Target: Rabaul (69 page)

On the heels of that success, two missions were conducted against ships off southern Bougainville, along with other well-defined targets such as antiaircraft emplacements. Initial results due to malfunctions and equipment failures were disappointing. Nevertheless four separate strikes were flown against Rabaul by STAG-1 in October. Flying from Nissan in the Green Islands, each strike consisted of four drones for a total of sixteen sorties against Rabaul. A great majority either missed due to radio interference or malfunction, or crashed en route. (One of the wrecked drones was partially recovered by the Japanese, who discovered that the lightweight generator assembly and a sparkplug from one of the engines made an excellent cigarette lighter.) The last strike, on October 27, resulted in one direct hit on a secondary target, and a couple of hits on buildings near their intended target. The following day, the program was officially terminated.

Thereafter, the siege of Rabaul continued with conventional attacks for the remainder of the war. With Halsey’s departure from SOPAC, control of all military activities west of longitude 159 degrees east passed to MacArthur. The Thirteenth Air Force became part of the Far East Air Force, and land-based U.S. Navy squadrons moved to garrison duties in the southern Solomons. Mitchell shifted his headquarters to Bougainville as ComAirNorSols with twenty-five USMC and RNZAF squadrons, many of which were based either on Emirau or the Green Islands. By virtue of being in MacArthur’s area, Mitchell and his squadrons were now part of George Kenney’s domain as the senior airman in SOWESPAC.

Later, in a sweeping change to free up combat units for the campaign in the Philippines, Commonwealth forces took over the ground war in the northern Solomons and Bismarcks. Australia’s II Corps moved in to continue the nasty jungle campaign on Bougainville, where thousands of Japanese still resisted. In November 1944, elements of the Australian 5th Infantry Division landed on New Britain at Jacquinot Bay and began a gradual push north. Contact with Japanese forces was limited, as General Imamura had withdrawn most of his army units inside the Gazelle Peninsula in anticipation of an invasion, but the “Diggers” did meet some resistance. At Wide Bay, they found the skeletal remains of more than 150 members of Lark Force, murdered at Tol plantation three years earlier in the worst atrocity of the Rabaul campaign.

SEEMINGLY OVERNIGHT, THE fighting moved north. MacArthur kept his promise to return to the Philippines, and Nimitz slogged island by bloody island across the Central Pacific. The Solomons and Bismarcks, the scene of so many brutal clashes during Cartwheel—from the invasion of Guadalcanal in August
1942 to the seizure of Emirau in March 1944—became backwaters. Marine Air Groups continued the monotonous routine of air strikes, patrols, and night heckling over the bypassed enemy strongholds, but the missions were considered “milk runs.” Still, they provided practical combat experience for Corsair pilots and dive-bomber crews preparing to head north. As explained in the official Marine Corps history: “The flying, gunnery, and bombing experience gained while hitting Rabaul and Kavieng and tackling the Japanese positions in the northern Solomons was invaluable. Although combat and operational casualties were low, there was enough opposition from enemy gunners, enough danger from the treacherous weather, to make pilots handle any AirNorSols mission with prudence.”

In early 1945, the marine fighter and light bomber groups headed north to join the push into the Philippines. After their transfer, the aerial siege of Rabaul was shared by four PBJ squadrons and several squadrons of RNZAF Corsairs and Venturas. The services often worked in tandem, with PBJs leading Venturas for drop-on-cue bombing runs. Crews assigned to night harassment missions often took along cases of empty soda and beer bottles, tossing out a few bottles whenever a bomb was pickled, the theory being that the bottles would whistle loudly as they fell.

The New Zealand fighter squadrons predominantly flew dive-bombing missions, usually carrying one or two thousand-pounders, and they conducted extensive “security patrols” over the Gazelle Peninsula. As most of the latter missions tended to be dull, the Kiwis were famous for buzzing American control towers. Combat missions for the bombers were similarly routine. The marines lost a few PBJs and crews due to collisions and other operational mishaps, but none to antiaircraft fire or other combat-related causes during the final months of the siege.

The same, however, could not be said for the Kiwi F4Us.

