by Walter Lord
If an Island background explains why these particular men were recruited, it still doesn’t explain why they said yes. “But why did he, of all men out here, volunteer?” asks the iconoclastic Tony Fry, puzzling over the Remittance Man, the fictional Coastwatcher in James Michener’s Tales of the South Pacific. “A single man goes out against an island of Japs? Why?”
“I’ve asked myself a thousand times,” said the very real Coastwatcher Snowy Rhoades to a curious visitor, “and I still don’t know.”
Certainly it wasn’t rank or material reward. Rhoades had no rank at all until June 1942, when Feldt managed to get him commissioned as a naval lieutenant in the illusory hope that this might help if he were captured by the Japanese. Other Coastwatchers didn’t even do that well. Paul Mason was only a naval petty officer much of the time; Geoffrey Kuper, only a private in that haziest of all military organizations, the British Solomon Islands Protectorate Defense Force.
Nor was there the satisfaction of being a hero and basking in the limelight. For understandable security reasons, the Coastwatchers were never mentioned in the press. The great air victories were attributed to skill, tactics and equipment, with a faint hint of Anglo-Saxon superiority. The downed pilots magically “walked home.” The Helena castaways on Vella Lavella simply “let the Navy know” they were there.
Little matter, the Coastwatchers weren’t publicity hounds anyhow. For seventeen years no one knew who the Coastwatcher was who rescued John F. Kennedy. In a 1944 article published first in the New Yorker and later in the Reader’s Digest, John Hersey called him “Lieutenant Wincote” of the New Zealand Army. As Kennedy grew more prominent, enterprising editors tried in vain to find the mysterious Wincote. Finally, after Pacific Islands Monthly launched an all-out search during the 1960 presidential campaign, Eric Feldt said that actually the Coastwatcher must have been Reg Evans. Later Evans himself phoned the magazine that indeed it was he. Would he tell the full story, the excited editors asked. Yes, he said, he’d drop by in three or four weeks. He ultimately appeared.
Yet these men did have their reasons. After considering the question for the 1001st time, Snowy Rhoades observed in the last analysis, “Here I was at this place, responsible for it, and nobody to look after it or the people if I left. So I stayed.”
Don MacFarland, the department store buyer, decided that “It was something different.” Bobby Firth, stuck in an army cargo handling unit, felt it was far more interesting than loading ships. Geoffrey Kuper wanted to be on Donald Kennedy’s team, wherever that might lead. Martin Clemens, the aspiring young Colonial Office career man, “just couldn’t see Europeans walking out on the natives.” Frank Nash pursued his eternal quest for “my idea of the war.”
There were, in short, as many reasons as there were Coastwatchers. Nor was this surprising, for they were above all individualists. A yearning to escape the standard mold was one reason they came to the Islands, and they weren’t about to exchange their independence for conformity simply because there was a war.
They showed their freedom every day. Carden Seton in his bush shirt, usually open to the fourth button … Kennedy in his digger hat … Josselyn in pressed shorts with officer’s cap cocked at a jaunty angle—no two of them even dressed alike.
They also had a casual approach to the command structure that was the exasperation of their superiors and the envy of their peers. It was against General Vandegrift’s explicit orders to take the Ramada and pick up Snowy Rhoades, but Dick Horton did it anyway. Brisbane told Jack Read that he couldn’t bring out his natives when he left Bougainville—but in the end they were on board the submarine. Whatever else the Coastwatchers did, they enjoyed to the hilt the rare luxury of ruling their own destinies in battle.
Along with then individualism ran a deep sense of personal loyalty—another characteristic of Island life—and this in turn became another reason for what they did. The South Pacific area covered over a million square miles, but it was also a small world where everyone seemed to know everyone else. The personal ties were exceptionally strong. Eric Feldt—an Islander himself—recognized this and built upon it.
It was this streak of loyalty that led Eric Robinson and J. A. Corrigan into the rugged hills of central Bougainville one February Sunday in 1944. This time they weren’t looking for Japanese—the war was winding down and the jungle lay quiet—they were searching for the wreckage of an airplane.
