by Walter Lord
The waves of planes that poured down the Slot heralded the start of the third Japanese attempt to recapture Henderson Field and throw the Americans out of Guadalcanal. First a regiment, then a brigade had not been enough. Now Lieutenant General Harukichi Hyakutake, commanding all Japanese operations in the Solomons and New Guinea, would use a whole division. What’s more, he’d lead it himself.
The build-up began October 3 with a series of air strikes, ONE BOMBER, 6 FIGHTERS NOW GOING YOURS, radioed Jack Read at 7:51 A.M., as the first planes passed over his station at the northern end of Bougainville. Then at 9:22, 6 FIGHTERS NOW GOING SOUTHEAST. AND AT 10:27, 28 PLANES PASSING FROM NORTH TO YOURS, FAR TO WESTWARD, MAY BE TWIN-ENGINED. AND STILL THEY CAME: 10:42, 6 FIGHTERS GOING YOURS … 1:00 P.M., 6 FIGHTERS NOW ON WAY YOURS … 2:15, 13 FIGHTERS GOING YOURS.
Off Guadalcanal the Marine fighters were waiting. Pouncing on the Japanese, they broke up one attack after another. Ten Zeros were shot down—20% of Rabaul’s long-range fighters—with the loss of only one Marine plane and no pilots. It would take a week before the Japanese air arm regained enough strength to strike again.
The CACTUS Air Force had less luck with the Tokyo Express. Fast runs were made on October 3, 5, and 8, landing not only troops but guns, trucks, tractors, even tanks. General Hyakutake himself went down with the destroyers that left on the 9th.
High in the hills behind Buin, Paul Mason on Bougainville watched them go, as he studied the ever-growing concentration of Japanese shipping that packed the Shortland anchorage. Two months ago he was pretty amateurish, sending descriptions like “one two-funneled cruiser” or “one ship with large superstructure near foremast and conspicuous tower aft.” Since then he had done his homework well, mastering the penciled silhouettes sent him by Eric Feldt. Today the descriptions he radioed KEN were crisp and professional:
SHIPS VISIBLE BUIN AREA: 3 NATI, 1 KAKO, 1 SENDAI, 1 TATUA CLASS CRUISER, 17 DESTROYERS, 13 CARGO SHIPS, 1 TANKER, 3 MYSTERY SHIPS—COULD BE LARGE SEAPLANE CARRIERS. AT 11 A.M. 1 TATUTA CLASS CRUISER AND 5 DESTROYERS WENT SOUTHEAST.
On Guadalcanal General Vandegrift and his staff studied the message and tried to piece the picture together. Mason’s report, aerial reconnaissance, captured documents, the latest CINCPAC radio intercepts—all pointed to a new Japanese attack, bigger than anything that had hit the island yet.
October 11, KEN passed the word that still another Tokyo Express was heading down the Slot. This time a U.S. Navy task force was nearby—the first in these waters since Savo—and that night off Cape Esperance it gave better than it got. Yet the Japanese managed to land another load of howitzers, trucks and personnel.
On the night of the 13th the Emperor’s battleships turned up. For 70 minutes they mercilessly shelled Henderson Field with 14-inch guns. Dawn found the radio station destroyed … the Pagoda a shambles … most of the aviation gas gone … a landscape spattered with Spam from a direct hit on some ration dump. Casualties were light, but 85 of Henderson’s 90 bombers were in no shape to fly. For the next several days the Tokyo Express would face little opposition.
Hugh Mackenzie came through the bombardment without a scratch, but he had a close call in the morning’s first air raid. Normally he never took cover on such occasions and seemed to live a charmed life. This time, however, he squeezed into a dugout, and inevitably a bomb landed right on top of it. Miraculously, he suffered only a “dirty neck” and emerged as nonchalant as ever.
On October 24 the big blow finally fell. After several postponements, General Hyakutake launched his all-out attack on Henderson Field. It was another of those complicated Japanese plans, calling for perfect timing and coordination, and once again the jungle made that impossible. For two days Vandegrift’s Marines, now bolstered by Army units, threw every charge back. By dawn on the 26th it was clear that the third Japanese attempt to retake Henderson Field had failed.
