WEIGHING THEIR SACRIFICE New Guinea, 1942.

I don't believe that Bruce Kingsbury gave up his life willingly. But he was caught in a place and a time where the description “willingly” has a different connotation than in “normal” times.

The time was August, 1942 and the Japanese Empire was making a grasp for complete control of the world’s largest tropical island, New Guinea. To secure their hold Japanese soldiers would have to capture the tiny village of Port Moresby (above), on the island’s south eastern coast.

According the maps., the Japanese merely had to land at Buna on the northern coast of New Guinea,  and then march march 120 miles south  on the Kokoda Track to reach Port Moresby.  Less than 1,000 air miles south of there was the port of Darwin, capital of Australia’s Northwest Territory, and just 1,100 air miles beyond that was Brisbane, on Australia’s east coast. Brisbane was the primary port of entry for men and equipment coming from America. Bomb that port and Australia would be effectively, cut off.

 Japanese forces commanded by Major General Tomitaro Horii, landed at Buna, on 21 July, 1942, and immediately began to push south. And immediately the island became the enemy of both sides. 

George H. Johnston observed in his book, “The Toughest Fighting in the World”, The Japanese troops "...covered the sixty miles…from Buna (to the Kokoda Pass) in five days. To push ahead another thirty miles took fifty days,…”  The problem for the Japanese was that there were no maps of the interior of New Guinea. 

First, the Kokoda track was in actuality a narrow  trail, little more than a foot wide, which climbed the 14,000 foot high Owen Stanley Mountain Range in a series of switchbacks. 

Adding the switchbacks and stream crossings, the actual ground distance between Port Moresby and Buna was closer to 150 miles. 

After crossing each razor back ridge, the trail plunged down a  "V" shaped valley, at the bottom of each was a vicious raging whitewater stream. Then there was the climate. 

New Guinea was a place where, explained one soldier, “It rains daily for nine months and then the monsoon starts.”  It was a place plagued by tropical heat, mud, mountains, malaria, monotony and “moozies”, as the Aussie diggers described the coastal mosquitoes. 

Went one popular story, two moozies selected a tasty staff sergeant sleeping with a hole in his mosquito netting. Asked the first moozie,“Shall we take him down to the beach and eat him?” “Na”, replied the second, “if we take him down to he beach, the big chaps will get him.” 

Went another story, an anti-aircraft gunner mistook a moozie for a zero fighter and one shell set his tail on fire. The offended moozie threw a rock at the gunner, beaning him on the noggin. And along with malaria the soldiers of both sides suffered from dengue fever, dysentery, scrub typhus and dozens of other unnamed debilitating illnesses.

Bruce Kingsbury had been born in 1918, just after his parents had emigrated from England. And as often happens, the child of immigrants adopted his new country to a degree his parents never could. Bruce rejected his father’s white collar career and instead opted to work on a sheep station like his livelong friend, Allen Avery. In 1940 Bruce and Allen joined the army together. After they finished basic training, Bruce became engaged to marry Miss Leila Bradbury. But they shipped out for the Middle East before Bruce could obtain a marriage license.

At the top of the Kokoda track, on 9 August, 1942, a vicious struggle was fought for the the village and tiny airstrip at Kokoda, half way to Port Moresby. 

The 5,000 man Japanese Imperial force believed they were opposed by 1,200 Aussie diggers. In fact, there just 77 Australian soldiers blocking the Japanese advance to Port Moresby. The diary of one Japanese soldier explained the obstacles. “The sun is fierce here…Thirst for water, stomach empty. The pack on the back is heavy. My arm is numb like a stick…We reach for the canteens…from force of habit, but they do not contain a drop of water.”

Eventually the line could hold no longer, and the Japanese stumbled ahead, down the slopes toward Port Moresby.

The seventh Australia division saw action against Vichy French units in Lebanon.  Upon being recalled, the 7th division sailed from Alexandria, Egypt on 30 January  1942.  They arrived in Melbourne, Australia on 16 March. Bruce was granted a week at home to see his parents and Leila. After further training and re-equipment for jungle fighting, he shipped out of Brisbane on 5 August. This time Bruce was bound for Port Moresby.

