Lieutenant Anthony Vega had been on the tropical island of New Guinea for just over a week. He had come to accept the jungle airfield outside of Port Moresby as his new home, but it had plenty of shortcomings. Despite the fact that the port city was located in a rain shadow, sudden intense downpours were still fairly common. The heat was stifling and flies and mosquitoes plagued the men like buzzards over a dying cow. Snakes, lizards, spiders, and other creeping vermin made life in the dusty tent city even more challenging. Tropical diseases, such as malaria and dengue fever, created as many casualties as Japanese bullets did and the closest modern civilization lay over 400 miles south in Australia. How Vega now longed for the August heat of his native Houston streets.
Vega had been hastily thrown into the meat grinder, and after flying his first two missions, his crew was on their way to becoming just another seasoned crew. So far, it had been nothing like he’d expected. But, then again, he really had no idea of what war would be like at all.
His crew had been notified that they were being tasked for a mission early yesterday morning. All the rumors indicated that it would be Rabaul, the main Japanese naval fortress in the South Pacific on the nearby island of New Britain. Vega’s stomach dropped into a freefall at the very mention of the name. A cold sweat had broken out all over his body, which he hoped was just malaria, but he knew better. He was scared out of his wits.
A lieutenantt on another crew, a navigator named Baker, leaked the details concerning the forthcoming trip over a bland meal of fried Spam, dehydrated vegetables, and day-old bread. The crew member from the B-24 Liberator named San Jacinto seemed to have his finger on the pulse of the squadron and could always be depended upon for the latest scoop. The primary objective would be to bomb troop ships and merchant vessels in Rabaul's Simpson Harbor. Their secondary targets included warships, docks and wharves, warehouses, barracks, headquarters, motor pools, and airfields. It sounded like the mission would be a maximum effort production.
His friend from Texas, Captain Weber, didn’t seem fazed. Weber had been in New Guinea for four months and had seemingly adjusted to the rigors of war and maybe he could offer some consolation to Vega. “Dan, what do you make about us going after troop ships and cargo vessels? They seem to place a lot of importance in sinking them.”
“I dunno,” the fellow Texan replied as he munched on an apple. “Maybe the Japs are about to send a bunch of rice-fed ground pounders over to replace the malnourished ones we’ve been bombin’. If that’s the case, it’s best to stop ‘em over on New Britain before they get over here to cause trouble for MacArthur’s boys.”
“How does Baker know all the intel?”
“I don’t ask him. I suppose he knows somebody in the intel shop.”
“Well, how do they know what the Japs are up to?”
“Maybe they’re guessin’, or maybe we got spies readin’ Tojo’s mail. Somehow, we know what they’re thinkin’. That’s all that’s really important, I guess.”
“Kinda makes you think though. If we know what they’re up to, they might know what we’re doing. And they’ll know we’re going to Rabaul tomorrow.”
“I try not to think about it too much. Besides, we can out-produce the Japs in everythin’ from new recruits to new airplanes and bombs, so I can’t see how the Japs will last much longer. I hope that we’ll be back home this time next year.”
He watched Weber finish his apple and toss the core behind a tent. How can he be so nonchalant about everything? Maybe after awhile you get jaded about the war and things don’t bother you so much anymore.
Early the next morning, Weber wasn’t quite as cavalier. The solitary Liberator named San Jacinto blindly flew through the predawn darkness, which seemed to be without any sense of time, space, speed or direction. Weber continuously scanned his flight instruments, a well-needed collection of attitude and directional indicators, airspeed and altitude meters, a vertical velocity gauge, and engine performance readouts. His eyes darted from one instrument to the next, never lingering for more than a few seconds, lest he drop out a vital piece of information from his cross check. He kept the plane’s heading on the one that his navigator had calculated, a heading that would guide their bomber to its target: Rabaul, the dreaded fortress from which the Japanese directed their war effort in New Guinea and the Solomon Islands.
The weather experts predicted that they would have clear and smooth flying all the way to Rabaul and back, but forecasting was imprecise at best. Weather reports depended on analyzing actual weather phenomena and making an educated guess as to where it would interfere with air operations. During the monsoon season, the winds blew from the northwest, which meant most storms came from Japanese territory and waters. That was why Weber’s Liberator, call sign Rifle One, was now sandwiched between layers of clouds blotting out the moon, stars, and sea. The Japanese weather guessers never bothered to tell the Allies that a storm system was moving toward the southeast, toward where most of the Allied weather stations gleaned their meteorological data.
