“So why aren’t we posting combat air patrols from sunup to midmorning to intercept the bastards?” VanPiet asked.
“We do,” the major said, “but we need advance warning to do it right. Two days ago, we set up a dawn patrol. About the time the fighters had to come back in for fuel is when the bastards showed up.”
“From whom do you get warning?” I asked.
“From people we call the coast-watchers. Aussies, mostly, who were here in one capacity or another before the war came and who now hump a radio through the jungle with help from the locals. They watch the Jap ships and aircraft and report to Henderson when they see a Jap cruiser formation or a gaggle of bombers headed our way. The Japs hunt them.”
“So, if one of these coast-watcher fellas sees a bomber formation headed south from Rabaul,” VanPiet asked, “we get an hour or so warning that a strike is coming?”
“Like I said, Captain, they take off at oh-three-hundred. Coast-watchers might hear them flying down the Slot but that’s about all they can tell us—multiple large aircraft headed your way.”
“Better than nothing,” Van Piet observed.
“Yes, sir,” the major said. “If his radio works. If the atmospheric conditions don’t swallow his signal. If he actually hears them flying by. You get the idea, right, sir?”
“I certainly do,” VanPiet said. “So, we do the best we can. Did Lieutenant Colonel Bates tell you what we’ve been up to?”
“He did, Captain,” the briefer said. “Let me make one suggestion: Station a PT boat east of Florida Island at first light. Tell him to just loiter out there—making no high-speed wakes. If our early-warning system fails, he can give you fifteen minutes’ warning.”
VanPiet nodded. “We will absolutely do that,” he said. “Now, we feel that they’re coming sooner rather than later since our recon guys took out their spy nest on Tanambogo. Do your people agree with that?”
The major frowned. “Hard to say, sir. The Bettys have been working hard to stop our supply ships from getting stuff unloaded onto Guadalcanal. I think that’s their main mission now: big, fat, slow cargo ships at anchor to put stuff ashore. Tulagi, well, it’s becoming a base but not one that’s directly hurting the Japs trying to retake Guadalcanal.”
“You’re saying they may not give a shit about Tulagi if they’re getting their asses kicked over there on Guadalcanal.”
“Um—” the major began.
“No, no,” VanPiet interrupted. “I understand that. We’re not looking to invite trouble. We just want to be ready in case they change their evil minds.”
“There is one target over here that they may attack,” the major said. “That MTB base. The PT boats have been out there every night raising absolute hell with the Jap supply ships. They can’t come to the island in daylight because of our fighters and bombers at Henderson. They come at night, and that’s when the PT boats are out there.”
“Those boats doing good work for Jesus?” Bates asked.
“The Japs are ferrying supplies to their troops on Guadalcanal on large amphibious boats, escorted by their destroyers. The PT guys are claiming a lot of those cargo boats sunk, but…”
“The Jap destroyers are tearing them up, right?” VanPiet asked.
“All I can say, sir, is if they send bombers to Tulagi it won’t be for the hospital or the repair facilities—it’ll be for those guys across the harbor.”
“An even better reason, then,” Lieutenant Colonel Bates said, brightly, “that we get as many of those boats as we can out of their cove. That’s why early warning is so important.”
The major smiled. “Yes, sir, we know that. We’ll give you as much warning as we get. I just can’t promise it will be that hour they want.”
“Nor do we expect you to,” VanPiet said. “We’re gonna do our best. I’m confident you guys will, too. I’ll get the PT boat squadron to post a picket east of Florida starting at dawn tomorrow. Then we’ll go have a sit-down with the MTB squadron commander, work up the harbor defense plan.”
FOUR
As the acting senior medical officer on Tulagi, I went along with Captain VanPiet the next day to that tree-lined cove across the harbor. I used the fact that I hadn’t seen their medical facilities as an excuse to come along, and VanPiet seemed to be amenable. Lieutenant Colonel Bates also joined us. We were going to meet with Lieutenant Commander Peter Cushing, USN, commander of Motor Torpedoboat Squadron 3, and some of his boat skippers. VanPiet had met him, of course, but the boats operated under a totally separate command structure which had nothing to do with VanPiet’s Tulagi support command.
