DELAYED REPORT OF A “ROUTINE PATROL”
It was a cruel joke to call scouting patrols conducted by PBY seaplanes of Patrol Wing 10 “routine.” Hell, anything could happen on these flights, and generally did. On board the PBY-4 that took off from Saumlakki Bay, on Jamdena Island in the Netherlands East Indies, at dawn 5 February 1942, the crew of two officers and six enlisted men entertained no happy illusions. They had survived these routine patrols before. What’s more, from the opening guns of World World II, they had seen the woefully inadequate air arm of the Asiatic Fleet chopped down from forty-four to a mere seventeen PBYs.* Little did they know that when this day was done Nipponese pilots would chalk off five more, including theirs.
Once airborne, the command pilot, Lieutenant (jg) Richard Bull, announced their patrol would take them 300 miles north to the southeastern tip of Ceram, then 350 miles west to Buru Island. From there they would beeline it home. Between Ceram and Buru they would pass over the former ABDA base at Ambon, on Amboina Island, now occupied by the Japanese, and unload bombs on a few transports reported anchored there. Opposition from fighter aircraft was not anticipated.
More than four hours passed to the monotonous, but reassuring drone of motors. Few words were spoken as all eyes incessantly searched for the enemy. Nothing had been seen even to suggest that Japanese forces existed in this part of the Banda Sea. Now, 40 miles out of Ambon, tensions mounted as the engines, responding to increased power, droned louder, and the PBY laboriously climbed to 17,000 feet. At that, their maximum altitude, they would be beyond the range of antiaircraft guns normally carried by merchant ships.
Lieutenant Bull moved forward to work the bombsight in the nose section, and Ensign William Hargrave slid over into the first pilot’s seat. Chief Aviation Machinist’s Mate Oliver, also a naval aviator, assumed the duties of co-pilot. Minutes dragged by until breaking waves gave the first indication of a shoreline. The first ship sighted, a Japanese cruiser patrolling off the entrance to Ambon Harbor, was considered no cause for alarm. In fact, it was a good indicator that the transports they sought were lying at anchor inside.
Soon the entire harbor unfolded below them. To their astonishment, it was cluttered with ships—more than twenty of them, including two aircraft carriers and several cruisers. Merchant ships were forgotten as targets. Although they were bound to be within range of the cruisers’ antiaircraft guns, the thought of knocking off an aircraft carrier was an exhilarating challenge Lieutenant Bull elected to accept.
The enemy contact report was quickly transmitted to commander, Patrol Wing 10, and Ensign Hargrave steadied the PBY on course to the target selected by Bull. Midway to the aircraft carrier, the surrounding sky erupted with black puffs of smoke from exploding flack, and shock waves buffeted the seaplane. It seemed as though every ship in the harbor was firing at them, but steadfastly the course was held.
Suddenly a more dangerous threat than flack was observed. Fighter planes, scrambling from an airfield, were racing to intercept them. Realizing that to continue on would be sheer suicide, Bull yelled at Hargrave to get the hell out of the area and into the protective cover of a large cloud bank to the east at 12,000 feet.
Hargrave immediately responded by manhandling the heavy-on-the-controls PBY into a violent, diving turn. Seconds away from sanctuary in the clouds, Zeros, approaching to port, opened fire. In a frantic effort to throw them off, Hargrave slipped the cumbersome flying boat toward and under the attackers. This surprising, unorthodox maneuver prevented the plane from being shot out of the sky on the spot, but as it entered the clouds, streams of bullets chewed jagged holes in the port wing and tail section.
They were no sooner safely hidden in clouds than the port engine, damaged by bullets, quit, and was quickly feathered. In an effort to maintain altitude and remain in the clouds, all bombs were jettisoned, but the altimeter continued to unwind. Now gasoline from a severed fuel line commenced streaming into the hull; its acrid fumes permeated the plane. Fearing an explosion at any moment, Hargrave shut down the remaining engine and turned off the radio transmitter to prevent sparking. Long, anxious moments followed as Hargrave grimly dove the PBY beyond redline speed for a water landing.