Despite the lack of visual cues, his navigator Lt Baker earned his paycheck by guiding San Jacinto using dead reckoning headings and timing that would place them within several miles of the target. At night, he would normally use the celestial bodies to determine their true position, much like the early seagoing navigators had done for centuries. Amazingly, not much had changed since the days when Columbus, Drake, Cook, and others had put out into an unforgiving sea to explore the ends of the earth. Technology made the task easier, but the same basic techniques remained.
The airmen felt they were safe from enemy fighters at this ungodly hour, so they napped relatively peacefully at their positions. They were still over an hour from the target, a target that they had to find and highlight for the strike force that followed thirty minutes in trail. Somewhere in the darkness was another pathfinder aircraft, the tip of the spear for the 43rd Bomb Group, leading a similar strike force of Flying Fortresses. The first raiders, a formation of low-flying B-25 Mitchells and A-20 Havocs, were due to strike the numerous airfields and triple-A sites just before sunrise, about the time Weber’s crew would arrive. It was going to be an eventful day, to say the least.
Weber's radio operator passed an encrypted weather and position report to Connell’s Special, the mission lead aircraft, whose call sign was Saturn one. The colonel would make the ultimate call if the raid would proceed, but it was premature to call the raid off this early. Weber did not envy the rest of the nearly forty-five bombers behind them, as they would be flying in close formation through the worst of the inclement weather. He just hoped that they would break out of the stranglehold of clouds impeding their mission.
The radio operator of Connell’s Special received the report from Rifle one and immediately informed the mission commander. The colonel stared into the darkness as he listened to the gloomy report, but he wasn’t too concerned. Once the sun rose, things might look better. He was eager not only to hit the Japanese where it really hurt, but he could finally test his new nose turret. His first sergeant manned the new contraption; he was a man who he completely trusted with his life. They had flown together for years, long before the war. In the co-pilot’s seat sat the group’s chief pilot, a highly experienced command pilot in his own right. The rest of the crew was senior as well; not one man was below the rank of technical sergeant. When the big boys went flying, they usually did it in packs.
Since the deputy group commander was leading the high profile mission, mandated by the 5th Air Force commander, General Kenney, the individual squadron commanders saw fit to lead their own squadrons into battle under the colonel’s overall command. If the Japanese knew how top heavy the group’s effort was today, they’d send up everything they had. It really didn’t make good sense to send so many high-ranking men on the same mission, but the men appreciated the fact that their leaders were willing to face the same risks as they were.
Further back in the massive formation, the crew of Divine Vengeance was on their third mission. They flew the number four position in Viking flight, led by a particularly fierce looking Liberator named Moby Dick, its forward fuselage adorned with the jagged toothy grin of its literary namesake. Inside Viking four, the men shivered, despite their heavy flying gear, and talked about the upcoming target. Two of the veteran gunners attempted to soothe the rookie gunners’ concerns.
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” Peterson cajoled. “We’re going to hit them so damned early, we’ll be back at Moresby drinking beer before the Nips make it airborne. Besides, I hear that they’re going to hit the Jap airfields before we go over. Those .50 cals they installed on the A-20 will cut a plane to shreds in a heartbeat. I almost feel sorry for the dumb bastards.”
“I don’t know,” Fassino, the rookie flight engineer, answered. “Just last week you said that Rabaul was about the worst place we go. It sounds like we’re going to be in a world of hurt.”
“Well, it’ll be tough, for sure. I won’t lie to you. But, they aren’t invincible. It won’t be any worse than the Madang run last week. But, we’ll probably see some fighters today. That is, if the weather lifts. I got my kill the last time I was here. Hell, Knapp might even get a Nip today! You never know.”
“I will get a fighter today. I know it,” the waist gunner chimed in.
“Yeah, that’s what you always say,” Peterson laughed.
“What’ll happen if we get over the target and the weather is still lousy?” Reilly, the radio operator, asked. “Will we come all this way and just go back home?”
“No, that’s what alternates are for. You don’t remember the briefing? Whaddaya do, sleep through it? That won’t get you very far out here. It’ll get you killed.”
