by Walter Lord
The Americans nearly did themselves in on October 4. That night they heard a launch and decided for some reason that it was an Allied reconnaissance party. They blinked their signal light—and discovered too late that the launch was Japanese. The signals were seen, and next morning enemy search parties converged on the area. Again the natives saved the day. They solemnly swore that they were the ones who had been flashing the light. Just hunting crabs, they said.
Yet the net was drawing tighter, and when 100 more Japanese landed at Falamai village on October 21, it seemed impossible that the flyers could last much longer. But this day Frank Nash and his party landed too, and on the following morning the three castaways found their long wait was over. By now Jesse Scott could pick up things with his toes and scamper up trees like a native.
That evening there were heartfelt good-byes, and the three flyers shoved off with Frank Nash for a rendezvous with the PT-boat. Life on Mono returned to normal, but the natives would long remember the days when the whole island turned “Coastwatcher” and hid the American airmen. As one of the natives observed with pride, “It was the only time in history that the thousand people on Mono ever managed to keep a secret.”
The whole face of the war had changed during the 148 days of Jesse Scott’s enforced but not unpleasant confinement. When his TBF splashed on June 16, the Japanese still controlled all the Solomons north and west of the Russells. That very day, in fact, the Imperial “sea eagles” staged a 120-plane raid on Henderson Field; an enemy patrol trapped Lieutenant Bedkober on Bougainville; and Major Hara was about to start after Donald Kennedy on Segi.
Now, four months later, Guadalcanal was a quiet rear area; New Georgia, Isabel, Kolombangara, Gizo, and Vella Lavella had all been taken by the Allies; the Tokyo Express was no more. Most of the Coastwatchers had turned into welcoming committees or liaison officers, or joined the ranks of the military unemployed.
But not Nick Waddell and Carden Seton. Choiseul lay on the road back from Kolombangara, and the west coast was crawling with Japanese. Station DEL, at 1200 feet on Mount Alikana, offered an excellent view of the shore, and day after day the Coastwatchers radioed their barge sightings, then enjoyed a grandstand seat as the fighters and bombers swept in for the kill.
Sometimes the Japanese ran out of barges, and then the troops themselves could be seen painfully plodding northwest toward the Shortlands or Bougainville. They offered an easy target, and at one point Seton begged KEN to let him organize some guerrillas and finish them off. He was sternly reminded that Ferdinand’s mission was to watch, not fight. “You will not repeat not be rendering the best service if you undertake offensive action at present except in your own defense.”
In September, American reconnaissance teams began arriving to examine the coast, and Seton spent most of the month guiding them around. Typical of the jaunty way he and Waddell ran DEL was a banquet for the Americans, who had brought only K-rations and expected the most Spartan conditions. Seton served them a magnificent repast featuring chicken cooked in coconut milk and served with sweet potatoes.
October, and life took a more serious turn. CHERRYBLOSSOM—the big Allied landing on Bougainville—was scheduled for November 1, and as a preliminary, Marine Lieutenant Colonel Victor H. Krulak’s 2nd Parachute Battalion was to be landed on Choiseul on October 27. It was purely a diversion, but an important one. SOPAC hoped that Krulak’s 725 leathernecks could raise enough hell to make the Japanese think that Choiseul, not Bougainville, was the main Allied objective.
Around the middle of the month Seton was whisked off the island by PT-boat to brief the Marines and later guide them in. With him he brought two of his best native scouts, Lance Corporals Pitakere and Pitaniu.
All went as scheduled. Around midnight on October 27 four destroyer-transports hove to off Voza, half way up the Slot side of Choiseul, and a flotilla of rubber boats ferried Krulak’s men ashore. Lance Corporal Pitakere led the way, but it turned out to be an easy job. No Japanese were near, and Nick Waddell had collected a large number of native canoes, scouts, and carriers to help.
It took two days to get squared away; then on October 30, Krulak moved against the enemy barge station at Sangigai. The Marines attacked from both front and rear, with Krulak and Seton leading the interior party that advanced from behind the village. The plan was to catch the Japanese in a cross fire, but they wouldn’t cooperate. Spotting the Marines approaching along the coast, they retired inland and ran smack into Krulak’s force. Seton was in his element, blazing away with his carbine. At last there was no one to tell him to act like Ferdinand the bull.