PBY seaplane of the type flown by pilots of Patrol Wing 10. National Archives 80–G–1791
They broke out of the clouds at 5,000 feet over the north coast of Amboina Island. Fortunately, no enemy aircraft were in sight while Hargrave made a dead-stick landing a half mile off the beach near the native village of Hila. Safely down, all hands quickly prepared to abandon ship. The pilots then learned that Aviation Machinist’s Mate Third Class Sharp had either jumped or been shot and fallen over the side during the engagement. The tailgunner, Radioman Third Class Cusack, was bleeding profusely from wounds in his right arm and left leg.
While Lieutenant Bull destroyed the secret bomb sight and classified codes, Hargrave administered first aid to Cusack, but was unable to stanch the flow of blood. Because of the urgency of getting the wounded man to a doctor, a rubber life raft was hurriedly inflated and launched. Cusack was lowered into it, then Hargrave, Radioman First Class Nelson, and Aviation Machinist’s Mate Second Class Muller climbed on board. Lieutenant Bull ordered them to head for the beach, saying he and the two men with him would follow in a second raft as soon as they finished scuttling the plane.
The men in the raft were just shoving off when the unmistakable high-pitched whine of a plane diving at great speed was heard. Looking up, the men were dismayed to find a Japanese Zero bearing down on them. All at once, yellow flames erupted from its machine guns. Deadly bullets, reaching for the target, kicked up a chain of nasty little geysers in the sea, and then, with an awesome clatter, ripped into the PBY fore and aft. The three men on board never had a chance.
During the initial shock, the men in the life raft took refuge beneath the seaplane’s starboard wing. As the fighter circled for a second pass, Hargrave, Nelson, and Muller dove into the water, and, towing Cusack in the raft, swam for their lives. They were not more than 50 yards away when bullets again ripped through the plane. This time there was a violent explosion. A hellish fireball shot high in the air, and the PBY vanished.
Where the plane went down, burning gasoline covered the surface of the sea and was rapidly spreading. Muller, who lagged 10 yards behind the others, was suddenly trapped in the flames. Hargrave and Nelson, towing the raft, managed to keep beyond the fire’s reach. While the hapless men struggled to gain the beach, the heroic Japanese pilot, thirsting for more Yankee blood, made two strafing runs on them. This time his aim proved poor.
Hargrave and Nelson, who had escaped with only minor cuts and bruises, carried Cusack ashore. Then, hearing Muller’s shouts, they raced back into waist-deep water to save him from drowning. Though he had severe burns all over his body and was in a state of shock, Muller somehow had managed to swim more than a quarter of a mile. Anxiously searching seaward, Hargrave and Nelson found no signs of their squadron mates. Only the diminishing fire, which still spewed oily black smoke into the sky, gave mute testimony to the mission’s tragic end.
Friendly natives from the village of Hila gathered around the survivors, trying to help. Through one who spoke some English, the men learned there was no doctor available. The village “head man” offered them food and a small grass hut, and brought bandages and coconut oil to treat the injured. Cusack’s wounds stopped bleeding and there was hope that he would recover, but Muller was in constant agony and unable to move.
Two days later, on 7 February, the natives found a body in the water which Hargrave sadly identified as Oliver, the third pilot. The natives buried him at sea. The next day they found another body, identified by Nelson as Aviation Machinist’s Mate Bean. He too was buried at sea. Lieutenant (jg) Bull’s body was never sighted.
Although everything possible was done to make Muller and Cusack comfortable, their failure to improve after four days was a matter of deep concern. It was imperative that all of them escape to the south, but the wretched condition of the sick men made this impossible. Neither Hargrave nor Nelson could stomach the thought of moving out, leaving their comrades to an uncertain fate, but something drastic had to done and quickly. On the word of natives that there were a few Australian soldiers somewhere down the coast, Nelson set out to find them in the hope that they had the urgently needed medical supplies.
