by Don Dennis
Someone then suggested that they build a raft from driftwood then swim it out to sea. By morning they should be at least 5 kilometres out, and from there they could mirror-flash one of the Tactical Reconnaissance aircraft that were scheduled to reconnoitre the island and nearby waters during the day. They were briefed to look for signals if the patrol failed to make the night rendezvous and should easily see eight men on a raft.
Sapper Dennis, the strongest swimmer in the patrol, cautioned against the idea, warning that they’d be at the mercy of the currents, and even with eight of them paddling, getting out far enough was doubtful. The two signallers agreed and again argued for using one of the radios—either the ATR4, or the walkie-talkie. The walkie-talkie was probably the best option as it didn’t need setting up, and being short range there was less chance of the Japanese listening in. Talking in veiled speech and using their prearranged codewords, any Japanese overhearing their transmission wouldn’t have a clue what they were talking about. Once the rendezvous was agreed on they could quickly move to another location in case the Japanese did manage to fix the radio’s position. But, as no one knew for certain whether the enemy had radio direction-finding equipment, the idea was again overruled.
They then voted on the raft-building option, and it was carried five to three. The area chosen for the attempt was the eastern tip of the island, at Cape Barabar. This was about 2 kilometres from where the Japanese were guarding the beach, and as the morning’s reconnaissance had revealed that the nearest defences were on the northern side of the cape, they should be able to construct a raft and put to sea without being seen.
Feeling confident the plan would work, the patrol prepared their equipment, cleaned their weapons, then ate from their rations. The two signallers made a quick check and confirmed that the radios had dried out. Although they couldn’t test them, they believed they would now work, so they carefully wrapped them in the waterproof sheet and hid them again. With two men on watch, they all took turns resting for the remainder of the afternoon. There were no further signs of the Japanese, so it looked as if the patrol weren’t being searched for—at least not on this end of the island.
By late afternoon, all were awake and eager to get moving. They’d been on Muschu less than 24 hours, yet as someone remarked, this had been the longest day of their life.
At 1730 hours, just as the sun was starting to nudge the horizon, they set out for Cape Barabar.
19. EAST OF MUSCHU ISLAND:
12 APRIL, 1800 HOURS
During the day of 12 April, HDML 1321 cruised east of Muschu Island, out of sight over the horizon at a distance of approximately 16 kilometres. In the tiny wireless shack, the radio operators took shifts maintaining listening watch on the patrol’s high-frequency band and by late afternoon, hearing nothing, it was assumed the mission was going as planned. Except for scheduled ‘operations normal’ reports back to Aitape consisting of two-letter Morse transmissions made at pre-arranged times on different frequencies, HDML 1321 had also maintained radio silence. They gave their last ‘ops normal’ at 1700 hours. Their next report would hopefully be a transmission to Aitape sometime after 2400 hours confirming pick-up of the Copper team.
At 1730 hours Lieutenant Palmer ordered a change in course. The little ship headed for the night rendezvous off Cape Warbu at a speed calculated to bring them close to the island by 2100 hours.
The mood on board was one of confidence, tempered by apprehension. They were, as Lieutenant Palmer reminded them, going right under the very noses of the Japanese and two naval guns, against which their cannon and machine guns would be as powerful as a ‘fart against thunder’.
Sobered by this earthy yet strangely fitting comparison, they prepared the ship for action. While still out of sight of the island, the gun crews were called to their stations. The Oerlikon team loaded a drum of 20 mm onto their weapon and fired a three-round test while the two Browning .50 calibre crews broke out boxes of linked ammunition and tapped off quick bursts into the sea.
At 1821 hours night descended, a darkness so heavy one could almost reach out and grasp it. On deck the watch strained to make out the island against the horizon. In the aft cabin, one of the crew fetched a bottle of rum from a locker to make ‘gunfire’ coffee as a reward for the completion of a successful mission. Beside him another crewman spread out the medical kit in readiness. Just in case.
The men of Operation Copper reached Cape Barabar by 1830 hours. Using large pieces of driftwood and palm trunks that had been piled in the lee of the cape by the currents, they lashed together a crude raft using vines and rope from a fishing net found among the debris. Hauling it into the water they found it floated well and, although not capable of supporting their full weight, it was enough to act as a buoy for them all. After lashing their weapons and equipment to the raft, they pushed it out to deep water.
Stroking and kicking, the eight men held on and headed towards the open sea. There was a small break foaming across the reef and soon they were being swept by white water—uncomfortable for those not used to the surf, but manageable. In the dark it wasn’t possible to see the approaching swell, and many of the waves slammed into the patrol without warning, causing several to lose their grip and become temporarily lost until they scrambled back to the raft again.
As the vines binding the logs became soaked, they stretched. The raft began to twist and bend. Still they pushed on, the waves getting steeper, coming in sets of four that pounded them under, then eased off for a minute, only to come at them again. For almost an hour it was two steps forward, one step back as they battled the rising swell. Then, hit by a big wave, one of the vines parted and their equipment broke loose. Dennis shouted to the team to sling their weapons around their necks but before they could do so another wave swept everything away.
