Lonely Vigil

by Walter Lord

  There it was at last. All day the U.S. submarine Guardfish had been cruising submerged along the coast, searching for the white cloth the evacuees were meant to display. The navigator Lieutenant Richard H. Bowers, vainly swept the shore with his periscope. None of the landmarks stood out, and his ancient German charts were hopelessly vague. Where, he wondered bitterly, was that vaunted Teutonic thoroughness?

  Then, around 4 P.M., the periscope suddenly picked up a blotch of white against the jungle green. It had to be—could only be—the marker they were looking for. The skipper, Commander Norvell G. Ward, took over. He had been exec on the Gato at Teop and was now an old hand at this sort of thing. He eased the Guardfish down to the bottom and waited for the night.

  After dark Ward surfaced and lay quietly offshore, waiting for the signal fires. As they blazed up, he inched closer to the beach, swinging completely around and backing the last few yards. Now the forward and after torpedo-room hatches opened, and dim figures appeared lugging eight uninflated rubber boats. A series of sharp hisses broke the still night air as the plugs were pulled and the boats inflated. Launched and manned, they moved clumsily toward the shore. They were next to impossible to row, and one sailor muttered, “My shipping-over papers didn’t say nothing about this. Next time I’ll read the fine print.”

  On the beach the evacuees watched with mounting excitement as the little flotilla shot the breakers and spun ashore. In half an hour the first boats were loaded and on their way out again. Now they were even harder to row, and one capsized in the surf. Righting it, the men clambered back in, grunting and cursing, but with no loss except an officer’s cap that floated away in the night.

  On the Guardfish “Bub” Ward watched incredulously as the motley collection of Australians, Chinese, natives, men, women and children swarmed aboard. “We gathered a bit more of a crowd than we’d anticipated,” Paul Mason explained, adding apologetically, “There are still some more on the beach.” When the submarine finally headed out to sea, a total of 62 evacuees were jammed aboard.

  Down below, Sergeant Furner could hardly believe his eyes. After those three hungry weeks with Paul Mason, the smell of the coffee—the sight of the hot white bread—was more than he could grasp. Rarely, if ever, has anyone regarded Spam with greater awe or keener anticipation.

  On Bougainville Jack Read waited until the radio confirmed that Mason’s group was safely away, then moved his own party swiftly to the coast. Everything was working out exactly as he planned. There had never been any Japanese blocking his way to the shore—he could easily have made the rendezvous in time—but headquarters had told him there wasn’t room in the submarine for all his natives, and he was determined not to leave any behind. The only solution was to cook up a pretext that would require the sub to make two trips.

  July 28, Read’s party assembled at Kunua, a coastal plantation several miles north of the Mason pickup. This time there were only 22 to go—fourteen loyal natives and Chinese refugees, Usaia Sotutu and his five scouts, Eric Robinson, and Read himself.

  That evening he watched the signal fires blaze for the last time. The Guardfish—having transferred her first load to a subchaser—reappeared on schedule, and the pickup came off without a hitch. As commanding officer, Read followed the time-honored tradition and made sure he was the last man in the last boat to shove off from the beach.

  For Jack Read it was a strange feeling to be leaving Bougainville after these seventeen months of unremitting effort in the face of constant danger. How much had really been accomplished? How did the books balance out? On the debit side, he had been driven off the island. There was no denying that. But there were entries on the credit side too. There were all those plane sightings that gave CACTUS two hours’ warning during the desperate fight for Guadalcanal. There was the convoy he reported in November, just before the last great Japanese attack. There were the nuns and refugees he helped save on New Year’s Eve. There was the steady flow of intelligence on the enemy airstrip at Buka. There was even the satisfaction of tying up so many Japanese in their final, successful drive to get rid of him.

  Nor was the ledger closed. During the past two months, while Read was on the run and generally out of touch with the world, great events were taking place to the south. These developments would dramatically affect the role of the Coastwatchers, and ultimately the fate of Bougainville itself.