Ten months had passed since Flight Lieutenant Clark’s Catalina had crashed on the ridge near Aita while delivering supplies to Jack Read. Six of the crew had gotten out alive, but Clark, Flying Officer J. N. E. Potts, and Sergeant D. J. Ward had been killed by the impact and left pinned in the tangle of twisted metal. Before anything could be done about this, the Coastwatchers were driven off the island.
But now they were back, and that shattered plane in the jungle, with its three imprisoned victims, preyed on the mind of Robinson, who had been with Read at the time. These flyers had given their lives to help him; he just couldn’t leave them this way. He had no trouble persuading Corrigan to come along.
Up the winding, slippery trail they climbed, past the ravines and fallen logs that were familiar landmarks to Robinson, yet so different from those harrowing days last June. Then every shadow looked like a Japanese sniper. Now all was calm—only the occasional call of a bird, or the rush of some mountain stream.
At last they came to a stretch where the trees were scarred, and in some cases snapped in two. The jungle was fast healing these wounds, but there was no doubt they had reached the scene. Continuing a few yards, they came to the wreckage itself, now half-hidden by new ferns and vines.
They hacked their way into the cockpit, and found two complete skeletons—the dog-tags identified them as Clark and Potts. A few yards away they found the remains of Sergeant Ward.
Clearing a small plot of ground, they dug three graves and carefully buried the fallen airmen. The crumpled plane itself became the “headstone.” What prayers were said—what thoughts ran through their minds—was a private matter. Their mission complete, their loyalty reaffirmed, the two Coastwatchers turned and headed back down the trail.
Henderson Field, Guadalcanal, the great prize captured from the Japanese. Early warnings, flashed by the Coastwatchers on Bougainville, were invaluable in helping U.S. forces hold the strip.
Sergeant Major Jacob Vouza, Martin Clemens’s legendary scout. Guiding a Marine patrol, he is seen here wearing U.S. battle fatigues.
Father Emery de Klerk, the diminutive priest in charge of Tangarare mission station, Guadalcanal. He wanted to do what was best for his flock, and that meant a little Coastwatching.
Major General A. A. Vandegrift, USMC, the Allied commander on Guadalcanal. His only defeat was his attempt to evacuate Father de Klerk from Tangarare.
National Archives
Lieutenant Commander Eric Feldt, organizer of the Coastwatchers. An old Islander himself, he seemed to know everybody in the South Pacific.
Southeast end of the Slot, looking west. Cape Esperance, Guadalcanal, is at the extreme left; Savo Island in the center. (The Florida Islands lie just out of the picture, to the right.) Later known as Iron Bottom Sound, this was the scene of the opening battles in the struggle for the Solomons.
The Coastwatcher’s standard 3-B-Z teleradio. Considered a marvel of compact efficiency in this pre-transistor era, it was a mass of knobs and dials and weighed nearly 300 pounds—not counting batteries, charging engine, and fuel.
The District station at Aola, Guadalcanal, where Martin Clemens struggled to maintain the authority of the British Empire. As the Japanese approached, he took to the hills and assumed his new role as Coastwatcher.
Don Macfarlan, who watched the Japanese from Gold Ridge, 2800 feet above the enemy airstrip being built on Guadalcanal. Photographed later, after his return to friendly territory.
Martin Clemens with six of his scouts. Andrew Langebaea, “chief of staff,” stands on Clemens’s left; Daniel Pule, chief cl
erk, on his right.
Daniel Pule, Martin Clemens’s chief clerk, today lives in retirement on New Georgia. He stands here (left) with Alesasa Bisili, a mission schoolboy in 1942. They are holding the torn wing of an American plane—part of the debris of war that still litters the Solomons.
Paul Mason, photographed with Wang You, one of the many natives he worked closely with on Bougainville.
Jack Read, on northern Bougainville, was in ideal position to spot Japanese air strikes coming down from Rabaul.
Japanese torpedo plane skims the water off Lunga Point during the great air strike of August 8, 1942. Thanks to Jack Read’s timely warning, 36 of 44 enemy planes were shot down.
The Tokyo Express. Four Japanese destroyers return up the Slot after delivering reinforcements and supplies to Guadalcanal. Reporting these runs was an important part of the Coastwatchers’ work and led to expanding the network to Vella Lavella and Choiseul.
