Fortress Rabaul (39 page)

Kenney used the intervening weeks to select the principal members of his staff. He admired the leadership and organizational abilities of Brigadier General Whitehead, who was still at Port Moresby, and named him deputy commander. A new headquarters, the Advance Echelon, or ADVON, was created to give Whitehead direct control of day-to-day operations in New Guinea. The assignment suited both men perfectly. Kenney, who still commanded all Allied air forces in the SWPA, would run the Fifth Air Force administratively from Brisbane while Whitehead managed combat operations from his new headquarters at Port Moresby.

Kenney’s top priority was to build up the bomber force. When he arrived in Australia and told MacArthur that his first goal was to “knock out the Jap
air strength,” he was referring primarily to Rabaul. The stronghold was
the
major source of enemy air power in the region. Every Japanese plane and airman arrived at Rabaul from points north—either directly from Japan, via Truk, or via the Central Pacific. Some planes and crews remained at Rabaul, but most were shuttled immediately to New Guinea or the Solomons. A bomber man at heart, Kenney intended to neutralize Rabaul and its satellite bases using established methods of bombing as well as new innovations, including low-level parafrag attacks and skip bombing.

His choice to lead this force, known as V Bomber Command, was easy. Brigadier General Kenneth N. Walker had arrived in Australia with Whitehead back in July. Kenney had known both men for twenty years and was impressed with their style and ethics. As he later put it, they possessed “
brains, leadership, loyalty
, and liked to work.” The forty-four-year-old Walker, one of the youngest generals in the air force, was a zealous proponent of strategic air power. His name was practically synonymous with high altitude formation bombing, for he had been a principal member of the team that developed the tactics and techniques currently in use.

Kenney’s choice for V Fighter Command was likewise easy. He had heard plenty of praise for the performance of Lt. Col. Paul B. “Squeeze” Wurtsmith at Darwin, where his 49th Fighter Group stoutly resisted numerous Japanese attacks. Summoned to Kenney’s office in Brisbane, Wurtsmith made a good first impression. “He looked like a partially reformed bad boy,” wrote Kenney. “He believed in himself, was an excellent thief for his group, took care of his men, and they all followed him and liked him.” Wurtsmith was informed that he was being given the fighter command. If he failed, Kenney would send him back to the States “on a slow boat.” But if he succeeded, Kenney promised him a general’s star—a jump of two ranks.

When it came to motivating people and getting results, Kenney had few peers. MacArthur had given him carte blanche to clean house, and he quickly got rid of personnel he considered “deadwood.” Many an underperforming senior officer—especially those who had served under Brett—were posted back to the States. Kenney replaced them with people whose abilities he admired: problem solvers, tactical experts, and, most importantly, men with a desire to smash the enemy.

Now that he had his own air force and a cadre of talented individuals, George Kenney kick-started the aerial program that had languished since
the opening days of the Pacific war. Initially, however, he was sidetracked by the enemy’s campaign to invade Port Moresby by crossing the Owen Stanley Mountains. The fighting in New Guinea was fierce, both on the ground and in the air, as battles raged around Buna, Kokoda, and Milne Bay during the second half of 1942. In addition, Port Moresby itself continued to suffer frequent heavy raids from Japanese units stationed at Lae and Rabaul.

Despite the distractions, Kenney tried to send B-17s to Rabaul as often as possible. After the big strike on August 7, several follow-up raids were conducted in the hopes of disrupting Japanese counterattacks against Guadalcanal. Six bombers attacked Rabaul on August 9, causing little appreciable damage for the loss of two more B-17s. One was shot down with no survivors over New Britain; the other crash-landed on a coral reef near the New Guinea coast, and all crewmen got out safely. Eight Fortresses returned to Rabaul on August 12, this time to hit Simpson Harbor. Prior to reaching the target they met stiff opposition from Zeros but still dropped forty-eight 500-pounders. The bombs supposedly “sank or badly damaged at least three transports,” but only one ship, the seven-thousand-ton oiler
Matsumoto Maru
, sustained minor damage.