There were now some 2,500 Japanese troops descending the Kokoda track toward Port Moresby, and the best the Australians could do was to rush the first 400 soldiers off the transports up the track to the jungle village of Isurava to stop them. 

Author William Manchester tried to describe that desperate march up the track, but he could have just as well been describing the Japanese march down the track as well. “In places the winding trail, a foot wide at most, simply disappeared. It took an hour to cut through a few yards of vegetation. The first man in a file would hack away with a machete until he collapsed of exhaustion…

"In that climate the life expectancy of the men who lost consciousness and were left behind was often measured in minutes.”

The Japanese moved down the trail against stiffening resistance. 

Noted a modern travel guide; “Scattered along the trail…are the numerous Australian pits. Each is always sited on a small rise, tucked away from three to twenty feet from that narrow slippery, root ridden life line.” 

In each of those pits, unseen and unheralded, Australian solders risked their lives to slow the Japanese advance, and the Japanese soldiers risked their lives to overcome them. 

The diary of Lieutenant Toshiro Kuroki noted that rice supplies were running so low the soldiers in the front lines were obsessed with the endless hunt for “…potatoes! …You do not find smiling faces among the men in the ranks in New Guinea. They are always hungry….every other word has something to do with eating. At the sight of potatoes their eyes gleam and their mouths water.” 

Between Kokoda and Isurava “the track often climbed up gradients so steep that it was heartbreaking labor for burdened men to climb even a few hundred yards." And yet, on both sides, they climbed.

At Isurava (above), using the time so dearly paid for, the Aussies established their headquarters unit on a ridge line, overlooking yet another narrow river valley. 

But the Japanese  found a parallel track and at dawn on 28 August, 1942  fell upon the Aussie flank. The diggers resisted but reduced by disease and hunger, were driven back. 

The next morning, suffering under heavy Australian fire, the Japanese climbed the almost vertical slope in a frontal attack.  The audacity  broke through the Australian lines and captured the ridge top. They had now isolated the headquarters unit. 

General Horii wrote that night, “The annihilation of the Australians is near, but there are still some remnants…and their fighting spirit is extremely high.”

The line of communications for the Aussie headquarters unit had to be restored at once, or the entire 400 man defensive force might be destroyed. A force was thrown together from the survivors of several platoons overrun the day before, including Corporal Bruce Kingsbury, and his mate, Allen Avery. They were ordered to drive the Japanese away.

Twice the desperate diggers threw themselves against the desperate Japanese. Twice the Japanese gave ground, but refused to retreat. 

And that was when Bruce Kingsbury (above) grabbed a borrowed machine gun and led yet another charge, reaching a large bolder half way up the slope, from which he could rake the Japanese positions. An exhausted Lieutenant Colonel Phil Rhoden watched. “You could see his Bren gun held out and his big bottom swaying as he went ....followed by Alan Avery. They were cheerful. They were going out on a picnic, almost.” 

Another witness wrote, “The fire was so heavy (from the Japanese) that the undergrowth was completely destroyed within five minutes.” 

Private Shegenori Doi, on the other side of that undergrowth, wrote, “I remember that an Australian soldier, wearing just a pair of shorts, came running toward us…this warrior was far braver than any in Japan.” 

Bruce’s mate, Allen Avery, wrote of Bruce, “He came forward…and he just mowed them down. He was an inspiration to everybody else around him.”

Bruce’s citation for the Victoria Cross (above) says that he “…rushed forward firing his Bren Gun from the hip through terrific machine gun fire and succeeded in clearing a path through the enemy…(Then he) was seen to fall to the ground shot dead, by the bullet from a sniper hiding in the wood….Private Kingsbury displayed a complete disregard for his own safety. His initiative and superb courage made possible the recapture of the position which undoubtedly saved the Battalion Headquarters…” 

Allen Avery charged into the jungle after the sniper, but never found him. Then he hefted Bruce up onto his back and alone Allen carried Bruce to an aid post. But by the time they got there, Bruce was dead.

The battle of Isurava lasted for four long days and nights. The fighting was without quarter. In the end, out of ammo and with over half their strength down with wounds and malaria, the Aussies were forced to withdraw. Once again, the Japanese advanced, now almost within sight of Port Morseby.  