Henry Josselyn, in charge of the new Coastwatcher station established on Vella Lavella in October 1942.
KEN, control station for all the Coastwatchers in the Solomons, moved to this new dugout near Henderson Field in October 1942.
Rear Admiral Raizo Tanaka, mastermind behind the Tokyo Express. He had the task of delivering to Guadalcanal the troops and supplies designated for the November Japanese attack.
Merle Farland, Methodist nurse on Vella Lavella, aided Coastwatchers in rescue of fallen U.S. bomber crew. She was later evacuated to Guadalcanal, where her presence started rumor that Amelia Earhart had been found alive.
The Markham plantation house at Segi Point, headquarters for Donald Kennedy’s Coastwatching operations on New Georgia.
Munda Point, New Georgia. November 1942. This early U.S. reconnaissance photo suggests nothing amiss, but/clever Japanese camouflage conceals new airstrip already being built under the palms at right.
The Coastwatcher staff at KEN relaxing. Hugh Mackenzie is seated; Snowy Rhoades, fourth from left.
AUSTRALIAN WAR MEMORIAL
The Sisters of Saint Joseph who were trapped on Bougainville. Left to right: Sister M. Irene Alton, Mother M. Francis (not on the island), Sister M. Hedda Jaeger, Sister M. Celestine Belanger, Sister M. Isabelle Aubin. Taken at Orange, California, in 1940, just before their departure for the Solomons.
COURTESY SISTER M. IRENE ALTON
Bishop Thomas Wade, the American-born prelate on Bougainville. Shown here with some of his flock, he hoped in vain that the Church could remain aloof from the war.
Father Albert Lebel, who collected and hid the nuns stranded on Bougainville. It was his radio message, direct to Admiral Halsey, that led to their successful evacuation.
Sergeant Bill Dolby, one of the Australian Commandos who worked closely with Coastwatcher Jack Read on the evacuation of the Bougainville refugees.
The U.S. submarine Nautilus, which staged the New Year’s Eve rescue.
Lieutenant Commander William H. Brockman, Jr., skipper of the Nautilus, gave up his quarters to a nun and three children.
NATIONAL ARCHIVES
Flushing the officer’s head on the Nautilus normally required nineteen separate steps, done in exactly the right sequence. The nuns never mastered the art. The proper procedure, sketched by a member of the crew, suggests the complexity of the problem.
Before departing, the refugees drew up this testimonial to BUI Brockman and his crew.
The District vessel Waiai, used by Donald Kennedy and Geoffrey Kuper in their early Coastwatching work. She was later trapped and burned by the Japanese.
First Lieutenant Jeff de Blanc at the time of his rescue from Vella Lavella. He has on the Japanese uniform he wore off the island.
Jeff de Blanc and his rescuer, Henry Josselyn, meet again for tea 33 years later.
PBY at Segi Point on a typical “Dumbo” mission. Coastwatcher Donald Kennedy’s scouts are bringing out to the plane Second Lieutenant Milton M. Vedder, shot down off New Georgia, April 25, 1943.
“Certificate” awarded flyers rescued by the Coastwatchers on Choiseul.
The only Coastwatching family: Geoffrey, Linda, and Gordon Kuper, photographed at their home on the island of Santa Ana 30 years later.
Eric (“Wobbie”) Robinson with five of the natives who worked with him. Taken on Guadalcanal shortly after their evacuation from Bougainville, July 1943.
Sergeant Yauwika, the big, bearded constable who was Jack Read’s chief scout on Bougainville.
Segi Point. This seemingly placid shoreline conceals Donald Kennedy’s Coastwatching base—a stronghold bristling with well-armed natives. Photographed from a PBY that has come to pick up a downed aviator.
Amenities at Segi. Donald Kennedy serves tea to U.S. Marine Captain Clay Boyd during one of Boyd’s patrols behind enemy lines.
The Japanese outpost at Viru. Photographed through the bushes 400 yards away by U.S. Marine patrol operating out of Segi.
Commander Bill Painter, who promised to build a fighter strip at Segi within ten days from the time the Marines landed.
