Invasion Rabaul (18 page)

A
T
V
UNAPOPE THAT MORNING, THE ARMY NURSES SLEPT FOR A FEW HOURS
in a nuns’ dormitory while the orderlies monitored the patients in the native hospital. When the nurses arrived for duty shortly after dawn, they made two shocking discoveries.
“We found there were only two orderlies left,” Lorna Johnson remembered. “All the rest and the two doctors had gone. And we saw ships coming up Rabaul harbor; I can’t remember how many, but there seemed to be thousands of them. There were about three aircraft carriers, and submarines, and troopships, and battleships, all together in this huge convoy. I don’t think any one of us girls had ever seen an aircraft carrier or a submarine in our lives.”

The nurses hardly knew which was more distressing—the sight of the invasion fleet or the sudden departure of the doctors. They could scarcely believe that Major Palmer and Captain Robertson had skulked away in the
middle of the night. Even more insulting, the doctors had taken the two ambulances, eighteen orderlies, and a few patients with them. They knew Palmer had never fully approved of them, and his silent departure came as a bitter pill.

In actuality, the doctors’ motives were anything but sinister. Palmer and Robertson knew there were plenty of good medical personnel at Vunapope, whereas the troops withdrawing into the jungle would have almost no help. Furthermore, Palmer had asked John May to stay at Vunapope and look after the nurses. The chaplain immediately agreed, though he knew it would guarantee his own capture.

Some seventy-five patients remained in the thatched-roof hospital by the beach, along with two orderlies from the 2/10 Field Ambulance who had volunteered to stay, Corporal Laurence A. Hudson and Private Reginald M. “Max” Langdon. No one had time to fuss about the situation, because a multitude of Japanese landing craft suddenly approached the beach. Chaplain May and Kay Parker walked outside to meet the enemy.

Later, Lorna Johnson described the first stressful hours of captivity:

The Japanese jumped off the landing barges, ran up the beach, and came up to the hospital. They dragged all the boys out of the hospital; told them all to get out. The sun had started to come up, and it was getting very, very hot. They lined us up for about two hours. These soldiers looked like hundreds of little monkeys, with the shoes they used to wear, like sand shoes, with the big toe separated from the other four toes. They had these little khaki pants on, and khaki shirts, and funny little hats. They each had a gun with a bayonet, and they lined us all up.

John May, who was our padre, stood with Kay. They had a white handkerchief tied onto something to say, “We surrender.” There was nothing else we could do. The Japanese rushed up and down and they dragged the boys out of the hospital and slapped them across the face. Then they found the only lot of food that we had taken from Rabaul—a couple of cases of bully beef and things like that. They brought this food out in front of us, bayoneted
it all, then made the boys dig a hole and throw it into the hole. We couldn’t understand their stupidity.

The patients were forced to remain standing in the hot sun for about two hours. There were malaria cases with high fevers, burn victims from the
Herstein
, and soldiers who suffered from tropical infections, including Sergeant Gullidge. Several men collapsed, but the Japanese prodded them back on their feet with bayonets. Finally, the patients and most of the medical staff were allowed to return to the hospital. John May and Laurie Hudson were taken away by the Japanese, one of whom drew his sword.

Horrified, the nurses presumed the two men would be executed. A few hours later, however,
May and Hudson returned unharmed. They had been driven a short distance down a side road to Vunapope’s refrigeration building, where they were made to sit in the sun. The escorts gave them menacing looks, and the officer holding the sword demonstrated how easily he could slice an inch-thick branch from a tree. But it was all an act of intimidation. Nothing was done to physically harm the two Australians, and they were given some lunch before the Japanese returned them to the hospital.

A
CROSS THE HARBOR, THE CIVILIANS IN
R
EFUGE
G
ULLY ENDURED A
frightening night.
“[We] had little knowledge of what was happening along the beaches; only the incessant rifle firing and bomb explosions indicated that the invasion had started,” recalled Gordon Thomas, editor of the
Rabaul Times
. “Overhead, planes were zooming, and occasional bursts of machine-gun fire, raking the hillsides where we were in hiding, showed how trigger-happy were the Jap airmen.”

