by Walter Lord
The Dent and Waters crept on a few yards, now so close to land that the shadows of the trees hid the shoreline. Suddenly a signalman called, “Captain, there’s a light.”
Sweeney rushed to the wing of the bridge, looked down, saw a canoe coming out of the dark. A voice in the canoe called, “I am the Gunner of the Helena!”
When he called the words out, Bill Dupay still wasn’t sure whether these darkened ships creeping into the bay were American or Japanese; he simply decided to take a chance. It worked out, and a minute later the canoe was alongside the Dent. He and Josselyn clambered aboard.
The Dent and Waters now hove to and lowered their Higgins boats. Each ship contributed three, and with Josselyn acting as pilot, the little armada chugged through the reefs to the river mouth, where Bausewine’s party was waiting.
In a remarkably short time the boats were all back, and Henry Josselyn was escorted to the bridge of the Dent. Commander Sweeney needed no introduction: He had landed Josselyn a year earlier at Tulagi as a guide with the Marines. To his surprise, the commander now learned that these were less than half the men to be evacuated. No one had briefed him about the second group at Lambu Lambu. He didn’t know the coast, and in a few hours it would be daylight.
Don’t worry, said Josselyn, he’d guide the ships there. Sweeney advised the screen, and the rescue fleet got under way. Toward 4 A.M. the Dent poked into Lambu Lambu Cove, and the bridge quickly spotted a light off the starboard bow flashing the Helena’s number, “50.” The Dent flashed a long red light back and cut her engines.
Warren Boles never did see the answering red flash. He only knew that these ships were coming from the wrong direction. Nobody had told him that the rescue fleet was going to Paraso first, and he was expecting ships from the southeast, up from Tulagi.
He flashed his signal anyhow, but when he failed to catch the answer, he really began to worry. He wondered whether to turn tail and run for shore, but finally decided the die was cast—rescue was now or never—so he kept flashing his light.
Pretty soon he heard the sound of small-craft engines … then in the darkness a British voice sang out, “Hello there.” It was Henry Josselyn in the first of the Dent’s Higgins boats. Skippered by Ensign Rollo H. Nuckles, the boat drew alongside the canoe, and Boles climbed aboard. It wasn’t easy: The ten-day ordeal had taken its toll. He had a gimpy leg, and a gash on his left arm was so badly infected it hung useless by his side.
With Boles acting as pilot, the landing craft continued on, traveling in a column of six. Somehow he found the mouth of the river, and then began the difficult business of navigating the various bends and turns. The live channel markers were still in place, but it was debatable whether they were more a help than a hazard.
At last the boats reached the rickety dock where Chew’s group was waiting. The pier could handle only one boat at a time; so they took turns going in. As each was loaded, Jack Chew stood at the edge of the water, counting the men as they scrambled aboard. Nearly everyone paused to shake hands with some native, and many of the men handed out all the cash they had. Far more useful on Vella Lavella was the sheath knife that Chesleigh Grunstad gave a native he had grown to know and like.
Through it all the men kept as quiet as possible. They were always half-convinced that the Japanese lay just out of sight, waiting to pounce. A Chinese baby started to cry, and to Ted Blahnik, “It was the loudest noise I ever heard.”
Soon the crowd on the dock thinned down to a few dozen, and Major Kelly began to pull in his Irregulars. As they prepared to board the last boat, one by one they handed their assorted rifles and pistols to the native scouts. Kelly watched the transfer of the last weapon; then he too stepped aboard.
As senior officer, Chew was the last to go. He conveyed his thanks to Josselyn, whom he had just met, and turned to Silvester. It was hard to find the right words, and maybe a small gesture conveyed his gratitude better than anything he could say. Jack Chew, that most superstitious of old sailors, handed Bish his most prized talisman of all, his lucky silver dollar.
The Higgins boats got under way; Silvester and Josselyn gave a final wave and faded into the bush.
On the Dent and Waters the rescued men swarmed below to rediscover a host of basic pleasures—good chow, cigarettes, hot water, soap, clean underwear. In the wardroom of the Waters Jack Chew downed five bowls of pea soup, then enjoyed the luxury of a real shower. He was too excited to sleep; so he wandered into the wardroom again and talked the rest of the night away. He had been cut off from the world for ten days, and like the other survivors, he wanted to know how the war was going.
