by Bruce Gamble
In fact, the first push had already been made. On February 21, only two weeks after the Japanese pulled their troops out of Guadalcanal, American forces had advanced seventy miles to the northeast and peacefully occupied the Russell Islands. Seabees immediately began to bulldoze a pair of airstrips to support Admiral Halsey’s multilateral air force for the next campaign, the invasion of New Georgia.
The Japanese would find no shortage of tempting targets on Guadalcanal, or in the surrounding anchorages. During the few short weeks since they had conceded the island, it had undergone dramatic changes. Now boasting three busy airstrips, Guadalcanal had become a supply depot with massive dumps of munitions, fuel, weapons, and other war materiel piled high. Japanese reconnaissance flights on March 25 revealed approximately three hundred Allied planes on the island, and the snoopers counted numerous transports, cargo ships, and warships riding at anchor between Lunga Point and Tulagi.
Knowing that the Eleventh Air Fleet by itself was incapable of mounting an effective strike, Yamamoto called upon Adm. Jisaburo Ozawa, commander of the Third Fleet, to contribute his carrier air groups to the effort. Zuikaku and Zuiho were already in the vicinity, and Hiyo and Junyo joined them from Japan on March 27. Ozawa initially voiced opposition to the use of his elite units, but he eventually provided the aircraft and even agreed to supervise plans for the coming operation. At about this same time, it was decided that both Yamamoto and Ozawa should shift their headquarters temporarily to Rabaul, underscoring the vital role of the fortress in Japan’s latest strategy.
Yamamoto scheduled his arrival for April 3. In the meantime, Vice Admiral Kusaka sent a preliminary fighter sweep down “the Slot” on April 1, hoping to draw out and destroy a large percentage of the Allied fighters at Guadalcanal. The mission consisted of two separate waves of land-based Zeros from Air Groups 204 and 253, the first consisting of thirty-two Zekes and Haps, the second containing twenty-five fighters. Both waves were detected by coastwatchers, whose radio warnings gave Fighter Command on Guadalcanal enough time to scramble forty-two fighters. Most were marine or navy F4F Wildcats, but there were also six P-38 Lightnings and several new gull-winged F4U Corsairs, which had seen their first combat only two months earlier.
The raiders were intercepted over the Russell Islands, starting a giant melee that lasted nearly three hours. Of the ninety-nine aircraft involved, fifteen were shot down. The Americans enjoyed a distinct advantage in fighting over their own territory. Although five Wildcats and a Corsair were shot down, three of the pilots survived to fight again. Conversely, the Japanese lost the pilots of all nine Zeros brought down, in part because few, if any, wore a parachute.
The reports submitted by both sides were exaggerated, but not evenly so. The Americans claimed eighteen Zeros destroyed, exactly twice as many as the Japanese actually lost. Conversely, the Japanese bragged of shooting down forty-seven American fighters, a whopping total that exceeds the number of participating aircraft.
ADMIRAL YAMAMOTO was undoubtedly pleased with the reports from the returning Zero pilots, even if he suspected their claims were inflated. Still at Truk, he indulged in a game of shōgi with his liaison officer, Cmdr. Shigeru Fujii, on his last night aboard Musashi. (Sh!gi is a popular Japanese variation of chess; the literal translation is “general’s board game.”) While discussing the impending trip, Yamamoto confided: “It seems there’s a lot of talk at home lately about commanders leading their own troops into battle, but to tell the truth I’m not very keen on going to Rabaul. I’d be much happier if they were sending me back to Hashirajima.”
Yamamoto’s statement had nothing to do with shirking his duties; instead it was based purely on human nature. Away from Japan for almost eight months, he longed to see his mistress, Chiyoko Kawai. For the past nine years, Yamamoto had loved the former geisha “with the freshness of spirit of a far younger man.” Their relationship had been kept carefully hidden, so he had to be content with writing her a letter about his forthcoming trip to Rabaul. Contrary to the comments he made while playing shōgi, Yamamoto expressed to Kawai his happiness “at the chance to do something.”