Two days later, a brand-new B-17E of the “Kangaroo Squadron” took off shortly after 0600 on a reconnaissance mission over Rabaul and Kavieng. Named
Chief Seattle from the Pacific Northwest
, the bomber had been paid for entirely by the citizens of Washington, many of them schoolchildren, who raised more than $280,500 during a bond campaign sponsored by one of Seattle’s newspapers. The popular effort, culminating with a special christening ceremony, generated enormous publicity for the B-17. But a happy ending was not to be. Piloted by Lt. Wilson L. Cook, a veteran of forty-five missions,
Chief Seattle
failed to return from just its second mission. That evening, squadron member John Steinbinder wrote in his diary: “
My roommate [Lt. Hubert S. Mobley]
and crew left this morning to attempt shadowing empty ships as they left Buna. They haven’t returned yet. I’m afraid they were caught or something. I sure hope they return somehow.”

Steinbinder and the other members of the 435th Bomb Squadron would not see their comrades again. No distress calls or any other messages were ever received from
Chief Seattle
, and more than sixty-five years later, the fate of the bomber and its crew remains a mystery.

RABAUL WAS HIT twice more in August, including the aforementioned mission on the 29th that may have led to the retaliatory murder of a dozen prisoners. In contrast there were only five raids in all of September, mainly because MacArthur’s forces were compelled to counter the Japanese offensive in New Guinea. By mid-September, enemy troops on the Kokoda Trail had pushed across the Owen Stanley Range to within thirty miles of Port Moresby. They were even closer to the airstrip being built at Laloki, where the construction workers were extremely nervous. Rumors that Japanese troops infiltrated the camps at night prompted many of the work crews to carry side arms, and those who lacked a weapon were anxious to obtain one. Sergeant Carthon P. Phillips, a crewmember in the 30th Bomb Squadron, had an unexpected encounter after landing at Laloki on September 12.

I no sooner got down off the ladder and started getting my gear together when this black fellow came running across from a cleared area a good two hundred yards away. As he kept coming toward our B-17, I got to thinking: “What in the hell is he doing?”

He ran up and had a roll of Australian pounds worth some two hundred dollars in his hand. He said, “Sergeant! I’ll give you this whole roll for your forty-five.”

I said, “Man, you’re crazy. I can’t sell it to you. We’d both get in trouble.”

He said, “Oh, yes you can—I’ll give you this whole thing for it. The Japs are coming in on us at night and I want to be able to shoot one.”

The proximity of enemy troops to Port Moresby had everyone concerned. Kenney concentrated on attacking the Japanese supply convoys and beachheads with the Fifth Air Force as well as the RAAF, but the efforts were usually piecemeal. On September 14, just as the fighting on the Kokoda Trail reached a critical stage, the commander of SOPAC requested help for his predicament on Guadalcanal. Vice Admiral Robert L. Ghormley wanted the Fifth Air Force to “beat down the Jap air strength at Rabaul” so that he could land a convoy of reinforcements and supplies. MacArthur conferred with Kenney, who, in turn, called Ken Walker and told him to send his B-17s. Kenney knew the last-minute change of plans
would be unpopular—the bombers had already been loaded for a mission against Buna—but the marines on Guadalcanal were in “real trouble.”

Once again the 19th Bomb Group undertook a series of hazardous raids against Rabaul. By this time the crews could practically conduct the two-day missions in their sleep. Port Moresby was still being bombed on a regular basis, which meant the routine of safeguarding the B-17s had not changed. The crews flew from Australia to Seven Mile airdrome, where they gassed up before conducting the thousand-mile round trip to Rabaul and back. Various squadrons of the 19th flew three exhausting raids beginning September 15, but the missions yielded negligible results.

General Walker accompanied the third mission, led by Major Hardison of the 93rd Bomb Squadron. Four B-17s departed from Port Moresby at 2300 on September 17 for an early morning attack on Rabaul. Walker typically carried a portable oxygen bottle so that he could move freely about the aircraft and observe all of the crewmen, from the tail gunner to the bombardier. “
Wandering all over the place
like that isn’t healthy,” his aide later told a reporter, “but the general figures he can’t tell the boys how to go out and to get shot at unless he’s willing to get shot at, too.”

On this occasion Walker was none too pleased with the effort. It was bad enough that only four B-17s participated in the mission; the conclusion was even worse as the bomber piloted by Lt. Claude N. Burcky became lost in foul weather. Hours after their expected landing time, the crew radioed that they were low on fuel and bailing out. An RAAF Catalina spotted the wreckage two days later on the west coast of the Cape York Peninsula, more than four hundred miles southwest of Port Moresby. Burcky and seven other crewmen were picked up, but the navigator was never found.

