Target: Rabaul (53 page)

I reconfirmed the necessity of sending them away from such violence, and it was December, 1943, when non-combatants were put aboard the last hospital ship bound for home. Later, the MPs were the focus of attacks from several quarters for sending the comfort women away, even getting such demands as providing white nuns and Chinese women in their place, which was firmly refused, of course, and rightly so.…

Civilian internee Gordon Thomas confirmed Matsuda’s timeframe, writing on December 18: “Of late the number of men bound for the House of a Thousand Delights has diminished … these ladies are few now. They have been sent away for safety’s sake.”

Knowing they faced an uncertain future because of the stigma of prostitution—forced or unforced—the comfort women left Rabaul between November 1943 and early 1944. Rumors have long suggested that few of them survived the voyage, because so many Japanese cargo and merchant ships were sunk by the Allies.

At least one sinking involving comfort women is partially documented. An unknown number were aboard
Himalaya Maru
, part of a seven-ship convoy that
left Rabaul in the early morning of November 30. The aging, pre–World War I cargo vessel, displacing five thousand tons, was crammed with 2,400 passengers. Late that night,
Himalaya Maru
was bombed and sunk ten miles south of New Hanover Island by a “Black Cat” U.S. Navy Catalina. Only two of the comfort women perished—the survivors were rescued by other ships in the convoy—but the sinking was an unfortunate conclusion to their sad tale of exploitation.

WHEN KENNEY’S RESPONSIBILITY for the aerial siege of Rabaul ended, he did not pass the baton to his counterpart in SOPAC. Halsey’s chain of command was complex. Whereas Kenney was the top airman in SOWESPAC, dominated by the Fifth Air Force with a RAAF contribution, Halsey’s aerial forces were diverse. Marine air had its heyday in the Solomons, and U.S. Army presence in the form of the Thirteenth Air Force was also large; land-based U.S. Navy squadrons made a major contribution, as did the Royal New Zealand Air Force (RNZAF). The multinational, multiservice forces came under the bailiwick of Vice Adm. Aubrey W. Fitch, designated Commander, Air, South Pacific Forces (ComAirSoPac); however, only the long-range reconnaissance and transport commands were under his direct operational control.

The man who called the shots for tactical missions held a subordinate position, ComAirSols, which Halsey rotated among the services. On November 20, 1943, command passed to Maj. Gen. Ralph J. Mitchell, USMC, who was also commanding general of Marine Air South Pacific (MASP) and 1st Marine Air Wing. His staffs included Bomber Command, Fighter Command, and Strike Command. A fourth element, Commander, Aircraft Northern Solomons (ComAirNorSols), would be activated as soon as the airstrip at Torokina Point became operational.

All eyes were on that small piece of real estate. After twenty-one months of hobnobbing, from Morocco to Washington to Brisbane, after all the planning sessions that led to the evolution of the Elkton Plan, the moment was finally at hand. With a small beachhead on Bougainville in Allied hands, the spotlight turned to the Seabees. The plan was to quickly construct a fighter strip, which would support almost round-the-clock fighter cover while a larger base was built to support bombers.

The unit chosen to build one of the most crucial airfields in the Southwest Pacific was untested. Activated near Williamsburg, Virginia, in April 1943, the 71st Naval Construction Battalion had arrived overseas in September and had no experience working in a tropical jungle. But the Seabees excelled from the moment the invasion of Bougainville began. Led by Cmdr. Austin Brockenbrough Jr., fourteen members of the battalion waded ashore with the first wave of marines. Almost immediately they offloaded two International Harvester TD-9 bulldozers and began clearing roads and pads for supply dumps; they also used the dozers to drag heavy loads across the beach.

By day two, working under periodic sniper fire, the Seabees began to survey the only suitable location for the airstrip: an east-west alignment running to the tip
of Torokina Point. The land was swampy and heavily forested with trees too huge to push over with dozers. Each had to be cut down by hand, and the stumps blasted with dynamite. To provide drainage, fifty-foot-wide ditches were cut, turning Torokina Point into an island. With the arrival of each reinforcement convoy from Guadalcanal, additional echelons of the battalion came ashore—several arriving under enemy air attack—which greatly expanded the workforce. More heavy equipment arrived aboard the transports: dozers, graders, rollers, and even draglines for hauling dynamited coral from the shallows. (Run through a crusher, the coral was used to surface roads and aircraft ramps.)