At daybreak, Thomas set off with Nobby Clark and Hector Robinson, the senior government official at
Refuge Gully, to find the Japanese. Carrying a white flag, the three men planned to lead a patrol back to the shelter, their hope being that a voluntary surrender would prevent the enemy from gunning down unarmed people. In that regard, their mission succeeded. “Later in the morning,” Thomas continued, “all civilians were mustered onto the baseball oval, where we remained for the rest of the day, foodless, and under a strong-armed guard, with machine guns trained on us from every angle.”

The civilian captives, more than two hundred in all, were made to swelter in the hot sun while the Tolai natives sat in the shade. It was an obvious manipulation by the Japanese to embarrass the former colonials. Everyone was compelled to listen while a Japanese officer loudly read a
proclamation in English. It, too, was a piece of propaganda meant to curry favor with the Melanesians. “The soldiers of Japan,” the officer stated, “have arrived here in order to improve your condition …”

After listening to the speeches, the captives were taken to the large Kuomintang Hall, headquarters of the Chinese Nationalist Party. Most had not eaten at all that day, nor were any meals provided during the night. Just twenty-four hours earlier, they had represented the upper echelon of their society; now, their lives turned suddenly upside down, they squabbled like children and scrounged for food.

T
HE LAST FIREFIGHT OF THE DAY WAS ONE OF THE FIERCEST.
A
T 0300 THAT
morning, in compliance with orders from Colonel Scanlan, Captain Travers moved D Company to defensive positions astride the Kokopo Ridge Road near Taliligap. Upon arrival, he realized the Japanese could get behind him from Vulcan Crater, so he decided to concentrate his platoons on a ridge near the home of Albert Gaskin. Owner of the Cosmopolitan Hotel, Gaskin had joined the RAAF evacuation the previous afternoon and was currently at Wide Bay. Thus, he was out of harm’s way when his handsome bungalow was shot to pieces.

The combat began at approximately 1130, when two natives wearing white mission garb led several Japanese soldiers out of the jungle directly in front of Lieutenant Alec Tolmer’s platoon. Private Holmes, Tolmer’s batman, saw the enemy and called out a warning, and Tolmer shot one of the natives dead. The rest of the platoon immediately opened fire, killing the second native and possibly a few of the soldiers. The surviving Japanese sought cover inside Gaskin’s house, and dozens more attacked the ridge from several directions simultaneously.

Within minutes, D Company was cut off from the main road and its own parked vehicles. Travers had no communications with battalion headquarters or the other companies, and was therefore unaware that B Company had withdrawn from Three Ways. To ascertain what was happening, he sent a driver to contact Carr. The soldier never returned.
Travers next sent out a squad, followed later by a whole platoon, all of which ran afoul of the enemy.
“They were attacked from all quarters by Japs in the kunai grass and scrub,” stated Sergeant Desmond T. S. Ferguson in an official report. None doubled back to D Company.

Two other platoons, led by Lieutenants John G. “Geoff Donaldson and boyish-looking Glenn Garrard, were also surrounded. The Japanese continued to close in, and by 1400, following more than two hours of enemy probes and skirmishes, Travers knew it was time to commence an organized withdrawal. He first sent Donaldson’s platoon to counterattack along the Kokopo Ridge Road and recapture a few trucks.

Twenty-four-year-old Corporal Arthur B. Simpson, carrying one of the new Thompson submachine guns, distinguished himself by advancing toward the enemy in leaps and dashes
“using all available cover,” and firing into clusters of surprised Japanese. The platoon successfully retrieved two trucks, which they drove back to Travers’ position through a hailstorm of small-arms fire and exploding mortar rounds. Miraculously, not a single Australian was lost. Donaldson claimed his men had killed fifty of the enemy, but actual Japanese losses were less than ten men.

Travers’ company was still not out of danger. Two trucks were not nearly enough to carry everyone, so he ordered most of the company to withdraw southward on foot to the Glade Road. Shortly past 1500 they took off through the heavy kunai grass, vigorously pursued by enemy troops that closed to within a hundred yards.
“The Japs were firing into the kunai from some hills to the left,” Sergeant Ferguson reported, “and although their bullets whipped uncomfortably close through the grass, no one was hit.”

