by Don Dennis
In the event of a problem, HDML 1321 would wait out to sea during the day, moving in after dark to a rendezvous point about 4 kilometres off shore to await light, flare or radio signals. HDML 1321 could also give fire support from its Oerlikon and machine guns and send in a boat to pick up the patrol if help was needed. Tactical Reconnaissance aircraft would be making regular sweeps of the island and would be listening on radio and watching for light signals for several days after mission insertion in the event of loss of contact with the patrol. Listening watch on high-frequency would also be constantly maintained by the HDML and the SRD at Lae and Aitape.
If for some reason the patrol couldn’t rendezvous with the HDML, it was suggested that they use the outboards and head to the mainland. The nearest Australian forces were at Dagua, about 40 kilometres north-west of Wewak. They’d be able to motor and paddle the distance in about eight hours. Tactical Reconnaissance aircraft would be patrolling the strait between the island and the mainland and would be able to provide cover until a pick-up was arranged. Light signals or radio could be used to contact the aircraft.
Radio call signs for the mission were ‘X-Ray’ for the Operation Copper patrol, and ‘Boxer’ for HDML 1321.
By the end of the briefing, there was an air of confidence within the team: this appeared to be a relatively simple operation. There was no reason to believe the enemy would be in a heightened state of readiness, most of the Japanese soldiers were second-rate troops and, from the aerial photos and description of the island, the landing area was easily defined—plus there was plenty of cover to conceal the patrol once on shore.
Their confidence was further boosted by a report that another patrol, codenamed ‘Oregon’, had gone into Cape Moem just east of Wewak during the night of 7 April with the intention of capturing a prisoner, yet despite this being an area reported to be crawling with Japanese, they’d returned empty-handed without even sighting the enemy. The natural competitiveness between teams only made the Muschu patrol even more determined to succeed.
To conclude, the briefing officer introduced the Medical Officer. A tall, lean captain with a thin smile, the MO proceeded to remind the team about the importance of malarial precautions and other matters of field hygiene, adding as a postscript: ‘And for those of you who have them, don’t forget to check under the foreskin for leeches.’
After a few moments of chuckling and friendly banter, the young men noticed that the MO had taken on a more serious stance. He waited until silence returned, then without saying a word produced a large wooden cigar box from his haversack. This he opened and from it distributed eight small metal tins with hinged lids, warning the team not to open them until he said to do so.
On command, holding them carefully upright as instructed by the MO, they opened the tins. Inside each one, packed in protective foam rubber, was a tiny glass phial.
‘Cyanide,’ he announced flatly. ‘Simply place in the mouth and bite.’
There was silence as realisation set in. These were suicide pills.
During training, all the men had been made fully aware of the treatment they could expect if captured by the Japanese, even to the extent of attending a ‘code of conduct’ course where elements of physical and psychological torment were experienced first hand. But suddenly being given the means of self-destruction in such an innocent-looking form had a powerful impact on all. For a long moment the silence hung heavy.
Then suddenly someone spoke up.
‘Jeez Doc, guess if we take one then we don’t need to come and see you in the morning, eh?’
Everyone, including the MO, dissolved into laughter. After a few minutes composure was regained, and after a quick question-and-answer session the patrol was dismissed. They had two days to make final preparations and now that they knew exactly what would be involved, there was plenty to do.
What the men hadn’t been told was the fate of an earlier Z Special mission that had until recently been assumed lost. Gathered by radio intercept and local agents, Special Operations Executive information indicated that ten men from Operation Rimau—a mission into Singapore Harbour to sink Japanese shipping, based on the successful Jaywick operation of 1943—were now being held in a Singapore prison, where they were being brutally tortured almost daily.
10. AITAPE HARBOUR:
11 APRIL 1945
It was a clear, sunny day, with a light breeze ruffling the water. At 1100 hours, HDML 1321, with the men of Operation Copper on board, slipped its moorings and headed out of Aitape Harbour. Passing through lines of landing craft and freighters, the patrol returned the waves of crews who paused to watch the little ship motor past. While the mission itself was secret, there were many who knew that the Navy’s HDMLs worked with the ‘Z Special blokes’ and to see one pass by loaded with determined-looking men dressed in jungle green and wearing berets could only mean another Z Special operation was underway.
Once clear of the port the commander, Lieutenant Palmer, gave the order and the diesels were throttled up. HDML 1321 set course east, slicing through the long swell at 12 knots in an easy, comfortable motion. Palmer intended keeping well offshore until they sighted Vokeo Island, then using the island as a navigation marker, turning east and approaching Muschu after dark—the somewhat roundabout route chosen to remain clear of observation from both Muschu and Kairiru Island. It would take about eight hours to reach Vokeo, and from there another three to four hours to reach the drop-off point.
The team’s foldboats were lashed to the deck on both sides of the ship and covered by canvas. Most of the equipment had already been stowed aboard the foldboats, so there was little for the patrol to do to pass the time. A few busied themselves by cleaning their Austens and rechecking their personal gear, but one could only occupy so much time in these tasks and after the first few hours, most of them were stretched out on the deck trying to sleep. Even that proved difficult for some, the combination of nerves and the ship’s motion keeping them awake, several of them becoming seasick.
