Fortress Rabaul (57 page)

Out of concern that the news of Yamamoto’s death would cause a general panic across the empire, the story was kept secret for more than four weeks while the government and Imperial General Headquarters decided what to do. Finally, on May 21, the
Johokyoku
issued a carefully prepared statement, and the following day the press released the story of Yamamoto’s “heroic end.” The front pages featured a large photograph of the admiral in his dress whites, taken at Rabaul during the recent offensive. For the next several days, articles exhorting the Japanese people to “exemplify the spirit of Yamamoto” were published across the nation.

In death, Yamamoto received royal treatment. His Shinto funeral rites were spread over a period of four days. There were special ceremonies to mark the return of his ashes to Japan; others to purify the graveyard where the ashes would be interred (alongside those of Fleet Admiral Togo, the hero of the Russo-Japanese War); and, in a particularly rare honor, an imperial address “to the departed spirit” was granted on June 4 by His Majesty the Emperor.

The next day, while the funeral procession moved through the streets of Tokyo to Hibiya Park, Prime Minister Hideki Tojo gave a public address praising Yamamoto’s career. An urn containing Yamamoto’s ashes rode atop a gun carriage pulled by sixteen
Musashi
sailors, part of a long procession that included military bands playing traditional dirges. At the front, priests held aloft a banner that reached two stories high, its kanji characters proclaiming, “The Urn of Fleet Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, Bearer of the Grand Order and the First Order of the Golden Kite.”

At precisely 1050, virtually every person in Japan stopped whatever he or she was doing and offered a silent prayer for Yamamoto while bowing in the direction of Tokyo. And the ceremonies continued long after the burial, as tens of thousands of Japanese filed past Yamamoto’s shrine to pay their last respects. Numerous public tributes followed, none more unique than the song commissioned by the Mainichi newspaper group. On the day of the funeral, the company announced that Atsuo Oki, a well-known poet, had been commissioned to write the lyrics for a “people’s song” about the greatest admiral in Japanese history. The music was composed by the Imperial Navy band, resulting in a lofty tribute to the man who had led, albeit reluctantly, his people into war.

“
Fleet Admiral Yamamoto
”

Ah! Amidst the battle in the South Seas
Gloriously died the admiral in the sky, like a private

While commanding his force at the head.
Who says that thousands upon thousands are killed
When an admiral is accredited with victory?

No sooner had the Greater East Asia War broken out
Than Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto
Destroyed the foe beyond recognition
Taking the helm of the Grand Fleet
In obeyance to the Imperial Command.

With peerless courage and masterly strategy
Did he defeat the enemy navies instantly
At Pearl Harbor and off Malai;
Off the Solomons and in the Coral Sea.
Numberless are the brilliant naval war results!

From the southern end to the northern extremity
Rose victorious cries everywhere.
Heaven admired the admiral’s valor,
Seven Seas revered his dignity
As he commanded the Imperial Navy.

Iron resolve to go to the furthest front
Never to return again
Was manifest in his poems.
Let us follow in the footsteps of the noble admiral
Who assumed the weighty responsibility without argument.

If nothing else, Oki’s song gave the Japanese people a lyrical vehicle, indeed a hymn, by which they could honor the spirit of their newest deity. Many, it is certain, pondered what might have been. Yamamoto was the ideal hero. Complex, sensitive, artistic, he was descended from samurai, which made his final flight aboard a warplane all the more worthy of a warrior god.

YAMAMOTO’S DEMISE not only represented a crucial turning point for the Japanese, it coincided with a fundamental shift in American strategy. General Kenney’s trip to Washington, D.C., in March had been part of the
prelude to that shift, as he and several other high-ranking officers from MacArthur’s and Halsey’s staffs attended a high-level conference with the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Prior to the conference, which opened on March 12, 1943, Halsey and MacArthur had hammered out an agreement regarding their responsibilities for implementing the Elkton Plan. The details were then presented to the Joint Chiefs by Brigadier General Sutherland, and for this reason alone the conference proved its worth. Heretofore the Joint Chiefs had optimistically believed that Rabaul could be captured by the end of 1943, but the representatives from the Pacific Theater revealed the flaws in such wishful thinking. MacArthur estimated that, in addition to the multinational forces already under his command, he would need five infantry divisions, 1,800 planes, and a considerable navy before he could begin the first objective of Elkton, the seizure of Lae. Naturally the Joint Chiefs wanted the theater commanders to accomplish more with less, but the latter had formed a strong alliance—and the navy delegates in Washington sided with them as well.

After several days of wrangling, the attendees got no further than to define what everyone disagreed about. The solution was left to the Joint Chiefs, who would have to decide among themselves how much war materiel could be diverted to the Pacific. At first they continued to hope that Rabaul could be taken in 1943, but eventually they conceded that the objectives for the year would have to be scaled back. Even so, MacArthur was promised a minimum of six army air groups and two infantry divisions. It was considerably less than he’d requested, but when the assets that already existed were combined with the promised allotments (including those earmarked for Halsey), the Allies could expect to accumulate some 2,500 planes in the South Pacific and Southwest Pacific theaters. It was a staggering number of aircraft, many of which would eventually be used against Rabaul.

On March 28, only a few weeks before Yamamoto’s death, the Joint Chiefs released a new directive titled “Offensive Operations in the South and Southwest Pacific Areas During 1943.” Consisting of three main objectives, it was based on the Elkton Plan initially proposed by MacArthur, with input from Halsey:

1. Establish airfields on Kiriwina and Woodlark Islands.

2. Seize the Lae-Salamaua-Finschhafen-Madang area and occupy western New Britain.

3. Seize and occupy Solomon Islands to include the southern portion of Bougainville.

The stated purpose of the objectives was to pave the way for “the seizure of the Bismarck Archipelago,” which meant that every operation was ultimately focused on Rabaul. Within a few months, however, the plan underwent a major revision. The Joint Chiefs determined that it would not be necessary to physically invade Rabaul. Instead, Japan’s greatest stronghold would be neutralized by air power. Calling the new plan Operation Cartwheel, the Joint Chiefs remained optimistic that Rabaul would be smashed by the end of 1943.

But as hundreds of Allied and Japanese airmen would learn, many at the cost of their lives, the strategists were wrong.

The first attack on Rabaul was made by Navy Type 96 land attack aircraft (Mitsubishi G3M “Nells”) from Truk on January 4, 1942. Although nearly obsolete by Japanese standards, the bombers were untouched by Australian antiaircraft guns or interceptors.
Ron Werneth

The only “fighters” in the RAAF inventory at the beginning of the war were CAC-1 Wirraways, copied from the North American AT-6 trainer with a few minor improvements. During the hopeless defense of Rabaul, 24 Squadron lost eight out of ten Wirraways.
Australian War Memorial

A Type 99 carrier bomber (Aichi D3A “Val”) from
Shokaku
approaches Rabaul on January 20, 1942. The attack that day by more than one hundred carrier-based planes knocked 24 Squadron out of commission. A follow-up raid two days later destroyed the Australian coastal defense guns.
Maru

A Type 97 carrier attack aircraft (Nakajima B-5N “Kate”) was shot down by the militia antiaircraft battery on January 20 and crashed on the slopes of a nearby volcano. The Aussie gunners also damaged several attackers; two were ditched at sea and a third crashed while attempting to land on its carrier.
Ron Werneth

Wing Commander John Lerew, who led poorly equipped 24 Squadron at Rabaul, found his superiors only slightly less troublesome than the Japanese. He routinely sent messages laced with sarcasm, but his courage in battle was unmatched.
Josephine Lerew via Lex McAulay