During Nelson’s five-day absence, Hargrave had the forlorn task of tending the wounded, who grew progressively worse. Muller was delirious most of the time, forcing Hargrave to be with him day and night. It was a heartrending task to stand helplessly by while comrades moved to the end of the line. Nelson’s arrival did nothing to alleviate the situation. He had encountered and returned with a lone Australian soldier who had escaped a Japanese massacre at Ambon. The man had no knowledge of other soldiers or of medical supplies.
The situation was now desperate, not only from the standpoint of the wounded, but also in terms of the safety of the others. Japanese planes continually flew over the village, and the “head man” was apprehensive that he and his people would be caught sheltering them. Japanese reprisals for such activities were well known, and the results were ugly. Left with no alternative, Hargrave explained to the wounded men that their only chance lay in finding help at the Japanese Army hospital at Ambon. It was a long shot, but Cusack and Muller agreed to go and, that afternoon set out for Ambon in a canoe manned by natives.
Early the next morning, Hargrave, Nelson, and the Aussie began walking along the coastline hoping to find a village with a boat large enough to take them to Ceram. The Japanese had not yet landed on that island, and the Dutch were known to have several radio stations there which were still in contact with ABDA forces. If they could get a message to Patrol Wing 10, a PBY would be dispatched to pick them up. At least that was the hope which motivated them.
Two days later they came upon an Australian soldier lying in the shade of palm trees alongside a fresh water stream. He too had escaped from Ambon, but was suffering the chills and fevers of malaria. He begged to go with them, but his condition and the distance to be hiked made that out of the question. Hargrave and Nelson knew that powerful Japanese forces would soon overrun the lightly defended Dutch East Indies, and feared time was running out. Nevertheless, they decided to remain with the man until he gained enough strength to continue. Fortunately, when they left Hila they had obtained, along with food, a small supply of quinine pills, which they started administering to the stricken man. In four days he was back on his feet and ready to go.
Tired and hungry, the four men shuffled into a large Moslem village on the morning of 23 February, to be greeted by a friendly rajah who not only ordered food brought to them, but also promised transportation to Ceram. The men were anxious to continue on without delay, but the rajah insisted they rest during the day and travel at night to avoid enemy eyes. While they were resting, natives from Hila arrived by canoe with the sad news that Muller had died en route to Ambon. He had been buried by the Japanese who, it was believed, took Cusack to the hospital.
They headed out to sea at midnight in a large canoe manned by two natives. Everyone took turns paddling, and by dawn they had crossed 15 miles of open sea to land at a nondescript village on the southwestern tip of Ceram. The natives told them that no Japanese had landed on the island. The only radio transmitter they knew about was operated by the Dutch controller at Piru, about 100 miles to the north. Undeterred by the prospects of a long, hard trip through sparsely inhabited jungle, the little band of survivors was soon headed for the transmitter at Piru, with visions of rescue paramount in their minds.
They worked their way from village to village, walking long, sweltering miles and sometimes persuading natives to move them by canoe, and arrived in Piru three days later. Anxious to radio for help, Hargrave hurriedly contacted the Dutch controller, only to learn that the transmitter had been knocked out by Japanese bombers the previous week. Their best bet, he advised, was to go to Geser on Ceram’s south coast where, if the local controller’s radio was not working, they could probably obtain a sailboat. This meant a journey of well over 300 miles, part of it retracing their route. Dispirited but determined to escape, Hargrave and his three companions rested in the controller’s house throughout the following day.
They left Piru on 26 February in a sailing canoe provided by the controller, who also gave them food, money, and a note addressed to all village head men instructing them to provide all possible assistance. They were put ashore 50 miles down the coast. Again they moved from village to village either on foot or in native canoes.
During this time Hargrave contracted malaria and a bad case of dysentery, which made the miserable journey all the more so. Late in the evening of 2 March, they arrived in the sizable town of Amahai. The nearly delirious Hargrave, who had lost all track of time, suddenly remembered it was his sister’s birthday, and was concerned for fear she might be worrying about him.