Progressing eastward from Torokina Point, the Seabees cleared 50 percent of the airfield by D-day plus twenty. Surfacing began using sections of interlocking perforated steel planking (PSP), also called Marston mat. By D-day plus twenty-three, enough of the runway was completed to allow a navy SBD with an inflight emergency to land safely. The unofficial first landing drew a large crowd, after which the Seabees helped repair the dive-bomber’s broken oil line.

Two weeks later, at 1510 on December 8, the airfield was nearing completion when three Vought F4U Corsairs buzzed the strip. Waggling their wings, the fighters turned downwind and lowered their landing gear. Realizing that the pilots intended to land, the Seabees quickly moved heavy equipment out of the way. The fighters completed their turn, took appropriate intervals, and plopped down on the steel mat. They bounced slightly on the newly laid planking, which did not cover the full length of the landing area. Luckily the Corsairs were rolling at a safe speed when their wheels rolled from the Marston mat onto the base of packed dirt.

The fighters drew plenty of attention. Other F4Us, such as those from Blackburn’s Fighting 17 and a few marine squadrons based in the Central Solomons, had been patrolling over Torokina for the past five weeks. On several occasions, the Seabees had watched them mix it up with Japanese attackers. But this trio had not been among them. They were members of Marine Fighting Squadron 214, the Black Sheep, which had just started a combat tour. Operating from Barakoma strip on Vella Lavella, the squadron conducted a few uneventful Cherryblossom patrols over Bougainville. On this afternoon, while dodging strong thunderstorms, a four-plane division led by Capt. J. Cameron Dustin lingered a little too long. One pilot returned to base early because of a leaking wing tank, but the other three, lacking enough fuel to return to Vella Lavella, landed at Torokina for gas. The unfinished field, drenched by a recent downpour, looked like “a quagmire” to Corsair pilot Lt. Edwin L. Olander.

The three fighters were stuck overnight. The weather was bad, and the Seabees had nothing more sophisticated than a hand-cranked wobble pump for refueling the aircraft. All three were ready the next morning, however, and the marines were back on Vella Lavella by 0830. There, Olander told his commanding officer, Maj. Gregory Boyington, that the Torokina airstrip was a muddy mess.

Later that day, ironically, the ground echelons of VMF-212 and -215 arrived at Torokina to establish servicing and maintenance facilities for fighters. The
following day, December 10, the airstrip was declared operational. It had taken the Seabees only forty days—working through the night and enduring enemy artillery fire and aerial bombing that killed several personnel—to complete the airfield. Its single runway, 4,750 feet long by 200 feet wide, was paved to a width of one hundred feet and featured berms of crushed coral. A parallel taxiway of the same length, forty feet wide, was also surfaced with steel planking. Numerous crossovers, connecting roads, administrative and utility buildings, bombproofed operations buildings, water towers, camp and messing facilities, latrines and showers, and electrical wiring completed the infrastructure.

Although three Corsairs of VMF-214 had used the strip two days before it became operational, another squadron received official recognition for being the first to land at Torokina. Seventeen F4Us from VMF-216, a brand-new squadron that had arrived overseas a few weeks earlier, touched down on December 10. Later that morning, Boyington flew up from Vella Lavella to investigate the new strip for himself.

IT IS DOUBTFUL that anyone had a greater personal interest in the new airfield than Boyington. Renowned as an aggressive, daring combat leader—and also as a troublesome, heavy drinker—Boyington desperately wanted to redeem his reputation.

His Marine Corps career had been shaky from the start. A collegiate wrestler, Boyington had earned a degree in aeronautical engineering and worked for a year as a draftsman at Boeing. Then, as a naval aviation cadet in 1936, he had his first drink in Pensacola, Florida. Boyington fell into the grip of alcoholism in the days before anyone had seriously studied the disease. To complicate matters, he was married and had three children, strictly against regulations for cadets. A gifted flier, he excelled in the high-g environment and was assigned to a fighter squadron—the only community he cared about. But because it was necessary to keep his family hidden, he accumulated debts that he could not possibly hope to overcome with his Depression-era pay. By 1941, with his marriage imploding and his drinking becoming more erratic, Boyington found himself frequently in trouble with his superiors.

