Lonely Vigil

by Walter Lord

  AUGUST 29, 8:25 A.M.: 18 TWIN-ENGINE BOMBERS, 22 FIGHTERS NOW HEADING SOUTHEAST.

  AUGUST 30, 9:25 A.M.: 15 PLANES, MAY BE FIGHTERS, JUST PASSED GOING SOUTHEAST VIA EAST COAST.

  AUGUST 31, 8:45 A.M.: 18 TWIN-ENGINE BOMBERS, 23 FIGHTERS NOW EN ROUTE YOURS.

  SEPTEMBER 1, 8:55 A.M.: 18 BOMBERS, 22 FIGHTERS GOING YOURS.

  Listeners in the stifling dugout marveled at the calm, unruffled voice of this man so deep in enemy territory. They were fascinated by the pithy brevity of his words. The warning “40 bombers heading yours,” used on one of these occasions, became a sort of catch-phrase on Guadalcanal as a dry summation of impending peril.

  Read was off the air almost as soon as he came on—Japanese radio direction-finding was a constant worry—but his few brief words were always enough. As his voice crackled over the receiver, one of the Marine operators would scribble the message down and hand it to Hugh Mackenzie. The commander would then relay it over the direct phone to Air Control, now located in the picturesque “Pagoda” just north of the airstrip. Then a call to D-2, and another to Texas Switch, to be passed on to all antiaircraft units.

  Read’s signals usually gave about two hours’ notice, but communications were erratic on Guadalcanal, and it took time to alert pilots, bring them to the strip, and generally get the defenses organized. When the Japanese were about 50 minutes off, the warning flag went up on the Pagoda, the bicycle siren sounded, and the fighters began taking off. Later the dive bombers and some Army P-400s (next to useless in fighting Zeros) also took off, but their job was simply to stay out of harm’s way.

  The Grumman Wildcats carried the burden of the defense, and they were tough little fighters indeed. But they were slow climbers, and it took 45 minutes to reach 30,000-35,000 feet—the altitude they needed to get the jump on the faster and more maneuverable Zeros.

  Their wait was never long. Straight down the Slot the Japanese formation would come, the bombers almost invariably in their wide, shallow V, the Zeros roaming above and below them. Picking the moment for attack was the skipper’s art, but when he gave the signal, the fighters plunged down on the enemy formation, hurtling by the top layer of Zeros, and boring in on the bombers.

  Every fight was different, yet somehow always the same: the Japanese formation, shaken and broken … bombers fluttering down out of control … Zeros turning grimly on their tormentors … dogfights in and out of the towering columns of cumulus clouds, watched with fascination by both sides below.

  And then, two hours later, Jack Read would be on the air again, counting the aircraft as they limped back to Rabaul. They were rarely in formation now—just straggling along—and sometimes he saw only three or four planes.

  In the midst of these great aerial battles the Marines got a welcome assist. On August 31 the first air search radar arrived and was immediately installed at Henderson Field. The manual said the range was 125 miles, but 80 miles was more like it—much too close to give the hard-pressed fighter pilots the time they needed. Jack Read remained their priceless secret weapon.

  Yet the Tokyo Express continued to run, gradually building up General Kawaguchi’s force to 6000 men. By September 12 he was ready, and that night a red rocket burst in the sky just south of Henderson Field. It was the signal for a coordinated attack from the east, west, and south; but the General neglected to take the jungle into account. It made such exquisite timing impossible, and the result was a piecemeal assault that ended in disaster. Colonel Merritt Edson’s First Marine Raiders had a close call on “Bloody Ridge,” but the Marine lines held, and Kawaguchi was repulsed on all fronts. In two days he lost over 1200 men, as against Marine casualties of 143 killed and wounded.

  So the perimeter was safe. The Marines had defeated the second Japanese attempt to retake Henderson Field and throw them off the island. But they were so battered, so exhausted, and still so lacking in the tools of war that they were unable to follow up their advantage. Paradoxically, the victors remained penned up, while the vanquished controlled the island.

