Lonely Vigil

by Walter Lord

  “Sure,” he said, and then learned he had just volunteered to go behind enemy lines in New Georgia. Marine Gunner Jim James and Corporal Robert C. Laverty presumably understood the question better, but all three were very, very good at adjusting to even the most unexpected developments.

  On March 3 they flew to Segi by PBY, landing in the lagoon as fifteen fighters circled protectively above. Kennedy was waiting at the dock to greet them.

  To the new arrivals, the organization of the place was simply amazing. They were deep in enemy territory and had expected to find a small hideout manned by a few furtive jungle fighters. Instead they found a teeming secret base. The beaches on either side of the dock were covered by machine guns stolen from the Japanese or salvaged from wrecked planes. More guns were planted up the hill around the old Markham plantation house, which served as Kennedy’s quarters. Native lookouts were posted on platforms in the trees, while sentries patrolled the shore in every direction. A chain of signal fires warned of any approaching vessel. The teleradio was in a shack about a half mile into the bush, and even friends were discouraged from learning its exact whereabouts.

  Kennedy’s organization extended far beyond the base itself. He never expected to hold Segi against a major attack, so “getaway roads” (as he called them) laced the jungle in every direction. He built reserve radio huts as much as ten miles into the bush. Caches of food were stored in secret places. An amazing system of hidden canoes allowed his people to move in any direction at any time.

  The new arrivals found Kennedy himself quiet and rather aloof. Perhaps from months of enforced caution, he did not warm easily to strangers. But professionally they could find no fault. All day he helped them plan schedules and routes. Then as dusk fell, he invited them to join him on his verandah, where they sipped some excellent Scotch.

  It was dark now, and a houseboy appeared carrying a lighted Coleman lamp. With the Japanese only a few miles away at Viru Harbor to the west and Wickham Anchorage to the east, Clay Boyd was astonished. It struck him as a most reckless thing to do. Kennedy, however, seemed to regard it as a normal amenity, a touch of civilized living he wasn’t about to give up simply because he happened to be behind enemy lines.

  They dined at 8:00, seated around a table set with silver, china and immaculate linen. Houseboys in jackets served a dinner of chicken and fish with fruit salad. It was all so eye-goggling that it seemed perfectly natural when the party was later joined by a lovely-looking Polynesian girl, who smiled a lot but said little.

  Next morning there was more cause for wonder as one of Kennedy’s gun crews went through a drill with a .50-calibre machine gun. They simulated firing, then took the gun apart, reassembled it in a speed drill, and continued their simulated firing. It was, Sergeant Guidone felt, a performance that would have put any Marine gun crew to shame. Later in the day he decided to show the natives that he too could do a few fancy stunts with a gun. It was a long time since Quantico, however, and he accidentally fired a shot through the dining room ceiling. Kennedy, Coultas and Boyd were fortunately off somewhere, but the Polynesian girl saw it and dissolved into giggles.

  The Marines spent most of the day with Kennedy, poring over a large map of New Georgia. Then at 4:00 P.M. they boarded two large canoes, and with 20 native paddlers and carriers they set out for a first-hand survey of the terrain. All that night they paddled up the Marovo Lagoon. Daybreak, they landed at Ravete Inlet … crossed the island on foot … then continued up the southern coast by a trail that roughly paralleled the Roviana Lagoon. On the 6th they finally reached a leaf hut known as Horton’s No. 2 Camp a few miles short of Munda.

  It was hard going all the way, and the natives didn’t hide their exasperation. It seemed one more example of the white man’s inability to get around. If they had gone by canoe up the Roviana Lagoon, they could have made the trip in twelve hours, as against three days by land. The visitors, of course, weren’t interested in speed. They wanted to find out how easily a large body of men could move through the interior … how long it would take … whether troops could live off the land or must depend on rations. They backed their findings with copious notes and photographs.

  Horton’s No. 2 Camp proved a disappointment. Even from the tallest tree they couldn’t get a good view of the Munda airstrip (Horton could have told them), and they finally split up for other projects. James, Guidone and Laverty headed back to survey the Japanese camp at Vim Harbor nine miles west of Segi, while Coultas and Boyd visited Horton’s station PWD on Rendova, hoping for a better view of Munda.

