Shadows In the Jungle

by Larry Alexander

  * * *

  As Littlefield and his men sailed for Roemberpon for the first time on August 29, Bill Lutz informed his team they were being sent out again, this time to Salebaboe Island in the Celebes Sea, south of Mindanao, the southernmost island of the Philippines.

  On September 5, as the team prepared, Lutz boarded a plane for a photo recon flight over the area. Geiger would miss this mission. Down with yellow jaundice, he would be replaced by Bob Schermerhorn, formerly of the Sumner Team.

  Lutz and his men arrived at Woendi Island on September 9 and were amazed at the changes since their last visit. From a simple PT base, it had now become an area overcrowded with men and ships. Three days later the team boarded the PT tender USS Mobjack as part of a force sailing toward the Morotai Islands, 230 miles northwest of New Guinea and 300 miles southeast of Mindanao. Knowing they were closing on the Philippines heightened the men’s eagerness.

  The first stop, though, was a new PT base at Amsterdam Island just off Sansapor and not far from the site of the team’s first mission less than two months ago.

  The invasion at Morotai, Operation Interlude, went off as planned on September 15, but two days later the Scouts were still on the Mobjack . A Japanese scout plane buzzed overhead and the sky filled with antiaircraft fire, which the plane managed to elude.

  The Scouts’ mission, when they were finally briefed on September 20, was to travel by PT boat to Salebaboe, a three-mile-wide, fifteen-mile-long island in the Seloud Group, 150 miles south of Mindanao. It was a one-day mission with the goal of grabbing some local natives and bringing them back for intelligence-gathering reasons. Accompanying them would be a Dutch army officer, Lieutenant DeBruine. Three members of the McGowen Team would go along as the contact men.

  The three PT boats departed at four thirty in the afternoon. The trip was long and over dangerous waters, and all the men—Scouts included—wore life jackets. With the night, a steady rain began falling and flashes of lightning lit the sky. One of the PT boats fell behind and the timetable for delivering the team to the island was slowed. The flotilla reached Salebaboe about three a.m. and the Scouts lowered the rubber boat into the water and paddled for shore. Reaching the island, Ross jumped out onto the beach to secure the rubber boat, only to fall into a watery hole. The beach, which G2 told him was made up of “black sand,” was, in fact, deeply rutted coral, and Ross had jumped into a gully. He reemerged, sputtering and cursing. The original plan called for sending the ten-man rubber boat back to the PT boat with two members of the contact team, who had come along on the trip in. Now it was decided to keep it onshore and a radio message was sent to the PT boat to return in twenty-four hours. The coral made it extremely difficult to drag the rubber boat inland and hide it, but the men finally succeeded after much tugging and lifting. That done, the Lutz Team cautiously worked their way inland while the McGowen men stayed with the boat.

  Salebaboe did not have thick jungle like some islands, but rather sported dense bamboo thickets with bamboo wood lying on the ground for a misplaced foot to crack if a man was not careful. But bamboo wasn’t the only concern. The inky blackness of the rainy night was complete, and each man clung to the man in front of him in order to stay together. In the dark, the team got turned around and ended up back at the coral beach. They eventually reunited with the McGowen Team and everyone settled in to get some sleep, which was next to impossible in the driving tropical rain.

  The team was under way by dawn with Lutz, Ross, and Roesler in the lead. With their wet uniforms steaming as they dried under the hot sun, the men spent much of the day reconnoitering the island. Lutz discovered a well-used jungle trail, bordered on one side by native gardens, leading to a village. Calling a halt, Lutz was asked by some of the men if they could smoke. He said no. Lutz was a nonsmoker, Roesler recalled, and his refusal pissed off the group’s smokers. But Lutz knew the smell of tobacco could carry a long way, and he was taking no chances.

  The village was within sight of the beach, so the Scouts could watch both the shore and the trail. They allowed two native women to walk by on the trail, passing barely ten feet from Roesler, while at sea an occasional canoe glided past. Then a young man in a white sun helmet, carrying both an ax and a machete, came along the footpath. As he reached the spot where the Scouts lay concealed, DeBruine stepped out in front of him. The man stopped and turned, only to find two Alamo Scouts had emerged from the brush behind him. DeBruine told the man, obviously not a Japanese soldier, he would not be hurt, but that he was to come with them. The man willingly agreed, but as they took away his ax and machete, two teenage boys appeared on the trail. Spotting the Scouts, they turned and ran, yelling at the top of their lungs as they fled.