  11

  A VERY PRIVATE WAR

  DONALD KENNEDY KNEW ALL about Ferdinand the Bull—and he fully appreciated why this most docile of animals was the Coastwatchers’ symbol—but his base at Segi on the southeastern tip of New Georgia was just too valuable to lose, even if it meant fighting back. The location was superb. Protected by uncharted reefs, it offered equally good access either to the north and the waters of the Slot, or to the south and Blanche Channel, busy with Japanese traffic moving in and out of Munda. Other Coastwatchers could pick up and move if hard-pressed—one hill was as good as another—but Segi was unique.

  Yet at the start he had so little to defend the place. Just a handful of native scouts and a few rifles. Thanks to the compliant Bogese, the Japanese knew roughly where he was; if they also knew how weak he was, Segi would be doomed. They mustn’t be allowed to find out.

  His solution was what he called the “forbidden zone.” As long as the Japanese kept a safe distance from Segi, the principles of Ferdinand applied, and he left them strictly alone. But if any patrol or scouting force came within the area he deemed essential to the base’s security, then it was in the “forbidden zone” and must be attacked at once. It didn’t matter whether the Japanese were actually looking for him at the time—or even whether they knew they were near the base—it was enough that they might discover him.

  Total annihilation was the rule. Every man in the enemy party must be killed or captured. No one must escape to tell the tale. In this way he would still keep the low profile that was so much a part of the Ferdinand idea. He would just be doing it a different way. Instead of dodging the Japanese, he would swallow them up.

  At first some minor successes … then a big one. About 10 A.M. one bright morning in November 1942 a native scout burst into camp with the news that two Japanese barges were holed up in Marovo Lagoon only five miles north of camp. They were heading east with supplies—certainly weren’t looking for Segi—but they might discover the base, and Kennedy wasn’t about to risk the chance. They were in the “forbidden zone.”

  Gathering a force of 23 men, including two American flyers awaiting evacuation, he hurried to the scene … first by boat, then on foot. Urging the men on was his second-in-command, a burly, good-humored half-caste who had been somewhat redundantly christened William Billy Bennett. An experienced sailor and competent mechanic, he had also been a medical dresser, cook boy, and school teacher at various times in his 22 years. He was loafing at Munda when Kennedy recruited him in 1941, and he quickly proved an invaluable aide. He was not only versatile, but highly articulate. Before every engagement he would “psyche up” the scouts, like a coach giving a locker room pep talk before the big game.

  There’s no record what he said this time, but it certainly worked. Kennedy’s little force struck at 7 P.M., pouring a devastating fire into the two barges which were moored right against the shore. A Japanese machine gun opened up briefly but was soon knocked out, and all was silent.

  Billy Bennett boarded one of the barges, only to be greeted by a Japanese sailor who jumped him with the handle for lowering the landing ramp. Bennett bayoneted him, and there was no more resistance.

  He now threw a lighted dry-leaf torch into the second barge and scrambled aboard. In the glow of the flames he saw a Japanese lying on his stomach a few feet away, aiming a rifle at a scout on the shore. Bennett fired at him point-blank, taking off the top of the man’s head. Hearing some sounds below, he next tossed a grenade down the engine hatch, slammed the lid, and rashly sat on it. He somehow escaped injury in the blast that followed, and the battle was over. Every Jap
anese was killed; their weapons carried off, their barges towed into deep water and sunk. No trace of them remained whatsoever. To the enemy command at Munda it was one more mysterious incident where their personnel simply vanished.

  To Kennedy it was a bonanza. He not only built up his arsenal, but he vastly strengthened his standing with the local natives. Ferdinand was too sophisticated a concept to stir much enthusiasm, but a devastating ambush was something else. New recruits began drifting in from the nearby islands and villages. Seni, chief of the Mindi-Mindi Islands just east of Segi, signed on as a scout and received a rifle. He then ambushed a patrol of six Japanese, killed one, and got a second rifle. Recruiting one of his tribesmen, he ambushed five more Japanese—and got five more rifles. He repeated the process until he ended up with 32 armed men, all at Kennedy’s service.