“Just tell me...”
“The alternate is Gasmata Airfield, on the south coast of New Britain. You gotta remember these things.”
In the co-pilot’s seat, Vega stared into the darkness past the dim outline of Viking three. There was barely enough light to see their wingman, much less the flight leader in the number one position. He didn’t envy the task that his pilot, Capt Harris, had to perform. There was little room for error when flying formation at night.
“Pilot to navigator,” Harris transmitted. “How much further until the target?”
“Oh, about an hour and a half,” the navigator answered. “That is, if we can find it in this mess. For all I know, we could be coming up on Tokyo.”
Just over an hour later, the men aboard Rifle One were wide-awake, staring into the milky clouds as they approached the target. Or at least where they thought the target would be. The sun would make its first appearance shortly if not for the solid deck of clouds beneath them and the broken deck of clouds above them. Weber checked his luminescent watch; it was exactly 0535. They would be over the target in less than ten minutes and it was still impossible to see any semblance of anything outside of the aircraft. If they were going to make this raid happen, they would have to descend into the dark swirling clouds beneath them to look for a hole.
“Pilot to nav,” Weber drawled. “What’s our time on target again?”
“Seven minutes, stay on heading 035.”
“We’ll never see anything in this mess,” the co-pilot said. “We should descend and see if we can get below it.”
“We’re pretty close to our minimum safe altitude,” Weber answered. “Hey, nav, what’s a safe altitude down there?”
“There’s high terrain, including an active volcano and several dormant ones, up to 7,600 feet. I wouldn’t go any lower than 8,500 feet.”
“Hell, we won’t be able to find that Jap trap unless we go lower than that! If only that volcano would blow its top an’ finish them bastards off for us. OK, we’re going down to 8,500 feet. Reilly, tell the fleet we’re going down to take a peek.”
Saturn one received Reilly’s message and the colonel was advised. He frowned at the news. He’d hoped for a break in the monsoon, but they might not be so lucky. Hitting the airfields at Gasmata wouldn’t be as satisfying as hitting Rabaul. He didn’t know why 5th Bomber Command wanted such a large strike against Rabaul. They had hit the stronghold a few weeks ago and it had cost them dearly. Something big was happening and Rabaul had to be taken out. However, the colonel wasn’t always privy to top secret intelligence reports, which was fine with him. If he were ever shot down and taken prisoner, he’d have nothing to tell his captors.
Commander Isoji Ito picked up the dedicated phone line that was connected to the Imperial Navy Headquarters deep beneath Rabaul. The Japanese had constructed a maze of underground tunnels in response to recent Allied air attacks, and the officers and men who lived in the catacombs felt relatively safe from the marauding bombers that had all but leveled much of the occupied city. The subterranean headquarters was the nerve center of the Japanese war effort, and it was well protected by layers of volcanic rock. The voice he heard on the other end of the line was Rabaul’s commander of air defense, Rear Admiral Jinichi Kusaka, who rarely ventured forth from his underground lair.
“Ito, radar indicates a solo target to our west. That puts it in your sector.”
What the hell does he want me to do about it, Ito wondered. Can’t he tell that there’s a thunderstorm overhead? Then again, he can’t, since he’s buried forty feet beneath the city.
“Admiral Kusaka-san,” he politely began. “The monsoon rains have returned. Would you have me launch my men to pursue one aircraft in a torrential downpour?”
“They are probably the vanguard of a large strike force!” the mole-like admiral yelled. The tone in his voice just reached the tone required to make Ito’s phone ring for a brief second. “I don’t want my fighters caught on the ground when they arrive. Now, get a patrol up and find out how many there are and the direction they’re coming from!”
If radar can pick up one aircraft, it can certainly pick up a large force, Ito thought. Then they’d know the direction of the bombers. Why subject his men to a dangerous launch in inclement weather to find a strike force that most likely can’t find Rabaul anyway.
“This is a direct order, Ito. Get your men up there!” Kusaka abruptly hung up.
With a sigh, Ito replaced the phone into its cradle. He hated to send his men up on a morning like today. But orders were orders. He nodded to his executive officer.
“Launch the men. The Americans are coming.”
