Fortress Rabaul

by Bruce Gamble

  Whatever happened that day, the one definitive summation is that Ken Walker did not return. Had he been rescued, he would have faced sanctions for two counts of disobeying orders. Instead he died in battle, and General MacArthur made good on his promise to recommend him for a Medal of Honor.

  The paperwork moved rapidly through channels until a review board questioned whether Walker’s actions were considered “above and beyond the call of duty.” It was an interesting dilemma. The Silver Star awarded to Walker in August had used the same words, citing his “disregard for personal safety, above and beyond the call of duty,” which means the phrase was not exclusive to the Medal of Honor. However, Maj. Gen. George E. Stratemeyer, chief of air staff under General Arnold, responded to the query by writing: “It is the considered opinion of Headquarters, Army Air Forces that the conspicuous leadership exemplified by Brig. Gen. Kenneth N. Walker on the specific mission as cited by General MacArthur does constitute action above and beyond the call of duty.”

  The words that set Walker apart from the other men lost aboard San Antonio Rose were “conspicuous leadership.” The mission had accomplished very little—and Walker had defied Kenney’s orders by participating—but his decision to lead the small force of unescorted bombers over Japan’s mightiest bastion was indeed gallant. He intended to set an example. As he hoisted himself through the belly hatch of San Antonio Rose that tropical morning, a Medal of Honor would have been the farthest thing from his mind.

  CHAPTER 25

  Blood in the Water

  THE PARADOX OF THE January 5 attack on Rabaul was not that it failed to affect the Japanese convoy, or that Walker received a Medal of Honor. The greatest irony was the insignificance of the American effort: twelve bombers, no fighter escort.

  Only two days later, the Japanese launched more than eight times as many aircraft from Rabaul to attack Port Moresby. Considering the high costs of the recent battles for Guadalcanal and Buna, it was an astonishing show of force. The Eleventh Air Fleet put up sixty fighters and forty-four medium bombers in an attempt to knock out the Allied airdromes.

  But there was more irony to come. Halfway to Port Moresby, the armada was stymied by an impassable storm. The remarkable effort went for naught. Had the weather been favorable, a well-coordinated attack by 104 aircraft might have overwhelmed the defenses at Port Moresby, causing severe setbacks for Kenney and his air forces. As it was, the foul weather favored the Allies, and the Japanese returned to Rabaul in frustration.

  That same day, Allied bombers attacked the enemy convoy bound for Lae. During the clash, off the south coase of New Britain, dozens of fighters battled fiercely over the convoy. While Oscars and Zekes dueled with Warhawks and Lightnings, the bombers sank 5,400-ton Nichiryu Maru off Gasmata on January 7 and set fire to Myoko Maru the following day in the Huon Gulf. Despite the loss of the two ships, an estimated four thousand troops of the Okabe Detachment, 51st Infantry Division were successfully put ashore at Lae.

  Imperial General Headquarters considered the operation a major success. But some Japanese, such as FPO Hisashi Igarashi of Air Group 705, were concerned about the intensity of the Allied air attacks. “I heard one or two out of five vessels sank,” he wrote in his diary. “Now the U.S. has the mastery of the air over the most of New Guinea (except a small area around Lae). Just several months ago we had the mastery, but to our regret we retreated enormously and the situation reversed. I don’t know what strategies and tactics are being developed. Yet, looking at the reality at the front, I am really irritated.”

  Igarashi’s concerns were mostly justified—the Allies had regained control of the southern region of the Papuan Peninsula—but the recent occupation of Madang and Wewak by the Imperial Army ensured that Japan would control the northern area of the New Guinea coast for many months to come.

  ON JANUARY 23, exactly one year after the Japanese invaded New Britain, the Buna campaign was declared officially over. Halfway around the world in Casablanca, Morocco, the Southwest Pacific was a hot topic among Allied planners at a landmark conference. Code-named Symbol, the meeting marked the fourth time since the beginning of the war that President Roosevelt and Prime Minister Churchill met to discuss strategy. Many of the Allies’ top military leaders also attended, including the Combined Chiefs of Staff from both the United States and Great Britain.