  They were not disappointed. Ferried across by Willie Paia, one of Kennedy’s chief scouts in the Roviana area, they found Dick Horton on his ridge, still enjoying his spectacular view. Nothing escaped his scrutiny—whether a staff car tooling down the Munda runway … or barge traffic on Blanche Channel … or merely some bored Japanese soldier fishing in Rendova Harbor directly below. Natives stationed in the two treetop lookouts shouted down every movement in the local dialect to the camp cook, who translated it for Horton, who whiled away his idle time practicing yoga. If sufficiently important, it was easy enough to switch to the teleradio.

  Some fifteen minutes farther up the mountain was another excellent lookout, where it was possible to sit back in an easy chair and watch the Japanese through a mounted telescope. This was Coastwatching at its most comfortable. Horton was, on the whole, very secure in his eyrie, but to be on the safe side, he had a couple of fall-back positions deeper in the interior, where he could always retreat if hard pressed.

  Two days of sketching, photographing, gathering data; then on March 13 Coultas and Boyd headed back to Segi, arriving there on the 16th. The others in the party were already waiting after a most successful survey of Viru. They had worked their way to a point only 1200 feet across the harbor from the enemy camp—so close that Frank Guidone amused himself by lining up his carbine sights on a Japanese soldier who was squatting in the water to relieve his bowels.

  By March 20 the party was back in Noumea. Their findings, together with data gathered by four Marine teams sent in on the 21st, greatly altered the planning for TOENAILS. Originally the idea was to land in division strength at Segi and push up the coast to Munda. Now this was out. The beach at Segi was too small, and the coastal terrain impassable for any large body of marching troops. But it was also clear that landings could be safely made much closer to Munda … that a 200-yard beach at Zanana, five miles east of the airstrip, was a good spot … that the reefs around there were tricky but passable … that there was a good harbor and few Japanese on nearby Rendova … that a separate landing north of Munda would be easier than cutting through the jungle from the east in order to flank the field.

  Out of all this grew the final plan for TOENAILS. As hammered out by Admiral Kelly Turner’s staff, there would be a two-pronged assault. A Western Group would seize Rendova … soften Munda with artillery … then cross Blanche Channel and advance on the airstrip; they would be supported by troops landed at Rice Anchorage on the coast north of the field. At the same time, a smaller Eastern Group would take Wickham Anchorage, Viru Harbor, and Segi. As soon as Segi was secure, a fighter strip would be built there to support the advance.

  June 13, and Clay Boyd was back at Segi with a team of seven Marine Raiders, including most of the original team in March. With Kennedy providing the guides and carriers as usual, they quickly headed for the interior. By now TOENAILS was set for June 30, and their assignments were very specific—preparing the landing beaches, collecting canoes, cutting paths from Rice Anchorage toward the nearest Japanese stronghold at Enogai.

  Operating from a base camp a few miles east of Munda, the group also fanned out on two- and three-man patrols, checking any late changes in enemy dispositions. Toward dusk on one of these patrols Guidone and Sergeant Joe Sciarra were making their way up a mild slope when they suddenly heard a great clatter of pots and pans, along with the sound of Japanese voices. An enemy outpost lay on the other side of the slope, ju
st 50 feet away.

  They froze in their tracks. They couldn’t go forward, and it was too dark to go back, for fear of the noise they’d make. So for the rest of the night they just sat there, assaulted by a million mosquitoes, listening to Japanese songs, jokes, and laughter. At first light they quietly stole out of range, realizing that only those noisy pots and pans had kept them from walking right into the enemy camp. “If they had been washing the dishes,” Guidone later philosophized, “we’d have been caught.”

  Joe Sciarra did not escape scot-free. He came down with a bad case of malaria and had to be evacuated when Clay Boyd was ordered back to New Caledonia to give Admiral Halsey a personal, last-minute briefing before TOENAILS. The rest of Boyd’s party continued hacking trails and preparing the landing beaches on New Georgia’s north coast.