COURTESY MRS. ROHERT C. LAVERTY
The enemy. Japanese snapshots picked up by Corporal Bob Laverty during one of his patrols on New Georgia.
COURTESY MRS. ROBERT C. LAVERTY
Finished on time. The Segi airstrip built by Bill Painter. Photographed July 1943 by a U.S. bomber returning from a raid on Munda.
The U.S. light cruiser Helena, sunk in Kula Gulf July 6, 1943. She went down in 25 minutes, leaving most of her crew swimming in the Slot.
NATIONAL ARCHIVES
Kennedy’s scouts drew meticulous maps of the Japanese installations at Munda. This sketch, probably by Job Tamana, was brought back by a Marine patrol visiting Segi.
The Reverend A. W. E. Silvester, Methodist missionary on Vella Lavella. He helped hide 165 Helena survivors for eight days, while arrangements were made for their rescue.
The USS Dent, one of the two destroyer-transports assigned to rescue the Helena survivors hidden on Vella Lavella.
NATIONAL ARCHIVES
Helena survivors, rescued from Vella Lavella, line up for new clothes and gear at Tulagi.
Lieutenant (j.g.) John F. Kennedy at the wheel of PT-109.
JOHN F. KENNEDY LIBRARY
Coastwatcher Reg Evans, who saw a strange burst of flame on the water from his post on Kolombangara.
Plum Pudding (center), the tiny islet where the survivors of PT-109 first landed. Photographed from Gizo Harbor, in Japanese hands at the time.
Author’s Collection
Ben Kevu, Reg Evans’s scout, who hid Lieutenant Kennedy in his canoe and brought him to Evans on Gomu Island. Photographed at Gizo thirty years later.
U.S. Army Corporal Frank Nash, the only American Coastwatcher behind enemy lines in the Solomons.
Carden Seton, who served as a Coastwatcher on Choiseul for over a year. Photographed in 1943 while playing host to a U.S. reconnaissance team mapping the coast.
COURTESY HAROLD HULESBURG
The American landings on Bougainville, November 1, 1943. Two Coastwatching learns are already ashore, put in by submarine five days earlier.
Eric Feldt (middle row, fourth from left) poses with a group of his Coastwatchers. Snowy Rhoades is on his left, Hugh Mackenzie on his right. Frank Nash, only American in the picture, is seated in the bottom row on the right.
COURTESY FRANK NASH
Acknowledgments
“I NOTE THAT YOU are doing a book on the Coastwatchers,” writes Lieutenant General R. C. Mangrum, who commanded the first dive bomber squadron to operate from Guadalcanal. “We owe a great debt of gratitude to those heroes who, literally, made it possible for us to hang on through the grim early days of the Solomons operations. I don’t know that any American has heretofore told their story, and it is high time.”
High time indeed, but piecing the picture together is, to say the least, a complicated problem. The people involved are today scattered over five continents. The written records are sparse and buried in
half a dozen different repositories. To dig out the facts has required the patient and continued help of over two hundred individuals, and I’m immensely indebted to them all.
First, the Coastwatchers themselves. In the course of my research I managed to locate Martin Clemens, Reg Evans, Bob Firth, Dick Horton, Henry Josselyn, Geoffrey Kuper, Don MacFarland, Bill McCasker, Frank Nash, Doug Otton, Jack Read, Snowy Rhoades, and Nick Waddell. As with the cause they so gallantly served, they never failed me.
In several instances where the Coastwatchers have now passed on, their families have been wonderfully helpful with pictures, letters, and other material. I’m especially grateful to Mrs. Eric Feldt, Mrs. Paul Mason, Mrs. Carden Seton, Miss Borghild Marie Schroeder, and Mr. John Dalrymple-Hay.
Then there are those who were part of the Coastwatcher organization, although not actually behind Japanese lines in the Solomons. Walter Brooksbank—formerly Civil Assistant to the Director of Naval Intelligence, RAN—gave me whole days of his time. Keith McCarthy did his Coastwatching on New Britain, but he knew many of the men in the Solomons and generously shared his knowledge with me. Peter Figgis, Jack Paterson, and Mrs. Frank Jones (Ruby Olive Boye) also served in other areas, but helped fill in missing chinks.