The time before any mission is always testing, even for the most seasoned veteran. It takes a tough mental attitude to prepare for the dangers that lie ahead and no amount of training can completely allay the nagging fears that inevitably enter one’s mind before the action begins. The worst enemy at these times is inactivity, and soldiers will always find a way to divert their attention. Be it a game of cards, swapping stories or writing letters, all become diversions to stop them dwelling on their fears. Ironically, as many soldiers will explain, often that fear isn’t about their own safety or survival, but how their death will affect their family or loved ones. Many of the letters from that era reflect this and during HDML 1321’s run to Vokeo Island, several of the patrol took the opportunity to write a final letter and entrust it to the crew who’d agreed to ensure it would be delivered if they didn’t return. This would be done via a network of couriers—soldiers, sailors or airmen going on leave who would circumvent the mail censorship regulations to make sure that parents, wives or lovers received word without interference or delay. It was a practice the military found they couldn’t stop, despite threats of the harshest punishment.
Those first hours of the voyage were particularly surreal for some of the Muschu team. As one of the ship’s crew later described it:
The day was a perfect one, the soft rumble of the diesels, the easy motion of the boat through the blue water gave the impression that we were out for a pleasure cruise. Occasionally a wave broke over the bow sending spray high into the air to fall back over us in a fine mist. There were even flying fish that launched themselves off our bow wave then fell on the deck flapping and wriggling until they dropped over the side. It was times like these that it was hard to believe we were at war.
At 1740 hours Vokeo Island was sighted. Lieutenant Palmer’s navigation and timing had been perfect and he ordered speed reduced to 3 knots, while maintaining their heading towards the island. After dark he’d alter course and head in towards Muschu to position the patrol
for insertion, but for now, in the off-chance they were under observation, they’d give the impression that they were heading towards Vokeo.
Before last light the crew served up a meal of hot tea and corned beef sandwiches—after that the patrol would have to rely on their ration packs. Most ate heartily, spirits buoyed by the prospect of action, minds now focusing on the job ahead. Their final preparation was to ‘cam up’—blacken faces and exposed skin. As the boot polish was applied, during the application someone began a rendition of Al Jolsen’s ‘Mammy’, which although quickly ended by a curt order from one of the officers, shattered the tension that had been building for hours.
In the tropics, once the sun has set, darkness swiftly follows. That evening the sunset was a vivid display of gold and orange against a clear sky, with high clouds in the west over the mainland flickering with lightning. As the last glimmer of sun faded, HDML 1321 swung round onto a southwesterly heading. Throttling up to full speed, the ship passed on a safe course through a minefield south of Kairiru Island, then headed towards the eastern coast of Muschu. At 2230 hours, Palmer calculated they were in position 6 kilometres south-east of the island and throttled back until the boat was barely making headway.
The night was pitch black, the only light coming from the backdrop of stars. Just the vaguest silhouette of Muschu could be discerned with the naked eye, a blackness that disrupted the line of the horizon where the stars met the sea. They could feel and smell the island rather than see it. Quickly, the patrol made ready. First over the side were the foldboats. Then two men per kayak slipped on board the tiny craft. A final equipment check, then amid whispered farewells and good wishes from the crew, they shoved off to be quickly lost from view. The departure time recorded in the ship’s log was 2315 hours.
HDML 1321 remained on station for another two hours in the event of the team making a sudden return. On hearing nothing and knowing that the kayaks should have reached the shore within an hour and half, they set about and powered away from the island to a position out of sight where they would spend the daylight hours waiting. There they sent a quick Morse transmission by HF radio back to Aitape.
SL, SL, SL.
Mission inserted.
The Muschu team had been paddling for over an hour, the four kayaks keeping close together in the darkness. In the lead foldboat were Lieutenants Barnes and Gubbay, followed by Hagger and Eagleton. Further back were Dennis and Chandler, with Walklate and Weber paddling a few metres behind. It was just under 6 kilometres from the drop-off to their landing point on the beach between Cape Saum and Sup Point. This they’d estimated would take them about an hour and a half; however, it was now obvious that the current was stronger than expected, and was pushing them well south of their objective. Although the mission timings had been calculated to coincide with high tide when the currents were minimal, lack of knowledge of this remote area was working against them as the tide swirled around the island in unpredictable patterns.
In the lead foldboat, Lieutenant Barnes raised his paddle over his head, a sign for all boats to close on him. This they did and he ordered everyone to pick up the pace. Adjusting course to allow for the current, they increased their stroke rate. But although they were superbly fit and their training had often seen them paddle continually for six hours at a time, the exertion was beginning to take its toll. To maintain headway they had to paddle at a higher rate than normal and it was becoming a test of endurance befitting any Olympic champion.
Barnes knew that if they hadn’t reached shore by 0200 hours they’d have no choice but to turn about, paddle with the current as far as they could, then signal the HDML to pick them up before dawn. Even that would involve considerable risk as they’d probably be in a position about 2 kilometres out, right beneath the guns on the eastern end of the island. They’d soon find out if the guns were serviceable or not at that range.