During the withdrawal, several men fired Lewis machine guns and Tommy guns to the rear while they moved through the tall grass, keeping the enemy at bay. They could see the Japanese waving signal flags to communicate with aircraft overhead, and numerous strafing attacks ensued. The Australians suffered no casualties during their rush through the grass, and after a heart-pounding hour of evasion they stumbled across the Glade Road. Instead of calling a halt, however, Travers kept them moving south until they entered a
donga
, a deep gully near the base of Mount Varzin. The Japanese gave up the pursuit, and the exhausted men of D Company collapsed on the ground.

Similar actions occurred all across the plateau as groups of desperate Australians withdrew into the jungle. They had no provisions, no communications gear, and no training in the art of jungle survival. Most had either lost their weapons or deliberately dumped them during the withdrawal, keeping only what they wore: lightweight tropical uniforms and leather boots. Many also discarded their helmets, though a few wisely kept them.

B
Y MID-AFTERNOON ON
J
ANUARY 23, THE
J
APANESE WERE NO LONGER
encountering resistance. An unnamed 3rd Battalion officer observed
“places on the road where the enemy had abandoned vehicles, where ammunition was scattered about, and where due to the pursuit attacks of our high-speed
butai
[there] were pitiful traces of the confused flight and defeat of the enemy.”

The victors carefully recorded their spoils, though much of it was damaged: five airplanes, two fortress cannons, two antiaircraft guns, fifteen antitank guns, eleven mortars, twenty-seven machine guns, 548 rifles, twelve armored cars, and nearly two hundred light vehicles. Someone even took the trouble to count all of the captured bullets, tallying 11,334 rounds of .303-caliber ammunition.

Taking such attention to detail into consideration, it is probable that the Japanese losses reported in various summaries are correct. For one thing, the dead had to be identified so that their families could properly honor their sacrifice. Some of the rituals were public and highly visible, such as periodic ceremonies to honor “fallen heroes” at the Yasukuni Shrine in Tokyo. If nothing else, they added another layer of legitimacy to the admitted losses at Rabaul. Sixteen men from the South Seas Detachment, all below the rank of warrant officer, were killed in action; and two officers and forty-six men were wounded. Among the naval forces, only one fighter
pilot from the
Kaga
, Flying Petty Officer Second Class Isao Hiraishi, was lost on January 23.

According to the Australian nominal rolls, fifty-seven men were killed in action, of which forty-one belonged to the 2/22nd Battalion. Among the attached units of Lark Force, the antiaircraft gunners suffered the heaviest losses with seven killed.

Few specific details exist about individual casualties. Bandsman Jack Stebbings, for example, was simply listed as “killed while riding.” Assigned
as a dispatch rider, he was delivering messages at the time of his death, but whether he was the victim of a marauding Zero or Japanese soldiers was not recorded. Overall, the number killed in actual combat at Vulcan or Raluana Point is thought to be relatively low, which indicates that numerous casualties occurred on the roads. No matter how they were killed, the dead remained where they fell.

The number of Australians wounded that day has never been accurately determined. Some who could walk were able to escape into the jungle with the assistance of other troops. Graham Parsons, bleeding badly from bullet wounds in his chest and neck, had plenty of help as he made his way toward the north coast of New Britain. Those who were immobilized, however, had almost no chance of getting away—the terrain was simply too rugged. Most of the sick and wounded were therefore captured, sometimes along with a medical orderly or friend who volunteered to stay with them. Fifteen of the former bandsmen serving as stretcher bearers were taken prisoner in that fashion, including the only American-born member of Lark Force, Private Jim Thurst.

Inevitably, some of the captured Australians regretted their decision to stay rather than evade. None were prepared for the ruthless behavior of their captors, who deeply loathed Caucasians but abhorred the concept of surrender even more. Those emotions, combined with the Japanese soldiers’ belief in their own superiority, made them capable of horrific brutalities.

There is no question that the Japanese acted savagely on January 23. Tolai natives witnessed an incident in which
“some retreating Australians were killed in a fight and their heads were cut with axes, bellies sliced open, and limbs removed with bayonets.” Although no other statements have surfaced to corroborate this particular incident, independent confirmation is unnecessary. Over the next several weeks, members of Lark Force would witness more than enough atrocities to give the account plenty of credibility.