  The Japanese at Munda were not asleep. The navy commander, Rear Admiral Minora Ota, and his army counterpart, Major General Noboru Sasaki, were both very much aware of the U.S. reconnaissance teams prowling about New Georgia. Scraps of American food had been discovered in a nearby hut, and Ota’s young intelligence officer, Lieutenant Satoru Yunoki, pieced together a torn letter to a U.S. Marine from his girl, found on a jungle path only half a mile from the Japanese camp. Along with the constant air attacks now hammering the landing strip, the presence of these visitors suggested an early Allied offensive.

  Countermeasures must be increased. The Segi area seemed to be the source of the mischief, but exactly what the Allies had there was still a mystery. Every patrol sent to investigate had simply vanished. The answer, the commanders decided, was stronger patrols and better leadership.

  On May 13 new outposts were established on Ramada, Mongo, and several other islands in the Marovo Lagoon north of Segi. Kennedy countered on the 16th by annihilating an eight-man scouting party that came within the forbidden zone. Captured papers indicated that the enemy still didn’t know the exact position of his camp.

  Meanwhile the Japanese also strengthened their garrison at Viru Harbor, on the Blanche Channel side of Segi. The present post commander had shown little energy, and it was hoped that the reinforcements under Major Masao Hara would add some real muscle.

  Hara’s first attempt was by barge—down Blanche Channel and up toward Segi from the south. As usual, Kennedy’s sentries were on the job, and the chain of signal fires blazed their warnings. At Segi Kennedy’s army manned their machine guns, ready to give the enemy a lively reception.

  But the Japanese still didn’t know exactly where the base was located and piled ashore near Nono, a village some five miles short of Segi. There was, of course, nothing there. The troops—bewildered and with no other instructions—went back to Viru through the bush. Kennedy let them go; he had deployed his men for a last-ditch defense and was unable to invoke the forbidden zone rule.

  The next party came by land, chopping a trail through the bush from Viru. Reaching the shore again near Nono, they camped for the night, planning to push on in the morning. Sentries were carefully positioned, covering any approach to their camp by land, but the side facing the sea was left unguarded. The shore was a tangle of mangrove roots, and these seemed protection enough against a surprise attack.

  Kennedy and his men came in five canoes. Laying to offshore, the scouts disembarked and began wading in. The mangrove roots were indeed good protection against a sudden charge, but not against the tactics used tonight. On signal from Billy Bennett, the scouts began lobbing grenades into the enemy camp. In the darkness the Japanese had no idea where the missiles were coming from. They huddled together in frightened confusion.

  Eventually the grenades were all thrown, and the scouts began using their rifles. But by now the Japanese had taken such fearful casualties, the direction of the attack no longer mattered. The survivors straggled back to Viru along the trail they had carved, dragging their wounded with them. They never fired a shot in return.

  Nevertheless, Kennedy was under fire that day. As his men opened up with their rifles, bullets began whining around his ears, and he suddenly realized that somebody in one of his own canoes was shooting at him.

  He could never prove who did it, but he had his suspicions. Some time earlier he had fired the native in charge of the POW pen at Segi for failing to lock the gate one night. The man denied any blame, but he was relieved of the key and sent to work in the gardens of Chief Ngato—a humiliating demotion. Tonight, without Kennedy’s knowledge, the old chief brought him along on the attack because he seemed so handy with guns.

  The Japanese at Viru had now been foiled twice in quick succession, but Kennedy sensed the change in command. No doubt about it, the “new bloke” (as he referred to Major Hara) was far more vigorous than his predecessor. It was a development that made Kennedy more receptive than he should have been to a scheme suggested by another shadowy figure at Segi. Belshazzar Gina had been a native missionary at Simba before the war but was now under a cloud, charged with theft and extortion. While locked up at Segi, he volunteered to spy on the Japanese at Viru, presumably in return for his freedom. His latest report indicated that nine barges were moored across the harbor from the Japanese camp, that they were unguarded and there for the taking.

  It looked like a golden opportunity to deprive the new bloke of his transportation. Ordering Gina to stay on the scene, Kennedy quickly assembled an armada of 20 canoes and set off for Viru Harbor. They were well on their way when intercepted by a native swimming out from the shore. It was one of Chief Ngato’s men, and he urged the party to turn back. He too had been spying at Viru and he warned that Gina was making things up. In fact, Gina wasn’t even at Viru—he was enjoying himself at another village—and the “unguarded” barges were really loaded with armed Japanese.