The Japanese scattered; Sangigai was taken, and the enemy barge station destroyed. In the midst of it all, Krulak was knocked down by a Japanese bullet. Coming to, one of the colonel’s first recollections was of Seton’s great red beard a few inches away as he apprehensively leaned over his injured friend.
As it turned out, Krulak was not badly hurt, and the operation rolled on. The Japanese force at Sangigai was largely wiped out, and on November 1 another Marine force attacked an enemy concentration at Choiseul Bay. This was less successful, partly because Seton wasn’t along, and none of the Marines could understand the pidgin English spoken by the native scouts.
There were now signs that the Japanese were on to the diversion and were bringing up large forces from southern Choiseul to wipe out Krulak’s battalion. Orders came to evacuate, and as the Marines reembarked on the night of November 4, the colonel urged Seton to come along. He politely declined, explaining that Choiseul was his post and that the natives needed him.
Actually, neither Seton nor Waddell thought there was much danger of a Japanese counterattack. To them the risk was more than offset by the blow to native morale that would result from the Marines’ departure. The local tribes were far too unsophisticated to appreciate the tactical niceties of a diversion in support of a landing on Bougainville. They were bound to regard the withdrawal as a sign of Allied weakness, a retreat somehow forced by enemy activity.
So it proved. Hopes raised high were unexpectedly dashed, and it took all Seton’s and Waddell’s persuasiveness—plus their annihilation of another Japanese patrol—before the native villagers dared give any further help to the Allies.
Meanwhile the big show was building up in the north. The planners at SOPAC picked Cape Torokina at the northern end of Empress Augusta Bay as the best place to land on Bougainville. Halfway up the west coast, it was reasonably removed from the main Japanese bases on the island, yet only 210 miles from Rabaul—perfect for a fighter strip. Rear Admiral Theodore S. Wilkinson was in overall charge; General Vandegrift of Guadalcanal fame returned to command the ground forces. L-Day would be November 1. Troops, supplies, transports began assembling at Espiritu Santo, Efate, and Koli Point on Guadalcanal.
On October 27—the same day that Krulak landed on Choiseul—the New Zealand 8th Regiment stormed ashore on tiny Mono as the first step. The natives showed the same resourcefulness they had displayed in hiding the seven American flyers. One of them, Andrew Kimisi, helped cut the wires between the Japanese observation post at the entrance to Blanche Harbor and their main base at Falamai.
Seventy-five miles to the north, also on this eventful 27th, the U.S. submarine Guardfish surfaced at 6:15 P.M. and crept cautiously toward Cape Torokina. On board were six Coastwatchers, two Marine officers, and 40 Bougainville natives. All were to be put ashore to help pave the way for the coming landings. For three of the Coastwatchers—Jack Keenan, Eric Robinson and Jack McPhee—it was an exceptionally satisfying moment. Just three months ago they had been driven off the island by the Japanese. Now they were going back—and on the same submarine that took them out.
Commander Norvell Ward maneuvered the Guardfish to a spot off the mouth of the Laruma River and hove to. Four rubber boats were launched; Keenan, McPhee, Lieutenant J. H. Mackie, and 20 natives slipped into them and shoved off. These men composed what was known as the Southern Party, and would take position in the hills
below Empress Augusta Bay. For Lieutenant Mackie too this was something of a homecoming; he had been in charge of the original commando detachment evacuated by the Gato last March.
Bub Ward waited for thirty minutes—long enough to make sure Keenan’s party had landed safely—then, still on the surface, headed up the coast. He hoped to drop Robinson and the Northern Party off Kuraio Mission but could see Japanese campfires burning there. He continued on until he came to a very familiar place indeed—the beach where he had picked up Read and Robinson in July.
At 12:30 A.M. he stopped his engines about five miles out and let the sub drift in. At three miles two more campfires suddenly blazed on the shore. For Ward it was a ticklish moment. He didn’t dare land his passengers until he knew more about those fires, yet he didn’t dare hang around here indefinitely.
