“From this point on the Chief [Gasa] sat on the ground in my tent and just watched my every movement,” wrote Hill. “Came noontime and I had a plate of food brought in which didn’t interest him too much as he would keep saying, ‘Boat where? Man sick!’ I had to stall by picking up my field phone from time to time and feign a conversation to someone about a boat. At one point the Chief started swinging his machete in my direction indicating I was not acting fast enough to save your party.”
Gasa had finally made it to American lines after paddling for more than fifteen hours, but he was frantic at the seeming lack of action he felt at Roviana. “All the Americans in Roviana were Marines [in fact they were Army soldiers] and they didn’t know anything about any Captain Kennedy,” Gasa remembered. He added, “we started to feel crazy not knowing what to do” with the written message from Thom and the coconut message from Kennedy, the latter of which Gasa held on to tightly.
“Fortunately about 2:00 P.M. I received word that [the PT] boat pool had received the message and a rescue party would pick up the Chief,” Hill later recounted. Hill arranged for the scouts to be transferred by boat to Rendova. He remembered, “Late that afternoon I had to cross to Division Artillery Headquarters on New Georgia when I spotted the Chief in the stern of [a PT] boat.”
As the boat passed, Colonel Hill could clearly see Biuku Gasa, headed for John Kennedy’s home base of Rendova.
The Solomon Islands scout had a smile on his face.
And he was still gripping the coconut.
Meanwhile, time was swiftly running out for the PT 109 survivors on Olasana Island.
The severe dehydration they were all suffering from could soon trigger a dire cascade of medical crises, as the human body can theoretically survive for weeks without food, but only days without water. At the moment, the nine sailors on Olasana didn’t know if Kennedy and the wounded Barney Ross were still on nearby Naru Island or had perished in the ocean overnight. McMahon’s wounds were increasingly infected, Zinser and Johnston’s injuries were still untreated, and all the survivors were stalked by weakness and despair. They might start succumbing to their fate in a matter of hours or sooner, meaning Olasana Island would be their final resting place.
But then, soon after Kennedy and Ross awoke on the morning of August 7, a vision of salvation appeared on the horizon. It was a long native canoe, filled with cargo and powered by a phalanx of six pairs of powerful arms paddling the boat directly toward the crewmen of PT 109.
It was the rescue canoe dispatched by Reg Evans, manned by senior scout Benjamin Kevu and six more scouts: Moses Sesa, Jonathan Bia, Joseph Eta, Stephen Hitu, Koete Igolo, and Edward Kidoe. Minutes earlier, when they appeared at Naru Island to relay Kennedy and Ross over to Olasana Island, Kevu had strode up to Kennedy and presented him with the message from Evans written on letterhead titled “On His Majesty’s Service.” Kevu announced in the accented king’s English he’d picked up from his British instructors: “I have a letter for you, sir.”
Amused by these quaint colonial flourishes (technically the Solomons were still part of the British Empire) Kennedy muttered to Ross, “You’ve got to hand it to the British!”
At Olasana, the scouts were greeted by a scene of jubilation as the survivors realized their lives were being saved. Kennedy and Ross exited the canoe, and the men of PT 109 sprang into action to help the natives unload an assortment of life-sustaining supplies. The U.S. Navy’s official account of the incident reported, “The natives had brought food and other articles (including a cook stove) to make the survivors comfortable. They were extremely kind at all times.” Yams, potatoes, fish, and roast beef hash were prepared by the scouts, water was passed around, and Edman Mauer pitched in to help cook up what must have felt like a royal feast. Cigarettes were distributed. A lean-to was built to shelter McMahon.
After the meal, Kennedy entered the canoe for his trip to meet Coastwatcher Evans. He lay in the base of the boat and the scouts again covered him with palm fronds.
On the journey to Gomu, the canoe was buzzed by a squad of low-flying Japanese planes.
From under the camouflage, Kennedy asked, “What’s going on?”
Kevu replied, “Japanese planes, Stay down!”
Kevu stood up and gave the Japanese a friendly wave, and the planes few off.
In late afternoon on Saturday, August 7, the canoe glided up to Evans’s new camp on Gomu Island. A barefooted Kennedy emerged from his hiding spot in the base of the canoe, walked across the beach to Evans, reached out for a handshake, and smiled. “Hello, I’m Kennedy,” he announced.