  It was a narrow escape. Only a lucky interception by that daring swimmer had saved the day. Gina was recalled, and the natives urged that he be executed on the spot. Not completely sure whether the man was a traitor or simply irresponsible, Kennedy was unwilling to go that far. Instead he ordered 100 lashes over the drum. This was later reduced to 25, but Gina was never again allowed to leave the camp.

  As the threat to Segi continued to grow, on June 11 Lieutenant Commander Don Gumz, skipper of the PBY detachment stationed at Tulagi, got some unusual orders direct from Rear Admiral Marc A. Mitscher, who commanded all the planes in the Solomons. COMAIRSOLS ordered Gumz to fly a “Dumbo” mission to Segi the following morning, stopping at Rennell Island on the way back. The squadron had never before flown a mission to Rennell, isolated as it was some 250 miles south of Guadalcanal. Gumz knew nothing about conditions there, or even where he was expected to land.

  A mildly worded plea to COMAIRSOLS for more dope brought only a laconic reply that there wasn’t any more. Nor was any explanation offered on the purpose of the mission. Gumz assumed that some hot-shot fighter pilot had gotten himself lost and was on Rennell waiting for a ride home.

  Early next morning he took off, and one hour and 48 minutes later set the PBY down in the lagoon off Segi Point. So far the trip had been just another milk run. Now he supposed Kennedy would be bringing out some downed flyers and maybe give him a little info on the Rennell part of the mission.

  But there were no downed flyers this morning. Instead, Kennedy had in his canoe the Polynesian girl others had noticed at Segi. In her lap she held a baby, while an older amah-type woman hovered close by. Two young Polynesian men completed the party.

  Coming alongside, Kennedy sang out to stand by for passengers. The PBY crew gaped in silent astonishment. It had been far too long since they had seen any girl, much less one as pretty as this. But no one had any comment. Among the grateful American airmen in the Solomons it was well understood that what Kennedy wanted Kennedy got, and Gumz saw no reason to quote him Navy regulations about civilian female passengers on a man-of-war.

  The two women were helped aboard and settled on bunks in the cabin, while Kennedy went forward to the cockpit. He asked if Gumz knew Rennell Island, and the Commander sai
d no, but he could probably find it if it was anywhere near the position shown on his chart. Kennedy glanced at it, said it was “good enough,” and explained the location of Lake Tungano, where the PBY was to land. Once on the water the two Polynesian boys would guide him to the spot where the passengers would disembark—it was their home. A few more navigating tips; then he scrambled back into his canoe and cast off.

  Kennedy now lay to, watching, as Gumz taxied into position for takeoff. He was still watching as the PBY circled back overhead before turning south. Gumz had made other trips to Segi, but he had never seen Kennedy watch a departing plane so long and hard before.

  The flight to safety was just in time. Four days later, on June 16, Kennedy’s scouts ambushed an enemy patrol of 25 men advancing overland from Viru Harbor. The Japanese got away in the darkness, but left behind an assortment of diaries and sketches. From these it was clear that Major Hara now knew exactly where Kennedy’s headquarters lay.

  On the 17th Hara launched his biggest drive yet. Half a battalion moved out from Viru and headed cautiously for Segi Point. Kennedy didn’t know the details, but he knew he was threatened from three directions, and that he couldn’t possibly hold Segi against the attack that was taking shape. On June 20 he radioed KEN that he’d have to take to the hills unless he got help.

  Admiral Kelly Turner, the Amphibious Force commander for TOENAILS, reacted immediately. Segi must not be allowed to fall. It was needed for the fighter strip that would support the attack on Munda. He had planned to land there June 30; now that would obviously be too late. Instead, they must go at once—tonight!

  At 8:30 P.M. the old four-pipers Dent and Waters left Guadalcanal with two companies of Colonel Michael Currin’s 4th Marine Raiders. Racing west, they veered into Panga Bay and headed for Segi Point. They reduced speed now—these waters were still uncharted and no one knew whether the channel was deep enough for ships of this size. Twice they scraped bottom, wriggled free, and ploughed on. Soon Kennedy’s signal fires began blazing—but this time as beacons rather than warnings.