by Walter Lord
This time it had seemed perfectly safe to spruce up a little. After a hard night’s work supporting the landings at Rice Anchorage, the Helena was steaming south of New Georgia, away from the action, presumably for a few days of rest.
Then late in the afternoon of July 5 came word that the Tokyo Express was on the move again. Ten destroyers were heading down the Slot, bringing reinforcements for General Sasaki’s hard-pressed defenders at Munda. The Helena, along with the rest of Admiral Ainsworth’s force of cruisers and destroyers, was ordered to turn around immediately and intercept. For Jack Chew the word came too late—he had already shaved.
By 1:30 A.M. on the 6th the force was off the mouth of Kula Gulf, racing up the Slot at 25 knots. Clouds hid the moon, but the towering volcanic cone of Kolombangara Island loomed to port. At 1:36 the radarman made contact—seven to nine ships coming out of Kula Gulf, hugging the Kolombangara shore.
Japanese lookouts soon sighted the Americans too, and when Ainsworth’s force opened fire at 1:57, the enemy destroyers had a nice aiming point for their “long lance” torpedoes.
At 2:04 a roar split the night, and the Helena gave a sickening lurch. One of the torpedoes had found its mark, completely tearing off the ship’s bow. Thirty seconds later a second torpedo hit … then a third. The Helena sagged, back broken amidships. All power was gone; guns were silent; communications cut; lights out, except for a few dim emergency bulbs.
Jack Chew, in charge of the combat information center, checked the bridge for instructions. Captain Charles P. Cecil’s orders were no surprise—abandon ship.
The word spread, and men poured onto the slanting decks. Chew and Lieutenant Commander Warren Boles, the Helena’s, gunnery officer, struggled to get the life rafts off the forecastle into the water. Further aft, Major Bernard T. Kelly, commanding the ship’s 42-man Marine Detachment, checked the main deck forward to make sure no one was left behind, then climbed down a cargo net into the sea. Near the stern, Ensign George Bausewine, a young assistant damage control officer, carefully removed his shoes and slipped into the water.
Swimming clear, they all turned for a last look at the Helena. The bow and stern rose high in the air to form a V. Then with a rumble she slid straight down, disappearing at about 2:30. Watching her go, Major Kelly felt as if his home had burned to the ground.
For the next hour hundreds of men milled around in the water, hoping that some ship might pick them up. The lucky ones found rafts; the rest gathered in clusters where they might be more easily seen. Chew and Boles collected a group of about 75 around a Jacob’s ladder that came floating by.
Some time before dawn they heard ships approaching, and soon Major Kelly made out the number “449” on the bow of a destroyer. That meant the Nicholas, one of Ainsworth’s force. The Admiral had detached her with destroyer Radford to look for survivors, once he realized the Helena was missing. The rest of the task force was now high-tailing it back to Tulagi, convinced they had wiped out most of the Japanese fleet. Actually, they had sunk only one destroyer, with another driven on a reef through bad navigation.
The Nicholas and Radford lowered nets and boats, began taking survivors aboard. For Chew’s group, it would be a long, hard swim to safety, but for others like Ensign Bausewine rescue seemed only seconds off. He was floating on his back right next to one of the destroyers, awaiting his turn to climb aboard. Then, without warning, she suddenly got under way at high speed and began firing her guns. Another Japanese destroyer had been sighted coming out of Kula Gulf. The fight was on again.
Dawn was now breaking, and with Japanese planes controlling these skies, there was no chance for the destroyers to come back again. Amazingly, in the short time they were at the scene, they managed to pick up 745 survivors; their boats—left behind as they steamed off—took another 100 to a safe spot on the New Georgia coast.
The rest of the Helena survivors, including Jack Chew’s group, remained treading water in the Slot. With daylight they found a curious rallying point. The Helena’s bow, severed from the ship by the first torpedo, was still afloat. Standing vertically about 20 feet above water, it soon became a popular refuge. Chew and many of the others paddled over, feeling it should be the first thing spotted by any friendly planes that came looking for them.
And so it proved. About 10 A.M. a B-24 appeared, circled, and dropped three rubber rafts. One sank but Chew’s group managed to inflate the other two. Unfortunately each could hold only four men. Chew put in his most seriously injured, and the group continued waiting.