  Shortly afterwards another local chief, Ngato, asked Kennedy’s permission to attack a reconnaissance party of five Japanese on an island 30 miles up the Marovo Lagoon. At the moment Kennedy had only one rifle to spare, but Ngato assured him guns wouldn’t be necessary. And so it proved. Taking six of his natives in a canoe, the old chief paddled up to the island and made friends with the Japanese. Then, while they lay sleeping that night, he crawled into their hut and stole all their weapons.

  Next morning when the Japanese discovered what had happened, a general scuffle broke out, and at this point Ngato’s plan hit an unexpected snag. Two of the enemy happened to be jiujitsu experts, and they gave the natives a hard time indeed. Finally the local villagers rushed to the rescue and, with the ratio “about 20 to 1,” the patrol was subdued. Trussed up, the Japanese were brought back to Segi in triumph and thrown into Kennedy’s POW pen.

  More recruits drifted in, until Kennedy ultimately had what amounted to a private army of 70 men—half of them armed—not counting Seni and Ngato’s tribesmen. He drilled them relentlessly, even teaching them a certain amount of spit and polish. They could go through the manual of arms like a Guards Regiment, and at Segi the day began with a bugler blowing reveille.

  Discipline was always tough. In this kind of warfare the lives of all could depend on one man’s performance, and Kennedy demanded unswerving obedience. The disobedient were likely to end up “across the drum”—which meant a good lashing while lying across a 44-gallon drum, feet on one side, hands touching the ground on the other. But Kennedy himself never administered the beating—it was done by other natives—in an effort to avoid racial implications. These harsh punishments did spawn a certain amount of grumbling, but it was not so much resentment as the griping of tough troops who will put up with almost anything for a commander they believe in.

  As Kennedy’s army grew, so did its arsenal. Each skirmish added more Japanese weapons to the collection. Ultimately the stockpile at Segi included one 20-mm. cannon, 8 machine guns, 2 submachine guns, 12 pistols, and 60 rifles.

  Along with his army Kennedy was also accumulating a private navy. On one occasion his men stole a 57-foot diesel barge while the crew was ashore foraging for food. Another time U.S. fighter planes shot up two barges nosed against the shore, causing leaks that flooded their batteries. Unable to start the engines, both crews headed home on foot. Once they were out of sight, Kennedy’s scouts plugged the leaks, pumped out the water, and towed the barges back to Segi. Two days later another Japanese barge appeared with a spare engine for one of the damaged craft. While the crew was off searching for it, the scouts stole the spare engine too.

  The Kennedy fleet eventually boasted six barges altogether, one of which he armed with machine guns from a downed B-24.

  But the flagship of his navy was no barge. It was the ten-ton schooner Dundavata, a marvelously picturesque two-master with wheezing engine that formerly belonged to the Seventh Day Adventist Mission on Choiseul. With Billy Bennett coaxing her along, she could make seven knots in a following sea.

  The Dundavata’s big chance came in April 1943. Two of Kennedy’s scouts arrived one evening to report that a whaleboat loaded with Japanese was coming up the Marovo Lagoon from Wickham Anchorage. It was methodically probing every isle and inlet along the way, obviously trying to locate the Coastwatching base.

  There was no time to lose. The information was already late. The scouts had been delayed by a native missionary named Punda, who did not believe in the war and tried to argue them out of reporting back. He failed, but they did listen—and lost some valuable time.

  Kennedy hurriedly rounded up a dozen men, and the Dundavata shoved off from Segi that night. Turning east down the Marovo Lagoon, the little schooner looked about as warlike as she ever could. Her upper works were camouflaged with leaves and branches, and a .50-calibre Browning machine gun was mounted on the bow. She also carried two lighter machine guns salvaged from a couple of downed Zeros, and nearly all the crew had rifles. Kennedy, Billy Bennett, and most of the men were on the Dundavata herself, but a few were towed in canoes trailing behind.

  At daybreak one of Kennedy’s outlying scouts paddled up to report that the Japanese were ashore on an island just ahead. This was far closer to Segi than Kennedy expected to meet them, and he had to scrap his previous plan for interception. Improvising on the spur of the moment, he anchored behind another island nearby. Assuming the Japanese had sighted him approaching, the Dundavata was now screened from their guns. He next posted a lookout in a palm tree with orders to report any enemy move. He was in a good position to intercept, whichever way they went.