The Munda campaign, it seemed, had bogged down. The Japanese still held the airstrip; the U.S. infantry at Zanana were stalled in the jungle. The Tokyo Express was putting reinforcements ashore on Kolombangara but took a pounding on the 12th. Ainsworth had losses too—destroyer Gwin sunk, cruisers Honolulu, St. Louis, and Leander damaged. Biggest news involved the top command: General Hester was out, General Griswold had taken over on New Georgia. Kelly Turner had been relieved by Rear Admiral “Ping” Wilkinson.
The wardroom of the Waters wasn’t privy to the information, but Army morale was near collapse on New Georgia, requiring the shake-up there. Turner, on the other hand, was going on to greater things—command of all amphibious operations in the Central Pacific.
Daylight, July 16, and American fighters from Segi appeared overhead. The rescue fleet pounded on toward Tulagi, out of danger at last. On the bridge of the Dent Commander Sweeney wondered what sort of men did the things Henry Josselyn did. Their parting gave him little clue. Sweeney had offered to take Josselyn to Tulagi, but he said no, there was still work to be done. Then Sweeney offered him some cases of canned food, but Josselyn again said no: The natives might leave the empty cans around, giving away his position.
“Can’t we do anything for you?” Sweeney asked.
“Yes,” said Josselyn, “I could use a couple of pairs of black socks, some Worcestershire sauce, and a few bars of candy.”
13
THE OTHER KENNEDY
JACK KISSANE, A YOUNG code clerk with the Coastwatching organization, felt utterly heartsick. On temporary duty at KEN, August 2, he overheard some American pilots talking about a search mission they were scheduled to fly. To his stunned dismay, they said that “Kennedy” was missing.
Kennedy! The legendary Coastwatcher of Segi. Donald Kennedy had been living on borrowed time for over a year, waging his private war against the Japanese; so it was probably inevitable that fate would catch up with him in the end. Still, it was hard to swallow. Jack Kissane’s immediate impulse was to drop everything and volunteer for any rescue effort being planned.
Then to his immense relief, he learned it wasn’t Donald Kennedy at all. It was some other Kennedy they were talking about—a U.S. PT-boat skipper, missing with his crew in Blackett Strait.
The other Kennedy had a prominence of his own. As the son of a conspicuous millionaire and former U.S. Ambassador to Britain, Lieutenant (j.g.) John F. Kennedy was automatically a minor celebrity. He had also parlayed a lively intellect with a knack for making the most of his contacts to write a well-received book. Why England Slept—developed from his senior thesis at Harvard-was a most unusual achievement for a young man just out of college.
Athletic enough to have been on the Harvard freshman swimming team and practically raised on small boats at his family’s summer place on Cape Cod, Kennedy had been drawn—like many of his background—to the Navy’s glamorous PT-boat program. He was predictably good at it; but beyond his skill and his easy Ivy League charm, he had an earthiness—born of a rough-and-tumble Irish heritage—that made him both tough and warm at the same time. He was highly regarded by officers and enlisted men alike in the small world of the PTs.
The 26-year-old Kennedy arrived in the Solomons early in April 1943 and on the 25th was given command of PT 109, one of a number of boats based at Tulagi. As the fighting moved westward, the squadron w
as shifted first to the Russells, and then in mid-July to Rendova Harbor. Here its job was to seal off Blackett Strait as an avenue for bringing Japanese reinforcements to Vila and Munda. Almost every night the PTs slipped through Ferguson Passage and poked around the strait. There were occasional encounters with barges but, for the first two weeks, no heavy stuff.
Then on August 1 an urgent message arrived from Guadalcanal. Based on radio intercepts, it predicted that the Tokyo Express might be running that night. It ordered Rendova to put a maximum number of PTs in Blackett Strait and warned that the Japanese air command was out to get the squadron.
The warning proved true all too soon. Early in the afternoon 18 bombers barreled in, sinking two of the boats and damaging another. If the radio intelligence was as accurate about everything else, it should be a busy night.