The Dutch controller at Amahai took the men into his home and fed them well. He bolstered their spirits too by telling of a transmitter in the town of Saporua, a half day’s journey inland. The following day, while the others rested, Nelson, who was the strongest, volunteered to go to Saporua and try to contact the wing. He arrived only to learn that the transmitter there had been blown up the previous day. But his trip was not entirely in vain, for he returned with money given him by the controller, and several large bottles of Dutch beer.
To regain strength, the men rested two days at Amahai. During this time they learned that most of the Netherlands East Indies, including Java and Sumatra, had fallen to the Japanese. To avoid capture or death, their only chance lay in heading for northern Australia, more than 1,000 miles to the south. They still hoped to be rescued, if only they could contact the wing. What they did not know was that Patrol Wing 10, with only three PBYs left, had been sent to southern Australia and radio contact was impossible.
The men left Amahai on the morning of 5 March in a canoe paddled by two natives. Carrying with them a fair amount of canned food and rice they had purchased, they were put ashore 20 miles down the coast at the next village to continue the journey on foot. Traveling along jungle trails and primitive roads proved slow going, for all of them became sick with malaria, dysentery, or both. On several occasions they were helped along the way by natives in canoes. It took nearly two weeks to cover the last 100 miles of the journey, a feat the men accomplished through sheer guts and a fierce determination to survive.
When Hargrave, Nelson, and their two Aussi companions finally slogged into Geser, twenty-one days after leaving Piru, they were at the absolute end of their physical endurance. They had existed mainly on rice and wild fruits. Their shoes were worn out, and their clothing dirty and torn. With long, matted hair and shaggy beards, their skin seared dark brown by the unrelenting sun, they were a sight to behold.
Twenty miles from Geser Hargrave and his companions had been joined by three more Australians who had escaped from a nearby island recently overrun by the Japanese. The seven men were welcomed by the Dutch controller who dejectedly answered their first question by reporting that his radio station had also been knocked out. This was disheartening news, but in other respects, their fortunes took a turn for the better. Although short of meat and other staple foods, the controller fed the famished men plenty of fish and rice. After bathing and donning clean clothing donated by the controller and the villagers, the men again found life bearable.
Fortunately, there was a native doctor in Geser who tended their blistered feet and ulcerous sores, gave them shots to cure dysentery, and quinine for malaria. Without this medical attention it is doubtful that Hargrave and some of the others could have continued. Capping their good fortune, the controller put at their disposal a fine 40-foot lugger manned by four native crewmen, saying they could keep it for as long as required, and the crew would sail it back.
With Japanese forces coming ever closer to Ceram, there was no time to relax, and the next morning the seven survivors sailed away from Geser for a 180-mile trip to Tual in the Kai Islands. There was reason for optimism, since a radio station at Tual was said to be still operating, making the prospect of rescue more promising than ever.
En route to Tual, they occasionally put into small island villages for fresh water and provisions. At one of these nameless places, a Chinese shopkeeper invited them into his home and served up a chicken dinner which they all agreed was better than anything they ever had tasted. Wherever they went the natives were friendly, and went out of their way to be accommodating.
They reached Tual on 27 March 1942 after a relaxing, uneventful voyage. The radio transmitter was in operating condition, but unfortunately the controller could communicate only with nearby islands. On the brighter side, the controller said, there was a ship in Dobo Harbor on Aru Island some 140 miles further south which was there to pick up Allied soldiers. He suggested they sail immediately, and he would radio ahead to hold the vessel until they arrived.
With reasonable winds, the trip to Dobo should have taken but two days. Instead, they ran afoul of contrary winds and high seas, and it took five days. At one point the winds shoved the lugger over a reef into a shallow channel where several times she ran aground on jagged coral. Holes were punched in the hull, and hand pumps had to be manned around the clock to keep from foundering. By the time they arrived in Dobo they were out of food and water. Worse than that, on the previous day the troop ship had sailed for Australia.
Dobo was a fairly large town where food and medicine were in good supply, but it had no radio contact with Allied forces. The men’s only hope now lay in sailing through the Arafura Sea to Merauke in Dutch New Guinea, 500 miles to the southeast. Compounding their problem was the fact that following the ABDA defeat in the Java Sea battle, the Japanese had gained complete mastery of the air and sea throughout the entire Netherlands East Indies. A Japanese invasion of Dobo, considered inevitable, was likely at any time.