The blackest day in RNZAF history began over Rabaul on the morning of January 15, 1945. Flying from the Green Islands fighter strip, thirty-six Corsairs equipped with bombs attacked the Toboi wharf area and the adjacent floatplane anchorage. Intense, accurate antiaircraft fire hit the right wing of the Corsair piloted by twenty-eight-year-old Flight Lt. Francis G. Keefe, wounding him in the arm. The Corsair caught fire and he bailed out over Simpson Harbor, attracting small-arms fire. Despite his wound, Keefe discarded his rubber dinghy (climbing aboard would have exposed him to even more gunfire) and started to swim toward the open bay. A U.S. Navy Dumbo attempted to get in close for a potential rescue, but was driven off by even heavier gunfire. Other Corsairs strafed the enemy gun emplacements while Keefe struggled against the tidal currents.

Late that afternoon, a dozen Corsairs arrived over Simpson Harbor to provide coverage while a Ventura dropped two bamboo rafts close by Keefe. By that time, however he was lying face down over a piece of floating debris and appeared motionless. Reluctantly, the other pilots headed back to Green Island. En route, the formation encountered a heavy storm front that extended all the way to the fighter
strip. Twelve F4Us entered the squall line at low altitude, but only six emerged. Collisions, vertigo, or sudden downdrafts had caused the other six to cartwheel into the sea. Somewhere near the airstrip, a seventh Corsair disappeared into the evening storm. Evidently disoriented, the pilot either crashed or ran out of fuel. None of the seven pilots survived.

Seven men had died trying to help rescue one. Ironically, Keefe survived his long ordeal in Simpson Harbor and was picked up by the Japanese. Held at Nangananga, where the 6th Field Kempeitai moved its headquarters in late 1944, he allegedly died of blood poisoning two weeks after his capture. But as always, if the information regarding cause of death was provided by the Japanese, it could not be relied upon.

Two other Corsair pilots held at the relocated headquarters deserve mention. Marine Lt. Moszek “Mike” Zanger, whose parents had immigrated to the United States from Poland, was in the vicinity of Keravat airdrome on December 5, 1944, when he and a fellow member of VMF-222 collided. Captured after bailing out, Zanger was held near Tobera for nearly eight months. In late June of 1945, Flight Sgt. Ronald C. Warren, RNZAF, was also captured and brought to the camp at Nangananga. He had broken his leg in a crash-landing, which occurred when he pulled out too low from a strafing run over the Duke of York Islands and hit palm trees. Soon after Warren’s arrival at the camp, Zanger died, allegedly killed in an escape attempt. Later recovery of his remains revealed multiple bone fractures, indicating that he had been executed or possibly beaten to death.

AT THE SECOND Tunnel Hill camp, which the prisoners dubbed “Banana Planation,” the year progressed slowly. The captives were sometimes allowed out of their enclosure in ones or twos to perform small chores, and they began to discuss plots for escaping. Some were practically obsessed with the idea, mostly because they presumed (and the guards regularly reinforced) that they would be executed in the event of an Allied invasion. The captives created elaborate plans, healthy diversions that kept their minds occupied, even though none of them had the strength to travel very far. Nor did they even know exactly where their camp was located.

One escape plan involved the complicity of a guard. Holguin became increasingly conversant with a few of the friendlier Kempei personnel, speaking with them in a mixture of Pidgin English and Japanese. He caught the interest of an easygoing private using the oldest incentive in the world: bribery. Holguin promised that the United States government would make the guard a wealthy man, and the plan seemed to gain some traction.

Murphy insisted that everyone had to be healthy enough to travel to make any escape plan feasible. But in early May, another captive died from malnourishment and neglect. Jim Miller had been one of the strongest, and his rapid decline troubled all of the prisoners. “He got married a week before he was sent overseas,”
remembered John Kepchia. “The Japs respected him. He was a big, husky guy, and always had a good word for everybody. But he started swelling up. Whenever anybody got beriberi and the swelling got up around their waist, you knew they were going to die very shortly.”

Holguin recalled that Miller started complaining of headaches and chest pains, probable symptoms of congestive heart failure. He refused food one day, and then lay down under a well-worn blanket and died.

Several days later, some of the guards discovered a small cache of food that the prisoners had just hidden. The incident evolved into a small coverup, because the guards who had been on duty faced severe punishment for letting the prisoners pilfer food. In a bizarre exchange of favors, the story of the escape plan somehow slipped out, and the prisoners had to abandon the idea. As punishment for even contemplating escape, the Japanese took away the prized Victrola record player.