We rode over on a Navy harbor tugboat, one of two recently delivered with a load of dockside cargo-handling equipment. There was no pier as such, only some pontoon barges tied to trees on the shore. It looked as if one PT boat would be tied up to a tree on the shore, and then three more would be tied up to that boat. Some of the boats were half-overturned, with their noses buried in the sand. Crewmen were underneath, scraping the marine fouling off the hull like the sailing ships of old when they were careened for this very purpose.
Peter Cushing was a long, tall drink of water with buzz-cut blond hair and a hawklike visage supervised by a dramatically hooked nose. His nickname in the squadron apparently was Boss. He was wearing faded working khakis, sea boots, a pith helmet, and he carried a holstered government-issue .45 on his right hip. He introduced his executive officer, Lieutenant James “Deacon” Haller, USN. Haller was at least six foot four and skinny as a rail. He had a mop of wiry black hair reminiscent of Abraham Lincoln and the same awkwardly assembled face. Two other boat skippers were in attendance, similarly attired. One was a lieutenant, Roy Bond; the other was a lieutenant (junior grade), Morgan Stuart; both reservists. The enlisted men within view were all bare chested and wearing nothing more than dungaree trousers and sneakers. Some were just wearing khaki bathing suits and floppy hats.
Cushing gave Captain VanPiet a casual salute, and then VanPiet introduced Bates and me. We were led along a pontoon pier and into a grove of palm trees where there was a single Quonset hut. The air was filled with the sounds of boatyard maintenance: powerful engines being tuned up, hammering and banging as men worked to repair damage to the mahogany hulls, the spat of welding sticks, fuel trucks grinding their way down to the shore to pump high-octane aviation gasoline into the boats’ fuel tanks, and the friendly banter of working men, trading insults and sweaty mechanical advice in equal measure.
Inside the Quonset hut there was a single long plank table surrounded by ammunition boxes serving as chairs. There was a fan in each corner and a lone desk at one end of the hut. The floor was pounded sand. There were charts hung along the rounded walls filled with route lines and what I assumed were markings representing known enemy positions. A hole had been cut into the other end of the wall that led to a shipping container that had been made into a radio room, where a single sailor was pressing earphones onto his head and writing down a message. I could hear a generator rattling away outside. The fans were doing their best but it still was at least ninety degrees in that hut. Cushing sat down at the head of the table and the rest of us took seats on either side.
“Sorry I can’t offer you water,” he began. “The Marines lent us a seawater distiller but once we loaded up the boats going out tonight there wasn’t any more left. Captain VanPiet, how can we help you, sir?”
VanPiet prepared to respond but was interrupted by a loud shout from the radio room. “Air raid, Air raid! Bettys, many, low, inbound from Savo Island!”
A second later a siren began to wail outside. Cushing jumped up and told us to follow him. His exec ran for the boat landing. We bolted out of the Quonset hut and ran to a sandbag bunker fifty feet away. Cushing stood at the entrance and forcefully urged us down into the underground hole. Then he disappeared. The bunker was dark and damp, lined with palm tree trunks on four sides and across the ceiling. The floor was wet; we weren’t that far above sea level. The whole thing smelled
of rotting roots. There were more of the ammo crates to sit on, so we sat. The boat skippers had disappeared with Cushing. We looked at each other in dismay. The Japs were coming in from the west, not the east. Our picket boat had been outmaneuvered.
“When making war plans,” VanPiet observed, calmly, “you must remember that the enemy always gets a vote.”
There was a commotion in the narrow passageway leading from ground level above us as several enlisted men tumbled down into our dark little refuge. Then the roar of guns started, followed immediately by the sounds of bombs crumping into the wet sand. One came uncomfortably close. The bunker shook and every one of those palm logs moved around, creating a cloud of sand and dirt raining down on all of us. A second bomb hit even closer, causing the logs on one side to bulge out and then sag into the dirt floor, followed by one side of the bunker’s roof. We barely had time to leap over to the other side, where we pressed up against the log wall. Fortunately, the bunker entrance was on the stable side of the bunker. I, for one, was ready to take my chances topside when we heard the sound of massed 20 mm cannons tearing things up above us.
