Fortress Rabaul (54 page)

Early the next morning, while Vice Admiral Ugaki remained abed with symptoms of dengue fever, Yamamoto traveled to Vunakanau airdrome to personally send off another strike. An inspiring sight in his crisp white uniform, he waved to the passing crews as 17 Betty medium bombers of Air Group 751 taxied into position and then roared down the dusty strip, followed by 26 Bettys of Air Group 705. Forming the 1st and 2nd Attack Units, respectively, they were joined by a direct escort of 65 Zeros from the land-based air groups as well as the carrier
Zuiho
. A separate Fighter Striking Unit consisting of Zeros from
Zuikaku, Hiyo
, and
Junyo
also participated, increasing the total force to 43 bombers and some 130 fighters.

The attack units, flying in two large formations, headed initially toward Milne Bay. At 0945 they were detected by a radar station at Dona, on the New Guinea coast, resulting in the scramble of almost every operational Allied fighter on the near side of the Owen Stanley Mountains. The radar signal was lost shortly after the initial detection, but at 0955 a different warning station reported thirty bombers and sixty fighters crossing the Owen Stanley Mountains en route to Port Moresby.

The feint, aided perhaps by a glitch in radar coverage, gave the attackers an ideal opportunity to cause serious harm. Not only were most of the
Allied interceptors heading toward Milne Bay, but there were many prime targets at Port Moresby. Only two days earlier, General Kenney had arrived to spell General Whitehead for a few weeks as director of air operations. One well-placed bomb on his headquarters might have set the Allied air forces back many months.

Kenney was able to see the approaching aircraft from his headquarters. He counted twenty-seven medium bombers, undoubtedly those of Air Group 705, “
flying in excellent mass formation
,” followed by a second group of eighteen, which could only have been the bombers from Air Group 751. Kenney also counted “between sixty and seventy fighters,” again coming close to the correct number.

Although it was a formidable attack force, the Japanese failed once again to take advantage of their numerical strength. Rather than concentrating the bombers’ payloads on one important target—the logical choice would have been Jackson airdrome, with its area headquarters—the two formations separately attacked outlying fields. The large formation of Bettys from Air Group 705, led by Lt. Cmdr. Tomo-o Nakamura, maneuvered to attack Schwimmer and Berry airdromes from the northwest at an altitude of approximately twenty-two thousand feet. The smaller group, led by Lt. Cmdr. Masaichi Suzuki, targeted Ward’s field and the adjacent area, known as Five Mile Valley.

The attack on April 12, despite being the largest of the 106 raids on Port Moresby to date, proved relatively insignificant. At Schwimmer, three B-25s and a Beaufighter were destroyed and some fifteen aircraft damaged, though many of the latter were back in operational status within a matter of weeks. Bombs cratered the runways at three outlying fields, several buildings and tents were blasted at Berry airdrome, and a stockpile of five thousand gasoline drums went up in a spectacular blaze near Ward’s field. Several men working at the fuel dump died in the massive fire, but they were evidently the only casualties on the ground.

An estimated forty-four P-38s and P-39s intercepted the attackers beginning at 1010 hours. Some pursued the Japanese eastward to the New Guinea coast, where fighters of RAAF 8 and 9 Squadrons joined in. The Allies claimed thirteen Bettys and ten Zeros destroyed, plus six bombers and one fighter as probable victories. In addition, antiaircraft batteries claimed two bombers destroyed and four probably destroyed. But the attack cost the Japanese only two Zeros among the fighter groups,
while six Bettys from Air Group 751 were shot down and another was lost to a crash-landing at Lae. None of Air Group 705’s Bettys were lost in combat, although eleven sustained varying degrees of damage and one was subsequently destroyed in a landing mishap at Lae.

Some of the claims submitted by the returning Japanese airmen were consistent with actual damages. Bombs dropped by Air Group 751 “started great explosions at two sections of the 5th airstrip,” which correlates with the burned-out fuel dump; and the crews of Air Group 705 reported that their barrage of bombs blanketed “4 large and 10 small planes.” But other claims, such as the sinking of a seven-thousand-ton ship in the harbor and the shooting down of twenty-eight Allied aircraft (plus seven more considered “uncertain” victories), were greatly exaggerated. There is no record of a vessel being attacked in the harbor, let alone hit, and Allied fighter losses totaled only two P-39s, with one pilot recovered. That afternoon, Yamamoto paid a visit to Ugaki. The chief of staff had been admitted to the hospital because of dengue fever, and was eager to hear the news of the attack on Port Moresby. Both men were highly encouraged by the deceptive reports submitted by the aircrews.