  “They’ll tip the Japs,” Lutz said. “Let’s go.”

  He led the team quickly into the underbrush and up into the nearby hills, in the direction of his next objective, the village of Moesi. Approaching to within three hundred yards of the place, the team spent four hours hiding in, what Roesler recalled, “the deepest part of the jungle we could find,” watching for signs of the enemy. Seeing none, they worked their way back to the shore to retrieve their rubber boat. As the Americans reached the place the boat was hidden, Ross, at point, indicated “freeze.” Ross then signaled “take cover” and the men dropped to the ground amid the underbrush as a twenty-five-man Japanese patrol approached, all armed and led by the two teenagers they had seen earlier. The Lutz Team was spread three to four feet apart, and lay in deathlike stillness as the Japanese walked directly through them, their jikatabi split-toe shoes within arm’s reach of the Scouts, poking and probing the brush with bayoneted rifles. The Americans, sweat pouring down their faces, fingers tight on the triggers of their weapons, dared not breathe as the enemy moved on by. Maybe, Roesler thought, the Japs think the boys were exaggerating.

  * * *

  By ten p.m., the PT boat scheduled to pick them up still had not arrived.

  “Inflate the boat,” Lutz ordered. “It’s probably safer for us floating out on the water than it is to stay here.”

  The men did as ordered and cast off from Salebaboe. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief when contact was finally made with the PT boat. Clambering back aboard, they were soon speeding back to Woendi Island.

  During the return trip, DeBruine questioned the young man. He said he was a twenty-one-year-old islander and was glad to help the Allies.

  “He says the Japs were very cruel,” DeBruine told Lutz. “They forced him and others to work for them for twenty cents a day in invasion money. He claims there are about a hundred troops onshore and they have five mountain guns and several automatic weapons. They’ve left the villages to dig in up in the hills.”

  The young man informed DeBruine that the largest island in the Seloud Group, Talaud, was occupied by about one thousand troops, but that the rest of the islands were unoccupied.

  When this information was relayed back to the Allied planners, it was decided to skip invading the place. Instead, the Allies’ next stop would be the Philippines.

  But first there were two more missions in New Guinea, involving not intelligence gathering and reconnaissance, but compassion and humanity.

  CHAPTER 8

  “. . . By Far the Best Show I’ve Ever Seen.”

  Sumner Team: Pegun Island, August 21-23, 1944

  Except for a small overnight mission to the Cape Oransbari-Cape Mambiwi area on August 12-13, Lt. Bob Sumner and his men had spent the last week or so at the navy’s PT base on Woendi Island, playing beach volleyball, swimming, and just enjoying some time off. Then, on August 21, as the evening shadows were deepening, the men were relaxing and joking with each other in the comfort of their squad tent when their reverie was suddenly broken by Sumner.

  “Hate to interrupt this good time,” the lanky, strawberry blond Oregonian said. “Briefing on Noemfoor tomorrow morning. Consider this a mission alert. Get your gear together.”

  * * *

  When Sumner arrived at the bri
efing hut the next day, he was greeted by Lt. John McGowen.

  “Hi, Red,” McGowen said. “We got a real doozy for you. You’re gonna love this one.”

  The two Scouts went inside.

  Waiting in the hut was Maj. Gen. Edwin D. Patrick, commander of Krueger’s Cyclone Task Force, which had been formed in June 1944 for the invasion of Noemfoor. The fact that Cyclone’s commanding officer was conducting the briefing suggested the unusual nature of the assignment. An army air force officer was also present.

  The general cut right to the chase.

  “This is not a recon mission, Lieutenant,” he told Sumner. “This is a rescue mission. Three days ago, a picket boat carrying several air force enlisted personnel sailed here”—he pointed to a map—“to the Mapia Group. The Mapias consist of several small islands and three large ones, Bras, Pegun, and Fanildo. They are, as you can see, separated by narrow stretches of water. The men were sent to locate a British Beaufighter that had been forced to land on one of the small islands near Pegun and recover the two-man crew or, if possible, repair the plane so the crew could fly it home. The air corps guys in the picket boat included some mechanics.”

