From bestselling author Michael Veitch (Australia’s Secret Army, Turning Point) comes the story of the brilliant, yet controversial Borneo campaign which ended Australia’s involvement in World War II.

Borneo: The Last Campaign tells the story of Operation OBOE, the massive, three-pronged assault on the vast Japanese-held island of Borneo in 1945. It was one of the largest amphibious invasions of the entire war, and a virtually all-Australian operation.

Over the final 12 weeks of World War II, the 1st Australian Army Corps chased down and fought the remnants of the Japanese army over burning oil fields, up languid tropical rivers, along leech-ridden jungle tracks and across endless hills, valleys and ridges. Far from being the easy ‘mopping-up’ the men had been told to expect, Borneo turned out to be as savage as anything the Aussies had hitherto encountered in the Pacific, as the Japanese – despite the inevitability of their defeat – continued fighting with fanaticism, tenacity and shocking brutality.

Immensely complex but brilliantly planned, OBOE called for Australia’s two most famous Infantry Divisions – the 7th and 9th – to storm ashore at three separate landing areas supported by US and Australian naval forces and local Dyak guerrilla fighters. Their objectives were to secure Borneo’s oil facilities and liberate its long-suffering people.

Although now largely forgotten, as well as mired in the controversy that it had little effect on the overall outcome of the war, the skill, bravery and determination showed by the average Australian soldier on Borneo – many of whom were fighting their one and only battle of the war – is beyond question. OBOE involved more than 70,000 Australian military personnel, of which over 2000 became casualties, with nearly 600 killed. It was also where the two final Australian Victoria Crosses of the war were won, as well as literally dozens of other awards for bravery.

OBOE was superbly executed, achieved all of its objectives, and was the very last sustained Allied action of World War Two.

Drawing on a myriad of firsthand sources and interviews with the two last surviving veterans, Borneo: The Last Campaign examines the lead-up, the landings and the campaign itself in never-before published detail.

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EXTRACT

Approaching the shore, the throbbing of the LCI’s engines changed pitch and the boat slowed. Then a call of ‘Stand-by to beach!’ came from the American coxswain, and the men held their breath as the front ramp dropped. Some of the Yanks had steered their boats well, depositing the soldiers high up the beach, some without even getting their feet wet.

‘Thanks for the ride, Yank,’ offered some of the Aussies as they filed past him.

Les and his mates in 18 Platoon weren’t so lucky. Having spent weeks rehearsing jumping in and out of landing craft which brought them right up onto nice dry sand, when H-Hour came, they were made to scramble down a net thrown over the side of their ship and jump straight into the drink. Then it was a case of wading – up to their necks – towards the beach. As one of the platoon’s machine gunners, it was Les’s responsibility to carry the Bren gun – all twenty-five pounds of it – plus ten magazines for the thing weighing as much again, and woe betide if he got any of it wet. Then there were the half-dozen two-inch bombs he had to carry so the mortar blokes would have something to throw at the Japanese when they got ashore.

Mind you, everyone had to carry a few of those.

Choosing their footing carefully, the men made their way towards the beach, rifles held over their heads, not in the least confident of being able to get up again should they stumble. The noise of the invasion was deafening – gunfire, revving diesel engines and the roar of aircraft overhead. Between fragile jokes about a ‘lovely morning for a dip’, everyone was looking out for the wall of flame they’d been told to expect from an oil-filled tank ditch the Japanese had dug just behind the beach, and which they would probably try to ignite just as the Australian troops hit the shoreline. Thankfully, it was a no-show.

‘Keep moving, keep moving. Welcome to Balikpapan,’ called one of the beach masters as he waved the men towards a road running behind the beach.

Sodden but ashore, 18 Platoon set off, as ordered. They moved to their right along the highway towards their first objective, an airstrip called Manggar, named for the two rivers which enter the sea right beside it, just over ten miles away.

For both the 2/14th and the 2/16th Battalions who landed beside them, casualties on the first morning had been mercifully light. Far from mounting any kind of organised defence from the beach, the only Japanese sighted were those hightailing it for the hills inland, encouraged by a few Australian potshots. Some Japanese snipers having lashed themselves to treetops with no serious expectation of coming down alive remained and caused some casualties. Just as well the battalions had some crack shots.

Private Arch Willman got one sniper from 300 yards with a single round from his .303. Not to be outdone, Vic Gripske and ‘Boiler’ Brannelly hit another with a single round from, of all things, a mortar. That Japanese soldier did come down – in pieces.