“I recall the day very, very clearly,” said Reginald Evans in 1961; “he looked like a very tired, a very haggard and a very, very sunburnt young man. It looked as though he’d been through an awful lot.” Kennedy’s legs and feet were scarred with wounds from sharp coral.
“Come and have a cup of tea,” Evans beckoned.
10
THE RESCUE
RENDOVA PT BASE
AUGUST 7, 1943
Lieutenant “Bud” Liebenow, the skipper of the PT 157, was stunned.
Like the other PT boat officers at the Rendova base, Liebenow believed Kennedy and his men had all been killed on the morning of August 2. But now, early in the afternoon of August 7, a trio of young Solomon Island natives had appeared at the Rendova dock and handed over a coconut with a message from Lt. (jg) John Kennedy carved on it. As Liebenow examined the object with his torpedoman Welford West, he absorbed the impact of the crude communication—his friend, tent mate, and fellow warrior Kennedy was alive and stranded behind enemy lines with his crew.
Liebenow instructed Welford West to rush the coconut directly into the headquarters tent of base commander Thomas Warfield. Unknown to Liebenow, Warfield himself had just received the message relayed from Coastwatcher Reg Evans reporting the discovery of the PT 109 crew. Warfield was having trouble believing the news and summoned Gasa for a brief conversation.
Studying the coconut husk, Warfield asked, “Who wrote this?”
“Captain Kennedy,” said Gasa.
“Who showed him to do this with the coconut?”
“I did,” replied Gasa.
Warfield then called a meeting of his boat captains, fourteen of whom crowded into the command tent. According to witness Liebenow, Warfield still was skeptical. A coconut? Could these natives be trusted? Might it be an elaborate Japanese trick to lure a large American rescue force into a trap? Warfield no doubt also recalled the unequivocal declaration of Lieutenant John Lowrey, the nearest witness to the PT 109 crash, at the boat captain’s meeting hours after the incident: “All hands were lost. They couldn’t possibly survive.”
And yet there was the coconut, coupled with Coastwatcher Evans’s report and the corroborating note from Lenny Thom that the natives also brought with them. It was hard to comprehend, but now Warfield had three sources telling him the same thing: the men of PT 109 were back from the dead.
As for Liebenow, he had no doubt the distress messages were real. He trusted the Solomon Islands natives, with his own life if necessary, and he considered them full allies and brothers-in-arms, as did so many other American servicemen.
Clearly, Warfield had to scramble a rescue force to deliver Kennedy and his men to safety. But in light of the series of recent PT boat disasters and fatalities that occurred under his command, Warfield was willing to commit only as small a force as possible to the rescue operation.
“We can risk one boat for this mission,” Warfield announced. Looking at Liebenow, he said, “The PT 157 will go to the Coastwatchers station as we think that there may be a chance that the PT 109 crew has been sighted. John Battle’s boat [the PT 171] will go out first and first sweep the area with radar to see if there’s any Japanese shipping in the area.”
In subsequent years, Liebenow downplayed the dangers and difficulties he faced in the rescue, which he called a routine “pickup,” but it was an unquestionably hazardous journey into enemy-hel
d waters, with no air cover and no reinforcements in case of attack. It was another dark night with occasional showers and poor to fair visibility.
By coincidence, there happened to be two leading war correspondents at Rendova that day, who each worked for major American press syndicates that served hundreds of newspapers: Frank Hewlett of United Press and Leif Erickson of the Associated Press. Hewlett recalled how he became embedded with the rescue party and boarded Bud Liebenow’s PT 157, “I’d known Hank Brantingham from Manila days. I dropped by to see him that day. He said he was going out that night and asked if I wanted to go. I said hell no! I knew the PT’s. You went out for about fourteen hours, all night, and maybe shot a few rounds at barges. Never much of a story. Then he told me they were going out to rescue Ambassador Kennedy’s son. That was a horse of a different color. I said hell yes! Then I tried my damnedest to ditch Leif Erickson, told him I was going to play poker with Hank or some ruse like that. But he wasn’t fooled. So, in the end, we both made the trip.”
For his part, Erickson recalled, “I don’t remember Frank trying to ditch me, but it wouldn’t have worked.” Erickson had been tipped off himself by a source on Rendova that they were going out to rescue Kennedy, and recognized it could be a great story, so he hopped aboard, too. They did this with the approval of senior officers at Rendova, who recognized that a successful rescue would generate good publicity.