  He paused, then continued.

  “As they passed near Pegun, three of the air force men asked to be dropped off to search for souvenirs and the boat skipper, for whatever the hell reason, agreed and let them go ashore.”

  “I take it that Pegun is occupied?” McGowen asked.

  “The little yellow bastards are like ants at a picnic basket,” Patrick replied. “Our G2 estimates between three hundred and four hundred are stationed throughout the Mapias.

  “Anyway, the others found the plane and got it back into the air. On the return, the picket boat stopped at Pegun to pick up the air corps guys. As they approached the shore, one of the men ran out onto the beach, waving and yelling at them to get the hell out, that the Japs were on to them. Then he was hit by fire from the tree line and fell right there at the water’s edge. The Japs also fired at the picket boat. Naturally, they hightailed it back to operational HQ to report and Woendi Ops passed it on to us.”

  “I gather our job is to go ashore and see if we can find the three airmen, or two now, probably,” Sumner said.

  “Yes,” Patrick replied. “I have discussed this with General Krueger and he agrees. Go in, look around, see if you can find them, and get the hell out in one piece. Personally, I think the men are dead, but air force HQ has asked for our help.” He cast a glance at the air corps officer. Then he added, “Besides, General Krueger and I both have an aversion to leaving any of our men behind if there’s any chance of getting them out.”

  “Do we have any intelligence on the island?” Sumner asked.

  “It’s fairly flat, with a narrow beach and jungle vegetation,” Patrick said. “Before the war it was an American and Dutch agricultural experimentation station, whatever the hell that is. What’s left of that station is a cluster of huts not too far inland. We don’t know the specific number of Japs on Pegun, but they use the place as an OP. Being four hundred miles south of Morotai and a hundred twenty-five miles east of Biak, it’s a good place for the Nips to monitor any air or sea movements we make in the direction of Morotai or the Philippines.”

  Sumner looked at the map, nodding slowly in contemplation.

  “The decision is yours, Lieutenant, on whether or not you want to undertake this assignment,” Patrick told Sumner. “As I said, I believe these men are dead and I’m hesitant to risk more lives to prove it.”

  Sumner looked at Patrick, then to the air corps liaison officer.

  The air corps man said, “Will you see if you can find our people?”

  “Yeah,” Sumner said. “We’ll do what we can.”

  “Figured you’d say that, Red,” McGowen said. “I and some of my guys will be the contact team. We’ll get you ashore, bring the rubber boat back, and then stand by offshore to come get you. We will remain in radio contact. We don’t expect you to be onshore for more time than it takes to see if they are dead, or bring them back if alive.”

  “And if they’re POWs?”

  “Don’t take any extreme risks, but if you can free them, do it,” Patrick said. “Then get back to the beach. You’ll have plenty of fire support. In addition to the PT boat you’ll be on, we’re sending along two more plus a destroyer escort. The PT boats will take up station off Bras and Fanildo to prevent any Japs from crossing over to reinforce in case you get into a fight, and the frigate will remain beyond the horizon, out of sight unless needed.”

  “One more thing,” McGowen said. “You’re aware that our usual standing orders are to avoid enemy contact as much as possible. In this case, enemy contact is almost guaranteed. Arm yourself and your men accordingly.”

  “Weiland will be glad to hear that,” Sumner said. “He’s been aching for a chance to drag that damned BAR into the field.”

  “Use extreme caution, Lieutenant,” Patrick said. “And remember, no matter how much we’d like to bring them back, General Krueger simply will not permit the loss of a valuable Scout team on an operation of this type. If those arrangements are understood, then you may make the attempt as soon as possible.”

  “We’ll leave tonight at midnight,” Sumner said.

  He saluted and left.

  * * *

  Sumner and his team boarded the PT boat just before midnight and soon were skimming across the black water. With Cpl. Bob Schermerhorn down with malaria, the team consisted of Sumner, Blaise, Coleman, Weiland, Renhols, and Jones.