For the weary victors—relief. Relief that they had come through again, and better still, a feeling that they had survived the worst the Japanese could do. At sea, too, the feeling was relief. The rejuvenated fleet came off well in several night engagements—the Japanese specialty—and now boasted a new, exciting leader: Vice Admiral William F. Halsey, who replaced the competent but lackluster Ghormley.
At KEN, Hugh Mackenzie also felt a surge of relief. On October 28, after more than a week of tense waiting, Nick Waddell’s familiar voice came on the air. He and Carden Seton were now established at the little village of Tagatagera on northern Choiseul. They were about two miles in from the west coast and had a magnificent view of Bougainville Strait, the Shortlands, and down the Slot all the way to Vella Lavella. Station DEL, as they called it, should be of tremendous value in filling the information gap south of Bougainville.
Josselyn and Keenan were not operating yet, but from that single brief message before their transmitter broke down, Mackenzie knew that at least they had landed safely on Vella Lavella. Meanwhile conditions were improving daily at KEN. A new dugout 200 yards farther north from the airfield—meaning 200 yards closer to safety—boasted such amenities as battery-powered lights and packing crates for seats.
Not exactly the soft life, but all in all, the pressure did seem to be easing these last days of October. Yet this was illusory, for as it turned out, the Japanese were far from finished on Guadalcanal. Starving, ill-equipped, often in desperate need of medical attention, they remained tough, brave warriors, steeped in the Bushido spirit of their homeland. Totaling some 23,000, they fully expected to make another try and were prepared to wait until the Tokyo Express brought reinforcements and opened up the supply lines again. Meanwhile they still controlled the island and were in every sense a dangerous enemy to any Allied fighting man rash enough—or unlucky enough—to be caught outside the perimeter.
6
TAKING THE STICK TO THE WOLF
ONE MAN UNLUCKY ENOUGH to be outside the perimeter was Second Lieutenant Dale M. Leslie, a rangy young pilot with Marine Scout Bombing Squadron 231. Returning from a routine reconnaissance mission on September 28, Leslie had been caught flat-footed by a Zero off Cape Esperance. His gunner killed, his cockpit blazing, he managed to bail out at about 700 feet and splashed into the sea several hundred yards from land.
That evening he came ashore near Tabea, about three miles south of Cape Esperance and deep in Japanese territory. He started for the interior but almost immediately ran into an enemy patrol coming along the trail. He fell flat and watched them go by. He went a few yards deeper into the jungle, but he was too tired to go very far. It was pouring rain and the ants had a field day at his expense, but he lay down and slept the sleep of exhaustion.
The next eleven days he moved gradually down the southwest coast of Guadalcanal, living on coconuts, sleeping where he could. He had heard there were friendly natives down this way, but all he ever saw were Japanese.
On October 10 he was still working his way down the coast when he came across an unguarded native canoe near a Japanese camp. Stealing a paddle from an empty hut, he then hid under a log to wait for the night. Hearing a rustling he looked up, and there stood a Japanese soldier staring down at him. Leslie jumped from the log … the soldier yelled in alarm … and both of them ran.
When things calmed down a little, Leslie returned to the beach to find a new hiding place until dark. He finally picked a fallen coconut palm that lay so its roots and the dirt clinging to them formed a sort of cave. He crawled in there and began to wait.
Soon he had a curious feeling someone was near, and when sand began trickling down on him, he peeked out to see what was happening. A Japanese was sitting on the fallen palm—right on top of him—eating supper. Leslie could hardly believe it: The Japanese even had thick glasses and buck teeth, the way they did in American cartoons.
Leslie ducked back into his hollow and continued waiting. But now a new danger developed. The palm began sagging under the weight of the soldier, gradually caving in on Leslie. At first he tried to brace it with his hands
and prop the Japanese up, but he was too weak to do this for long. Finally he hit upon the ingenious expedient of gradually letting the soldier down, until the man grew so uncomfortable he moved to a better log to finish his supper.
Darkness at last, and Leslie sneaked down to his canoe while other Japanese relaxed on the beach, smoking and chatting under the stars. He tried to keep a tree between himself and the troops, but just as he was about to shove off, they saw him and began shouting. He jumped in and paddled away, calling back an answering shout that must have convinced them he was a native, since they soon went back to their smoking.