  An ugly stalemate now developed. The Americans controlled the air, leaving the Japanese unable to mount an offensive powerful enough to dent the Marines’ perimeter. But the Japanese controlled the sea, leaving the Americans unable to land enough men to break out of the perimeter. Until the Japanese could knock out Henderson Field, or until Nimitz could regain control of the sea, there seemed no way to get off dead center.

  While the battalions and regiments remained at loggerheads, a far more mobile—more personal—kind of warfare was breaking out on the other side of the island, which would introduce a most remarkable individual to the Coastwatching fraternity.

  4

  THE GOOD SHEPHERD

  IT ALL BEGAN ON August 15 when Snowy Rhoades, operating on the western end of Guadalcanal, heard from a native that an American flyer had landed in a rubber raft at nearby Tiaro Bay. Taking no chances, Rhoades sent Leif Schroeder, armed with a .45, to investigate. Schroeder found the flyer about fifty yards from the beach, but his uniform was in tatters, and the man himself was so sunburned that it was hard to tell whether he was American or Japanese.

  The castaway seemed equally suspicious of Schroeder, and for long seconds the two men stood examining each other uncertainly. Finally the flyer made up his mind, walked boldly up to Schroeder, and announced he was American.

  It was Machinist William H. Warden, fighter pilot from the Enterprise, who had been shot down during the landings on the 7th. For a week he had paddled about the Slot, going first to the Russell Islands—where he found no one—and then on to Guadalcanal. He made contact with some natives almost at once, but they knew no English; so it was impossible to tell them who he was. They finally decided he was American, not because of the way he talked or looked but because some of the stitching on his yellow raft happened to be in the shape of a star. To the natives of Guadalcanal, anything with a star was American.

  Identification settled, Schroeder now led Warden back to the cave, where he was greeted by a somewhat grumpy Snowy Rhoades. Most of the Coastwatchers liked to operate alone—the fewer “boarders” the better—and Rhoades was no exception. Nor did it help that Warden had badly sprained an arm when he tripped over a rock on his way to the cave. That made him even more of a liability.

  Fortunately there was medical help nearby. Father Emery de Klerk, in charge of the Catholic mission station at Tangarare—only ten miles down the coast—was a skillful medical man, and on August 15 Rhoades wrote him, asking whether he would come up to the cave and take a look at Warden’s arm.

  de Klerk was on a trip to Visale at the time, but the message was relayed to him, and he promised to drop by on his way back. Sure enough, he appeared out of the jungle on the 21st. By this time Warden not only had a bad arm but was feverish and immensely depressed, and his first glimpse of his benefactor could not have been very encouraging.

  Father de Klerk was only 5 feet, 4 inches tall—a meek and somewhat ineffectual-looking Dutch missionary of 36. It was easy to believe that here was a man of great piety, but hardly very practical. A devoted follower of Christ, perhaps, but not much of a leader himself.

  He was, in fact, quite different. After seven years at Tangarare, his position made him an important figure in this isolated area. As priest, he tended the spiritual needs of some 1500 natives. It was not unusual for him to hear 150 confessions a day while making his rounds. As head of the Church’s ten schools in his district, he presided over the only education there was. As doctor, he had a “practice” of some 1500-2000 patients. His specialty was giving injections against yaws, and he applied his needle with the skill of an expert who had given over 21,000 inoculations through the years. He easily met the natives’ only two tests: He didn’t hurt and his medicine worked.

  But his greatest strength lay in the fact that he identified with the natives completely. He understood and respected the matriarchal system that governed the island’s tribes. He recognized their property claims and cheerfully
conceded that Tangarare really belonged to them. He demonstrated his sincerity by ploughing almost all revenues back into the station. Nor did he favor his Catholics. Protestants and pagans found they received the same education and medical treatment. Finally, he paid the natives the supreme compliment of mastering their complicated Gari dialect.

  More and more the natives turned to him for advice and leadership, especially on matters involving the war. The whole business was quite beyond them. Most had no conception of nationality, and terms like “Japan” and “America” meant nothing. Both sides were “white,” with the Japanese merely the “new whites.”

