Invasion Rabaul Read online

  Praise for Invasion Rabaul

  “Author Gamble pored over forgotten files and official reports and conducted interviews with the handful of surviving veterans to craft this tragic, heroic story. A terrific tale about a little-known (to Americans) battle.”

  —WWII History magazine

  “With vivid, compassionate and precise prose, Bruce Gamble brings to light and life the overlooked story of gripping adventure and immense tragedy that enveloped Lark Force, the Australian garrison at Rabaul in 1942.”

  —Richard B. Frank, author of Downfall: The End of the Imperial Japanese Empire

  “Bruce Gamble writes this historic story as if he were an eyewitness to the events. It is a most compelling and entertaining tale that shows the courage, sacrifices and horrors of war first hand. The writing is top-notch and goes beyond a mere reporting of what happened. It captures the heart and soul of that time and place. Reading this true story will change you; you cannot help but be moved by what happened to these men and women.”

  —W. H. McDonald Jr., founder, Military Writers Society of America

  “Exhaustively researched and descriptively written, Gamble’s narrative … is rich in detail but yet still easy to read. Pick up a copy, settle into your favorite chair, and be careful not to get lost in the wild growth of the South Pacific jungles.”

  —World War II Database

  “The author takes a grunt’s-eye view of not just the battle, but its horrid aftermath for POWs.”

  —World War II magazine

  INVASION

  RABAUL

  THE EPIC STORY OF LARK FORCE,

  THE FORGOTTEN GARRISON, JANUARY–JULY 1942

  BRUCE GAMBLE

  Author of Fortress Rabaul

  and Target:Rabaul

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 Diggers

  Chapter 2 Evil Spirits

  Chapter 3 Hostages to Fortune

  Chapter 4 Prelude to an Invasion

  Chapter 5 Chaos

  Chapter 6 Vigorous Youth from Shikoku

  Chapter 7 Every Man for Himself

  Chapter 8 You Will Only Die

  Chapter 9 Tol

  Chapter 10 Escape: The Lakatoi

  Chapter 11 Escape: The Laurabada

  Chapter 12 Outcry

  Chapter 13 Inside the Fortress

  Chapter 14 Cruel Fates

  Chapter 15 The Long Wait

  Epilogue

  Notes

  Bibliography

  Index

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I first learned about Rabaul almost forty years ago, at the age of eight, when I discovered my parents’ large, heavy copy of Life’s Picture History of World War II. I spent many hours looking at that book, which included a dramatic photograph of Rabaul and Simpson Harbor under attack by American carrier planes. I also remember hearing one of my relatives, Uncle Johnny, mention Rabaul—by far the toughest target he flew against as a navigator in B-17s of the Fifth Air Force.

  Thirty-some years later, after my own military flying career was cut short by retirement for medical reasons, I wrote two books about U.S. Marine Corps pilots in the Southwest Pacific. Some of the men I interviewed had flown numerous missions over “Fortress Rabaul,” and they still spoke of it with a touch of awe. I wondered what made it such an extraordinary place. The more I discovered, the more fascinated I became, particularly in the story of Lark Force, the garrison that first fortified Rabaul in 1941. Numerous memoirs and photographic reference works were available, but no one had yet done a comprehensive narration of the entire Lark Force story. Hopefully, this book will help fill the void.

  I am grateful for the many individuals who have provided assistance over the years. Topping the list is Dr. Brian Wimborne, undoubtedly the most capable (and cheerful) researcher I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. As my direct liaison with the Australian War Memorial and the Australian National Library, he previewed and then obtained literally thousands of pages of military documents, personal collections, and vintage newspapers. I am also indebted to several other Australians who enthusiastically gave their support. Lindsay Cox and Carl Johnson generously provided photographs as well as permission to quote from their respective books. Peter Stone helped with questions and allowed me to quote from his huge reference work (see bibliography). Ted Harris, a walking encyclopedia of “Digger History,” was especially helpful in answering my questions on the Australian Army; Barb Angell graciously allowed me to borrow material from her extensive research on the army and civilian nurses; maritime expert Peter Cundall spent many hours assisting me with the naval aspects of this book; and Ian Hodges granted permission to quote from his stirring presentation at the Australian War Memorial in 2002.