On the morning of April 3, the day before his fifty-ninth birthday, Yamamoto and several members of his staff boarded a pair of four-engine flying boats in Truk lagoon. As a precaution, he and Vice Admiral Ugaki occupied different aircraft. In the unlikely event that one of the planes went down, the Combined Fleet Staff would not lose both of its top admirals. As it was, the big seaplanes encountered no trouble and landed in Simpson Harbor at 1340. The greeting party included Vice Admiral Kusaka, who had not seen his commander in chief for six months. Kusaka noticed that Yamamoto had bloodshot eyes and seemed on the verge of exhaustion. Years later, American writer John Prados suggested that the cause might have been beriberi, a fairly common disease in the tropics caused by acute vitamin deficiency.
Yamamoto and his staff were escorted to Southeast Fleet Headquarters, where the Combined Fleet flag was raised to signify the temporary relocation of his headquarters. After a brief visit, Yamamoto was taken to his personal quarters, a cottage at Government House on Namanula Hill, “where the nights would be cool.”
The next day Yamamoto, Ozawa, and Kusaka went over the details of “Attack X,” the strike against Guadalcanal, scheduled for April 5. Ozawa’s carrier planes—an impressive force of 96 Zeros, 54 Vals, and a few Kate torpedo bombers—had arrived on April 2, bringing the total number of attack aircraft at Rabaul to approximately 350.
With such a large and powerful force at his disposal, Yamamoto believed he could seriously hurt the Allies in New Guinea as well as in the lower Solomons. He therefore decided to add a series of strikes against New Guinea to the overall plan, officially named A-Operation, or I-Go Sakusen in Japanese. The recent Central Agreement formulated by Imperial General Headquarters provided ample justification for the additional raids, because it had included the following directive: “Air operations will be intensified to destroy the enemy air strength [on New Guinea].”
Attack X was postponed for two days due to bad weather, but the early hours of April 7 found Yamamoto at Lakunai airdrome to observe the departure of the massed aerial forces. Wearing a dress white uniform, he solemnly waved his cap as scores of Zeros and dive-bombers roared aloft. Dozens more took off from Vunakanau, and several hours later most of the attack force landed either at Buin, on the south coast of Bougainville, or on the tiny island of Ballale, fifteen miles off the Bougainville coast. While the planes were being refueled, the crews received updated target and weather information. Taking off again for the attack phase of the mission, they rejoined over Shortland Island, and at midday the main force of 110 Zeros and 67 Vals turned southeast toward Guadalcanal. A separate group of 47 Zeros from the Eleventh Air Fleet took off from Buka and also headed southeast. Altogether some 224 planes, the largest Japanese strike force since the attack on Pearl Harbor, set off for Guadalcanal.
THANKS TO AN experienced and talented intelligence network, the Allies received several warnings of the impending raid. First, intercepted Japanese radio traffic was analyzed at Pacific Fleet Headquarters in Hawaii, which then issued alerts back to Guadalcanal more than three hours before the attack commenced. Later, Australian coastwatchers transmitted reports of visual sightings to Guadalcanal, enabling Fighter Command to scramble seventy-six fighters from Henderson Field and the outlying airstrips, Fighter One and Fighter Two. The outcome was a massive donnybrook that began at midafternoon southeast of the Russell Islands and spread all the way to the anchorage at Tulagi. Despite the early detection, the Japanese bought extra time by cleverly splitting the attack force into four groups, which created initial confusion among the Allied radar controllers.
The first American fighters to reach the Japanese—divisions of F4F Wildcats from three Marine Corps squadrons—had to fend off Zeros and were unable to prevent the Vals from attacking targets in Tulagi anchorage. Consequently three ships were sunk: a destroyer that had fought at Pearl Harbor, a small New Zealan
d corvette, and a fat tanker of 14,500 tons. In addition, a converted oiler that had been refueling the corvette was badly damaged.
Among the many individual air battles that raged overhead, one stands out. James E. Swett, a marine first lieutenant in VMF-221, was officially credited with shooting down seven Vals and probably destroying an eighth; this in an F4F-4 that, due to its limited ammunition, offered only eighteen seconds’ worth of firing time. Swett’s own fighter was damaged and he was wounded, all of which led to a bone-jarring forced landing in Tulagi harbor. Swett escaped from the sinking Wildcat and was later awarded a Medal of Honor for his feat, which was accepted without question at the time. In recent years, however, as historians have collated extensive details of the battle, including analysis of Japanese documentation, some have concluded that Swett could not possibly have downed all of the bombers attributed to him.