Soon more planes arrived—but this time they were Zeros. Watching them approach, Major Kelly recalled the recent Bismarck Sea affair, where Allied aircraft strafed the Japanese life rafts after sinking their transports. This was no gentleman’s war, and he steeled himself for the worst.
But the Zeros didn’t shoot. The nearest pilot simply pulled back his canopy and looked at them closely. Circling, the planes made a second run, and again held their fire. As they circled for a third run, they got off a few short bursts, and Kelly felt sure that this time would be “it.” As they roared by, practically touching the water, the lead pilot grinned, waved, waggled his wings … and then they were gone. The relieved but puzzled survivors figured they were so coated with fuel oil, the flyers couldn’t tell whether they were American or Japanese.
But it was a close call. It drove home to Chew that these were indeed enemy waters, and the bow was far more likely to attract Japanese than American planes. He decided his group, now down to about 50, should clear out as soon as possible. Kolombangara lay only eight or nine miles to the south. If they used the rafts to get there, maybe they could then work their way to the U.S. lines on New Georgia.
They shoved off around 11 A.M., with the two rafts tied loosely together and the men divided evenly between them. The injured continued to ride as passengers, while two or three hands straddled the rims and paddled; everyone else remained in the water, clinging to the sides, kicking and pushing the craft along.
All that day they inched toward Kolombangara, gradually losing touch with the other rafts and oil-soaked swimmers that dotted the Slot. For Chew’s party it was hard, exhausting work, and he tried to ease the strain by developing a system of rotation. Every so often one of his swimmers would take a turn in the raft itself, along with the injured. But there was room for only one or two at a time, and as things worked out, a man could expect only ten minutes rest every two hours.
Nightfall, and Kolombangara seemed as far away as ever. One of the injured men died, and all were badly off. They had now been in the water for eight hours, were bone-tired, hungry, and utterly discouraged. Under a tropical sky studded with stars that seemed far nearer than the island they were trying to reach, Chew led them all in the Lord’s Prayer.
As the night wore on, the yearning for sleep grew overwhelming. No matter how hard they fought it, some succumbed … loosened their grip … and were gone for good. Major Kelly knew the danger, and tried desperately to stay awake. Once he nodded, found himself floating away from the group, barely made it back. Next time, he stayed asleep, and when a mouthful of salt water woke him up, it was almost dawn and he was alone in the sea.
He started swimming north, and if he needed any stimulant, it was provided by two fish, about three or four feet long, that showed great interest in his bare feet. He splashed, shouted, kicked, and they departed.
He continued swimming and finally lucked into one of Chew’s two rafts. They had become separated, and this was not Kelly’s original one, but no sight was ever more welcome.
All day, the 7th, the flotsam of the Helena—rafts, bits of wreckage, individual swimmers—drifted up the Slot. On Chew’s raft the men gradually realized that they would never get to Kolombangara. The wind and current were sweeping them by. Their best hope lay in the next island to the northwest, Vella Lavella.
Someone suggested rigging their shirts as a sail. Two paddles were lashed together to form a crosstree, and the shirts were then stretched
between them. Warren Boles was the guiding light. He was from Marblehead, Massachusetts, and knew how to sail before he could ride a bike.
The men’s spirits rose, and they perked up even more when a crate of potatoes floated near. For most it was their first food since leaving the Helena. But at sundown they were still a long way from Vella Lavella, and it was clear they would be spending another night in the water. Their hearts again sank.
It was as bad as they feared. Kelly’s raft lost ten during the night—mostly men who quietly slipped off while the rest were blindly kicking away. By now the men were so exhausted, hallucinations were common. George Bausewine, dozing on the edge of one of the Helena’s doughnut rafts, awoke going under water to get to a bunk he felt sure was there. A groggy, water-logged Ensign David Chennault kept asking Bausewine for a cigarette.
Daylight on the 8th, discipline collapsed completely on Chew’s raft. The men wouldn’t rotate any longer. Those resting simply refused to get back in the water, and Chew was too weak to make them do it. Seeing he had lost control, he decided to swim for it. Vella Lavella looked pretty close now; once ashore, maybe he could get some native help.