  The list of Stateside individuals to acknowledge is even longer. I am privileged to know five Pacific War experts who helped with a multitude of details: Rick Dunn, Larry Hickey, Henry Sakaida, Osamu “Sam” Tagaya, and Mike Wenger. I would also like to thank individuals at several research facilities who provided assistance: Dennis Case and Sam Shearin at the Albert F. Simpson Historical Research Center in Montgomery, Alabama; Donna Hurley at the Nimitz Library in Annapolis, Maryland; Helen McDonald at the Nimitz Museum in Fredericksburg, Texas; Dan Miller at the USGS Cascades Volcano Observatory in Vancouver, Washington; and Barry Zerby at the National Archives and Records Administration in College Park, Maryland.

  All of the experts and researchers were helpful, but the people who truly made this project rewarding were those who experienced firsthand the events described herein. I am extremely grateful for the interviews, correspondence, and other support given by Peter Figgis, Bill Harry, Lorna (Whyte) Johnson, Fred Kollmorgen, John Murphy, and Bruce Thurst.

  Last, but certainly not least, a hearty thanks to Richard Kane of Zenith Press and copyeditor Tom Kailbourn for their guidance and expertise.

  PROLOGUE

  2200 HOURS (10:00 P.M.), JUNE 30, 1942

  The moon was nearly full as it ascended over the South China Sea, providing excellent visibility for the lookouts and watch officers standing on the open bridge of a rust-stained American submarine. For the past five days and nights, the USS Sturgeon (SS-187) had quietly hunted the warm waters off Cape Bojeador, Luzon, where an old stone lighthouse, its beacon long out of operation, served as a reference point.

  The crew was growing restless. Their last action had occurred well to the south on June 25, when they fired three torpedoes at a Japanese merchantman traveling in a convoy from Manila. An escorting warship had immediately turned toward the sub, and they dove deep to elude a total of twenty-one depth charges. The crew heard an explosion that might have been caused by one of the torpedoes, but without observing it directly, the commanding officer was unable to confirm that a hit had been scored.

  Afterward, the Sturgeon moved north to hunt for enemy ships entering or exiting the Babuyan Channel, a natural chokepoint at the northern tip of Luzon, but no one had sighted anything larger than a sampan. To make matters worse, the three previous war patrols had been disappointing, with only one small ship confirmed sunk, and now their fourth patrol was half finished. In all, they had patrolled the normally busy sea lanes off the Philippines for three weeks, with only the one inconclusive engagement to show for it.

  The boring routine was becoming hard to endure. For virtually every member of the crew (five officers and fifty enlisted men), the long hours of daylight were the worst. Each morning before dawn, the submerged to avoid detection, then spent the next fourteen to fifteen hours hunting quietly at periscope depth. The twin propellers were powered by four huge electric motors fed by banks of more than 250 lead-acid batteries, which generated a tremendous amount of heat. Outside the
hull, the water temperature averaged 85 degrees Fahrenheit: too warm to ease the crew’s discomfort. An air-conditioning system removed some of the greasy odor, cigarette smoke, and moisture from the atmosphere, but it couldn’t replenish the oxygen that was being steadily depleted by fifty-five men. Furthermore, whenever the sub was rigged for silent running, the noisy air conditioner was shut off. The temperature inside the boat then rose to more than 100 degrees with 100 percent humidity, and the interior dripped with condensation. As the hours passed, it was sometimes necessary to spread carbon dioxide absorbent or release small amounts of oxygen from the emergency bottles stored in each compartment, but even with those measures it was common for the oxygen content to fall so low that a cigarette wouldn’t burn.