  For his part, Father de Klerk didn’t put much stock in nationality either. He was not pro-Allied; he was pro-native. As a practical matter he simply wanted what was best for his flock. The old colonial regime had its faults, but it seemed infinitely better than anything the Japanese might offer, judging from their performance in Malaya and the Philippines.

  So he went his own way, applying only the test of what was best for his flock, not caring too much whether that was in line with official policy or not. When Bishop Aubin, the elderly Belgian who presided over Catholic affairs in the Solomons, advised his missionaries to be “neutral” and give their parole to the Japanese, Father de Klerk wanted none of it. The Japanese were bad for the flock; so neutrality was simply wrong.

  But this didn’t mean he necessarily followed the Allied line. When the Resident Commissioner ordered all natives inland, de Klerk decided this too was bad for the flock. They were coastal people who would no doubt starve in the bush. So he told them to ignore the order—stay on the coast and watch, and perhaps they could help by reporting what they saw.

  He himself became increasingly involved as an informant for Snowy Rhoades. He wasn’t committed to active resistance, but a steady flow of intelligence was in the flock’s best interests, and he was prepared to supply it. At the same time he began taking practical precautions in case the Japanese occupied Tangarare. He was especially concerned for the safety of his three European nuns. He prepared a secret hide-out in the bush, a secret garden for food, a secret store of rice, and—one more step on the road to active resistance—a secret hiding place for a rifle and shotgun. A third gun, a relatively harmless .22, he deliberately didn’t hide; he felt the Japanese would never believe him if he said he had no guns at all.

  The pragmatic approach got its first test on July 10. Shortly before sunset that evening a big Japanese sampan, packed with troops, appeared around the point and headed for the anchorage. Father de Klerk rang the mission bell, told the children to stay away—go say their Rosary. Then he put on his black cassock and with Brother Michael, a visitor from Mauru down the coast, he headed for the beach. A boat soon arrived with four Japanese officers and a landing party of tough-looking marines. The leader introduced himself: He was Ishimoto and he had come to talk over the “new government.”

  Soon they were sitting on the mission house verandah—the four officers very correct in straight-back chairs, Father de Klerk and Brother Michael looking incongruously comfortable in deck chairs. Ishimoto explained that the British government had ceased to exist, but the missionaries would be allowed to stay if they obeyed Japanese army law and didn’t try to contact the enemy.

  He then ordered a search of the compound for weapons. Father de Klerk assured him there was nothing except the .22—then almost fainted from fright when he noticed two brand-new shotgun shells sitting on a medicine cabinet in the very first building they visited. It was growing dark, and he managed to scoop them into the folds of his cassock without being caught.

  Back on the verandah, Ishimoto had a few more questions. Were there any whites still on the island? Absolutely not, declared Father de Klerk. Could he supply 500 men for a native work force? Impossible—there weren’t 500 healthy men in the area. (Actually, the number was far higher.) He suggested he might scrape together 300, if the Japanese would accept lepers and cases of advanced TB. Ishimoto said he’d settle for 150.

  Only once did Father de Klerk resort to the truth. When asked the best place on the south coast for a radio observation post, he immediately suggested Cape Hunter. He felt this was so obvious the Japanese would pick it anyhow, and he would enhance his own credibility by suggesting it first.

  The strategy worked. Ishimoto considered him such a good collaborator he didn’t even require a parole. The meeting ended with Father de Klerk ordering his native boys to carry the Japanese officers through the surf to their boat. This they did, with much ribald comment in the Gari dialect. “They smell like parrots!” one native cheerfully called out, as the Japanese officer thanked him for his courtesy.

  It had been an evening of lies and deception, but Father de Klerk was not bothered. The Japanese were gone; the station was safe; the shepherd had protected his flock.