Another element of the battle worth noting is the participation of two American brothers whose lives are deeply entwined in the Rabaul story. Both were division leaders on April 7. Captain Thomas P. Lanphier Jr. of the 339th Fighter Squadron led four P-38s into the fray and personally claimed three Zeros. His younger brother, 1st Lt. Charles C. Lanphier, shot down one Zero while leading four Wildcats from VMF-214. It was a good outing for the brothers. Their father, a former commanding officer of the Army Air Corps’ fabled 1st Pursuit Squadron, served as Gen. “Hap” Arnold’s air intelligence officer and counted men such as Charles Lindbergh among his good friends. For his fighter-pilot sons, the future seemed bright indeed.
AFTER THE FIGHT broke up, most of the surviving Vals and Zeros headed back toward Bougainville. Some with battle damage or low fuel landed at Munda Point on New Georgia, and a few were forced to ditch. Predictably, both sides submitted exaggerated reports. Over-claiming again by a ratio of approximately two-to-one, the Americans were credited with shooting down twenty-six Zeros and thirteen Vals, whereas actual Japanese losses totaled twelve Zeros and nine Vals either shot down or missing, with another three dive-bombers ditched or crash-landed. By comparison, the Japanese over-claimed by a ratio of at least six-to-one, reporting forty-one American planes destroyed (plus thirteen damaged or uncertain), though only seven Wildcats were lost with all pilots recovered.
The biggest embellishments were made by the dive-bomber crews. The returning aviators claimed that they had sunk twelve major vessels (ten transports, a cruiser, and a destroyer), heavily damaged two additional transports, and caused minor damage to yet another. The results were forwarded to Imperial General Headquarters, and highly sensationalized accounts of the battle were soon being published throughout Japan.
Convinced that the attack had achieved everything the airmen claimed, Yamamoto and the Combined Fleet Staff proceeded with Attack Operation Y, a series of raids against bases on New Guinea. The first, conducted on April 11, did not involve the Eleventh Air Fleet’s land-based bombers. Instead, one hundred planes from Ozawa’s carrier groups independently attacked Oro Bay, adjacent to the rapidly expanding airdrome complex at Dobodura.
Considering the number of aircraft involved (seventy-three Zeros, twenty-seven Vals), the results were surprisingly modest. Against the loss of two Zeros and four Vals, the Japanese claimed the sinking of three transports and a destroyer. However, only one American cargo vessel was actually sunk, while a second transport sustained enough damage to warrant beaching it. An Australian minesweeper, evidently mistaken for a destroyer, was also damaged.
Early the next morning, while Vice Admiral Ugaki remained abed with symptoms of dengue fever, Yamamoto traveled to Vunakanau airdrome to personally send off another strike. An inspiring sight in his crisp white uniform, he waved to the passing crews as 17 Betty medium bombers of Air Group 751 taxied into position and then roared down the dusty strip, followed by 26 Bettys of Air Group 705. Forming the 1st and 2nd Attack Units, respectively, they were joined by a direct escort of 65 Zeros from the land-based air groups as well as the carrier Zuiho. A separate Fighter Striking Unit consisting of Zeros from Zuikaku, Hiyo, and Junyo also participated, increasing the total force to 43 bombers and some 130 fighters.
The attack units, flying in two large formations, headed initially toward Milne Bay. At 0945 they were detected by a radar station at Dona, on the New Guinea coast, resulting in the scramble of almost every operational Allied fighter on the near side of the Owen Stanley Mountains. The radar signal was lost shortly after the initial detection, but at 0955 a different warning station reported thirty bombers and sixty fighters crossing the Owen Stanley Mountains en route to Port Moresby.
The feint, aided perhaps by a glitch in radar coverage, gave the attackers an ideal opportunity to cause serious harm. Not only were most of the Allied interceptors heading toward Milne Bay, but there were many prime targets at Port Moresby. Only two days earlier, General Kenney had arrived to spell General Whitehead for a few weeks as director of air operations. One well-placed bomb on his headquarters might have set the Allied air forces back many months.