  Despite the mind-numbing routine, none of the crew could afford to relax their vigilance. They carried out their duties with the underlying knowledge that the next instant could bring unexpected disaster. A roving aircraft, a drifting mine, or an enemy warship could kill them all in the blink of an eye. Conditions were generally safer after dusk, when the boat could operate on the surface with less risk of detection. To the crew’s great relief, the deck hatches were opened and the foul-smelling air inside the hull was purged by electric blowers. As soon as the hull was safely ventilated, two of the sub’s quadruple diesel engines were brought on line to turn the propellers and recharge the batteries. Watch officers and lookouts manned the bridge, and the hunt continued nonstop.

  Finally, at 2216 on this humid night, after scanning the empty sea for about three hours, the lookouts were rewarded. A lone ship, identified as a large cargo-liner, had just exited the Babuyan Channel and was headed west at high speed, without lights. Observing it through a pair of powerful binoculars, the sub’s commanding officer shouted orders to start the other two engines and called for flank speed. With a surge of adrenalin, the crew jumped into action.

  To set up a proper attack, the Sturgeon first had to get well ahead of the target, then turn and fire a spread of torpedoes at right angles to the ship’s path. But the submarine, supposedly capable of twenty-one knots on the surface (faster than just about any merchantman of the period), could not pull ahead. Duly impressed with the enemy’s speed, the skipper decided to hang on for a while. An hour and a half later, the Japanese ship suddenly cut its speed to twelve knots. The Sturgeon continued ahead at full speed for another hour and forty-five minutes, then slowed to a crawl and descended to periscope depth.

  Now that the submarine was several miles ahead of the ship, the crew had ample time to plot the attack. Here at last was a superb opportunity to make up for earlier disappointments. The Sturgeon’s overall accomplishments would be measured not only by the number of ships sunk but also by gross tonnage, and the destruction of the approaching vessel, a big liner of about 10,000, tons would more than double the sub’s existing record. And yet, as eager as the crewmen were to sink this ship, they would have willingly let it pass … if only they had known what it was carrying.

  Eight days out of Rabaul, New Britain, the ship was bound for Hainan, an island off the south coast of China, with more than a thousand Allied prisoners crammed into its holds. The vessel bore no special markings, for the Japanese refused to recognize the conventions followed by most of the nations involved in the war. Thus, to the skipper of the Sturgeon, the approaching ship was simply a big maru, a legitimate target. As it continued to draw closer, he periodically relayed periscope information to a young lieutenant manning the torpedo data computer (TDC) console. The officer dialed the updated information into the computer, which solved several geometric variables and provided the firing solution for each torpedo.

  At 0225 on July 1, the first torpedo shot from its tube. Three more, each carrying a twenty-one-inch warhead packed with the equivalent of seven hundred pounds of TNT, followed at eight-second intervals. Traveling at a speed of forty-six knots, they would cover the four thousand yards to the target in slightly more than two and a half minutes. Time seemed to almost stand still, but the TDC officer was supremely confident. “One of those will get him,” he said aloud.

  Unfortunately for the souls locked inside the darkened ship, he was right.

  CHAPTER ONE

  DIGGERS

  “They were a great band of boys.”

  —Lorna Whyte Johnson, Australian Army Nursing Service

  William Arthur Gullidge was in a quandary. Many of his countrymen had volunteered for military service after Australia declared war on Germany in September 1939, but for months he struggled mightily with the idea of joining the army. For one thing, he was a pacifist. Although he dearly loved his country, his heart also belonged to that conservative Christian denomination known as the Salvation Army, an organization that shunned warfare and violence.

  By day Gullidge worked as a printer, but he was far better known throughout Australia for his superb band compositions. For several years running he had captured top prizes at Australian and international music competitions, and some people went so far as to compare him with Glenn Miller, the famed American big-band composer. Thirty years old, Gullidge had a lot to live for. He shared an idyllic life with his wife and young daughter in Coburn, a suburb of Melbourne, and also served as the bandleader of the Salvation Army’s Melbourne Central Division and the Brunswick Citadel Band, which together fulfilled both his love of music and his strong faith.