But General Horii had already been informed that American troops had landed on Guadalcanal Island, 1,500 miles to the west.  His men fighting in the interior of New Guinea would receive no reinforcements until the airstrip on that distant island was recaptured. The sacrifice of his soldiers on New Guinea had been judged a wasted effort, while in the view of history the sacrifice of Bruce Kingsbury had been judged worthy. 

But for the soldiers on both sides the judgments made by historians were meaningless. All that mattered was that at this time and this place their sacrifice had been asked for and had been given, on both sides. And that is always the soldier's duty.

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AVENGING ANGEL Bombing As Terror

I would suggest that Quincy Gillmore (double L’s) was simply frustrated. His mathematical and precise mind recognized that by any logical application of the rules he had won. But the rebels simply refused to admit his victory and surrender the city of  Charleston, birthplace of the American Civil War. Perhaps Gillmore (above) should have remembered the Massachusetts newspaper writer who described secession minded South Carolina as “…too small for a nation and too large for an insane asylum.”

Gillmore had proven the power of his logic at Fort Pulaski (above), whose massive brick walls guarded the outskirts of Savannah, Georgia. Gillmore’s advantage at Fort Pulaski was the Parrot Gun, the invention of the precise and logical mind of Robert Parker Parrott, who ran the West Point Foundry in Cold Spring, New York.

Mr. Parrott’s invention was to rotate a cast-iron cannon barrel while applying a band of hot wrought-iron around the breech (or base end), which would clamp solid as it cooled. 

This band offered additional strength, allowing for larger powder charges and thus increased range. However, Parrott guns tended to explode with overuse. 

But as the sad faced Mr. Parrott (above) explained, “I do not profess to think they are the best gun in the world, but I think they were the best practical thing that could be got at the time.”

Gillmore carefully arraigned his 36 Parrott guns against the rebel fortress and opened a long range fire on 10 April, 1863. The fort surrendered at 2:00 pm on 11 April. Savannah itself still held out, but rebel supply ships and blockade runners could no longer get in.  

With that success Gillmore (above) had been promoted to Major-General of Volunteers, and was ordered to do to Charleston what he had done to Savannah.

On the southern shoulder of Charleston’s inner harbor loomed Fort Sumter, where the Civil War had begun in April of 1861. The Washington Republican newspaper waxed poetic when describing Gillmore's technical attack upon this birthplace of the rebellion. “From well-known mechanical laws, ...the penetration of the 24 pound shot at 3,500 yards…in brickwork, is six inches. The penetration of the 10 inch projectile will therefore be between six and seven feet of the same material…equal to the united blows of 200 sledge hammers weighing 100 lbs each, falling from a height of ten feet and acting upon a drill ten inches in diameter.” It could have been lifted from General Gillmore’s notebooks, and probably was.

By midsummer Gillmore’s Parrott guns had reduced Fort Sumter to “a shapeless and harmless mass of ruin.” Yet Charleston still held out, because defending the outer harbor on Morris Island was Fort Wagner, situated directly astride the channel blockade runners still used to reach Charleston. 

Fort Wagner’s low packed sand and timber walls simply swallowed whole the explosive shells from Gillmore’s Parrotts, and punished the 54th regiment when they tried a direct ground assault (above - from the movie "Glory"). In his frustration Gillmore came to the logical conclusion that the Confederates would surrender when faced with the correct application of the power of his guns.

On the morning of 16 July 1863, Gillmore ordered English born Colonel Edward Wellman Serrell (above) of the engineers to find a spot for a new battery within range of Charleston itself. Col Serrell and an aide spent the day wandering across the salt marshes “…carrying a fourteen foot plank…Where the inundation would not bear them they sat on the plank and pushed it forward between their legs. When the soil appeared stiffer, they carried the plank until they reached the soft mud once more.” (Battles & Leaders of the Civil War, Vol. 4, Underwood et al, The Century Co. 1884) 

By evening this method had located a rectangle of more or less solid ground, just big enough for a single gun,  about 8,000 yards from Charleston, at the maximum range of an 8 inch Parrott Naval rifled gun., firing a 200 pound shell. The artillerists named their weapon "The Swamp Angel" - as in an avenging angel. 

