Target: Rabaul (27 page)

Soon after sunrise on October 12, clouds of dust arose from the fields at “Dobo” as eight squadrons of B-25s took off. Led by Lt. Col. Clinton V. True, a West Point graduate who had recently assumed command of the 345th, 115 Mitchells joined up over Oro Bay and headed toward Kiriwina Island. After a successful rendezvous with P-38s from the 9th Fighter Squadron/49th Fighter Group and three squadrons of the 475th Fighter Group, the attack force turned outbound across the Solomon Sea. Flying low to avoid Japanese radar, the huge formation stayed well clear of Gasmata airdrome on the south coast of New Britain. Beyond the deep indentation of Wide Bay, at the mouth of the Warangoi River, the flight turned inland. Prearranged hand signals preserved strict radio silence. The 3rd Bomb Group, escorted by twenty-one P-38s, veered to the right on a heading toward Rapopo airdrome, twelve miles due north. The strafers from the 38th and 345th Bomb Groups, along with their fighter cover, made a sweeping left turn toward Vunakanau, twenty miles to the northwest.

Back at Dobodura, the Beaufighters of 30 Squadron had to wait for the dust to settle before they could take off. Led by William T. M. Boulton, the twin-engine Beaufighters got airborne at 0815. The delay caused them to miss the rendezvous with their P-38 top cover, so Boulton led the formation alone toward New Britain.

The objective of the low-level attacks, suppressing enemy fighters, was predicated on the threat of strong interception. Japanese fighters still commanded respect, particularly the Zero, which was why Rabaul had not been raided during daylight for nine months. Surprisingly, the strike plan called for the B-25 strafers to attack only two of the four active airdromes at Rabaul. The first was Rapopo, an army airdrome fourteen miles southeast of Rabaul; the other was Vunakanau, primarily a naval bomber base, though it did house some fighters. Tobera was also a target, but only for the one squadron of Beaufighters. For unknown reasons, the main fighter base at Lakunai was ignored by the strike planners.

HEADING DUE NORTH toward Rapopo, the Mitchells of the 3rd Bomb Group practically scraped the trees at 250 miles per hour. Pockets of hot air rising from the jungle below caused the B-25s to bounce, making precise formation flying a challenge, but otherwise the conditions were excellent, with unlimited visibility and only a few scattered clouds at three to five thousand feet. About ten miles from Rapopo, the formation separated into squadrons. Major Raymond H. Wilkins, commander of the 8th Bomb Squadron, signaled his twelve planes to spread out into a wide, shallow vee measuring several hundred yards across.

Wilkins, who had just turned twenty-six, was the last pilot still in New Guinea from the squadron’s original deployment. Based at Port Moresby since April 1942, the 8th Squadron had initially operated single-engine Douglas A-24 dive-bombers. Within four months the squadron had lost eleven aircraft. Wilkins was one of only three men who survived the unit’s worst debacle, on July 29, when five of seven A-24s were shot down in the vicinity of Buna. Of the two aircraft that returned, one was badly damaged, its rear gunner mortally wounded. Eventually the 8th switched to A-20s, and later to B-25s. Wilkins had assumed command of the squadron in September 1943, by which time most of the unit’s original pilots had been killed, and the remainder were back in “Uncle Sugar,” the United States. Believing that he “could personally influence the outcome of the war by his own commitment and example,” Wilkins had turned down two opportunities to conclude his combat and return home.

Approximately a mile behind Wilkins and the 8th Squadron, Don Hall spread the fourteen strafers of the 13th Bomb Squadron into a similar formation. Another mile behind them, Major Henebry did the same with his twelve planes of the 90th Bomb Squadron. Henebry’s B-25,
Notre Dame de Victoire
, carried a popular passenger. War correspondent Lee Van Atta, who had appeared in several movies (most notably
Dick Tracy
and
Captains Courageous
), had a knack for knowing “how to put the color into a radiogram.” He made Kenney’s kids look good, which guaranteed permission to accompany crews on combat missions.

Shielded by a line of low ridges, the strafers bored in from the south, covering the ten miles to Rapopo in two and a half minutes. Although the B-25s’ fourteen-cylinder engines made a hellacious racket, the Japanese did not hear them coming until the B-25s topped the ridge and howled overhead.

The surprise was absolute. Antiaircraft positions were unmanned. Canvas boots still covered breeches and barrels, many pointing the wrong direction. One crewman in the 90th Squadron saw “a dozen Japs standing on the porch of a house and looking with amazement at the approaching planes.” Another admired the many food plots and well-tended vegetable gardens south of the airdrome.