  As the war progressed and thousands of Australians went off to fight in the North African desert, Gullidge and his friends in the Salvation Army realized that conscription might come at any time. Disturbed by the prospect of fighting and killing, they engaged in lengthy discussions about their future. None wanted to serve as infantrymen. Gullidge, who had some knowledge of military history, thought they might be able to volunteer as musicians. In European armies, bandsmen traditionally served as stretcher bearers during battle, a duty that would circumvent the moral dilemma.

  And, thanks to his renown, Gullidge had connections. One of his good friends was Major Harry R. Shugg, the officer in charge of recruitment for army bands and a top musician in his own right. Recognizing the obvious benefits of obtaining several excellent musicians for the army, Shugg arranged for Gullidge and his fellow bandsmen to volunteer together as soon as the next brigade was formed.

  In mid-1940, recruitment opened for the 23rd Infantry Brigade, 8th Division, 2nd Australian Imperial Forces (AIF). On July 15, a gloomy winter’s day along the southern coast of Australia, Gullidge and sixteen other Salvation Army musicians stepped forward to enlist en masse at the Victoria Street Drill Hall. Only one hopeful, a thirty-eight-year-old euphonium player with poor eyesight, was rejected. The rest, in accordance with Shugg’s arrangement, were inducted as bandsmen and posted to the newly formed 2/22nd Infantry Battalion. All were sworn in as privates except Gullidge, who as bandmaster was given the rank of sergeant.

  The new volunteers received a week’s leave to spend with their families before reporting to Royal Park, Victoria, for medical examinations and formal induction. During those last days at home, many sat for portraits in their new uniforms. Gullidge looked confident and dashing in his distinctive slouch hat, worn at a carefree angle with the right brim curled down, the left side turned up, and the leather strap tucked firmly under his broad chin. The other bandsmen looked much the same in their portraits, the anticipation of grand adventure showing clearly in their faces. A handsomer group would be hard to imagine.

  In late July, the bandsmen reported to the encampment of the 2/22nd (pronounced “second twenty-second”) at Trawool, fifty miles north of Melbourne. Their new home was a neatly arranged cluster of white canvas tents and temporary shelters along the western fringe of the Australian Alps. There was a wild beauty to the rugged, open countryside, but the days were cold and damp from the frequent winter rains, and at night the recruits shivered in their tents because there weren’t enough woolen blankets to go around. To make matters worse, the primitive shower building, known as the “ablution block,” lacked hot
water.

  THE 2/22ND INFANTRY BATTALION, LIKE MOST BATTALIONS IN THE 2ND AIF, consisted of approximately one thousand volunteers. What made it unique was that the vast majority of its members hailed from Melbourne or the southern regions of Victoria, the second most populous state in Australia. Assignments were generally based on abilities and past experience, with most of the men ending up in one of the battalion’s rifle companies. Others reported to the Headquarters Company, the Mortar Platoon, Pioneer Platoon, Anti-Aircraft Light Machine Gun Platoon, Reinforcement Company, or Carrier Platoon. Only thirty-three individuals—just over 3 percent of the battalion—held rank as commissioned officers, including chaplains and medical personnel.

  From its inception, the 2/22nd was commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Howard H. Carr, who had volunteered for the 2nd AIF at the age of forty-one. He joined the army only four days before the battalion was formed, having attained his rank as a “Saturday afternoon soldier” in the Citizen Military Forces (CMF), the Australian equivalent to the National Guard. His regular job had been with the Victoria Telephone Department, and it was rumored that his ambitious wife had more to do with his promotions in the CMF than any ability on his part. Carr was the spit-and-polish type who stomped loudly to attention and rendered salutes with a quivering snap. However, beneath the façade he had a benign personality, and was regarded as a considerate soul rather than hard-boiled.

  Carr also happened to be an avid gambler. His affinity for poker led to a popular nickname for the new battalion. Standing before the assembled troops at the first official parade, he announced that he was calling the battalion “Little Hell.” The card players among them could appreciate the humor: a poker hand containing three twos (as in 2/22) was the lowest possible three of a kind. Often it was enough for a winning hand, but three deuces could also create a devilish dilemma, especially when the stakes were high.