  For the contact team, McGowen had brought along Pfc. Raymond Aguilar, a Mexican Indian who would serve as boat handler, as well as Staff Sgts. Ray W. Wangrud and Harold N. Sparks, and Pfcs. Jack C. Bunt and Charley D. Hill. They would help Sumner’s men prepare for the mission.

  The firepower of the three PT boats, along with the frigate, with its three five-inch gun turrets and 40- and 20mm dual-purpose guns, was comforting to Sumner.

  “Let’s get some sack time,” he told the team as the PTs raced out to sea. “We’ll need to be sharp in the morning.”

  Sleep was difficult on a PT boat bouncing across the waves at thirty miles per hour, but the team managed to snatch enough to rejuvenate their minds and senses.

  At about two a.m. McGowen woke Sumner.

  “We’re about an hour out,” he said.

  Sumner nodded and began rousing his team. He told them to check their equipment and weapons.

  “Souvenir hunting?” Coleman said. “Do you believe those guys?”

  “Why not?” Blaise replied as he tested the radio. “You know how it is. We bring in souvenirs and trade them to the air corps and navy in exchange for better chow. Maybe these air corps guys decided our prices were too high and wanted to cut out the middleman.”

  Sumner had already decided this would be a quick, in-and-out, “pistol-type operation.” Aside from a few tropical chocolate bars and their canteens, there would be no rations and the only equipment, other than their weapons, would be extra medical packs.

  For the weapons, each Scout had at least seventy-five rounds, although Coleman, with his “grease gun,” had two hundred. The imposing six-foot-two, 180-pound Weiland, who seemed to enjoy shooting down Japanese, was toting the heavy Browning Automatic Rifle, and also carried two hundred rounds. Since these two weapons would provide the team with a base of fire if needed, each Scout carried one extra clip for both Coleman and Weiland.

  Every team member had hooked two fragmentation grenades on his web gear, and Sumner and three others also carried one smoke grenade apiece.

  By three a.m. the PT boat was nearing the island. The tide was high and the sea calm, allowing the PT skipper to take his fifty-one-ton vessel, with its shallow five-foot-three-inch draft, through the island’s surrounding reefs with little difficulty.

  Sumner and McGowen had been studying the radar screen, trying to get a feel for the island’s western topography, since there were no aerial photos available. The two S
cout team leaders determined that if the surviving airmen were anywhere, it would be as prisoners around the old agricultural experimentation station. Sumner’s plan was to land his men five hundred yards farther up the coast, away from the station, then make their way to the buildings and observe.

  At three twenty a.m., the PT boat, its muffled engines gurgling through the underwater vents, slowed to a halt. The two other PT boats continued on, headed for their assigned spots off Bras and Fanildo, a short distance to the north. The frigate was already on station fifteen miles out to sea.

  “This is it,” the skipper whispered.

  The inflated rubber boat was lowered into the water on the seaward side of the PT, and the men loaded in. Sumner and Aguilar stayed to the rear of the craft. Aguilar brought with him a towrope, the other end of which was attached to the PT boat. As the Scouts rowed the rubber boat toward the dark shoreline, Aguilar played out the rope.

  Just before four a.m., the rubber boat reached the shore and Sumner and his men jumped into the shallow surf. Aguilar turned the rubber boat and began rowing back, aided by crewmen aboard the PT boat reeling in the towrope.

  The tree line began just twenty feet from the narrow beach. As drilled, the men moved into the natural cover, then fanned out into a semicircle, backs to the sea, and waited while Renhols and Weiland, the beach security team, brushed away their footprints in the white sand.

  The island’s vegetation was mostly coconut trees mingled with sparse shrubs and low grass less than a foot tall. With daylight still some two hours away, Sumner let the men nap, rotating between sleepers and guards every thirty minutes. The only “enemy action” the team encountered during the rest time occurred around five fifteen a.m., when a palm frond fell, landing on Weiland, who had been sitting against the tree trunk. Luckily, he had been hit by the leafy end of the thick branch, and was unhurt, although the men stifled a laugh as Weiland, jolted suddenly awake, assumed he had been jumped by a Japanese soldier and briefly wrestled with his attacker.