  Everything taken care of, he settled down with a bottle of whiskey and waited for the Japanese to make the next move. He figured they would stay put until dark—their usual practice—and he decided to take a nap. It was night when one of his chief scouts, John Mamambonima, woke him up, explaining excitedly in pidgin: “Him along. It’s time to get up.”

  Kennedy waited long enough to be sure the Japanese were definitely on their way, then started his engines and slipped out from behind his own island. It was a bright moonlit night, and he soon spotted the whaleboat coming toward him. The Japanese apparently saw him too, for they turned around and began rowing hard for home.

  Picking up speed, the Dundavata raced in pursuit. Bill Bennett took over the wheel, while Kennedy went forward and personally manned the .50-calibre machine gun. At 500 yards he began firing. A Japanese machine gun opened up in reply, and two bullets clipped Kennedy’s thigh. He looked a bloody mess, but he kept blazing away as the distance narrowed between the two vessels.

  After three and a half belts, the Browning jammed. Kennedy limped aft, took one of the Zero machine guns, and continued shooting. The Japanese fire fell off, and he sensed he was getting results. Soon the whaleboat lay almost dead in the water, oars smashed or lost, wounded oarsmen slumped in their seats. The Dundavata was now only a hundred yards away.

  Kennedy shouted orders to ram. Billy Bennett was so excited he turned the wheel the wrong way, and there was an instant of total confusion as Kennedy cuffed him on the head and twisted the wheel the other way, shouting, “This way, you bloody fool, port not starboard!”

  The bow wavered a second—not long, but enough for some quick-thinking Japanese to hurl a hand grenade onto the Dundavata. It exploded with a roar, scattering everyone and knocking Kennedy to the deck.

  Next instant the Dundavata crashed into the whaleboat, bow rising over the gunwale, capsizing it and dumping the Japanese into the water. The canoes towed by the schooner now cast off and made the rounds, finishing off any swimming Japanese. Kennedy took no prisoners this night.

  Some 20 Japanese were wiped out altogether, and as usual the rule was to leave no trace of the engagement. In the morning Kennedy’s men buried the ten bodies they found, salvaged some useful gear from the bottom of the lagoon, and sank the hulk of the whaleboat in deep water. His own casualties were miraculously light—thirteen men nicked by grenade fragments, the regular helmsman slightly wounded, and himself with his bleeding thigh. The wound was painful but not serious, and for the present he refused to leave Segi for tr
eatment. He simply “shoved in” some sulfanilamide and carried on.

  Such exploits made certain that Donald Kennedy’s base at Segi would play an important role as the Allies moved over to the offensive in the South Pacific. The ultimate objective was the great Japanese base at Rabaul. This meant, among other things, clearing the Central Solomons; and this in turn meant seizing the enemy airstrip at Munda near the western end of New Georgia. Admiral Halsey’s SOPAC command would be responsible, and the operation was called TOENAILS—a code name that turned out to be uncomfortably prophetic.

  Once more the Allies faced landing on shores that were virtually unknown. How to go about it depended on the answers to a number of highly technical questions. Which beaches were long enough for the number of landing craft involved? What were the gradients? Where was the soil of the best consistency for a supporting fighter strip? What size drains would be required? How much Marsden matting would be needed for the airfield?

  Not even Kennedy’s network could answer questions like these. But there were men who could, and Segi had the guides, interpreters, weapons and canoes to help them.

  Lieutenant William P. Coultas was a naval intelligence officer on Halsey’s staff who had been to the Solomons on a scientific expedition before the war, knew the jungle, understood the natives, and even spoke pidgin. He was a natural to lead the first of several tactical reconnaissance teams inserted into Segi to survey the area. With him went Captain Clay Boyd of the 1st Marine Raiders, who was an officer with long jungle experience, and three enlisted Raiders carefully handpicked by Boyd.

  “Would you like to go north and fight?” Boyd asked Sergeant Frank Guidone one day late in February. At the moment Guidone was stuck on New Caledonia, feeling very much at loose ends. He was a boxer, had been in a good many interservice bouts, and thought Boyd wanted him to go north for some tournament.