Finally at 11:30 A.M., a response was relayed to Reginald Evans through the Coastwatchers radio network: “Great news. Commander PT base received a message st [shortly] after yours from survivors by native. They gave their position and news that some are badly wounded and request rescue. We passed the news that you had sent canoes and without wishing to interfere with your arrangements want to know if they [the Rendova base] can assist. They would send surface craft to meet your returning canoes or anything you advise. They wish to express great appreciation. We will await your advice and pass on.”
Coastwatcher Evans had suggested the natives take Kennedy alone back to Rendova by canoe via the Wana Wana Lagoon. As for his men on Olasana, they should wait for a PT boat, as recommended by the American officers on Rendova. Kennedy said it was out of the question. He wanted to help pilot a rescue boat over to his men on Olasana, and he wished to be with his men as soon as possible. And so Kennedy and Evans worked out another plan, which Evans radioed to Rendova: “Lieut. Kennedy considers it advisable that he pilot PT boats tonight. He will await boats near Patparan Island. PT boat to approach island from NW Ten PM as close as possible. Boat to fire four shots as recognition. He will acknowledge with same [four shots] and go alongside in canoe. Survivors now on island NW of Gross . . . He advises outboard motor.” The pickup of Kennedy and his crew was set for late that night.
But they were not out of danger yet. A perilous stage of the operation was about to begin, as the Americans would try to navigate a round-trip passage, at night, through nearly forty miles of hostile waters, where Japanese float planes and shore batteries hunted PT boats.
Before they went out, Warfield called in the three Solomon Island scouts. He asked Eroni Kumana, Biuku Gasa, and John Kari if they were afraid, or if they were thinking of their families. Warfield stressed that they might enter combat, and that it was fine if they didn’t want to go on the mission with the Americans.
“There’s no problem,” declared Kari, “if they live, we live—if they die, we die.”
Warfield then insisted all three scouts sign written statements confirming they were going on the mission voluntarily.
“Light ’em off!” said Liebenow from the cockpit of the PT 157, giving the signal for the engine crew to fire up the boat’s engines.
Liebenow gently maneuvered the boat from its dock out to sea, one hand on the wheel and his other slowly pushing the throttle forward to cruising speed.
It was close to 7:00 P.M., just after sunset on the dark, cool night of August 7, 1943. The native men stood close by to help him navigate, and before long he could sense the very faint outlines of islands silhouetted against the black sky.
Don’t make a wake, don’t make a wake, thought Liebenow, as his boat passed through the water. Liebenow’s dilemma was how to reach Kennedy and his men fast enough to execute a swift rescue, yet also travel slow enough as to not give away his position to the enemy. His solution was to travel at about 10 to 15 knots, a bit faster than usual, to engage all three engine mufflers to reduce the noise, and to periodically change course in a zigzag pattern to prevent being zeroed in on by the enemy tracking him from planes or shore batteries. He timed the PT 157’s departure and speed to arrive in the target area during the blackest time of night, around midnight.
Liebenow had his full crew aboard his boat, plus several guests. The special rescue party aboard the PT 157 consisted of Solomon Islands scouts Eroni Kumana, Biuku Gasa, and John Kari; Lieutenants Hank Brantingham (Squadron 9 executive officer and Warfield’s second-in-command) and Alvin Cluster (in command of Kennedy’s Squadron 2); pharmacist’s mates Fred T. Ratchford and William J. Lawrence to provide basic medical care to the survivors; plus the two reporters, Frank Hewlett and Leif Erickson. Liebenow’s regular crew consisted of executive officer John Ruff; torpedoman Welford West; quartermaster Waldo DeWilde; motormacs Dan Jamieson, Harry Armstrong, and Harry Aust; gunner mates Jimmy Smith, Ray Macht, and Harold Goodemote; and radioman Sam Koury.
“Koury was manning the radio, trying to keep in contact with the 171, which was to furnish radar cover,” recalled Liebenow. “We lost contact with the radar boat shortly after leaving the base.”