Warren Boles and two other men joined him, and around 7 A.M. the four pushed off. Two hours … three hours … six hours passed. Clearly Vella Lavella was much farther off than it looked. Exhausted, they drifted apart and lost sight of each other. By mid-afternoon Chew was only half-awake. Sometimes he found himself swimming in the wrong direction; other times, deep under water for no logical reason. He kept thinking he was going to meet a man who would take him to a cocktail party at “the Residency”—whatever that was.
Boles, the best swimmer, seemed more aware of things. Spotting a stretch of beach he liked, he methodically made for it. Stumbling ashore, he found a coconut in the sand, cracked it open for a drink. Then he crawled under a bush a few yards inland and went to sleep.
By 4 P.M. Chew was just about all-in, when he sighted two natives paddling a canoe toward him. They eased alongside and asked, “You American?”
“You betcha!” he replied, and they rolled him into the canoe. One of the natives looked so venerable, Chew thought of him as Moses. Reaching shore, they explained they would hide him and asked if he could walk. Certainly, Chew replied … and collapsed in his tracks.
For ten miles along the beach a remarkable scene began to unfold. Native canoes darted out, plucking men from the water. At other points, rafts and individual swimmers rolled in with the surf. Here and there dazed men wandered about, trying to get their bearings. Coxswain Chesleigh Grunstad felt overwhelmingly content. He had no idea where he was, but even if he had been told the truth—that Vella Lavella was a Japanese-held island 60 miles from the nearest American outpost—at this moment he wouldn’t have cared. He was on dry land at last.
Looking down the beach, he could see others coming ashore. Then one man was washed up almost at his feet. He was wearing a red money belt, and it reminded Grunstad of his own money, a roll of two-dollar bills fastened to his dog tags. He loosened the roll and began drying the bills. The other man began doing the same—only his bills were all twenties.
Major Kelly stuck to his raft all the way in. Finally ashore, he had his party hide it under some trees. They were just in time. Minutes later a flight of Japanese dive bombers roared by, only 500 feet overhead. Kelly next sent a man along the beach in each direction to scout out the situation. The man who went southward returned in a few minutes with a 25-pound can of coffee—at last they were beginning to get some breaks. The other man returned with a Helena sailor and a dignified, middle-aged native who introduced himself as Aaron, “a good Christian and a good Methodist.” He quickly produced some coconuts, then disappeared to get help.
It was a quiet day at Toupalando, the little village high in the interior of Vella Lavella where the Coastwatcher Henry Josselyn had recently moved his camp. Josselyn had now been on the island more than eight months, reporting Japanese ship and plane movements, rescuing downed airmen, keeping an eye on Iringila, the main Japanese strong point in the area.
So far he had easily dodged the enemy patrols, but they were increasing in number, and when one party landed only 300 yards from his supply depot at Kila Kila, he had shifted his station NRY deeper into the interior. This eased the pressure a little, and today he had gone off on some errand, leaving the station in charge of Sub-Lieutenant Robert Firth, who had replaced Jack Keenan as his assistant. A former Burns Philp accountant and ship’s purser, Firth was a small, cheerful Australian who quickly adapted himself to Coastwatching life.
At the moment, it was not an especially taxing assignment—just a lazy, tropical afternoon. From time to time Firth raised his binoculars and checked the Japanese post at Iringila, but nothing unusual was going on.
Suddenly the torpor was broken by a native scout hurrying up the path to the camp. Rushing up to Firth, he breathlessly reported “plenty Americans” coming ashore along the east coast. To prove it, he produced a set of U.S. Navy dog tags.
Bobby Firth needed better proof than that. Like most Allied fighting men, he attributed almost limitless guile to the Japanese. He feared this might be just one more of their tricks: a clever charade staged to make the Coastwatchers reveal themselves. He quickly called KEN on the teleradio, supplied the name and serial number on the tags, and asked them to check it out.
In an hour KEN was back. The dog tags belonged to a machinist’s mate, 3rd class, assigned to the Helena, sunk in Kula Gulf on the 6th.