Now three more days of hide-and-seek as he slowly paddled south along the shore. Then, on the morning of the 14th, he reached a sunny, tranquil coast with no trace of the Japanese. A whole new world seemed to dawn: plenty of oysters, papaya, bananas and sweet potatoes. Leslie left his canoe at this point and began walking again. His heart surged with the feeling that help was near.
Next day about noon he began to see tracks and came at last to a village full of natives. They took one look and, deciding he was Japanese, the entire population fled for the hills. He shouted as loud as he could, “American!” This didn’t convince them, but they turned and came cautiously toward him, inspecting him from a distance with the greatest care.
Persuaded at last, they swarmed around him, laughing and shaking hands. In fact, he had to shake hands with every single member of the group—about 150 altogether—down to the smallest child.
He completely collapsed at this point, and the natives took him to a hut, where they put him on a reed cot and fed him some fish and potatoes. One of the villagers spoke a little English, and he explained that a white missionary lived nearby, and they would take Leslie there next morning.
It was, of course, Father de Klerk, the Marist priest and occasional Coastwatcher on the south side of Guadalcanal. Two weeks had passed since his decision to remain behind when the Ramada rescued the little group of Westerners stranded at Tangarare. He was now the only European on the south coast. He still liked to picture himself as just a shepherd looking after the flock, but his unique position made him far more than that.
“I will take the place of the Bishop and the government to give you advice,” he told the natives in a short sermon just after the Ramada left. “Follow my advice always. Don’t show lights at night. Keep away from the Japanese at Cape Hunter and Maravovo. Never help the enemy of our country.”
He was, in short, becoming more and more a war leader. It was inevitable. Outwardly life returned to normal at Tangarare, but the major problem facing the people was not medical, or educational, or even spiritual; it was the problem of survival. The great struggle for the island dominated everything, and Father de Klerk found himself increasingly concerned with such matters as anticipating shortages, protecting the mission, and maintaining discipline.
Almost immediately, in fact, he faced a possible revolt. A local chief named Kesa was reported to be conspiring with four other natives to kill him and divide up the mission property. In a face-to-face confrontation Kesa backed down—said he meant no harm—but Father de Klerk cut him short: “You know I have a rifle, and Mistu Roti (Snowy Rhoades) left me his rifle. I can kill at a mile’s distance. Now I want you five to leave right away, and on the run …. I’ll walk up to my house, get my gun, and start shooting, and I shall shoot to kill!” Strange words for a missionary, but effective. Kesa ran off, and Father de Klerk had no more trouble with his people.
The arrival of Dale Leslie involved him still more deeply in the war. Leslie was, in fact, the second Marine aviator now on his hands. Another downed fighter pilot, Second Lieutenant Douglas Grow, had been brought in a few days earlier.
Like everyone else at Tangarare, Leslie was immediately captivated by the sensuous loveliness of the place—the rustling palms, the sparkling Coral Sea, the distant crash of the surf on the reef. Those tiny silver specks of planes wheeling back and forth across the sky seemed light-years away. “You know,” he remarked one day to Father de Klerk, “I wouldn’t mind staying here till the war is over, if only I could let my mother know I’m still alive.”
While the flyers loafed and browsed through Wodehouse, a new drama was completing the metamorphosis of Emery de Klerk from priest to warrior. On Sunday, October 18, a delegation of natives called on him and asked him to lead them in combat against Japan. They explained they were tired of living away from their villages while the Japanese plundered their homes and gardens … weary of being on the run, afraid even to go fishing for fear of being strafed. de Klerk dodged the request, pointing out that they were already perfectly free to fight and kill the marauders.
But how? asked the village chief. They had only machetes and knew nothing of modern war. They needed someone to instruct them in its ways, and who better than the Father? He knew them, and they knew him… trusted him … would follow him. de Klerk still hesitated. Until now it could be argued he had acted only in self-defense, for the safety of the natives, the missionaries, and a few U.S. pilots. He had shouldered a gun, all right, but he had not gone looking for a target.
