisation,” Kenney was exactly the man MacArthur needed in the Southwest Pacific. While en route to Australia, he worked on new ideas with his aide, Maj. William G. Benn of Shamokin, Pennsylvania. Caught up in discussions over techniques for low-level bombing against ships, the two men decided to test a little-known method called “skip bombing,” first tried by the British. Borrowing a Marauder during a layover at Fiji, they loaded it with inert bombs and made repeated passes against coral outcroppings.
With his engineering background and years of aviation experience, Kenney was no stranger to hands-on testing. He later described his first skip-bombing trials with Benn:
It was quite evident that it was going to take quite a bit of experimental flying to determine the proper height for release of the bomb and how far from the [enemy] ship it should be released. From this first experiment it looked as though 100-feet altitude and a distance of about 400 yards would be somewhere near right. We bounced some bombs right over the targets, others sank without bouncing, but finally they began skipping along just like flat stones. Benn and I both agreed that we would have to get some more firepower up in the nose of the bomber to cover us coming in on the attack if the Jap vessels had very much gun protection on their decks, but it looked as though we had something. The lads at Fiji didn’t seem to think much of the idea but I decided that as soon as we got time … I would put Benn to work on it. He was really enthusiastic about it, particularly after we began to score some good “skips” against the coral knobs.
During the month of July, meanwhile, MacArthur had moved his headquarters from Melbourne to Brisbane, where he settled into an office building formerly occupied by the Australian Mutual Providence Society. When Kenney and his aide arrived in the city on July 28, they were first escorted to Lennon’s Hotel, said to be the finest in Brisbane. After checking into Flat 13 (which he considered a lucky number), Kenney met with Richard Sutherland and heard his “tale of woe” about the state of the Allied air forces. Kenney knew Sutherland well—ten years earlier they had been classmates at the Army War College—and although he admired Sutherland’s intelligence, he was well aware that Sutherland antagonized almost everyone he worked with.
On his second day in Australia, Kenney visited briefly with his predecessor, George Brett, then went up to the eighth floor of the AMP Building to call on his new boss. Ushered straight into MacArthur’s office, Kenney noticed that the supreme commander “looked a little tired, drawn, and nervous.” There was good reason: MacArthur had just been informed that the Japanese army was landing at Buna, on the coast of New Guinea. Not only was this a fresh crisis, but an unfortunate coincidence. MacArthur had planned to establish a defensive perimeter around Port Moresby by building new airfields at Buna. An Australian garrison was already in position at Milne Bay, and the operation to land American engineers at Buna, code named Providence, had been scheduled for August 10. The Japanese simply beat him to it. Despite the serious situation, MacArthur devoted at least two hours to a personal meeting with Kenney, thus demonstrating his belief in the importance of air power. Not that he was pleased with the performance of the existing units. To the contrary, for the first half of the meeting MacArthur ranted nonstop, unloading a litany of complaints. Kenney listened attentively and later outlined MacArthur’s diatribe in his diary.
Listened to a lecture for approximately an hour on the shortcomings of the Air Force in general and the Allied Air Force in the Southwest Pacific in particular. [MacArthur] said, among other things, that he believed that the Air Force could do something; that so far he could not see where they had done anything at all; that the whole thing was so badly botched up that he believed his staff could run it better than the Air [Force] had done. He had no use for anyone in the organization, from Brett down to the grade of colonel. He claimed that Brett was disloyal to him, that Royce was a scatterbrain and that all the rest of the generals should never have [made field grade] in the first place. He said they were all made by the underhanded submitting of their names to Washington without his approval. He informed me that he expected me to be loyal to him.
As soon as I got a chance to say anything, I told him frankly that I had been sent out here to take over the air show and that I intended to run it; that as far as the question of loyalty was concerned, if for any reason I found that I could not work with him or be loyal to him I would tell him so and do everything in my power to get relieved. He grinned and put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I think we are going to get along all right.”
Instinctively knowing which buttons to push, Kenney had thawed MacArthur’s frosty shell of mistrust in a matter of minutes. Perhaps his small stature was a contributing factor, but it was probably Kenney’s infectious blend of intelligence and energy that won over the supreme commander. For another hour they chatted about the war. MacArthur did most of the talking, during which he outlined an important operation scheduled for early August. Although it would take place in the southern Solomons, outside his command area, he had pledged full support and needed Kenney’s recommendations. Kenney responded that he could not give any recommendations until he knew exactly what he had to work with and pledged to leave immediately for an inspection tour of the forward bases. He would then return to Brisbane and present a clear answer.