At 6:30 P.M. fifteen PTs—all that were still in shape—churned out of Rendova Harbor and headed west for Ferguson Passage and Blackett Strait. Under the plan worked out by the squadron CO, Lieutenant Commander Thomas G. Warfield, they were deployed in four divisions to block the southern and western approaches to the strait. Kennedy’s PT 109 was one of four boats in Lieutenant Henry Brantingham’s Division B, operating all the way to the west.
By 9:30 Division B was on station, and the long wait began. Lieutenant Brantingham’s PT 159 had radar, but the other boats had to depend on eyes and ears, and these were no help tonight. The sky was cloudy, and the men could see no distance at all. Nor could they hear anything; there was strict radio silence.
On PT 109 Kennedy stood at the wheel, occasionally chatting with Radioman 2/c John E. Maguire in the cockpit beside him. Machinist Mate Patrick McMahon was in the engine room, but the engines were just idling and there was little to do. The rest of the twelve-man crew were standing by on deck, watching and waiting.
On the bow was a thirteenth man—an extra hand. Ensign George Ross was temporarily without a boat and had asked Kennedy if he could come along for the ride. Kennedy said sure: He could take charge of a 37-mm. antitank gun mounted as an experiment on the foredeck. Now Ross was standing by his weapon—one more pair of eyes peering into the black, empty night.
Shortly after midnight Lieutenant Brantingham’s radar showed four blips approaching from the west, hugging the Kolombangara shore. They looked small, and Brantingham guessed they were probably barges. He turned to attack but apparently didn’t break radio silence to report either the contact or his own movements. He closed to 1800 yards, planning to strafe, but the Japanese shot first. A withering blast of gunfire dispelled any notion that he was dealing with mere barges.
The four Japanese destroyers didn’t budge from their course. Their mission was far too important to go off chasing some pesky torpedo boat. They were on their way from Rabaul to Vila with 900 troops and 120 tons of supplies for the hard-pressed defenders of Munda.
Three of the destroyers carried the troops and supplies. The fourth—Commander Kohai Hanami’s Amagiri—herded them along, sniffing for trouble like an industrious sheep dog.
Entering Blackett Strait around midnight, they were now on the most dangerous leg of the trip. To port was the towering cone of Kolombangara Island; to starboard, Gizo and a string of small, outlying islets. At its narrowest the strait was no more than five miles wide, and there were plenty of reefs on both sides. Twelve knots would have been a safe speed; the destroyers were doing 30. It was all-important to reach Vila, unload, and get out again before daylight and the American bombers came.
Fending off Brantingham with a well-placed salvo, the destroyers hurried on. Then they brushed aside a few other PTs, also in the way. By 12:30 A.M. they were at Vila, surrounded by a swarm of barges and lighters. While the other ships unloaded, the Amagiri cruised restlessly back and forth, guarding the anchorage from attack.
To the west, all was confusion. After discovering his mistake in identification, Lieutenant Brantingham fired two torpedoes and cleared out. So did PT 157, operating with him. In the other divisions down the line, several other PTs also sighted the Express, fired their torpedoes, and ran. None of them got a hit. None of them radioed a contact report, or if they did, the unengaged boats never heard it.
On PT 109 Jack Kennedy didn’t know that Brantingham had attacked and pulled out … didn’t know that some of the other PTs were also in action … didn’t even know there were Japanese destroyers around. From the flashes, he did know there was gunfire to the east, but it seemed to be inshore, and he figured some enemy coastal battery had found the PTs.
Hard by was the other boat in his section, PT 162, but her skipper Lieutenant (j.g.) John R. Lowrey was equally in the dark. As the two boats idled uncertainly in the strait, they were joined by Lieutenant (j.g.) Philip A. Potter’s PT 169 from Division A. He had lost touch with his group too, and didn’t know any more than Kennedy or Lowrey did.
The three boats tried to get instructions from Rendova but were simply told to resume patrolling; so they continued on station, hoping they’d run across someone they knew.
Sixteen miles to the east the three Japanese destroyers finished unloading their troops and supplies at Vila. The flagship flashed “Let’s go home,” and about 1:30 A.M. they all started back. The signal was relayed to Amagiri, still covering the anchorage, and Commander Hanami swung his ship around too. Putting on an extra burst of speed to catch up with the others, he headed northwest up the strait.