The situation was finally checked out by Sergeant Yauwika, the old Bougainville scout who was also coming back. Taking one of the rubber boats and four native paddlers, he examined the shore. While the fires were uncomfortably close to the beach, he reported they were far enough apart to land between them.
No more time to lose. A few quick good-byes; and at 3 A.M. the four rubber boats carrying Robinson and the Northern Party vanished into the night. Heading between the fires as Yauwika recommended, they soon reached the shore, which at this point turned out to be no romantic tropical beach, but a thick, nearly impenetrable mangrove swamp.
They plunged in, hoping to squeeze their rafts through the tangle of roots and trees far enough inland to be well clear of those Japanese campfires. Sixty yards and they could go no farther—the growth was just too much. Making the best of it, they sat in the boats the rest of the night waiting for daylight. For the time being they were safe from the enemy but fair game for clouds of mosquitoes.
Dawn on the 28th, they slashed their boats, hid the remnants as best they could, and began cutting their way through the mangroves, wading inland toward hard ground. Finally they cleared the swamp and made camp. They were still only a mile from the beach, but they were too tired to go any farther.
The next three days “Wobbie” Robinson led his party into the mountains along the northwest coast, renewing old contacts in the native villages as he went. At Kiakara he barely missed colliding with a Japanese patrol—60 to 80 strong, judging from their empty cigarette packs.
October 31, the party camped at Toki, another friendly village, but nobody slept much that night. At 12:30 A.M. on the 1st of November they heard the continuous roar of heavy guns to the southeast. The great moment was at hand: CHERRYBLOSSOM had begun.
By H-Hour, 7:30 A.M., the first units were already ashore. A steady stream of landing craft churned in from the fourteen transports anchored in Empress Augusta Bay. They caught the Japanese completely by surprise: There were 2000 enemy troops along this part of the coast, but only 270 men and one 75-mm. gun at Cape Torokina where the troops swarmed in.
Some 7000-8000 Marines and GIs landed in the first wave. With them came Captain R. A. Robinson, moving up from Rendova and Munda with another party of Coastwatchers. In the group was Corporal Frank Nash, who had latched on to one more interesting assignment.
Just behind the beach lay a large swamp running parallel to the shore, but Robbie Robinson quickly spotted a breadfruit tree-meaning firm ground—and led his men to it. Here he found a hut, evacuated by the Japanese so hastily their washing was still on the line. Perfect for headquarters, and he soon had the teleradio assembled and working.
During the afternoon he made contact with Eric Robinson at Toki but had no luck in reaching Keenan and the Southern Party. Their set had been knocked out by torrential rains, and it would be three weeks before they came on the air. Fortunately, “Wobbie’s” location was far more important. On November 2 he found an excellent lookout that covered the whole northwest coast all the way to Buka Passage. It was like old times: Anything that moved was promptly reported.
With the Torokina beachhead secure, the battle for the Solomons was really won. Much fighting lay ahead—on Bougainville Paul Mason would become a master of guerrilla tactics—but the leapfrog strategy was working, and soon Rabaul itself would be left to die on the vine.
The war had been turned around, and it all began in the Solomons. If Midway ended forever any chance of a Japanese victory, it was the Allied seizure of Guadalcanal and the recapture of the Solomons that started Tokyo down the road to final defeat. In November 1943, while the staff at KEN enjoyed their evening games of deck tennis, it was hard to believe that only fifteen months ago Japanese soldiers had been relaxing under these same coconut palms, with eyes already on New Caledonia.
Many contributed to this remarkable reversal: the unsupported Marines who clung to Henderson Field after the naval disaster off Savo … Colonel Edson’s 700 weary men who hurled back Kawaguchi’s 2100 from Bloody Ridge … the overworked destroyers and cruisers that took on Admiral Yamamoto’s battle-wagons … the little band of fighter pilots who crushed the great air armadas sent down from the north … the coordinated sea and air effort that ultimately derailed Admiral Tanaka’s Tokyo Express.