Before leaving the city, Kenney spent several hours with General Brett observing his directorate system. Brett offered Kenney the use of his personal aircraft, an early-model B-17D, which Kenney gladly accepted. The Flying Fortress, originally named Ole Betsy, was in tiptop shape. One of the first B-17s to see combat in the Philippines, it had received heavy damage during a mission over Borneo and was subsequently rebuilt in Melbourne, receiving a complete tail assembly cannibalized from another B-17. The unique repair inspired the next pilot to rename it The Swoose after a popular big-band tune, “Alexander the Swoose (Half Swan, Half Goose).” Permanently withdrawn from combat status, the B-17 was later sent back to Melbourne for a more thorough engine overhaul, at which point Capt. Frank Kurtz, Brett’s pilot, selected it as the general’s personal transport.
Kenney took off aboard The Swoose at 2300 on July 29 and landed four hours later at Townsville to pick up three important passengers. Waiting for him were Brig. Gen. Ennis C. Whitehead, USAAF, who had arrived from the States a month earlier; Maj.
Gen. Ralph G. Royce, USAAF, commander of air operations in the Northeastern Sector at Townsville; and William S. Robinson, an Aussie billionaire industrialist with important political connections. After refueling, The Swoose took off again for Port Moresby. It would be a night without sleep as the VIPs got acquainted while crossing the Coral Sea. They touched down at Seven Mile airdrome at 0700, whereupon Kenney got his first taste of the already warm and humid air of New Guinea. The Swoose roared aloft again, heading for Horn Island to stay out of harm’s way.
Visiting the front lines on just his second full day in the theater, Kenney impressed the men at Port Moresby. They had lost faith in Brett, who rarely visited and had no concept of how awful the conditions at Port Moresby had become. Kenney later wrote: “[Brett] didn’t get up there very often; I think he was up there maybe twice. They didn’t have much equipment and weren’t getting any more equipment; they weren’t getting spare parts when their airplanes began falling apart. Brett didn’t get up to [see] them, and he didn’t check and find out what they needed and see that they got it. Their food was terrible stuff, and he wouldn’t do anything about that. They were getting malaria pretty badly, and there was nothing done about that.”
Kenney was disgusted with just about everything he saw on the tour. Joined by Brig. Gen. Martin F. “Mike” Scanlon, the ranking American at Port Moresby, Kenney spent the day visiting the base with Royce and Whitehead. During the briefing for a bombing mission, Kenney was appalled by the lack of organization. The preliminaries were conducted by an Australian officer who simply declared that the objective was Rabaul, giving no specific targets. Kenney later wrote, “I found out afterward that nobody expects the airplanes to get that far anyhow, and if they do, the town itself is a good target.”
A meteorologist spoke next. His estimates of the weather conditions over Rabaul were based on historical data rather than real-time analysis. Kenney observed that no one was designated to lead the formation, mainly because the bombers were not expected to stay together en route to the target—and no one seemed to care. The only thing the crews fretted about was their bomb load. “The personnel are obsessed with the idea that a bullet will detonate the bombs and blow up the whole works,” Kenney noted. “If enemy airplanes are seen along the route, all auxiliary gas and bombs are immediately jettisoned and the mission abandoned.”
Thoroughly displeased with bomber operations, Kenney next inspected the fighter squadrons and found them no better. After touring the fighter area for a few hours with Lt. Col. Richard A. Legg, commanding officer of the 35th Fighter Group, Kenney wrote, “His organization is lackadaisical, maintenance is at a low ebb, and while he is short of spares there is no excuse for only six P-39s out of forty being constantly available for combat.”
Kenney also investigated the camp areas. “Throughout the Moresby area the camps are poorly laid out and the food situation is extremely bad,” he later wrote. “There is no mosquito control discipline and the malaria and dysentery rates are forcing relief of a unit at the end of about two months’ duty.”
Now Kenney knew why MacArthur was displeased. Nobody seemed to be doing anything about the appalling conditions at Port Moresby, though Kenney did find a few subordinates—none above the rank of major—who were actually attempting to improve things.
After a quick assessment of the overall situation, Kenney immediately began to make changes. First, he told Whitehead to remain at Port Moresby to “look after the fighters” and implement some new policies. He directed that an American staff officer attend every mission briefing; also, every bombing mission would have a specific primary target assigned along with at least two alternates. Finally, he instructed Whitehead to inform Legg that if he didn’t snap out of his lethargy, he’d be replaced.
Accompanied by Royce, Kenney returned to Townsville on August 31 and spent the day looking over the base—the most important in Australia. It was the center of operations for an increasing number of air groups at widely scattered locations, including a brand-new airfield at Mareeba, 180 miles to the northwest near Cairns. Kenney flew to Mareeba the following day and met with Dick Carmichael, recently promoted to lieutenant colonel, who had taken over the 19th Bomb Group. The move to Mareeba had been beneficial for the group. The base was 400 miles closer to Port Moresby, which shortened the missions considerably, and the wooded landscape surrounding the airfield was far more pleasant than the hot, fly-infested outback.