  Although the main thrust of the conference was to reinforce the “Germany first” policy, Admiral King and General Marshall lobbied hard for an increase in the resources earmarked for the Southwest Pacific. The battle for Guadalcanal was already winding down, and the two service chiefs were adamant about maintaining the Allied initiative. Prior to the conference, King had conducted an analysis of the total resources being employed in the war effort by all Allied countries. His conclusion, though never independently verified, surprised the Casablanca attendees: 85 percent of the resources were being funneled to Europe, leaving the vast Pacific area—including China, Burma, and India—with the meager balance. King and Marshall argued that this number should be increased to thirty percent to capitalize on the victories at Buna and Guadalcanal. Otherwise the Japanese might regroup and launch yet another campaign, which could force the United States into “withdrawing from commitments in the European theater.” This rattled the British sufficiently that they agreed to let their American counterparts run the Pacific war as they saw fit, as long as obligations in Europe and Africa were met.

  The final conference report, submitted to Roosevelt and Churchill by the end of January, called for “limited offensive measures” against the Japanese to begin in the coming year. At first glance the phrase seems fairly innocuous, but in fact it represented a monumental shift in Allied strategy. The capture of Tulagi and Guadalcanal, the first task outlined in the Directive for Offensive Operations issued six months earlier by the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was rapidly coming to a conclusion. The Joint Chiefs were hopeful that Rabaul could be captured by the end of 1943.

  This was MacArthur’s cue to prepare for the second and third tasks listed in the original directive, as previously agreed upon. The past thirteen months of warfare had given him a new appreciation for the importance of air power, which meant that Kenney and the Fifth Air Force were assured of playing a crucial role in the forthcoming operation. As directed by the Joint Chiefs, the next task called for “the seizure and occupation” of the remaining Solomon Islands as well as the portions of New Guinea held by the Japanese, including Lae, Salamaua, Finschhafen, Madang, and Wewak.

  The task in toto may have seemed insurmountable, but MacArthur and his planners broke it down into logical elements. When circled on a map, the various islands and strongholds resembled stepping stones that formed two distinct pathways. The first, anchored at newly acquired Guadalcanal, extended up the chain of the Solomon Islands to the northwest; the second began at Port Moresby, headed up the coast of New Guinea, and then crossed the Bismarck Sea to the Admiralty Islands. Both pathways led toward Rabaul, the ultimate goal. Until it was recaptured or otherwise neutralized, the Japanese would continue to dominate the Southwest Pacific—and the road through the Philippines to Tokyo would be closed.

  The outline of MacArthur’s strategy, called the Elkton Plan, was simple. While MacArthur’s forces advanced toward Rabaul from bases in New Guinea, Vice Adm. “Bull” Halsey, who had replaced the pessimistic Vice Admiral Ghormley in October, would simultaneously move up the Solomons. Each of the enemy-held objectives already boasted at least one existing airfield, the capture of which would enable Allied fighters to provide forward air support while naval and amphibious forces proceeded to the next stepping stone on the way to Rabaul. When all of the strategic points were in Allied hands, Rabaul would literally be surrounded.

  THE PENDING ADVANCE in New Guinea was especially important to George Kenney. Throughout the previous year his air operations had predominantly been defensive in nature, designed to counter each of the Japanese offensives. But the roles shifted dramatically after the Japanese faile
d to capture Port Moresby and retake Guadalcanal. Throughout 1943 and beyond, the Allies would be almost exclusively on the offensive, with no turning back.

  On a personal level, the beginning of 1943 was difficult for Kenney. Following the disappearance of Ken Walker on January 5, he assigned Ennis Whitehead additional responsibilities as the temporary head of V Bomber Command. Needing a full-time replacement for Walker, Kenney requested Brig. Gen. Howard K. Ramey, who arrived from Hawaii on January 18. After sitting with him for a full day of briefings, Kenney felt reassured that Ramey was the right choice. “I expected that his good steady hand would straighten out a lot of troubles,” Kenney wrote. He did not identify the specific problems, but low aircraft availability and combat fatigue were two issues that grew worse by the day.