They all did their bit, but none played a larger part than Commander Feldt’s handful of Coastwatchers, together with the intriguing assortment of missionaries, local people, and natives who helped them. Their numbers were small—six teleradios behind enemy lines in June 1942; still only fourteen a year later—but their contribution was enormous.
Jack Read’s dry “40 bombers heading yours” became a sort of South Pacific legend, but it little suggests the cumulative value of his and Mason’s radioed warnings. From August 20, when Henderson Field opened up, to November 15, when the strip was finally secure, the CACTUS Air Force—outnumbered 2:1—knocked down 263 Japanese planes while losing only 101 of their own.
This wasn’t due to the overwhelming weight of arms that Americans would later come to expect. For weeks there were only a few dozen patched-up planes. Nor did it stem from any inherent superiority of U.S. aviators, as the home front liked to believe.
The real secret was the two hours’ warning that Read and Mason gave. This allowed time to collect the exhausted fighter pilots for one more mission … time to warm up and take off … time to coax the slow-climbing Grummans up to 30,000 feet, where they hovered, waiting to pounce. Admiral Halsey summed it up well when he later observed, “The Coastwatchers saved Guadalcanal, and Guadalcanal saved the Pacific.”
As Japanese air power shriveled away and the Tokyo Express came into its own, the Coastwatchers again proved invaluable. Radio intercepts played a priceless part in tipping off these destroyer runs, but it was usually the Coastwatchers who first picked up the actual targets. At its best the process ran like clockwork: The Express would be sighted by Paul Mason as it left the Shortlands … then by Seton and Waddell as it passed Choiseul … then by Josselyn on Vella, and sometimes by Kennedy’s network on New Georgia. This flow of bulletins usually gave the Americans time to organize a lively reception committee.
The toll of lost destroyers proved too heavy. The Japanese were forced to shift largely to barges in the fight for the Central Solomons. But the routes and layovers were well-defined, and the Coastwatchers knew them all. Once again a steady stream of sightings flowed into KEN, which promptly fed them to the PTs and the air strike command.
As the U.S. planes ranged ever farther north and west, slashing at Japanese shipping, staging points, and air strips, some flyers were inevitably shot down, and the rescue of these airmen became another great Coastwatcher contribution. The best estimate, island by island, adds up to an impressive figure:
Guadalcanal 6
Isabel 28
New Georgia 22
Rendova 8
Vella Lavella 31
Choiseul 23
118
There was less opportunity to help the crews of sunken ships, but when the occasion did arise, the Coastwatchers were there. The survivors of the Helena and PT 109 could attest to that.
The va
lue of all this rescue work went far beyond the numbers actually saved. The effect on overall morale was enormous. It helped every flyer operating out of Henderson Field to know that if the worst came to the worst, and he was washed ashore on some unknown island, there was likely to be someone there who might appear out of the bush and give him a helping hand.
When the Allied drive up the Solomons finally began, the Coastwatchers made still another great contribution. Through their intimate knowledge of the islands—and their excellent relations with the natives—they proved perfect advance men. They helped chart the coasts. They pinpointed Japanese strongholds. They cleared and marked the landing beaches. They supplied carriers, guides, and canoes. They pointed out the best trails and streams for moving through the jungle.
All this was accomplished by volunteers who were anything but professional military men. They included government officials, plantation managers, gold miners, a department store buyer, a pub keeper, an accountant, a rancher—the variety was staggering. They seemed to have nothing in common.
But they did. In recruiting them, Eric Feldt applied an important criterion: They should all know the South Pacific. How to tell the difference between a cruiser and a destroyer could be learned in minutes, but not an awareness of the intricate relationships and loyalties that governed life in the Islands. Sending a native to a Chinese with a message for a missionary involved the sensitivities of three totally different groups of people, and an effective man had to know all the nuances.
The only important exception to Eric Feldt’s standard was Frank Nash, the Colorado rancher, but the commander was inactivated by his stroke by the time Nash came aboard. (Besides, Feldt later explained somewhat cryptically, Colorado wasn’t all that different from the South Pacific.)