Now convinced, Firth sent for Josselyn, who agreed that it looked like “something big.” As yet there was no hint as to how many Helena survivors were involved, but they seemed to be concentrating in two main groups along the coast—one in the Paraso Bay area, the other twelve miles east near Lambu Lambu village. The Japanese had outposts near both places, and fast work was needed to clear the castaways from the beaches before enemy patrols began picking them up.
A runner dashed off to alert Bamboo, the native chief in the area where the survivors were landing: Send out canoes to pick up any men still in the water … plant a string of sentries to watch for Japanese patrols … stand by to help on food and housing.
Another messenger hurried to the Reverend Silvester, the Coastwatching missionary, who was currently at Maravari on the southeast coast. He should take charge of the eastern group of survivors landing near Lambu Lambu. Josselyn himself would take on the western group, at Paraso Bay and Java. Firth would stay at Toupalando—later at a camp still deeper in the interior—handling the teleradio traffic with KEN. They would all keep in touch through two walkie-talkies and a somewhat larger set used by Josselyn, and to help Firth out they had the fortuitous services of a “guest”—Lieutenant Eli Ciunguin, a P-38 pilot awaiting evacuation.
Everything set, Josselyn headed for the village of Java, where the first survivors had been sighted. Time was so important that he traveled all night to get there.
Ensign Bausewine’s group—rescued from their doughnut raft by native canoes—spent the night in leaf huts on the beach near Java. Supper was a hodgepodge of papaya, coconuts, taro, and fish stew. Normally indigestible, perhaps, but after three days of nothing to eat, nobody complained. It was food.
Shortly after dawn next morning, July 9, they were awakened by their hosts. Using a mixture of pidgin English and sign language, the natives explained that everyone must leave the beach area. Then, as the group sleepily formed up in the early daylight, out of the jungle appeared a slim white man, hair almost down to his shoulders. It was Henry Josselyn.
Asking for the senior officer present, Josselyn took Bausewine aside and explained how urgent it was to move inland at once. The coast was alive with Japanese patrols and barge traffic. The men were still weak from their three days on the raft, but there was no time for rest. They hobbled inland, camping later in the day, deep in the jungle, where giant trees hid them even from snooping planes.
Twelve miles down the coast a native named Mickey organized
the rescue of the other group of survivors at Lambu Lambu Cove. When Ensign Don Bechtel came ashore on the evening of the 8th, one native undressed him, another fed him, a third led him to a clearing where he could rest. More survivors were collected; then, with Mickey leading, the group started inland. Those who couldn’t walk, like Commander Chew, were carried on litters of poles and copra bags.
Mickey led them first through a jungle swamp, where the men sank up to their knees; then along a hard, rocky trail that climbed into the hills. Finally, after two and a half miles, they came to a clearing with a wooden shanty. To Jack Chew it looked like a typical summer vacation shack on the Chesapeake Bay. It was the house of a Chinese trader named Sam Chung, who was hiding out in the hills with his family. Sam tactfully moved out, and the place became an impromptu camp for the Helena survivors brought up by Mickey. When Chew arrived, MMl/c Lloyd George Miller and several others were already there.
Inside, Chew found a few pieces of crude furniture, a shotgun with one shell, a pair of white shorts and a pair of sneakers. With his own dungarees split and chafing his skin, he tried on the shorts. Miraculously, they fit. Then he tried on the sneakers. Even more miraculously, they fit too.
During the evening more survivors turned up, and then the Reverend Silvester arrived, looking anything but clerical in a short-sleeved shirt and old khaki shorts. A native walked beside him with the walkie-talkie. Searching out Chew, the senior officer, Silvester explained he had “access to a radio” and would have the American headquarters notified.
Next day, the 9th, a few more survivors trickled in. Last to arrive was Warren Boles, who had spent the night on the deserted beach where he landed. Looking around in the morning, he encountered a giant native (“he looked about ten feet tall”) armed with a huge machete. Boles had only a six-inch knife; so he did the diplomatic thing. He threw his own knife to the ground and gestured friendship. The native understood no English, but he knew exactly what to do. He led Boles to Sam Chung’s house, and with his arrival the group reached a grand total of 104 men.