FOR THE JAPANESE, the Allied invasion of Guadalcanal on August 7 presented a huge crisis. That evening, aboard the flagship
Yamato
, Rear Admiral Ugaki reflected on the deep concerns of the Combined Fleet Staff. He noted in his diary that the United States had “employed a huge force, intending to capture that area once and for all.” To his credit, he immediately grasped the principal goal of the American offensive. “Unless we destroy them promptly, they will attempt to recapture Rabaul, not to speak of frustrating our Moresby operation.”

In direct response to the situation on Guadalcanal, Admiral Yamamoto moved his headquarters from Japanese home waters to the South Pacific.
His flagship arrived at Truk lagoon on August 28 and did not venture out again for eight months. The presence of the super-battleship was merely symbolic. Despite the fact that several decisive naval battles were fought in the waters around Guadalcanal during that period, the world’s most powerful warship remained inside the anchorage, little more than a floating hotel for the Combined Fleet Staff. Rabaul, not Truk, was the hub of frenetic activity during the Guadalcanal and New Guinea operations, but Yamamoto stayed aboard his flagship, sending staff members to observe the forward areas and liaise with subordinate commands.

For example, about two weeks after
Yamato
dropped anchor at Truk, Rear Admiral Ugaki flew to Rabaul for meetings with various army and navy representatives. Prior to landing on the afternoon of September 10, the chief of staff’s aircraft made an aerial tour of the harbor, during which Ugaki was impressed by the sight of Tavurvur, the active volcano. He then began a series of meetings with the staffs of the Eighth Fleet, Eleventh Air Fleet, and Seventeenth Army. On his third day at Rabaul, Ugaki “closeted” himself in the Eleventh Air Fleet headquarters to monitor the progress of a counteroffensive against the marines on Guadalcanal. That night, September 12, a powerful force of more than three thousand Japanese troops began a two-day push to overwhelm American positions from the south, but they were stopped at Lunga Ridge by elements of the 1st Raider Battalion. (This became known as the Battle of Edson’s Ridge, named for the commander of the 1st Raider Battalion, Lt. Col. Merritt A. Edson.) Although greatly disappointed by the operation’s failure, Ugaki remained outwardly circumspect. In contrast, the Seventeenth Army command seemed completely stunned by the setback, and Ugaki took it upon himself to bolster their morale.

After several days of observation, Ugaki had gained a clear understanding of the challenges facing the Japanese at Guadalcanal as well as New Guinea. He was unimpressed with the army staff, and to make matters worse, all of the units at Rabaul were embarrassed by a spectacular mishap that occurred during his visit. At about 1300 hours on September 14, Ugaki was attending a conference when the rattle of machine-gun fire echoed across the caldera. But there was no enemy attack in progress; instead, an accident near the waterfront had ignited a munitions stockpile, and the commotion Ugaki heard was caused by exploding ammunition. Within moments a chain reaction of detonations touched off additional stockpiles
of ordnance. Bombs and torpedoes exploded with spectacular force, spreading destruction in a rapidly expanding circle. Suddenly the entire township was in jeopardy. Ugaki and Vice Admiral Tsukahara, along with their staff officers, abandoned the headquarters building and took cover in an air-raid shelter. In the commercial cold storage facility, three-quarters of a mile away from the explosions, civilian internee Gordon Thomas felt the ground shudder, and a few moments later the windows were blown in.

The accident was not unlike the botched demolition by Lark Force engineers in January but on a much larger scale. Over the past eight months Rabaul had received literally hundreds of shiploads of bombs, torpedoes, artillery shells, small-arms ammunition, and drums of gasoline and oil. Most of the war materiel was stockpiled near wharves and jetties so that it could be quickly forwarded to the combat areas, but the Japanese had taken no precautions despite the obvious dangers posed by air raids. Ugaki himself noted that munitions were “piled up without any order.” Thousands of drums of petroleum products were stored haphazardly, and many had been sabotaged by Australian POWs working as stevedores. (Captain Hutchinson-Smith wrote with undisguised glee that whenever possible, the caps on the drums were loosened “to allow the precious liquid to trickle out.”)