Then he thought again of the shepherd and his flock. The truly good shepherd should not be content simply to use the stick when the wolf attacks. Then it might be too late. If he knows the wolf is on the prowl, the truly good shepherd will go after him before he strikes.
And—most important—he had the sanction of the Church. The Bishop himself had given him permission to shoot first during the big scare in September. The danger was far greater now. What was permissible then must be doubly so today.
“All right,” Father de Klerk told the delegation, “I’ll lead you, but I must have the authority of all the chiefs.” Then, without waiting for this formality, he immediately began issuing his orders: a call for 20 volunteers “to start our army” … all refugees to be fed, work to continue in the gardens … anyone working for the Japanese to be killed … all possible aid for downed Allied airmen … only those selected for the “army” to bear arms … no fires anywhere at night … a system of runners to be established … penalty for desertion—death. And finally, a simple restatement of his role as he saw it: “I am now your leader and your government—but I remain your Father and priest and doctor just as always.”
The first objective was to wipe out the Japanese post at Cape Hunter. This consisted of nine men equipped with rifles, two machine guns, and a radio transmitter. They were said to be short of food, so Father de Klerk planned an ambush built around a decoy pig. He then wrote two local chiefs in the area, inviting their cooperation. One turned him down, but the other, Joe Turukaia, promised to help.
It was Father de Klerk’s intention, when all arrangements were set, to go down to Cape Hunter and personally lead the ambush, but the next message from Joe Turukaia announced that the job had already been done. Eight of the nine Japanese were killed, their transmitter dumped into the sea. The radio operator somehow escaped, but a lone Japanese hiding out in the jungle posed little threat. He was, in fact, never seen again.
Meanwhile there were other promising developments on the Tangarare front. On October 24, after months of inattention, two U.S. planes unexpectedly appeared, circling low over the mission compound. Father de Klerk and Doug Grow were not on hand at the moment, but Dale Leslie began waving wildly. A pause, and then the plane dropped a message wrapped around a flashlight battery: “Who are you? Where is the missionary? If you are a pilot, show rubber dinghy and Mae West.”
Leslie had no dinghy, but a spare one at the station served the purpose. The plane then dropped a second message, this one addressed to Father de Klerk, who by now had arrived on the scene. It was from General Vandegrift’s lieutenant Colonel Buckley, and it sought the Father’s help on future operations. “If you accept, wave arms over head; if not, stand still, arms down.”
It was an easy decision. The pilot acknowledged de Klerk’s wave by dipping his wings, and then both planes flew off. They were back that afternoon with a
longer message asking whether de Klerk could supply guides and carriers for a Marine landing on the south side of Guadalcanal. “If yes, show a white cross.” The mission hospital was quickly raided for enough bandages to make the white cross.
A busy week followed. Father de Klerk visited the neighboring villages, lining up carriers. Planes from Henderson came and went with messages. The 20-man “army” drilled and drilled. Tangarare took on a new air of bustle and excitement, which reached a climax on November 2, when a native police sergeant named Tsaku—one of Snowy Rhoades’s old scouts—arrived with a contingent of 40 armed men from Nala. They had just killed 55 Japanese soldiers, Tsaku explained, and now wanted to join Father de Klerk’s army. He accepted them gladly, turned the boys’ dormitory into a barracks, and Tangarare looked more than ever like an armed camp.
This was the situation on November 4 when, without any advance notice, Dick Horton unexpectedly appeared with the Ramada. He had been picking up pilots stranded on Isabel and the Russells and was now here for Grow and Leslie.
Would Father de Klerk come too? Horton could only ask—he had no actual authority over this valuable informant—but he did emphasize that this was what General Vandegrift wanted. The Father politely declined. “Tell the General I’ll come later; I’m still too busy here.” So the Ramada left without him, and the good shepherd continued to take his stick to the wolf.
7
DERAILING THE TOKYO EXPRESS
HUNTING DOWN THE JAPANESE was the last thing on Jack Read’s mind this same 4th of November. His main concern was how to elude them. For weeks he had heard rumors that Rabaul was sending a force of picked troops to get him at his hideout at Porapora in northern Bougainville; now it looked as though they were here.