For another two hours they fought to get beyond the break, several times paddling clear only to have large waves sweep them back. By this time the raft was a jumble of logs loosely held together by fracturing vines. Finally, after a hammering by three huge waves, the raft disintegrated and the eight men washed ashore clinging to the debris.
They struggled up the beach into the tree line and collapsed in exhaustion. All except Dennis had lost their Sten guns and packs. For an hour they rested, then moved further into the heavy undergrowth and found a lay-up position.
It was 2300 hours.
HDML 1321 arrived off the island at 2100 hours, then commenced cruising a racetrack pattern along the coast at 4 knots. Because the charts were inaccurate, Lieutenant Palmer was reluctant to come any closer than 2 miles, as at night it was impossible to determine the reef line. Even 2 miles offshore it was still possible to hit an uncharted rock or reef, so Palmer kept the speed down to a sedate pace. As a precaution against being heard, the ship’s twin exhausts had been modified to muffle the engines and this was most effective at low speeds.
At 0100 hours hot tea was served to the watch and Lieutenant Palmer remarked to one of the crew that he was looking forward to the traditional rum-laced brew that would mark the mission’s end. There was hearty agreement from those on deck—all had been on enough Z Special missions to know that unless they ran into unexpected problems, the ‘Z blokes’ were usually on time for the pick-up.
By 0200 hours they were becoming concerned, but not yet alarmed. This wasn’t the first Z Special team to be late for their rendezvous and certainly wouldn’t be the last. But worries were being voiced by the crew, and Palmer knew they had a collective sixth sense that was uncannily accurate.
If Z Special were in their foldboats heading for the rendezvous, they would have signalled by now. This meant they were probably still on the island. And that could only mean they had run into difficulty. Or did it? The lack of any signals—light or radio—could mean anything.
Another hour passed slowly. Still there were no light signals or radio messages. Again Palmer reminded the crew that the patrol had been scheduled to last a maximum of 48 hours and they probably just nee
ded more time to complete the mission. He’d give them another hour, then withdraw and stand off over the horizon until it was time to return.
At 0500 hours Palmer gave the order and HDML 1321 went about and headed away from Muschu.
Resting in their new lay-up the patrol discussed their situation. With only a few hours left until daylight, if they didn’t act now, they’d have to wait until the following evening. The Japanese now fully alerted, would probably begin a thorough search of the coastline and post sentries on all the high ground, which would make future escape attempts very difficult. All except Dennis had lost their automatic weapons, and with only Smith & Wesson revolvers and two Welrods, their firepower was no match for a Japanese squad. Someone light-heartedly suggested they could always go ‘bush’ and live off the land or steal from the enemy until the war ended, but all knew that this would be an absolute last resort. So it was vital they escaped from the island that night.
Lieutenant Barnes proposed they again try getting out to sea—this time using small logs as individual floats. Gubbay, Walklate and Eagleton agreed, but the rest were against the idea, particularly Dennis. He’d understood the power of the currents and believed they’d only be swept ashore further along the coast. Even if they did make it out to sea, he reminded them, there were sharks to contend with—they’d seen plenty of them during their aerial reconnaissance of the island.
Barnes suggested that only the four who were in favour of the idea would try it. If any of them managed to mirror-signal one of the Tactical Reconnaissance aircraft, when picked up by the HDML they’d tell them to proceed close in to Cape Saum the following night and signal with a light flash each hour after 2000 hours. Then the remaining four men could swim out from the beach to the HDML.
As a plan it was agreed it left a lot to be desired. Splitting the team wasn’t ideal. The two signallers were still eager to retrieve the radios from the cache and try them, pointing out that if they made contact with the HDML, the boat could come in close to Cape Saum and pick them all up. They disagreed that the Japanese would instantly direction-find the radio, and even if they did, they needed two—preferably three—fixes to get the transmitter’s approximate position. If they used the radio carefully, and maybe changed locations after each transmission, the enemy would be kept guessing.
Barnes and Gubbay remained against the idea and seemed even more enthusiastic about the sea attempt. So it was settled: four men would try and four would remain.
At approximately 0330 hours on the morning of Friday 13 April, the four men set out from Cape Barabar paddling behind small logs. On the beach Sergeant Weber, Sapper Dennis and Signallers Hagger and Chandler watched them fade into the night towards the reef, then turned and headed back into the scrub to rest until morning.
Lieutenant Barnes, Lieutenant Gubbay, Corporal Walklate and Private Eagleton were never seen again.
20. SIXTH DIVISION HQ, AITAPE:
13 APRIL, 0700 HOURS
The morning briefing was attended as usual by representatives of most units, but with a notable absence of senior HQ staff. That day the acting Minister for the Army, Senator James Fraser, was scheduled to arrive on a fact-finding and ‘morale boosting’ visit, so much of the briefing was concerned with his itinerary. The official war diaries of Sixth Division HQ later described the event as follows:
Senator Fraser visited 2/3 Aust Field Regt, the War Cemetery, 71 Wing RAAF and 2/11 Aust Gen Hosp. At each unit he visited, he talked to many of the troops. At night he broadcast the Prime Minister’s message to the troops from the local broadcasting station at Aitape.