Ugaki was released the following day, his fever under control if not altogether gone. It seemed as though almost everyone at Rabaul was feeling better. Yamamoto even appeared to be healthier, exhibiting a hearty appetite. Between missions he chatted, planned strategy, and played
shōgi
with Vice Admiral Kusaka and other officers in the Southeast Area Fleet Headquarters.

The positive mood spread outward through the ranks. “
The carrier-based pilots
are all high-spirited,” wrote Petty Officer Igarashi on April 13. “They are a good stimulus to our land-based attack units as we tend to be in low spirits.”

Unfortunately for the Japanese, the boost in morale was brief, flaring like the filament in a light bulb just before it burns out.

CHAPTER 27

Death of a Warrior God

T
HE ASSUMPTION THAT
I-Go Sakusen
was succeeding undoubtedly helped the overall mood at Rabaul. But to an even greater degree, the mere presence of Admiral Yamamoto was a great inspiration to the Japanese soldiers, sailors, and airmen. He understood the importance of being seen by the aircrews, of mingling with them, just as General Kenney did with his “kids” in New Guinea. Yamamoto therefore continued to don his dress whites to perform highly visible, ritualistic send-offs at the start of each
I-Go
mission. On April 13, after seeing how his appearances encouraged the men at Rabaul, he announced his intention to tour the forward area “in order to raise the morale of the men stationed there.”

That very afternoon, a message outlining Yamamoto’s proposed visit was drafted for the purpose of notifying the outlying bases. The information was laid out precisely: the date and time of Yamamoto’s departure from Rabaul (April 18, 0600), the location of the first stop and estimated time of arrival (Ballale, 0800), the type of aircraft Yamamoto and his staff would ride in (land-based medium bomber), the number of escorts (six fighters), and the exact itinerary to be followed throughout the day.

Using a new naval code that had gone into effect only two weeks earlier, the message was transmitted from Rabaul a few minutes before 1800, Japan Standard Time. Powerful, low-frequency radio waves
radiated outward from the transmitter in all directions and within seconds were received by the intended addressees. Decoding the message took a bit longer, but the information was delivered as intended throughout the lower Solomons. One recipient, Rear Adm. Takatsugu Jojima, commander of the 11th Seaplane Tender Division based at Shortland Island, was immediately critical of the transmission. “
What a damn fool thing to do
, to send such a long and detailed message about the activities of the C-in-C so near the front,” he said to his subordinates. “This kind of thing must stop.”

At Rabaul, Admiral Ozawa also voiced his opposition, but Yamamoto refused to change his mind. Ozawa then appealed to Capt. Kameto Kuroshima, a senior member of Yamamoto’s staff. “
If he insists on going
, six fighters are nothing like enough,” Ozawa said. “Tell the chief of staff that he can have as many of my planes as he likes.” But Ugaki was in the hospital with dengue fever, and Ozawa’s pledge was not delivered.

Yamamoto’s fleet commanders were right to be concerned. The radio waves that carried the encrypted message did not simply stop; instead they kept radiating outward, bending around the curvature of the Earth, bouncing from clouds, and within seconds of transmittal they were picked up by American listening posts. At Pearl Harbor, room-sized IBM card-reading machines sorted through the variables of the updated naval code and detected the message’s heading: C-in-C, Combined Fleet. That alone was enough to put the human code-breakers on high alert. Veteran cryptanalysts soon filled in many of the blanks that the primitive computer missed and realized that the message represented far more than a travel itinerary. The wealth of details placed the man who had masterminded the attack on Pearl Harbor in an extremely vulnerable situation. His flight to Ballale would bring him within 325 statute miles of Guadalcanal. “
This is our chance to get Yamamoto
,” said an officer at the Fleet Radio Unit.