Setbacks continued. As a result of food shortages, the POWs fought a losing battle with malnourishment. The Japanese themselves had little rice and were extremely reluctant to share any with their captives. Lieutenant Okawara, at naval headquarters, later talked about the food situation:

The rice supply gradually became very scarce. We had to live on 100 grams of rice per day. The rest of our diet was filled by sweet potatoes, tapioca, and other local production. But since tapioca takes much longer to grow than sweet potatoes, which the Japanese harvested in three months’ time, we encouraged the production of sweet potatoes.

Also the coconuts helped us tremendously. We were able to produce coconut oil, which helped our nutrition a little bit, even though we had to rely on the potato. Some of the groups that were located near the seashore tried to get fish by netting and other means. However, because of the air attacks, it was a difficult and dangerous operation. From one unit to another, the supply situation varied.

The Japanese substituted barley for rice in the prisoners’ diet, which the latter believed was more nourishing, but the improvement may have been only wishful thinking. Starving, sick, and desperate, the captives could not help fighting amongst themselves. Personality conflicts and even ethnic differences led to bickering, distrust, and eventually a breakdown in their mutual support system. It was no longer a matter of captives versus captors, or Allies versus Japanese; the prisoners turned on each other, their feuds culminating in at least one incident of fisticuffs, according to Holguin.

An Imperial Army doctor intervened, unintentionally, when he paid a visit to the camp in mid-July 1945. Captain Enosuke Hirano was a member of the notorious Unit 731, officially known as the Epidemic Prevention and Water Purification Unit, which had its origins in the prewar Kempeitai. A front for chemical and biological
warfare as well as human medical experimentation, Unit 731 was run by the army’s chief medical officer in what is now northeast China. Hirano, as a member of the Rabaul detachment of Unit 731, had visited the POW camp in April and drawn blood from all ten prisoners then extant.

On his return visit, approximately July 19, Hirano arranged for five of the remaining prisoners—Don Atkiss, Joe Holguin, Dick Lanigan, Jim McMurria, and Joe Nason—to be brought to an outbuilding. Each prisoner, having supposedly tested negative for malaria in April, was given an injection of tainted blood drawn from infected Japanese soldiers. Hirano boasted to Holguin that he was attempting to develop a serum. If his experiments proved successful, he said, he would “become a very famous man.” Holguin naturally objected to the guinea-pig experiment, but was restrained and injected against his will. “Don’t worry,” Hirano promised. “If you contract malaria, I will see that you get the required medicine.”

Within two days, all five captives had malaria, three of them with acute infections. The symptoms, recalled Holguin, were agonizing:

Our bodies shivered and trembled as if we were freezing to death; our teeth chattered uncontrollably and our body temperature skyrocketed. Atkiss, Lanigan, and Nason became prostrate. They lay on the floor unable to stand up or do anything except shake and moan.

Dr. Hirano’s medical orderly conscientiously took temperatures, pulses, and samples of blood readings which he recorded in a book. I asked him for the anti-malarial medicine that Dr. Hirano had promised. He said nothing.

Holguin and McMurria possibly were in better health than the other three at time of the experiment. Their infections were less debilitating, and within a week they recovered. But the other three continued to weaken. Kepchia was distraught as he watched Atkiss and Lanigan, with whom he had flown more than thirty combat missions, slowly die before his eyes. “I tried to rouse them, he remembered. “I’d say, ‘Come on! What the hell’s wrong with you guys? Come on, perk up!’ And they’d say, ‘Oh, I just don’t feel like it. I’m tired; maybe later.’ I begged, ‘Come on, Dick. Get up. You know you have to walk this off.’”

But the two young navy fliers were beyond recovery. Lanigan, only twenty-one years old, died on the night of July 29. Atkiss, known affectionately by his friends and even his crewmen as “Doo Doo,” lost his battle the next morning.

Two weeks later, the war ended.

Sergeant Ronnie Warren was brought to Banana Plantation sometime around the beginning of August. He had received no medical attention while the Kempeitai held him at Nangananga, so his broken leg had healed at an odd angle. Otherwise his health seemed good to the other prisoners, as he had been in captivity for less than six weeks.