After another half-hour it seemed that the current was easing. Muschu now loomed ahead, a black mass against a curtain of stars. They pushed on, moving faster as the current’s effect lessened in the lee of the island. In the last foldboat Mick Dennis felt a sudden change in the sea’s motion. He stopped paddling. Behind him Chandler also paused. Both of them could feel the swell running beneath the boat. The stern was lifting first and they immediately knew it meant the water was shallowing as the swell neared the shore. Suddenly ahead, they saw a line of surf breaking against a reef.
A wave swept past them and the lead foldboats vanished in a welter of spray.
Chandler and Dennis dug their paddles in, trying to stop their forward motion, but felt the suction of a wave building behind them. The stern lifted and both men leaned back to keep the bow from digging under as the boat surged forward. For 50 metres they ran straight, using their paddles to steer, but then the bow lifted as the water poured over the reef. They felt the boat rise, then suddenly slam down, the timber frames creaking as the wave washed over them. Somehow they remained upright, the boat surging ahead again. In the darkness it was impossible to see beyond the surrounding foam and all they could do was try and keep the boat straight.
They shot forward, and then ahead saw another line of white water. Helpless, they ploughed into the foam wall. For a moment they thought they were through, but the bow went under and they slewed sideways. Before they could react they’d capsized. Both men dug in their paddles, ready for the coordinated move to bring them upright, only to have their paddles ripped from their hands by the force of the wave. Then suddenly the foldboat shuddered to a halt.
In seconds both men were out of the boat, standing in water up to their armpits. Cursing softly they righted the boat and checked their equipment. All of it had been strapped in waterproof coverings inside the craft and apart from a drenching, seemed intact. Chandler had lost his Austen gun and he futilely groped for it in the darkness, but soon gave up.
The waves had dropped, most of their power dissipated by the reef. With the boat stern-on to the waves it was now manageable, all they had to do was to wade inshore—yet when they tried moving they were gripped by something spongy and resilient that blocked their passage. It was soft coral, long strands that grew up to the surface, creating a forest through which they had to fight their way. They were exposed and vulnerable, not knowing what lay ahead. Where were the others? Had they run into the Japanese? The only reassurance was that they hadn’t heard any gunfire, yet that meant little—perhaps the Japanese were waiting for them all to reach the beach. But there was no alternative, they had to go forward.
It took an exhausting hour to swim and push the foldboat ashore. There they found that the rest of the team had met a similar fate. Quickly and in silence they concealed the foldboats among the palms lining the beach, then hid nearby. They realised that they’d missed their objective and were on the beach on the western side of Cape Barabar, an area suspected to be regularly patrolled by the Japanese. However, there was nothing they could do until morning. Checking their weapons they formed themselves into a defensive circle and waited.
11. MUSCHU ISLAND:
12 APRIL, 0600 HOURS
Corporal Buzuki was looking forward to breakfast. He and his section of eight men had been awake all night on guard duty, gazing over a black sea under an even blacker sky. They’d manned an observation post on a high point at the western end of the island overlooking the strait between Muschu and the mainland and this was the fifth night he’d been given this duty. He knew it was important work, but the sheer boredom of it was mind numbing and it had become an endurance test for all.
Although they were grateful for the relative comfort of a large palm-log bunker that had the luxury of mosquito netting to keep out the swarms of insects that descended after dark, it was a real problem keeping everyone awake. Soldiers had the most amazing ability to fall asleep, yet at a glance appear alert at their post, and his men were no exception. In some ways he was glad of the diversion from the ceaseless scanning of the ocean, for it allowed him to play a little game of let’s
see who I can catch dozing.
That night he’d caught all of them napping. He’d feigned outrage at their dereliction of duty, but everyone knew it was mainly bluff, for he too had been caught nodding off several times. It was annoying, for there had been word of Australian commandos landing on the mainland almost directly opposite them and they’d been ordered to stay alert for any signs of a boat, submarine or whatever craft the commandos might be using to bring them near to shore.
At first the excitement of the possibility of contact with the enemy had kept them all alert, but the inevitable boredom set in and they’d succumbed sometime after midnight. Buzuki had woken first, checked his watch and realised he’d dozed for almost twenty minutes. He woke up just in time to make the half-hourly report by field telephone back to the command post—a procedure that ensured the night watch remained alert or warned of something amiss if the call wasn’t made.
So when daylight came and the phone jangled to announce that the relief section was on its way, Buzuki breathed silent thanks to whatever god protected soldiers who had to remain alert all night for attacks that never came. He also sent thanks that no enemy had landed when they were asleep at their posts and crept up on them and slit their throats.
He was looking forward to the rest of the day. After a breakfast of sago and bananas, he’d sleep until noon. Then he’d eat again—unlike the garrison ashore they had plenty of food, for the surrounding waters were rich in sea life. Tonight he wasn’t on duty, so he could afford to remain awake, perhaps wander over to the naval artillery unit where they had a short–wave radio that could pick up Tokyo.