Then it was over. I looked at Captain VanPiet. He just shook his head. Someone in the bunker expressed our collective sentiments: fucking Japs. We crawled up the mud-and-log stairway into bright sunshine and even brighter gasoline fires. Give it to the Bettys: they’d bombed the hell out of the PT boat base. While I stood there taking in the God-awful scene of cratered earth, blasted trees, shattered PT boats, and small knots of half-clad men down on the ground tending to the wounded, a sailor who looked like he may have been fourteen rushed up and asked if I was the doctor. After that, it was all a blur for the next twenty-four hours.
Miraculously, the Quonset hut had survived, so that’s where I set up the aid station. The boat squadron didn’t have a doctor, but they did have a hospitalman chief, Walter Higgins, USN; two petty officers; and two hospitalman apprentices. Chief Higgins had been trained as an anesthetist, qualified to use nitrous-plus, ether drip, and even thiopentone. The chief had wisely dispersed his medical supplies after a previous attack, so his assistants were soon hurrying into the Quonset hut with dirt-covered medical supply boxes unearthed from other hidey-holes back in bunkers out in the trees. Higgins and I did triage and then I went to work as best I could on the most seriously injured, assisted by the chief and one of his petty officers. Two men were clearly beyond hope, one with both legs severed at the hip and the other with his entrails puddled next to him on the stretcher. They were both in agonizing pain. I ordered the chief to give them each a spinal injection of thiopentone. Their trembling bodies relaxed immediately and then they died. Two others were badly wounded, but I thought I could stabilize them long enough for them to be sent across the strait. Eleven others had injuries we could handle, albeit only temporarily.
Although the Quonset hut had survived, the generator had taken a single 20 mm round and had given up the ghost. No fans, no lights, and a growing crowd of stretchers outside. By early evening we knew we were losing the battle, but then help arrived from Tulagi. That harbor tug had evaded a strafing run, so Captain VanPiet had taken it back over to the island and returned with help from our makeshift field hospital at the planter’s house, including a surprise: two surgeons from Guadalcanal and, fortuitously, a replacement portable generator. The two docs, both regular Navy Medical Service Corps lieutenant commanders, took over with the fresh team. The chief and I gratefully backed out and went to find somewhere to just sit down and catch our breath. There was a longhouse near the shore where people appeared to be eating, so we trudged in that direction. As we did, we heard the sounds of boat engines lighting off, and then six boats began easing their way out of the cove, headed out for a night’s work in the waters around Savo Island.
We realized then that a bombing raid on the MTB base was just another day in the life of being a PT boat sailor. Incredible, I thought, looking at the damage around us. There was a moment of surprised silence in the longhouse when Chief Higgins and I appeared out of the darkness. I think we’d both forgotten what we looked like after an entire afternoon of bloody surgery. Then the squadron XO, Deacon Haller, recognized us and stood up.
“Hey, it’s the docs,” he said, staring at our blood-spattered clothes. “You guys all right?”
We’d stumbled into what served as a makeshift wardroom for the squadron officers. It was a typical island longhouse, maybe twenty by forty feet, with a thatched palm roof, open pole sides, six mosquito-netting-covered cots at one end, and three oil lanterns hanging from the crossbeams. There were rolls of canvas curled up along the sides that could be let down to keep blowing rain out. There was a single long table in the middle, with the ubiquitous ammo crates serving as chairs. The XO made room at the table for the two of us, and then handed us each a metal canteen cup.
“Have a screamer,” he said. “You look like you need one.”
I didn’t know what a screamer was, but Chief Higgins grabbed his eagerly. It turned out to be canned grapefruit juice, augmented with medicinal alcohol. After a couple of long drafts, I let out a grateful sigh. “Just exactly what I needed,” I pronounced, which generated some laughs around the table.
“Wrong, Doc,” Higgins said. “You need another, just like me.”
Someone brought us each a bowl of what they called Solomon’s stew, made with fried SPAM chunks, C-ration beans and franks, ketchup, and hot sauce. It was wonderful. After eating I asked if Lieutenant Commander Cushing was available.
“He went out tonight,” Haller said. “Took offense at this bombing raid; said he needed to go out and kill him some Japs.”