The runway at Rapopo was oriented north-south, so the pilots needed to make only minor corrections to line up on individual targets: parked planes, vehicles, gun emplacements, and so on. Someone pressed the trigger button mounted on the left side of his control wheel, and within seconds all twelve planes were firing.

Ninety-six heavy machine guns cut loose, filling the air with smoke and glowing tracers. Pilots tapped rudder pedals, whipsawing the ribbons of fire as they chewed a path of destruction. As the snarling B-25s neared enemy aircraft and other promising targets, copilots toggled parafrag clusters. It took only a half-minute for the formation to roar from one end of the runway to the other, expending approximately thirty thousand bullets and hundreds of parafrags. On the first pass, crewmembers could clearly see Japanese mechanics and other personnel “standing around planes lined up on the ground” as if nothing unusual was happening. Then the dust and smoke churned up by parafrags blanketed the airdrome, making further assessment difficult.

Less than thirty seconds after the first wave, Hall’s fourteen strafers attacked. They fired another thirty thousand rounds of ammunition and dropped 693 parafrags. One noted result was a large fire, signifying that someone hit a fuel or ammo dump. A mile behind Hall’s squadron, Van Atta had a clear view of the action. “We struck in split formations of three, each echelon sweeping across the airdrome and dispersal bays in beautiful waves,” he later wrote. “From a vantage point behind Henebry, bombs and machine-gun fire from Hall’s lead ship could be seen pummeling down on the airdrome installations; in seconds the whole path in front of us was a holocaust.”

By the time Henebry brought his third wave over Rapopo, tracers from light weapons were squirting up from the gun pits. Van Atta would later describe the antiaircraft fire as “uncomfortably fierce,” but it was so inaccurate that nothing worse than a few bullet holes resulted. Nevertheless, one crew narrowly averted disaster. Lieutenant Clifford L. Wonderly was intent on strafing a radio station when a tall steel tower suddenly appeared dead ahead. He rolled to the right, thinking that would allow him to maintain formation. When the strike photos were developed later, they revealed “a maze of wires” to the left of the mast.

The Japanese provided other excitement. During the attack, a half-dozen JAAF aircraft were seen either taxiing or taking off from Rapopo. “Some of the six enemy
medium bombers which attempted to scramble off the airdrome escaped,” Van Atta wrote. “Most of them did not.”

The correspondent was partially correct. Six twin-engine
jubaku
(heavy bombers) of the 14th Flying Regiment were scheduled to take off from Rapopo that morning for Alexishafen, New Guinea, where they would stage for a subsequent mission. Four managed to get airborne and escape before Wilkins’s dozen B-25s arrived over the airfield, but the fifth, flown by Capt. Teruo Kurano, leader of the regiment’s 2nd
chutai
, had just lifted off. Caught at a complete disadvantage, it was easily swatted down. It nosed over and crashed, killing Kurano and his five crewmembers. Back on the runway, the sixth
jubaku
aborted its takeoff and was damaged on the ground.

Crewmen from all three waves of B-25s mentioned the airborne planes in their reports. The 13th Bomb Squadron history refers to the destruction of a Betty and a Nell (which were naval types; Rapopo was an army airdrome) without naming the shooters. The combat history of the 90th Squadron gives a more plausible account: “Burgess and Helbert fired their fixed .50s at a Sally and a twin engine fighter respectively, which were taking off. Both were confirmed as definitely destroyed.”
^*

Regardless of who downed the bomber, the JAAF units at Rapopo suffered heavily. The attack destroyed or badly damaged sixteen parked aircraft, including six Ki-21 Sallys, several Ki-48 light bombers (Lilys) of the 208th Flying Regiment, and some twin-engine transports of the 20th Flying Regiment.

The low-level attacks were also devastating to maintenance personnel, aircrews, gun crews, and support staff. One can only imagine the psychological effect of being caught in the open as a dozen gunships approach just above the treetops, their noses ablaze with the muzzle blasts of a hundred machine guns. A few seconds after tens of thousands of bullets have scythed the airdrome, hundreds of explosions ripple across the ground as the parafrags detonate. But the attack is not yet over. Thirty seconds later, the nightmarish experience repeats—twice.