In the summer of 1941, Boyington’s creditors caught up with him. Stationed in Pensacola as a flight instructor, he was in debt for more than four thousand dollar—and a thick file of complaints had been forwarded to the Commandant of the Marine Corps.
^*

Knowing he would be passed over for promotion by the next selection board, Boyington went to the air-conditioned bar of the Hotel San Carlos one hot August night and met with a recruiter for the American Volunteer Group (AVG). Learning that he could make almost three times his current pay by flying P-40 fighters overseas in support of Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek, plus five hundred dollars
for every Japanese airplane he destroyed, Boyington resigned his commission and joined the AVG.

The director of aviation at the time was then-Colonel Mitchell, who approved Boyington’s resignation in “the best interests of the service.” Mitchell added a strongly worded caution, recommending that “Boyington not be reappointed at a future date in either the regular Marine Corps or Marine Corps Reserve.”

Unfortunately for Boyington, he did not improve his reputation with the AVG. Although the mercenary group achieved early successes against the numerically superior JAAF in China (the grateful citizens called them Flying Tigers), Boyington enjoyed little personal glory. He neither appreciated nor respected the AVG’s leadership, starting with the high-profile commanding officer, Claire Chennault, whose rank as a colonel was self-appointed. Boyington spent only five months overseas, during which he fought with his fellow Flying Tigers as much as with the Japanese. He received credit for shooting down two enemy planes in aerial combat, but was shortchanged on bonus money for destroying three and a half planes on the ground. Bitter over the disputed pay, he began drinking more heavily and belligerently. Ultimately, Boyington quit the AVG in disgust and spent the money he’d earned buying passage back to the United States.

Upon his arrival in July 1942, Boyington proceeded to Headquarters, Marine Corps and asked to be reinstated. Although Mitchell had recommended against this, much had changed. Heavy losses at Pearl Harbor, Wake Island, and Midway had decimated the marine fighter community. Tipping the scale in his favor, Boyington untruthfully told headquarters that he was an ace in the AVG, with six victories. A pilot with such a skill set—not to mention an association with the famed Flying Tigers—would certainly not hurt the situation. Accepted for reinstatement, Boyington shipped overseas in January 1943. Later that year he assumed command of VMF-122, but he suffered another setback when he broke his left ankle in a brawl with one of his own pilots.

After recovering in a New Zealand field hospital, Boyington returned in late July to Turtle Bay, the fighter strip on Espiritu Santo. There he performed administrative duties as the temporary officer in charge of squadrons returning to the United States. Although he understood the rationale behind his stint in purgatory, not flying drove him crazy. Fortunately, a new development presented him with an unexpected opportunity.

BULL HALSEY, BUSY with invasion plans for Bougainville in late summer 1943, was particularly worried about enemy air attacks out of Rabaul, only 250 miles away. This put a premium on fighter coverage. Most of the navy outfits were still flying outdated F4F Wildcats, whereas the marines had been successful with their hand-me-down Corsairs. Halsey wanted even more of the big gull-winged fighters for the Bougainville campaign, but timing was against him. By late summer 1943, four of the first eight squadrons equipped with F4Us had completed their obligatory
combat tours and were headed home. Conversely, only two new squadrons were en route from the States to replace them.

To compensate, someone in Halsey’s chain of command hatched an idea. The squadrons that departed left their Corsairs at Turtle Bay, and new fighters were being shipped in on a regular basis; therefore, why not use the excess planes to form a new squadron with replacement pilots? Dozens of pilots were available. Some had recently arrived overseas after completing flight training in the States; others had gotten out of sequence with their original units due to illness, combat wounds, or other setbacks.

Boyington was one of the latter. Waiting for his broken ankle to mend, he was transferred into VMF-124, the unit serving as the administrative catchall for fighter pilots in the replacement pool. In mid-August, Boyington received authorization to select twenty-seven pilots to form an independent flight echelon. His instructions were apparently verbal, as no official orders are known to exist.

Boyington chose highly experienced pilots, including eight others with one or even two tours of combat. After three weeks of training, the squadron became an official flight echelon on September 7. For administrative purposes, the handpicked squadron was given the control number belonging to a flight echelon that had just completed a difficult combat tour in the central Solomons. No one told the original members of VMF-214, who were justifiably upset when they learned about the sneaky administrative change. Split up and assigned to different squadrons, they blamed Boyington for their misfortune.