Despite the improvements, the airmen were exhausted and morale remained low. And, as Kenney soon discovered, an even bigger problem affected daily operations: the supply system was terribly inefficient. It astounded him to learn that eighteen of the B-17s at Mareeba were grounded for lack of engine parts and tail wheels, all because of bottlenecks in the supply line. Orders for replacement parts were sent via Townsville to Charters Towers, which had limited stocks, so the paperwork had to be forwarded to the main supply depot at Tocumwal, twelve hundred miles away in New South Wales. A month would sometimes elapse before a reply came, which too often was negative: either the part was unavailable or the requisition form had not been filled out properly. The snafus galled Kenney, who realized that hidebound desk jockeys were responsible for the disruptions. Arming himself with a detailed requisition list, he told Carmichael to cancel all missions except essential patrols and get ready for a maximum effort scheduled for a few days hence.
Kenney flew back to Townsville on the morning of August 2 and relieved Royce, then continued to Brisbane and went right back to work. He telephoned Maj. Gen. Rush B. Lincoln, commander of air services in Australia, and gave him the list of desired spare parts, which were to be airlifted to Mareeba as soon as possible.
Next, as promised, Kenney debriefed MacArthur on his trip to the forward area.
I told him frankly what I thought was wrong with the Air Force set-up in both Australia and New Guinea and discussed the corrective action that I intended to take immediately. I asked him to give me authority to send home anyone that I thought was deadwood. He said, “Go ahead. You have my enthusiastic approval.” I then discussed the air situation and told him that I wanted to carry out one primary mission, which was to take out the Jap air strength until we owned the air over New Guinea. That there was no use talking about playing across the street until we got the Nips off our front lawn.
MacArthur gave Kenney unconditional approval to implement his plan. More importantly, he promised not to micromanage Kenney’s troops. He didn’t care what the men looked like or what they did as long as they “would fight, shoot down Japs, and put bombs on the targets.”
CHAPTER 19
Medal of Honor: Harl Pease Jr.
PRIOR TO MIDWAY, the staff at Imperial General Headquarters realized the importance of establishing an airfield in the eastern Solomon Islands. The capture of Tulagi in early May had given the Japanese a fine anchorage for warships and flying boats, and the addition of an airdrome would strengthen the defensive perimeter around Rabaul. It would also serve as a point for launching attacks against Allied bases in New Caledonia and the New Hebrides. But there were no suitable construction sites in the immediate vicinity of Tulagi for an airdrome large enough to accommodate land attack aircraft as well as fighters.
However, just twenty-three miles to the south lay the large island of Guadalcanal, which featured a broad plain near its northern coast. Home to thousands of Melanesian natives for untold generations, the island had been “discovered” by the Spanish in 1568, whereupon a member of the expedition named it in honor of his hometown. For hundreds of years the name appeared as Guadalcanar on most nautical charts, but the spelling was corrected after the island became part of the British Solomon Islands Protectorate. In the decades before World War II, segments of the coast had been developed for copra production. Lever Brothers, makers of popular English soaps, established plantations along the northern shore and were joined by Australian interests such as Burns, Philp & Company. The latter also operated a rubber plantation, and an enterprising ranch
er grazed a herd of cattle on the grassy plain, thereby providing a supply of fresh beef to nearby islands.
The Japanese investigated the island’s potential almost immediately. Two weeks after settling in at Tulagi, the commanding officer of the Yokohama Air Group reported that Guadalcanal offered good attributes for an airfield. Engineers and staff from the 25th Air Flotilla and 8th Base Force departed from Rabaul in a flying boat on May 25 and visited Guadalcanal two days later to confirm the report. Slightly over a mile inland, just east of the Lunga River, they located a site for an airfield.
On June 1, Rear Admiral Yamada sent a letter to his immediate superior, Vice Adm. Nishizo Tsukahara (commander of the Eleventh Air Fleet, headquartered on Tinian), requesting the establishment of an airfield at Guadalcanal. Copies were also telegrammed to the staffs of the Combined Fleet and Imperial General Headquarters, resulting in two more inspection trips. Vice Admiral Inoue conducted the last trip in person on June 19, flying down from Rabaul to visit the site. At about the same time, small parties of naval troops from Tulagi set up tent encampments on Guadalcanal. They built a wharf and burned the kunai grasses off the plain; they also shot some of the cattle and ransacked plantations, which had been abandoned by their owners before Tulagi fell.
In late June the fast transport Kinryu Maru departed from Truk in company with several other cargo ships and an escort of five destroyers. Arriving off Guadalcanal on July 6, the transports offloaded the 11th and 13th Establishment Units along with tons of construction equipment: approximately one hundred trucks, four heavy tractors, six mechanized road rollers, two generators, an ice-making plant, and a pair of narrow-gauge locomotives with a dozen hopper cars. Construction of the airstrip began on July 16 and proceeded quickly with the help of Melanesian muscle. (The Japanese issued a declaration that all native men between the ages of fifteen and fifty must work for them. The islanders’ only compensation was a vague promise of “identification as a civilian” at some future time.)