Holes in the lugger’s hull were readily patched, and preparations were being made to get under way when a radio message came from Tual requesting they wait for six more soldiers already en route. To delay was dangerous, but all agreed to wait for the poor devils, whose objective was the same as their own. Two days were anxiously sweated out. On the morning of 3 April, an outrigger canoe finally sailed into the harbor with the six men on board. Four of them were Australian soldiers who had escaped from a Japanese prison camp at Ambon. The other two were Dutch soldiers from an abandoned outpost; they had joined the Australians at Tual. As soon as the new arrivals were on board sails were hoisted and the lugger headed out of Dobo Harbor, Merauke bound.
This leg of the escape route was calculated to last from ten to fourteen days. On board was sufficient food, on a two-meal-a-day basis, and water to last two weeks. Hargrave was elected navigator, a responsibility he assumed equipped with a hand-held compass and a small map he had found in a school house. Spirits were high as the lugger headed into the open sea, for the winds were perfect for a speedy and direct trip to their destination.
Two days out of Dobo their troubles commenced. The wind dropped off to a mere zephyr, and for the next two days the boat drifted with the whims of the sea. On the fifth day, fresh winds sprang up, but these came out of the southeast, the direction in which they wanted to sail. On top of that, one of their two 40-gallon cans of water was discovered to have sprung a leak and was empty. With only 30 gallons of drinking water remaining, it was immediately rationed to permit only two drinks of coffee or tea per man per day—one in the morning, one in the evening.
At the time, none of them realized the monsoon winds had changed for good. Hargrave suspected as much, but kept the notion to himself, hoping he was wrong. With the winds continuously blowing from east around to south, Hargrave set the course as near to east as they could possibly sail, confident this would bring them to the New Guinea coast, though well north of Merauke.
On the tenth day they ran into heavy rain squalls and high, surging seas. Although many were miserably seasick, the storms were a blessing, for water, cascading down the sails, was caught in every available receptacle, putting an end to that problem. Food now became their main concern. To conserve it, each man was allotted two handfuls of cooked rice daily. Everyone was out of tobacco; not to be denied, some men smoked cooked tea leaves and coffee grounds.
The wild New Guinea coast was joyously sighted on 17 April, but due to having been forced to tack on numerous occasions and storms that had blown them all over the sea, Hargrave hadn’t the foggiest idea where they were. He reasoned, though, that by following the coastline south they would eventually arrive at Merauke.
The second morning of sailing along the coast, six canoes loaded with fierce looking savages approached close aboard. The natives were naked, and armed with spears and dart guns. They said nothing, but grimly paddled to keep up with the lugger, apparently assessing their chances of capturing it. About fifteen tense minutes passed with both sides silently eyeing each other. Fortunately, several of the soldiers still had their guns, and these were prominently displayed. Finally tiring of the game, two shots were fired over the bow of the lead canoe, and the natives, later identified as headhunters, abruptly turned away. This activity quickly eliminated any thoughts of putting into a native village in that area for food.
Hugging the shoreline, with no way of determining depth of water, the lugger occasionally ran around. Whenever this happened most everyone would jump out of the boat and push it off the bottom. One night about 2300 they ran aground and, before the lugger could be pushed free, the ebb tide went further out making their efforts in vain. When dawn broke they found themselves high and dry, with the shore more than 1,000 yards away.
When the tide started to flood, the boat was suddenly surrounded by schools of small fish, followed by swordfish 3 to 4 feet long. One of the native crewmen dove after them with a knife, bagging eight swordfish and a shirt full of smaller fish. Although others tried, not one of them caught a fish. That day and the next all hands feasted on flesh from the deep.