That morning, April 14, a copy of the message was delivered to Admiral Nimitz. For a short while he deliberated the pros and cons of using the information to eliminate Yamamoto, but the decision was really quite simple. As author Donald Davis later put it, Yamamoto represented “the hated face of the Japanese war machine… . Killing him would be a horrific setback for Japan, and, for America, payback for Pearl Harbor.” Nimitz gave the go-ahead, and by midmorning the
message had been forwarded to South Pacific Area headquarters on New Caledonia. From there it went to Rear Adm. Marc A. Mitscher, commander of aircraft operations in the Solomons (abbreviated as COMAIRSOLS). In turn, Mitscher called a secret meeting for his staff, where it was determined that any possible interception of Yamamoto’s flight would have to be conducted by P-38s, the only type of fighter at Guadalcanal with the range to fly to Bougainville and back. Because the Solomons were west of the International Date Line, it was already April 15, which gave Fighter Command less than three days to plan the most important mission of the war.

AT RABAUL, Yamamoto wore his dress whites again on April 14 to send off the next attack, a two-pronged mission labeled “Y-1” and “Y-2.” Seventy-five fighters and twenty-three dive-bombers from the Third Fleet, joined by fifty-four fighters and forty-four medium bombers of the Eleventh Air Fleet, took off to attack the harbor and airfields at Milne Bay. Along the way, four bombers of Air Group 751 turned back, and two others were damaged in a midair collision, but the force remained powerful with nearly two hundred aircraft.

For all the armada’s potential, however, the Japanese failed once again to deliver a knockout blow. Three Allied ships were hit at Milne Bay, but only one was seriously damaged. Forty-four Allied fighters intercepted the Japanese and claimed nineteen “confirmed” kills, plus six additional planes as probably destroyed, but the raid actually cost the Japanese only eight aircraft. Similarly, losses for the Allies amounted to just one P-40 and its pilot. Four other P-40s were “pretty badly shot up,” and one P-38 crash-landed.

Back at Rabaul, the returning aircrews reported hugely inflated results again: three large transports and one medium transport sunk, six transports damaged heavily and set on fire, forty-four Allied planes shot down for certain. That night, Rear Admiral Ugaki believed he had reason to gloat in his diary:

Today’s operations of Y-1 and Y-2 a great success
. Congratulations! But at the same time our losses gradually increased too. This was natural. A telegram from the chief of the Naval General Staff stated that when he reported the result of Operation Y-1 and Y-2 to the emperor, His Majesty gave the following words: “Please convey my satisfaction to the commander-in-chief, Combined Fleet, and tell him to enlarge the war result more than ever.”

A fighter sweep was planned for April 16, which gave the Japanese a full day to prepare the aircraft, but when reconnaissance flights failed to turn up adequate targets on New Guinea’s northeast coast, the raid was called off. As Yamamoto and his staff compiled the reports from the previous missions, they were convinced that the Allies had suffered tremendous harm. Aggregate claims for ships sunk at Guadalcanal and New Guinea included one cruiser, two destroyers, six large transports, and ten medium transports. Japanese aircrews and fighter pilots also claimed to have shot down 134 Allied planes for certain and damaged another 56. But as Ugaki pointed out in his diary, Japanese losses were mounting. After a week of conducting large-scale attacks, 26 percent of the Vals had been expended along with 18 percent of the land-based Bettys. Given the apparent success of the attacks and the trend in friendly losses, Yamamoto ordered the conclusion of
I-Go Sakusen
.

The next morning, April 17, Vice Admiral Ugaki chaired a conference at 8th Base Force headquarters to review the lessons learned from the aerial offensive. Numerous high-ranking naval officers were present, including Yamamoto, who was content to observe while the aviation gurus discussed important matters. One topic that generated keen interest was the tendency of Japanese warplanes to catch fire after just a few hits with incendiary or even tracer rounds. That the experts even acknowledged the problem was unusual. The Japanese were highly reluctant to admit that hundreds of aviators had been burnt to a crisp because the aircraft engineers scorned the weight penalty of protected fuel tanks. To the contrary, the Japanese typically accounted for their losses by applying reverse psychology: whenever one of their aircraft burst into flames or was otherwise shot down during combat, it wasn’t entirely because the enemy had scored fatal hits; instead, the plane had merely been damaged, and its pilot decided to blow himself up (along with his crew, if applicable) as a symbolic act of suicide.