Kenney was able to see the approaching aircraft from his headquarters. He counted twenty-seven medium bombers, undoubtedly those of Air Group 705, “flying in excellent mass formation,” followed by a second group of eighteen, which could only have been the bombers from Air Group 751. Kenney also counted “between sixty and seventy fighters,” again coming close to the correct number.
Although it was a formidable attack force, the Japanese failed once again to take advantage of their numerical strength. Rather than concentrating the bombers’ payloads on one important target—the logical choice would have been Jackson airdrome, with its area headquarters—the two formations separately attacked outlying fields. The large formation of Bettys from Air Group 705, led by Lt. Cmdr. Tomo-o Nakamura, maneuvered to attack Schwimmer and Berry airdromes from the northwest at an altitude of approximately twenty-two thousand feet. The smaller group, led by Lt. Cmdr. Masaichi Suzuki, targeted Ward’s field and the adjacent area, known as Five Mile Valley.
The attack on April 12, despite being the largest of the 106 raids on Port Moresby to date, proved relatively insignificant. At Schwimmer, three B-25s and a Beaufighter were destroyed and some fifteen aircraft damaged, though many of the latter were back in operational status within a matter of weeks. Bombs cratered the runways at three outlying fields, several buildings and tents were blasted at Berry airdrome, and a stockpile of five thousand gasoline drums went up in a spectacular blaze near Ward’s field. Several men working at the fuel dump died in the massive fire, but they were evidently the only casualties on the ground.
An estimated forty-four P-38s and P-39s intercepted the attackers beginning at 1010 hours. Some pursued the Japanese eastward to the New Guinea coast, where fighters of RAAF 8 and 9 Squadrons joined in. The Allies claimed thirteen Bettys and ten Zeros destroyed, plus six bombers and one fighter as probable victories. In addition, antiaircraft batteries claimed two bombers destroyed and four probably destroyed. But the attack cost the Japanese only two Zeros among the fighter groups, while six Bettys from Air Group 751 were shot down and another was lost to a crash-landing at Lae. None of Air Group 705’s Bettys were lost in combat, although eleven sustained varying degrees of damage and one was subsequently destroyed in a landing mishap at Lae.
Some of the claims submitted by the returning Japanese airmen were consistent with actual damages. Bombs dropped by Air Group 751 “started great explosions at two sections of the 5th airstrip,” which correlates with the burned-out fuel dump; and the crews of Air Group 705 reported that their barrage of bombs blanketed “4 large and 10 small planes.” But other claims, such as the sinking of a seven-thousand-ton ship in the harbor and the shooting down of twenty-eight Allied aircraft (plus seven more considered “uncertain” victories), were greatly exaggerated. There is no record of a vessel being attacked in the harbor, let alone hit, and Allied fighter losses totaled only two P-39s, with one pilot recovered. That afternoon, Yamamoto paid a visit to Ugaki. The chief of staff had been admitted to the
hospital because of dengue fever, and was eager to hear the news of the attack on Port Moresby. Both men were highly encouraged by the deceptive reports submitted by the aircrews.
Ugaki was released the following day, his fever under control if not altogether gone. It seemed as though almost everyone at Rabaul was feeling better. Yamamoto even appeared to be healthier, exhibiting a hearty appetite. Between missions he chatted, planned strategy, and played shōgi with Vice Admiral Kusaka and other officers in the Southeast Area Fleet Headquarters.
The positive mood spread outward through the ranks. “The carrier-based pilots are all high-spirited,” wrote Petty Officer Igarashi on April 13. “They are a good stimulus to our land-based attack units as we tend to be in low spirits.”
Unfortunately for the Japanese, the boost in morale was brief, flaring like the filament in a light bulb just before it burns out.
CHAPTER 27
Death of a Warrior God
THE ASSUMPTION THAT I-Go Sakusen was succeeding undoubtedly helped the overall mood at Rabaul. But to an even greater degree, the mere presence of Admiral Yamamoto was a great inspiration to the Japanese soldiers, sailors, and airmen. He understood the importance of being seen by the aircrews, of mingling with them, just as General Kenney did with his “kids” in New Guinea. Yamamoto therefore continued to don his dress whites to perform highly visible, ritualistic send-offs at the start of each I-Go mission. On April 13, after seeing how his appearances encouraged the men at Rabaul, he announced his intention to tour the forward area “in order to raise the morale of the men stationed there.”