  The next test came in the days following the American landings on August 7. Up to this point Father de Klerk had limited his activities to keeping Snowy Rhoades informed and taking protective measures at Tangarare. Now he found himself going a step or two further. On the 10th he cut an emergency landing strip behind the compound. On the 16th, when he got Rhoades’s letter asking him to treat Bill Warden’s arm, he decided not just to visit the cave, but to bring Warden back and hide him at Tangarare. These were far bolder steps than any he had taken before; they made him definitely an activist. But Father de Klerk’s conscience was clear. Sometimes the good shepherd had to do more than look out for his flock; he must take a stick to the wolf invading the fold.

  So now here he was, sitting in Snowy Rhoades’s cave, urging Bill Warden to come with him to Tangarare. It would be easier to treat his arm … there would be more chance of rescue by passing planes … less chance of capture by the Japanese. Warden hesitated. Rhoades had a radio, served with the Royal Australian Navy, ran an official Allied outpost. In contrast this small, bustling missionary had no official status whatsoever. To go off with him seemed at the very least a bizarre thing to do. But Father de Klerk was a great persuader, and finally Warden agreed to go.

  They reached Tangarare at 8 o’clock that night after a long, hard walk and canoe trip. Warden was still feverish and worried, but life began looking up after a shower and a pleasant supper produced by the smiling but always silent nuns. Father de Klerk dressed his arm and then—best moment of all—presented him with a toothbrush and tube of paste.

  The days that followed were paradise. Every morning Father de Klerk trotted off on his usual rounds, while Warden loafed away the hours. He strolled the beach, played with the native children, relaxed in the verandah deck chairs, and browsed through the station’s well-stocked library. Here he discovered the delights of P. G. Wodehouse. He ate well—there seemed to be a meal every five minutes—and his arm healed perfectly. Sometimes American planes passed, but always too high or too far out to see his signals. Bill Warden found he didn’t mind that at all.

  The spell was broken on August 28 when the missionaries stationed at Visale began stumbling in with harrowing tales of conditions up north. The fighting had spread to their end of the island, forcing them to break their parole and go to the hills. Now the Japanese were after them, and the only solution was to keep running. Down the coast they fled and into Tangarare—three priests, four white nuns, 24 black nuns, 60 schoolchildren, and Bishop Aubin himself, wracked with dysentery and so weak he could hardly stand.

  They were settled only a day or so when rumors spread that the Japanese were again hot on their heels. In a wild panic the whole crowd prepared to resume their flight. Father de Klerk tried in vain to reason with them: He had lookouts all along the coast; if any one was really coming, there would be plenty of warning. Nobody listened. Finally, he offered to make a reconnaissance himself, and the refugees hesitantly agreed to wait for the results.

  Before starting out, he made a brief but important visit to Bishop Aubin’s quarters. He explained he was taking a rifle—could he use it if he ran into any Japanese? Yes, said the
Bishop, that would be self-defense. And now the big question: “This is war, jungle war. If they spot me first, they’ll certainly shoot me. If I spot them first, should I let them go, and destroy us?”

  “No,” said the Bishop, “I give you permission to attack if necessary.”

  To Father de Klerk nothing was more important than his Bishop’s permission to bear arms in active combat. It opened the door to all sorts of possibilities for the future. Now the shepherd could really take the stick to the wolf.

  At the moment it was unnecessary. There were, as he knew, no Japanese anywhere near. He returned late on September 6 to report all was well, and Tangarare enjoyed a quiet night.

  But by noon on the 7th the rumors were spreading again, and Father de Klerk realized that he could never calm these frightened people. The only solution was for someone to cross the mountains to the American lines and arrange for an orderly evacuation. The trip would also offer a good opportunity to return Bill Warden, who by now was feeling quite guilty about his soft life in the tropics. It remained only to decide which missionary would make the trip, and inevitably the choice fell on Father de Klerk himself.

  September 8, and they were on their way. Father de Klerk and Bill Warden took the lead, followed by four of Tangarare’s most trustworthy scouts and seven bush-boys who carried the packs and presumably knew the trails. Hour after hour they struggled along, pulling themselves up the steep places by grabbing the grass along the path, then hanging on to vines to keep from falling when the trail turned down again. As usual, the jungle never seemed level and always seemed slippery. It was hard, exhausting work, and they faced 35 miles of it.