It took a month to build a battery (above) among the muck, and on 21 August, 1863  Gillmore sent a note to General Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard, the rebel commander of Charleston, Gillmore warned that if the Confederates did not at once surrender both forts Wagner and Sumter, Charleston would be bombarded with “Greek fire”.  However, the note did not arrive until 10:45 p.m., and General Beauregard had gone to bed. And in any case the note bore no signature. The offended gentlemen of the Confederate headquarters returned the offensive note for signing. The 19th century industrial revolution had just run up against 18th century social graces.

While this farce was being played out, at 1:30 a.m. on 22 August, 1863  the “Swamp Angel” opened fire. 

The exploding shells were loud and frightening. But with so few people on the streets at that hour,  no one was killed.  Worse the reputed  “Greek Fire” shells, failed to start any fires. As the brilliant writer Bruce Catton noted, “This had very little to do with winning the war. It was simply an exorcise in the application of violence.” (Never Call Retreat, p. 215 Washing Square Press, 1965)

The amended note re-arrived at Beauregard’s headquarters at 9:00 the morning of 23 August, and Gustave Toutant Beauregard responded in his best Southern aristocratic outrage. “It would appear, sir, that despairing of reducing these works you now resort to the novel measure of turning your guns against the old men, the women and children, and the hospitals of a sleeping city.” 

In response Gillmore gave the Confederates a truce of 24 hours to evacuate Charleston before the Swamp Angel would continue its bombardment until the city was in ruins. In fact.the Parrott had slid out of position after 16 shots and it would take hours of work to move the 8 ton cannon back into place, on a sturdier platform.

As darkness fell the Angel opened fire again. But this time, as the barrel heated up the shells began to show a nasty tendency to explode in the barrel, and the breech band expanded so that the shells also  started to slide around on the breech. Colonel Serrell wisely had a second lanyard tied to the first, to give his men some distance when they fired the damn thing.  

After another 13 shots, as the Swamp Angel let go her 38th attempt at burning Charleston to the ground, the gun exploded, blowing off the breech band, cracking the breech itself, blowing three feet off the end of the barrel, and landing the cannon atop her own battery (above)). This exercise in the application of violence was finished, for the moment.

Not that Gillmore was about to give up. The methodical bombardment of Fort Wagner had converted that post into an open wound through which the defenders were slowly bleeding to death. And since it was now evident they were no longer protecting Charleston from bombardment, 2 weeks after the Swamp Angel blew up, on 7 September 1863, Beauregard pulled his troops out.

So Fort Wagner, which had resisted a year of bombardment and a night attack by the brave 54th Infantry,  was finally captured. The Parrott guns had reduced Sumter to harmless rubble. And still Charleston resisted. 

And the frustration that drove General Gillmore’s precise and logical mind to accept such violence was shared by much of the nation, who cheered the wonder and the power of Gillmore’s Parrott guns and their punishment of the birthplace of the war.

In far off New York City, Herman Melville, a man who knew something about the dark effects of obsession on the human heart, was inspired to put pen to paper; “There is a coal black Angel, With a thick African lip, And he dwells (like the hunted and harried), In a swamp where the green frogs dip. But his face is against a City, Which is over a bay of the sea, And he breathes with the breath that is blastment, and dooms by a far degree…Who weeps for the woeful City, Let him weep for our guilty kind; Who joys at her wild despairing – Christ, the Forgiver, convert his mind.”

And a century later, Bruce Catton, reviewed the entire bloody affair and wrote, “It would hardly be worth mentioning except that it showed how war had hardened men’s emotions, so that things that would have been horrifying in ordinary times horrified no longer…Good men even rejoiced in it…When good men could talk so they consented to terror.” (ibid. p 217-217)

You can see that what is left of that terror, now mounted on stones in Cadwallader Park in the city of Trenton, New Jersey. 

It has preserved as a memento of one of humanities’ early attempts at a logical application of terror. And, no, it didn't work. And not merely because the weapon failed to endure the effort, Terror, be it flying planes into buildings or mass bombing of cities or even nuclear missiles,  may shock briefly. But it never delivers victory.  Never. Ever.

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