The Persimmon Tree

by Bryce Courtenay

  Fortunately, Private Yamamoto possessed a phlegmatic disposition and a good sense of humour and accepted the situation as fact. He appeared to be an archetypal Japanese, with the lenses in his glasses seemingly made from the bottom of Coke bottles. He had slightly protruding teeth and one of the front ones was chipped as a result of a pick-up game of football at college. Belgiovani promptly nicknamed him ‘Da Nip widda Chip’. He was short, although an inch taller than the Brooklyn Brute, bandy-legged and yellow-skinned, and the appearance of a nude Japanese in the shower block nearly caused a riot amongst the marines.

  By the end of September Lee Roy Yamamoto’s training was completed. At last I was free to leave the radio tent with a clear conscience and the blessing of Colonel Woon who, as it turned out, would remain my boss. I was to be known as ‘Field Intelligence’ and was required to receive some additional training in patrol work, leaving Yamamoto and Belgiovani to go it alone.

  It was in early November that the new boy on the block and the Brute from Brooklyn proved they’d come of age as a combination. They’d been listening in to an unimportant Japanese field transmission when, unbelievably fortuitously, they picked up a conversation in the background which, when translated by Private Yamamoto, indicated that a large detachment of troops that had been expected from Rabaul, together with their equipment, had been sunk by marauding American fighters and bombers, christened the ‘Cactus Air Force’ by the marines.

  In addition to this lack of fresh troops, what was coming through in the messages was the Japs’ ongoing inability to land sufficient supplies of both food and equipment. Supplies could only be brought in at night by small craft that ferried them from the supply ships to the beach, and from there the provisions had to be manhandled by sick and malnourished soldiers into the cover of the copra plantations. But with the dawn patrol by the Cactus Air Force, many a night’s supply was left to lie useless, strafed and burning on the beaches or floating out to sea.

  It seemed unlikely that under these circumstances the Japanese possessed the capacity to mount regular major offensives. After Bloody Ridge, where I’d seen about as much fighting as I required for one man’s war, I wasn’t looking forward to more of the same, even if the Intelligence radio unit was meant to do nothing except observe. I was happy to settle down to the daily routine of sending and receiving messages for the coastwatcher network and trying to make sense of the Japanese field radio operators.

  But that’s not the Japanese way. They simply kept landing more and more troops, allowing those who were dying of malaria, dysentery, dengue fever and — most of all — starvation, to perish. The fresh troops fighting for the Emperor would then take their turn to die in one of these several ways; dying in combat was the least likely event of them all.

  Determined to oust the Americans, the Japanese High Command thought of their men as totally expendable. For a Japanese soldier, to land on Guadalcanal was tantamount to being handed a death sentence. A wounded Japanese colonel who was captured (a rare occurrence as members of the officer corps invariably suicided), upon being questioned by Colonel Woon, with me acting as interpreter, was asked why senior officers had such a callous disregard for the lives and welfare of the soldiers under their command. The Japanese officer showed no indignation at this suggestion and replied by saying, ‘When you fire a rifle you don’t expect to get the bullet back’.

  The Japanese succeeded in mounting two more serious assaults. The first was on the 13th and 14th of October, exactly one month after Bloody Ridge, when the Japanese battleships Kongo and Haruna bombarded Henderson Field and base with their fourteen-inch guns. After enduring a very long night of explosions and imagining every shell had my name on it, I decided that if I had to die I wanted it to happen when I could see my enemy’s face. I can tell you the anonymity of shells exploding in my vicinity left me a very scared puppy.

  The second assault was a major attempt by the enemy to cross the Mantanikau River to the west of Henderson. But by this time, while they had ample men who they were prepared to sacrifice at any cost, they were badly hamstrung by the difficult tropical terrain. A lack of supply prevented them from massing enough well-equipped, well-fed and healthy troops backed with artillery and air support. Moreover the furious retaliation of fighter planes operating from nearby Henderson led to what amounted to a virtual massacre.

  Malaria was becoming the major factor to cause weakness, not only in the ranks of the Japanese but also amongst the marines, with over six hundred cases a week, many needing evacuation to Luganville and Noumea. From early August to December, 2879 men were flown out and a further one thousand left by sea, while untreated malaria coupled with malnutrition, or more correctly starvation, killed the Japanese in their thousands. Over twenty-three thousand Japanese died at Guadalcanal, most from sickness and starvation. When they left in February 1943, using destroyers at night anchored on the western side of the island, they evacuated just over eleven thousand men, of whom the vast majority were sick and starving.