“I wanted to give him a casualty sitrep,” I said. “We lost some this afternoon.”
“Word is, you saved a whole bunch of others,” one of the boat skippers said. “We’ve never had a real doc here. Wally Higgins there does the best he can, but someone said you’re a real surgeon?”
I had to smile. Not according to Doctor Garr, I thought. But, hell, compared to no surgeon, even a resident would be an improvement. “Chief Higgins is no slouch at the operating table,” I said. “If we saved some guys this afternoon, he gets at least half the credit.”
Higgins, who was working on his third screamer, lifted his canteen mug at me in a Solomons salute, burped, and then put his head down on his folded arms and fell asleep at the table. One of the skippers informed me that Higgins had been up for thirty-six hours before the bombing raid, performing some surgical procedures by lantern light while one of the apprentices read the line-by-line instructions from the Navy Medical Corps Field Surgical Manual.
The dinner and drinking session broke up. I was offered one of the cots down at the end of the longhouse. Each cot had a single olive-drab sheet, a kapok life jacket for a pillow, and a mosquito net strung over two X-frames. Chief Higgins roused himself and left with one of the boat skippers. The smell of red, raw earth and diesel exhaust filled the air. The roaring bulldozers which were plugging bomb craters nearby acted as a lullaby. It took me at least thirty seconds to drop off to sleep.
I woke to the sounds of the torpedo boats coming back in from their night operations. It was just breaking dawn and already insufferably hot and humid. I availed myself of the nearby latrine and then a rainwater barrel to wash up. By the time I got back to the longhouse, there was coffee going. As I stepped in, I was astonished to see two baskets of hot rolls on the table, along with a can of honey. I just stood there and looked at them until one the skippers laughed and told me, yes, they were real, and to help myself. Apparently one of the cooks had been a baker before the war and provided fresh baked bread and rolls to the squadron messes every morning. Butter would have been nice but no one was bitching. The rolls were wonderful. I wondered how he kept the flour from getting moldy. One of the skippers said he kept the flour in a steel GI trash can, and covered it in a one-inch layer of alcohol.
The longhouse filled up quickly with returning skippers, and I was introduced by Lieutenant Com
mander Cushing as “our new squadron doctor.” It took me hearing that three times before I suddenly realized what he had been saying. He grinned when he saw the surprise on my face.
“That Doctor Garr fella, from the field hospital over on Cactus?” he said. “He told me he was reassigning you to us last night when he sent those other two docs in. They’re gonna run that little surgical clinic you set up over on Tulagi for a coupl’a days, but then it’ll be shut down. He said they’d send us what you needed to stand up a casualty station here for the boats. Welcome to the Hooligan Navy, Doc.”
I raised my coffee mug and tried to make it look like I was pleased. I don’t think I succeeded, but, on the other hand, I would now be the MTB squadron doctor and not the unwanted orphan from the Guadalcanal medical operation. Garr probably thought he’d gotten his revenge, especially after what that other doc had said to him about not opening a book recently. I went to get another roll but they were long gone, so I refilled my coffee cup and sat down on one of the cots to listen to all the stories about what had happened out there the previous night. I learned that the night’s planned operation had turned into a total SNAFU, with boats getting lost, shooting at one another, attracting a couple of Jap night bombers, and firing torpedoes that hit absolutely nothing. Or at least that’s what it sounded like; I wasn’t really familiar with what these guys did out there. It did sound interesting, though. Cushing finally steered the insults and banter into a more formal mission debrief. That’s when Chief Higgins showed up and asked if I could come to the Quonset hut.
As we walked through the grove of palm trees, some of which had been uprooted by bomb blasts, he filled me in on the new arrangements that were being put in motion.
“Those two docs told me you’re gonna be our new squadron doc, which I gotta say from my point of view, is medium wonderful. They’re gonna go back over to Tulagi this morning. Cactus sent an LCU over to take as many patients as possible back there. One of the docs told me that your new assignment was somebody called Garr’s doing. Said to tell you you’re gonna be better off with us than with the Cactus operation, on account of there’s gonna be a four-stripe Medical Corps captain coming in from Nouméa to run that field hospital.”
The Hooligans Page 4