However, everyone from the Commander of the Sixth Division down to the humblest private regarded visits by politicians as annoying diversions and many senior staff officers, knowing Senator Fraser was to be at Aitape that day, absented themselves from the HQ area. Fraser had a reputation as being a ‘pompous prick’, so his visit was carefully orchestrated to float him around Aitape on a schedule that would cause the least disruption.
Consequently, the morning briefing barely touched on operational matters—there’d been little happening during the night anyway. Except for a few items that included a successful ambush in the Torricelli Mountains that killed six Japanese and a report from SRD that their Muschu patrol hadn’t kept their first rendezvous, the evening had been a quiet one.
The G3 Intelligence Captain Roland McKay, had hoped to learn that the Muschu operation had been successfully completed and pressed for more information. The Officer Commanding the SRD’s Aitape detachment explained that missing the first rendezvous wasn’t necessarily cause for alarm and that the Navy would attempt a second rendezvous that evening. Meanwhile, the Air Force would start Tactical Reconnaissance flights over the area to look for light signals and listen for radio messages from the patrol’s SCR36 walkie-talkies.
McKay had been involved with enough SRD operations to read between the lines. The SRD commander was a worried man, despite his confident facade. Z Special was like a big family, and when a patrol was in trouble they all instinctively knew it. Unlike the infantry battalions, who could often go to the assistance of their comrades, they were very limited in the help they could provide. All they could do was hope the patrol was resourceful enough to work their way through whatever difficulties they’d struck.
After the briefing, McKay returned to his office. As he’d been responsible for the renewed interest in Muschu, he felt he had a personal stake in Operation Copper. He’d met the team several times in the work-up to the operation, helped conduct their final briefing and couldn’t help but be impressed by their cheerful enthusiasm. Now there was a possibility that the patrol had been compromised.
He sat looking at the wall map trying to think whether there were any facts he’d missed—anything he could have done better that would have helped them on this mission.
Captain Tomei had spent the night in his command post. There’d been no more reports of enemy commando activity, nor had the commandos returned to their kayaks and tried to leave the island. He still didn’t know how many commandos were on Muschu, and a search during the previous afternoon had failed to locate more landing sites. Questioning the accuracy of the original sightings, late that afternoon he called in all squad leaders involved and carefully reconstructed the sequence of events. The most reliable witness was Corporal Buzuki, who being an experienced infantryman, was able to give precise timings and locations. Although he hadn’t actually seen the commandos, his observations were an accurate starting point.
The only sighting had been from three young soldiers assigned to the gardens near Cape Saum. At first they’d described their encounter as a pitched battle against superior numbers, but astute questioning by Tomei quickly revealed that this was an exaggeration by frightened soldiers who’d never been in combat. Not a single shot had been fired by either side in that brief contact.
As for the other incidents—Sergeant Hiroto’s execution-style death, the two dead in the huts near Cape Warbu, and the four sabotaged machine guns along the eastern defences—closer examination of the timings of these incursions indicated that it was more likely that there was only one group on the island. It was simply the close sequence of reporting that had given the appearance of multiple commando parties. What was in doubt was the size of this group—estimates ranged from eight to twenty. Tomei favoured the lower figure as it coincided with the capacity of the kayaks found near the beach.
What did surprise him though was the rapid movement of the group: they’d travelled in a random pattern around the south-east sector on what looked like an expedition bent on execution and sabotage. The only conclusion he could draw was that they were an advance party intent on disrupting the island’s defences before a larger force landed. If their aim was reconnaissance, they would not, in his opinion, have sabotaged weapons in such an obvious fashion. Nor would they have executed his men and left them lying around to be quickly discovered.
Tomei sent out orders to all units commanding them t
o maintain absolute security overnight and for all to report on hourly schedules. He also conferred with Army headquarters in Wewak, advising them of the situation and requesting that their ready-reaction company be made available the following day to help with the search if required, as previously agreed, reminding them that his garrison had been depleted to boost Wewak’s defences.
Headquarters replied that it would assess the situation and if by morning the Australians hadn’t been found, they’d consider his request for assistance.
While Tomei preferred an immediate despatch of additional forces, he knew that the late hour made it difficult. Because of Australian air activity, the men would have to be moved across the strait at night, which would require considerable preparation.
He spent the night planning the next day’s operations and supervising his men. This was the first time they’d been put under any real pressure since they’d arrived on the island, and for some it was the first taste of what most infantrymen on the mainland experienced every day.
The night dragged slowly, with all units reporting in by field telephone on schedule. Surprisingly, there were no real problems during this period of high alert—it was common for soldiers in such situations to call false alarms, fire at shadows or even their comrades. With the spectre of an Australian death squad on the rampage fuelling his men’s imaginations, Tomei was prepared for anything, but to their credit they maintained discipline.