  That evening, however, the assorted difficulties became unimportant. Kenney received news from Port Moresby that Bill Benn had failed to return from a midmorning reconnaissance flight. Whitehead expressed concern that Benn, flying a 3rd Bomb Group B-25C named Algernon IV to scout the New Guinea coast, had come to grief in the Owen Stanley Mountains when the weather turned ugly. Kenney didn’t want to believe that Benn, “a superior pilot,” would have failed to maintain a safe altitude during instrument conditions, but that is exactly what happened. Benn had flown blindly into a valley and slammed into the mountainside. A privately funded visit three decades later by Benn’s great-nephew revealed that Algernon IV had crashed only five hundred feet below a pass. Heavy thunderstorms in the area likely contributed to the accident, which killed all seven men aboard the B-25.

  In addition to the loss of his favorite airman, Kenney had to contend with the aforementioned issues of unsatisfactory aircraft availability and fatigue among the aircrews. Both conditions were serious. As of late January 1943, V Bomber Command consisted of only five groups, much as it had throughout the previous year. Of the two heavy bomb groups, the 43rd had fifty-five B-17s assigned, but on any given day approximately twenty were being overhauled. No more than half of the remainder, a net of about seventeen bombers, were considered combat-ready on a daily basis. Of those, another 25 percent were used for reconnaissance flights, leaving the group with about thirteen bombers available for a bombing mission. Similarly, the 90th Bomb Group typically yielded only about fifteen combat-ready B-24s out of the sixty assigned.

  The two medium bombardment groups were even weaker. The 22nd Bomb Group had been in combat for ten months, and although there had been no long-range missions to Rabaul since May 1942, the group had lost at least thirty Marauders during the ensuing months. The air battles over Lae and other New Guinea strongholds had been particularly costly. At the beginning of 1943 the group possessed just twenty-eight bombers, all in “extremely bad condition,” prompting General Whitehead to send the entire group to Australia for an extended rest. Meanwhile, the 38th Bomb Group had arrived in the Southwest Pacific in August with only half its assigned squadrons. Several months later, two squadrons still remained in the South Pacific Area, and the two at Port Moresby had a shortage of B-25s, about ten less than their normal complement.

  Finally, the 3rd Bomb Group (light) had conducted a steady diet of combat operations over New Guinea since early April 1942. The 8th Bomb Squadron, originally equipped with A-24 dive-bombers, had suffered the most notable losses, including an infamous mission against a convoy near Buna on July 29 from which only two Dauntlesses out of seven returned. Eleven men were dead or missing, including Maj. “Buck” Rogers and the popular operations officer, Lieutenant Virgil Schwab. After that disaster, the Dauntlesses were withdrawn. The group subsequently operated A-20s and B-25s with “conspicuous success,” though fifteen A-20s were lost during the second half of the year. In the meantime, two squadrons equipped with B-25s were currently undergoing new training while their bombers were being modified as low-level gunships.

  Despite the lack of heavy bombers, General Ramey managed to send several small-scale raids against Rabaul during the second half of January. All were conducted at night. The mission that had cost the lives of Walker and his crew served as a stark reminder of the dangers inherent in attacking the bastion in broad daylight. The only exceptions were the much-needed reconnaissance missions, which of necessity overflew Rabaul when the sun was high so that the crews could observe and photograph enemy activity.

  The flip side of bombing at night, of course, was the difficulty of finding targets, not to mention hitting them. Thirteen night raids were conducted against Rabaul in January, but the Japanese lost only one small vessel, the 1,722-ton Tetsuzan Maru. Sunk on the night of January 21, it was evidently the victim of skip-bombing attacks by Lt. John Murphy and Maj. Ed Scott. The only known encounter with Japanese fighters occurred five nights later, when two enemy planes were briefly observed and the B-17 flown by 1st Lt. William M. Thompson Jr. returned with “an elevator partly shot off and bullets in both gas tanks.” The fighters were probably Zeros of Air Group 204, which occasionally attempted night intercepts in coordination with searchlight batteries.

  Despite the fact that the Japanese lacked true night fighters, the nocturnal strikes on Rabaul were anything but easy. As a Fifth Air Force summary put it: “The weather was generally bad, the equatorial front treacherous, [and] searchlight and antiaircraft activity more than annoying.”