The three PTs continued blindly patrolling—no sign of either friend or foe. As they moved slowly west, Kennedy suggested that they reverse course: They’d have more chance of finding the other boats if they went back to where they started from. This seemed sensible; so about 2 A.M. the PTs swung around. With Kennedy now in the lead, they headed southeast down the strait.
“Ship at two o’clock,” Motor Machinist’s Mate 2/c Harold Marney sang out from the forward gun turret. At the 37-mm. gun Ensign Ross saw it too and pointed off the starboard bow. Kennedy looked and made out a shape even blacker than the night. For an instant he thought he had at last found one of the other PTs, but quickly changed his mind. No PT-boat ever looked like this—a big curved prow, growing every second, kicking up a tremendous phosphorescent bow wave as it hurtled toward him.
On the Amagiri Commander Hanami decided to ram. When sighted, the PT was already too close for his guns. He ordered his coxswain to turn the wheel hard to starboard, and the destroyer veered toward the target.
Kennedy had no such maneuverability. He was running on only one engine, holding down his wake to avoid detection from the air. Now, as he desperately spun his wheel, PT 109 responded only sluggishly. On the bow George Ross slammed a shell at the 37-mm. gun, but the breech was closed.
Then the crash. Amagiri piled into the starboard side, slicing PT 109 in two just behind the cockpit. Hurled to the deck by the impact, Kennedy looked up at the steel hull of the destroyer sweeping by. A roar of flame from one of his fuel tanks gave him a brief but unforgettable glimpse of a sleek, raked funnel.
On the Amagiri some gunner got off two parting shots—both misses—at the blazing debris as the destroyer raced on into the night. Watching in horror from one of the nearby PTs, the skipper buried his face in his hands, sobbing, “My God, my God!”
The men on the ships in Blackett Strait were not the only ones to see the flames roar up as the Amagiri sliced through PT 109. On Kolombangara, about three miles away, two Coastwatchers—Sub-Lieutenant Arthur Reginald Evans of the Royal Australian Navy and his assistant, Corporal Benjamin Franklin Nash, U.S. Army—were sitting on a hillside about 1400 feet up, trying to pick out Japanese shipping. Suddenly their attention was caught by the burst of fire spreading over the water.
Evans focused his glasses to see what he could make of it. Some vessel seemed to be burning, but whose or what kind remained a mystery. Nor could Nash figure it out. The night had been a strange one—occasional gun flashes, but never the sustained fire of a real sea fight. Possibly some stray Japanese barge had been caught and was burn
ing.
Reg Evans had been Coastwatching on Kolombangara for more than four months now, and not a day of it was easy. A thin, pleasant man in his late thirties, he came from Sydney and had been a Burns Philp accountant and purser on an interisland steamer in peacetime. He knew the Solomons well, but his experience lay on the water and in the office rather than in the bush.
Serving in the Australian Army during the early years of the war, he managed to transfer to his first love, the Navy, in October 1942 and was soon snapped up by Eric Feldt. He was working as a general assistant at KEN in February 1943, when evidence piled up that the Japanese were building an airstrip at Vila Plantation on the south shore of Kolombangara in support of their larger base at Munda. Neither Donald Kennedy nor Dick Horton was near enough to cover the new strip adequately; so Hugh Mackenzie decided to set up a separate station under Evans.
On March 21 he landed alone at Kuji on the southern coast of Kolombangara after a long and dangerous trip from Segi. His canoe passed so close to Munda that he could hear Japanese trucks working on the airfield.
His arrival was no surprise to the local natives—Dick Horton had come over from Rendova and prepared the way. Now a leaf house was waiting for him at Hiruka, a hilltop overlooking the Japanese position, and a team of native scouts was recruited and ready to work.
Just as well. It was hard enough to be an office worker in the bush, but to be one on Kolombangara was especially trying. There were less than 500 natives on the island, and they all lived on a corner of the southwest coast. They had never ventured into the interior—it was as strange to them as to Evans. Nor had any of them ever worked on the plantations—they didn’t even know what a truck looked like. They had seen steamers but were very vague about warships and certainly couldn’t identify any types.
A single exception to all this was Rovu, the hereditary chief of the settlement at Vanga Vanga village. He was sixty years old and couldn’t speak even pidgin English, but he did know every rock on Kolombangara. Though now a venerable elder by island standards, he had to lead every patrol, just to get the others back home again.