Driving rain pelted the windscreen of Rifle one as they cruised at 8,500 feet over New Britain. One of the inherent problems of navigating without the means of celestial navigation or visual landmarks meant that you could get lost. Which is what happened to Rifle one, although they didn’t know it yet. The navigator had given Weber his best estimate on their heading and he had even tried to correct for the strong northwesterly winds, but he went wide of the mark. They were droning along the coast forty miles northwest of Rabaul, heading out to sea.
Tha navigator knew something was wrong when his timing didn’t work. They didn’t break out as desired, but he wasn’t quite sure that they were where he wanted them to be. But he had a solution. He knew that the Japanese sometimes broadcast a radio program from Rabaul, on which Tokyo Rose berated the GIs slugging it out with the Japanese, imploring the meddling Yanks to give up their useless struggle against the Japanese Empire and go home. At least she played good music.
“Nav to radio operator,” he began. See if you can pick up any radio transmissions out of Rabaul. Let me know if you tune something in.”
“What’s up, nav?” Weber inquired. “Are we lost?”
“Not really, Chief. I think that we’re starting to go too far north though. Just call it a hunch. I think I can home in on a signal if they’re broadcasting.”
“Hey, I got something,” the radio operator announced a few minutes later. “Here it comes.” The big band sounds of Chattanooga Choo Choo filled their headphones.
Several men sang along as Baker attempted to track down the signal.
“How do you know it’s the Japs?” the bombardier asked the navigator. “Could it be one of our transmissions?”
“No way, cowpoke. We’re not that dumb.”
“Actually, it could be,” the radioman piped in.
“Shuddup, Lindy!” the navigatoe rebuked. “Pilot, fly a heading of 110. That’ll put us over the top of the station located at 100 Tojo Street. This broadcast is coming from our little yellow friends at WBAL, Rabaul’s all hit radio, playing your favorite songs all the time, with your DJ, Tokyo Rose! Let’s drop by and revoke their broadcast license!”
“Excellent work, Baker,” Weber laughed. “Tonight the beers on me!”
Despite the rainstorms over New Britain, the Japanese radio signal carried the English speaking voice of the woman known as Tokyo Rose. In the recording studio in Japan, where she provided her voice for the propagandists, she could have never known that her voice would lead the Americans toward one of Japan’s strongest fortresses scattered across their vast empire. The programs were beamed into Allied camps scattered across the Solomons and New Guinea, telling homesick GIs what their wives and girlfriends were doing at home.
“You may say you are fighting for freedom, but do you know what your wives are doing in cities across America? With you out of the way, they now have the freedom to date any man they want. Do you really think they are chastely waiting for you to return from the war? No. They are dancing the night away with fat cat industrialists and rich businessmen, who are making huge profits at your expense. They sell your decadent government arms to wage a hopeless war against a nation whose only goal is to liberate Asia from the outdated, colonial powers which have greedily drained the resources of Asian nations for their own good. Your women are laughing and enjoying their freedom, while you seek to stand in the way of a new and prosperous Asia. Go home, GI, and take your women back from the war profiteers and let Asia determine its own future!”
“Do you think anyone buys that crap?” the bombardier asked to nobody in particular. “You’d have to be pretty stupid to believe her bullshit.”
“I just like the music she plays,” Baker replied.
The Japanese finally realized their error and the voice of Tokyo Rose was silenced. The needle on Baker’s automatic direction finding gauge lost its signal and began spinning in its case, ever in search of a new frequency. It was almost as if they had pulled the plug to the station. Moments later, a high-pitched squealing filled his headset.
“Damn! They’re on to us, Chief!”
“Pilot to radio operator. How’s our tactical frequency?”
“They got it too, pilot. I’ll check the secondary freq.”
“Don’t worry, Chief,” Baker chimed in. “I estimate that we’re overhead now.”
“Lotta good that does us,” Weber answered. “We’re at our min safe altitude and we’re still in the clouds. And with the Japs jamming our tac freqs, we’re not doin’ anybody any good up here.”
“Chief, we can go down to 7,700 feet,” Baker advised, looking at his terrain charts. “That’ll take us 800 feet lower and give us 100 feet over the highest terrain.”
“A hundred feet isn’t much in weather like this. I’ll drop down another 500 feet, but if we don’t break out, I don’t wanna go any lower. Today’s just not a good day to bomb the Japs, I guess.”