A couple of days later, approaching Manggar airstrip, the only way across the dark, sluggish Manggar River was over the remains of a half-sunken concrete bridge which had been bombed by their own aircraft in the days before the landing.

‘Bloody idiots,’ grumbled the men. ‘If they’d just left the bloody thing standing, we might have got a tank or two across.’

Once on the far bank they spread out cautiously. One or two broken enemy planes which weren’t going anywhere were parked near the runway, and someone spotted some empty gun pits. But no Japanese soldiers. The men began to relax.

If this is what the rest of the campaign was going to be like, Balikpapan – like the brigadier had said – would be a picnic.

An hour or two went by. Just before midday, someone called for tea. Les watched as an officer climbed to the top of a steel control tower to get a better view of the steep ridge of hills which began just to the north of the strip a mile or so away. Then, just as someone handed Les a battered enamel mug full of warm sweet brew, those hills lit up with orange flashes. The officer up the tower turned to shout something to the men below but he was drowned out as around them all hell broke loose.

Explosions everywhere. Earth erupting in flaming plumes.

Air bursts up above. Someone screamed about being hit.

‘Bloody idiots,’ grumbled the men. ‘If they’d just left the bloody thing standing, we might have got a tank or two across.’

Far too exposed for his liking, Les looked around and crawled to the edge of a concrete bunker. Some other blokes were already there. No-one said a thing. No-one had to. The Japanese had set a trap, and they’d just walked right in.

Crossing that bridge was too bloody easy, thought Les. Then someone next to him reminded him of the sergeant who’d said that a bombing raid here the day before had been met with not so much as a puff of ack-ack. Clever bastards, the Japanese.

Another booming shell landed nearby, then the quickfiring, one-inch calibre stuff opened up and strafed everything back and forth. Les had seen them do this before, first at Lae, and then Shaggy Ridge. Then suddenly, a group of Japanese soldiers were running towards them, their moment timed perfectly, emerging from a concealed bunker at the north end of the airstrip. Unlucky for them, they failed to see an Australian officer and three other blokes who’d been doing a recce nearby. Three Japanese were shot down as they bolted towards a pre-prepared gun position. The rest scattered.

Meanwhile, the enemy were targeting the bridge, and A Company was being clobbered. Private Bill Anderson was killed and several others wounded. Luckily, the putrid mud of the riverbank was so soft that many of the shells disappeared with a plop and failed to explode. Soldiers found cover in drains, behind logs and anywhere else they could get to. At the southern end, the officers of the Command Group were also getting hammered with Major Taylor, Captain Chapman, and the OC of Les’s own 18 Platoon all killed. Lieutenant Les Cavanagh was shot by a sniper that no-one had noticed.

An hour went by. At one stage, like some swamp creature,Sergeant George Routledge emerged from a drain by the river, covered with slime, oil and blood. Although wounded by shell splinters, he politely requested from a lieutenant a length of phone cable so a section of A Company, cut off and under fire a few hundred yards away, could communicate with the rest of the battalion. Then, a roll of cable over his shoulder, he thanked the officer, turned and headed back up the drain.

Then there was Lindsay Ferguson, ‘the Sheriff’ as everyone called him. Under fire, he raced across the bridge to pull a wounded artillery officer to safety, returned to fetch another officer to take his place, then, amazingly, carried out the first man on his back, all without receiving a scratch.

All the while, Les could see that officer stuck up that observation tower. He had no idea at the time, but his name was Captain Graham Thorp from the 1st Naval Bombardment Group (the men who coordinated ranging with the ships offshore to direct their gunfire accurately onto targets).

The Japanese could see the tower too and were firing at it.

A shell knocked out one of its four steel legs, and everyone was convinced the whole thing was about to topple over. But it stayed up, and Captain Thorp with it. Radio in hand, he remained there all day, calmly directing the counterfire from the ships as the Japanese did their best to kill him. Eighteen months earlier, he’d been a university student. This was his first time in action. Afterwards, they gave him the Military Cross.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Actor, writer and broadcaster Michael Veitch began his career in television comedy programs before freelancing as a columnist and arts reviewer for newspapers and magazines. For four years he presented Sunday Arts, the national arts show on ABC television, and has broadcast regularly across Australia on ABC radio.

He has produced numerous books indulging his life-long interest in the aircraft and airmen of the Second World War, Flak and Fly as well as The Forgotten Islands in which he explores the little-known islands of Bass Strait.

He lives in the Yarra Valley, outside Melbourne.