At high tide the lugger was finally freed, and on 22 April sailed into the Straits of Marianna, which run for over 100 miles along the southwest coast of Dutch New Guinea. Under normal conditions this stretch of water could be transited in a day, two at the most—but not this time. Soon after they entered the straits, the wind died to less than a whisper, and the men found themselves adrift on a glassy sea. Worse yet, a strong tide was pushing them back to the north. To prevent this, the boat was anchored to await a favorable wind. No wind came, but when the tide turned the anchor was hauled in to permit the lugger to drift southward with it. For five agonizing days, the last two without food or water, they were becalmed. Nevertheless, by drifting with favorable tides and anchoring when they weren’t favorable, the men succeeded in moving the lugger through the straits at last to pick up a spanking breeze.
Parched, hungry, and desperate in the knowledge that to continue under such conditions was impossible, the survivors ran the lugger up on a sandy beach near the first native village they saw. Headhunters or not, they were determined to get food and water even if it meant a bloody fight. No sooner had they landed than a mob of practically naked natives rushed from the village toward them. Those with rifles held them ready for instant use, but, to everyone’s relief, the natives were friendly. The natives brought them plenty of fresh water and sold them an ample supply of fresh fruit and rice. In addition, one native, dressed in the best tribal fashion—a large shell covering his manhood—agreed to guide them through the treacherous shoals en route to Merauke.
Two days later, on 29 April 1942, the lugger sailed into the harbor of Merauke, and a more ecstatic group of bearded, rag-tag men could hardly be imagined. There was even more joy in their hearts when the Dutch controller told them he was in radio contact with Allied forces on Thursday Island, off the northeast tip of northern Australia, a mere 140 miles away. He wasted no time in transmitting a message requesting transportation. Hargrave also sent a message addressed to commander, Patrol Wing 10, to which there would be no reply.
The cutter Ran Paloma picked up the hardly little band of survivors on 5 May, and two days later put them ashore on Thursday Island. On 9 May, Hargrave and Nelson went by boat to nearby Horn Island, where a Royal Australian Air Force plane flew them to Townsville, 500 miles down the northeastern coast of Australia. At U.S. Army Headquarters there, it was recommended that they report to U.S. Navy Headquarters in Melbourne, 1,200 miles further south. Although air transportation was promised them, no one could say when. Hargrave and Nelson waited for two frustrating days, and finally decided to hitch a ride in a four-engine bomber to Brisbane, where transportation to Melbourne was readily accessible. This was almost their undoing.
Midway to Brisbane, over wild, mountainous terrain, the bomber lost an engine. This was no cause for alarm as it was flying well on three. But ten minutes later, a second engine quit. Everyone on board immediately cinched up their parachutes, and nervously waited for the word to jump. Having survived so much, it seemed ironic to Hargrave and Nelson that they might meet their end in the mountainous wilds of Australia. Fuel was dumped to lighten the plane, which maintained altitude until a safe forced landing was made at Rockingham, 250 miles out of Brisbane.
Two more days of fretful waiting followed with prospects of a continuing military flight none too bright. Impatient with the uncertainty and anxious to get going, Hargrave took matters into his own hands. He had no money, but in Rockingham he talked a commercial airline into giving them seats on a flight to Brisbane simply by signing a voucher.
At Brisbane the two survivors learned the U.S. Navy staff of commander, Task Force 42 had recently set up headquarters there, and quickly reported in. Officers and enlisted men they had never known before welcomed them as heroes, and made both men feel like long lost cousins. The next day, dressed in new uniforms and with money in their pockets, Hargrave and Nelson, happy as clams, were en route by train to Melbourne.
Ninty-five days after taking off from Saumlakki Bay on that disastrous flight, and after traveling several thousand wild and arduous miles the hard way, Hargrave and Nelson reported in to U.S. Navy Headquarters at Melbourne, Australia, on 22 May 1942. Following a complete medical checkup and several days of much-needed rest, Hargrave set down to write the official report of their incredible adventures. In a bland, matter-of-fact manner, Hargrave began, “On 5 February 1942, as prescribed by Commander Patrol Wing 10, we took off on a routine patrol.” BROTHER!!
*The original twenty-eight PBYs were augmented by eleven more from VP-22 and five from the Dutch.