Lieutenant Sekido was not a happy man. Roused from his warm bunk by Commander Ito’s executive officer, he and his wingmen were ordered to takeoff into the dark ominous heart of a thunderstorm to locate and destroy an American aircraft, which had foolishly stumbled into a violent storm that would have undoubtedly destroyed the intruder anyway. His Zero was no better equipped to handle such weather, but he reluctantly followed his commanding officer’s wish, even though he knew that he had little chance of finding the American, much less coming home safely himself. He didn’t believe in taking unnecessary risks, yet he was flying when he knew it was unsafe. His leather helmet was able to soften the blows to his head as occasional downdrafts and turbulence slammed it into the canopy as his plane was tossed around like a kite.
He peered into the clouds for any break in the weather as the trio of fighters climbed into the stormy heights, now passing 8,000 feet. There was sufficient visibility to remain as a formation, although a thin screen of mist reduced the other two Zeros to indistinct ghosts racing next to him in the dusky heavens. It was especially important to remain together, since ground stations were now jamming the radio frequencies. He and his men would have to rely on visual signals to communicate with each other. He hoped that his wingmen would not fly too close, lest they inadvertently collide in a severe downdraft. That would be a horrible way to die, Sekido thought. As he purposely wagged his wings to push them out a few more feet, he never considered that he was about to die almost exactly that way.
In a heartbeat, he saw a charging monster roar from the windswept clouds, four large engines spewing death through the heavens. Sekido barely had time to scream, much less change course, before his fighter slammed into the right wing and nose of the large American aircraft. Fortunately, death came quickly and painlessly as his shattered Zero perished in a fireball, its flaming debris falling toward the invisible earth. The bomber’s right wing, cleaved in two by the impact, fell earthward as the massive, burning aircraft rolled over for its own death spiral.
Sekido’s last command to his wingmen managed to save their lives, as one Zero cleared the bomber’s right wingtip by mere feet, while the other fighter flew under the left wing, though not quite clearing the blur of metal flying overhead. The bomber’s wing sheared off the Zero’s vertical stabilizer and half of the left horizontal stabilizer. The panic stricken pilot tried to retain control of his doomed airplane, but with the fierce winds pummeling his now descending craft, he made the crucial decision to bailout, throwing his lot in with the storm. He would not enjoy the turbulent parachute ride, but he would live. His wounded Zero impacted the steep, jagged, igneous slopes of Tuvurvur volcano seconds later.
The colonel had an important decision to make, whether to turn his force toward the secondary target or to continue toward Rabaul, where a large flotilla of Japanese vessels lay at anchor. The directive to destroy the vessels had come from the very highest levels, probably from MacArthur himself. If he turned his bombers from the primary objective, he would be called on the carpet for his decision. But, the generals weren’t up here with the colonel and his men. The brass wouldn’t see the storm that the Liberators were flying into. And now, he did not even have contact with his pathfinder, due to enemy jamming on the radio frequencies.
He listened to the tortuous wail as his radio operator tried to contact Rifle one. His voice had a hollow, metallic ring to it as he transmitted, sounding like he was a character on the Buck Rogers radio program. Despite his best efforts, he was unable to penetrate the electronic shield the Japanese had thrown up.
The Liberators would be unable to remain together in the storm. Already, they had lost sight of part of the formation, as visibility was rapidly dropping. Tendrils of rain-swollen clouds seemed to reach out at the bombers as they raced north. Waist gunners felt the stinging mist against their masked faces as moisture funneled into the open windows. Ice began forming on the slick metal floors, as well as on propellers and wings. When enough ice had accumulated, it would change the lift capabilities of the bombers, making continued flight nearly impossible.
“Hell, if they want my wings, they can have ‘em. No way in hell am I going to take my boys further into this mess. Flying into this pea soup is going to get someone killed. And it won’t be the Japs, if you know what I mean!”
“I hope you know what you’re doing, sir,” his co-pilot advised. “Kenney’s liable to be piping mad.”
“Don’t worry, I can handle him. Kenney will understand once he hears how bad this storm is. He doesn’t want to lose any planes to midair collisions or weather.”
“Nav to pilot. It’ll be a left turn to a heading of 230 degrees for Gasmata. We're going to hit the alternate target.”