Tetsuo Aso, an army physician in the 60th Antiaircraft Artillery Battalion, wrote of taking shelter in a bunker when the first wave hit. When the shooting stopped, he tried to treat some of the grievously wounded men who were brought to his clinic, only to be driven back to the bunker by successive attacks. He confirmed what the American aircrews had observed, noting that a nearby antiaircraft battery, having just finished gunnery practice before the attack began, had replaced the protective covers on their guns. The battery commander, in fact, received a critical head wound.

Completing their attack, the strafers skimmed over the bluffs at the rim of the caldera, not far from Aso’s clinic. Out over Saint George’s Channel, most of the bombers turned wide to the right, but a few could not resist firing on several small coastwise vessels in the pastel green waters. The B-25s splintered two small fishing
boats and a two-masted schooner before heading out of Blanche Bay and down Saint George’s Channel.

The sixteen P-38s escorting the first wave also turned for home. There had been no attempts at interception, although some of the pilots had seen the Sallys taking off from Rapopo. One was Maj. Meryl M. Smith, who saw three bombers heading south off the end of the strip. He kept his Lightnings with the B-25s until they completed their low-level attacks. About five minutes later, his flight came across one bomber, down low, that was trying to sneak inland by flying up a ravine. Identifying it as a Betty, Smith dived first and fired, but saw no definitive results. His wingman, Lt. John E. Fogarty of the 432nd Fighter Squadron, made the next pass. Despite return fire from the bomber’s tail gun, he succeeded in setting the aircraft afire.

Lieutenant Eugene I. McGuire, also of the 432nd, made the next run on the bomber and saw that it was already aflame. “I fired a short burst after the bomber was on fire,” he reported. “It exploded about ten seconds after it first caught on fire.” Credit for the victory went to Fogarty. McGuire witnessed the claim.

COLONEL TRUE’S STRAFERS from the 38th and 345th Bomb Groups had to fly twelve miles farther than those that attacked Rapopo; hence, the attack on Vunakanau commenced about five minutes later. By that time, scramble alerts had likely been issued to the pilots of Air Group 253 at Tobera and Air Group 204 at Lakunai.

Despite the advance warning most of the enemy’s gun pits were unoccupied, guns covered with canvas, when the first wave of B-25s struck. A few gun crews later swung into action, but their fire was light and inaccurate. Once again, surprise had been achieved.

Of the four active airdromes at Rabaul, Vunakanau was the largest. Its mile-long runway, 135 feet across, was paved with concrete, and a taxi strip of the same dimensions lay alongside. One hundred and fifty revetments lay on both sides of the runway, all interconnected with a network of taxiways. Numerous wooden buildings, including seventy thousand square feet of new construction, served the administration, housing, and storage needs of the base, which comprised approximately two thousand personnel. Even with sixty-seven strafers involved, the size of the airdrome dwarfed individual waves of twelve or thirteen attackers.

Led by Colonel True, the B-25s spread out to hammer the likeliest targets. Repeating the scene at Rapopo, the strafers created mayhem among the parked planes. The first three waves of attackers, all from True’s 345th Bomb Group, encountered only light antiaircraft fire. Behind them came the two squadrons of the 38th Bomb Group, the 71st with eleven B-25s (one turned back with engine trouble), and the 405th with twelve aircraft.

Zooming over a small ridge, the 71st Squadron formed a wide front and strafed ten to fifteen enemy bombers in the southeast area and eight to ten fighters in the
southwest area. The strafers unleashed nineteen thousand rounds of .50-caliber ammunition while toggling off 642 parafrags. Three aircraft with inline engines were left burning, as were three bombers in the southeast corner of the airdrome. Supply dumps, fuel trucks, and other targets were likewise attacked. One unidentified pilot caught a Zero taxiing along the runway to take off. The fighter stopped and eventually caught fire after being hit by successive strafers. The crews of the 71st Squadron counted at least ten individual fires, and the next squadron confirmed that two of the fires were burning fuel dumps.

Five airborne fighters were counted over Vunakanau. They made a few timid passes at the B-25s of the 71st Squadron, only one pressing closer than a thousand feet. But when the 405th Squadron approached Vunakanau, additional Zekes appeared and the attacks became more aggressive. The twelve Mitchells, forming a half-mile line abreast, shot up many of the same targets hit by the preceding waves. They also dropped 759 frag clusters on the southern two-thirds of the airdrome. As the formation began to exit the target area, the six B-25s on the right side of the formation were intercepted on the deck by nine Zekes.