Years later, Liebenow explained, “I’ve often been asked why a boat with a radar wasn’t selected to make the pickup. I’m sure my thinking is prejudiced, however, here it is. A crew with experience and seamanship ability was needed, and most of all, one that wouldn’t panic under pressure. This was the crew of the 157. As for the boat, we had been on her since she hit the water at Bayonne [New Jersey] and knew every plank in her. If we went, old ‘Aces & Eights’ would carry us.” The operation required a boat commander and crew with great skill and experience, qualities that Liebenow and the PT 157 crew had in abundance. “We knew the general area of the sinking from the reports of the natives and the dispatches from Evans,” Liebenow recounted. “Besides, we had patrolled this area many times.”
According to John Kari, Gasa and Kumana became “very weak and seasick” on the journey, as they were exhausted from their epic canoe trip and were unaccustomed to riding in motorized boats. Kari recalled that members of Liebenow’s crew “held them like pussycats.”
Lieutenant (jg) William “Bud” Liebenow (in T-shirt with binoculars, right) with crew and legendary Squadron 9 Lieutenant Commander Robert Kelly (smoking pipe, center) on a rare daytime patrol, 1943. (National Archives/Bridgeman Carney)
The rescuer: In 2014 and 2015, more than seventy years after the hazardous mission deep in enemy waters to rescue Kennedy and his crew, Liebenow told his story in a series of interviews for this book. Liebenow was an ice-cool, highly skilled boat captain who went on to rescue over 60 American soldiers on D-Day. (William F. Liebenow)
For over four hours, the PT 157 gingerly chugged through the dark water, while the native scouts gave Liebenow directions to guide the boat toward Reginald Evans’ new Coastwatching station at Gomu Island. As planned, Liebenow raised his .45 pistol and fired four shots to alert Kennedy of their arrival. Kennedy, who paddled out in a native canoe for the rendezvous, fired three rounds from his .38, then realized he was out of ammo for the fourth shot. He picked up a captured Japanese rifle lent to him by Evans and fired a final round in the air, though the recoil was so heavy it nearly dumped him out of the small boat.
As Kennedy approached, a voice called out, “Hey, Jack!”
In a bitter outburst born of the frustrations of past six days, Kennedy’s supposed reply was, “Where the hell you been?”
Lieutenant Art Berndtson, who was in the nearby PT 171, recalled that Kennedy’s qu
estion was hardly welcome: “It was an unfortunate thing to say, I thought. I know it irked a lot of people on the two PTs. There was a war on. The guys were going out every night, getting killed and wounded. We were busy as hell. I had a patrol to lead that night and I was taking time from it. And then he hit us with that comment, like he was the only guy around!”
Liebenow, however, recalled that the PT 171 was nowhere to be seen, and that a different exchange occurred, one more typical of two junior naval officers exchanging wisecracks in the midst of extreme pressure.
“Hey, Jack: we’ve got some food for you!” said Liebenow.
“Just what I need,” said Kennedy, “No thanks. I just had a coconut.”
“You’re probably eating better that we are,” joked Liebenow, in a swipe at the monotonous cuisine available at the Rendova base.
Kennedy was hoisted aboard the PT 157 by native John Kari. “Good evening, Lieutenant Kennedy,” Kari greeted him in a mellifluous British-accented voice that Lieutenant Cluster described as “out of the Court of St. James’s.” After hugging some of his saviors, Kennedy then quickly took up a station next to Liebenow and the natives around the boat’s cockpit to guide them to the island holding the rest of the PT 109 crew.
Liebenow now got a good look at Kennedy and was shocked at his appearance. His former classmate and tentmate had a thick beard and appeared to weigh “only 110 pounds.” “He had made numerous long swims during the week before the pickup trying to intercept our regular patrols,” Liebenow later explained. “I’m sure he was in great pain. But physical pain was a part of life in those days; you just kept doing what you had to do. With your shipmates getting killed around you, you felt lucky to be alive and be able to feel pain.”
According to Liebenow, on the thirty-minute journey to rescue the rest of the survivors, he faced “tricky navigation through the reefs in the middle of the night and it was dark. We had to feel our way in. We put Welford West, who was our torpedoman and an experienced seaman when he joined the navy, up on the foc’sle [forward bow] with a lead line. It was an old-fashioned way of marking depth in the sea. He would throw it down and it marked distances in fathoms. He called out the depths and we threaded our way through the reefs and shoals. We went right up to the island, we put our nose right up against the shore.”
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