  IF THE SHORTAGE of bombers was troubling, at least the numbers were tangible, giving Kenney and his commanders something to work with. The same could not be said of the increasingly disruptive problem of combat stress. It was a slippery issue. Military doctors did not completely understand it, and there was little empirical information available to explain its causes or suggest possible cures. Major James T. King, the 43rd Bomb Group’s flight surgeon, was in equal parts fascinated by the symptoms of combat stress and concerned about its consequences. After conducting an unofficial study for several months, he wrote a point paper to alert the Fifth Air Force about its dangers.

  In our group, after the crew has flown from 100 to 130 combat hours or from 10 to 15 missions, they begin to notice that they are losing their natural zest and eagerness for combat flying. As the condition develops, there are manifestations of mental, emotional and physical tiredness, and changes in personality. Variably there is a preoccupation, moodiness, brooding, moroseness and irritability. The flyer is usually tense and appears to always be worried. He notices that he is unable to rest adequately and has trouble sleeping. When he does sleep, he is frequently awakened by dreams and nightmares. The next morning he finds that he is just as tired as when he went to bed. Instead of taking one day to recover from a combat mission, it takes three or four. There is weight loss on an emotional basis. As an experienced squadron commander put it, he could recognize the condition at a glance by the haggard, hangdog expression in [men’s] eyes.

  Not surprisingly, King found that the primitive living conditions and bad food compounded the negative effects of combat stress on the airmen. He personally observed sleepwalking episodes as well as “hypnagogic hallucinations,” a medical term for the odd, semiconscious behavior of men literally falling asleep on their feet.

  King was especially fascinated by the proclivity of combat stress to infect entire crews. “A rather outstanding characteristic of stress is its contagiousness,” he wrote. “[I have] repeatedly observed some member of a crew come down with the symptoms, and then in a matter of days the remainder of the crew will exhibit more or less the same thing.”

  The phenomenon also spread beyond the flight crews. “There is a noticeable dejection in ground personnel,” King noted, “and essential ground services begin to deteriorate.” When that happened, the normal stresses associated with flying could become self-fulfilling. Planes that received shoddy maintenance work experienced a higher rate of engine failure and other major system malfunctions, placing the already stressed-out crew in additional peril.

  As a flight surgeon, King was most concerned when he observed the symptoms in pilots: “The stressed pilot sees the gyrocompass drifting a
nd it takes a second or two to realize it. The automatic reflex to right the plane is gone, and he actually has to stop and think about what he must do. Then it takes a few seconds to carry it out and he does it poorly. Often he will turn the wrong way. This sort of thing destroys his confidence in the instruments, which makes for additional strain, which makes for poorer coordination and a further delay in reaction time. This vicious cycle may well end with the ship spinning in or flying into a mountain.”

  Every time a plane went missing, which happened with disturbing regularity, the cycle of stress gained a tighter grip on every man in the group. Ralph K. DeLoach, a pilot in the 43rd Bomb Group, recalled that several crews simply disappeared. “They just went out and that was the end of it. There was never another word. So there was stress and strain. A crew would go out and not come back, and we never had any idea of whether the cannibals had put them in their pots … or whether the sharks had eaten them, or whether the Japanese had captured them.”

  There was no practical cure for combat stress, and pilots diagnosed with an acute case were considered a liability. King advocated simple avoidance. He believed strongly in the ounce-of-prevention method, which included giving the crews something to look forward to: periodic leave in a comfortable rest area and a realistic chance of going home after completing an established number of missions. His recommendations were largely ignored, however, mainly because there weren’t enough planes and crews available in the Southwest Pacific.

  So the tired crews kept going. Rarely did more than a few days go by without a plane being declared missing. “We lost a lot of airplanes in the swampy areas and up in the mountains,” agreed James L. Harcrow, another pilot in the 43rd Bomb Group. “I got in a big thunderstorm one night near the Owen Stanley Mountains, and we went up and down. We’d lose about three or four thousand feet, and then go shooting up. I think we went over the mountains on our back. The navigator seemed to think so—but the copilot and I were quite busy. When we finally recovered and came back to Port Moresby, the navigator got out of the airplane and kissed the dirt, saying ‘Boy, I’m happy to be home.’”