  In effect, with the failure of the arrival of fresh troops, those that remained at the disposal of the Japanese command after Mantanikau River were simply unfit for use in major combat. Although theoretically the Japanese forces still outnumbered the Americans and had thirty-five thousand combat soldiers on the island, you can’t expect a soldier who is suffering from malarial fever and dysentery, shaking uncontrollably while at the same time spraying shit like a hose at the firemen’s picnic, to fire a gun or throw a grenade or even to advance at a trot with fixed bayonet.

  However, although the Japs may have lacked the capacity to mount a major assault, they made up for it with very effective small-scale skirmishes and suicidally stubborn defence. At night they kept the marines virtually confined to the immediate area of Henderson Field. While the Americans owned the day, the Japanese controlled the night. If a marine patrol couldn’t get back to Henderson by nightfall the patrol members didn’t get a lot of sleep over the next ten or twelve hours.

  The Japs also controlled Mount Austen, the highest point in the area, which lay to the immediate south of Henderson; its northern face looked directly down onto the airfield. There is little doubt that, despite everything they suffered, the Japs were a tenacious and determined enemy. Lugging heavy field artillery up a mountain that was covered to the summit in almost impenetrable jungle, and had precipitous ravines and slippery slopes, was a remarkable achievement and one that the Marine Field Artillery Unit had previously considered impossible.

  Having achieved this astonishing feat, the enemy was determined to defend its mountain artillery positions. US fighter planes made regular sorties to oust the Japs, but the enemy was well concealed and protected by huge rocky outcrops on the slopes and near the summit, and the raids met with very little success. The Japs were using the mountain not only to fire down on Henderson but also to send reports of US aircraft taking off to attack their ships in the area.

  More and more it was looking as if the marines would have to go up the mountain to silence them. It was a task only the foolhardy or the very well trained dared to attempt and the marine field command was reluctant to authorise it, knowing there was only one known path up Mount Austen and it was in Japanese hands.

  However, eventually it was decided the enemy had to be dislodged from the mountain and I was to be included as the field intelligence officer in the battalion chosen for the task. The marines, having fought on the more or less flat coastal area where Bloody Ridge was the highest point in what essentially passed for rolling hills, were not familiar with jungle warfare and we were required to undergo extra training. To my surprise we were advised in our training and objectives by J.V. Mather, who was an Australian seconded for duty with the 1st Marines.

  Our objectives were first to locate and explore a suspected trail leading around and behind Mount Austen that seemed to be used by the Japanese to move troops and supplies from west to east of Henderson, and second, to seek ou
t and destroy enemy artillery and observation posts overlooking Henderson from the slopes. Finally, we were to locate the field radio that was alerting the enemy navy of the impending arrival of our aircraft. This last objective was my own particular responsibility and I was to be given a squad of marines to help me achieve it.

  While Mather didn’t minimise the Japanese presence on the mountain, he was careful to point out that the first enemy we would face was the mountain itself.

  ‘It’s a bugger,’ he announced. ‘The mountain is covered, as you can see, by thick jungle. I won’t say it’s impenetrable because the canopy is so thick that in many places the sun doesn’t get down to the floor and so there is very little undergrowth. But it’s the deep gorges that have been scored out of the underlying limestone by the many streams originating on the mountain that make access difficult. These are often so deep and vertical in nature that it is tantamount to walking in the semi-dark or deepening dusk. When it rains, which can be several times during each day, the streams become raging torrents in a matter of minutes. The only way to get up the mountain is to follow the streams and traverse these gorges.’ He looked around. ‘This takes both ingenuity and courage. If you’re not drowned by a rush of water from a sudden downfall emanating from the top of the mountain, you could be stuck in the bottom of a gorge like ducks in a shooting gallery with the enemy firing down at you. This is not a recommended procedure.’

  This understatement drew a scared laugh from us all as he went on to say, ‘However, the two native constables accompanying us are excellent forward scouts and I have every confidence in them.’ He then proceeded to brief us further. ‘A downpour blots out visibility and this, if anything, is to our advantage as the enemy cannot see or hear you until you are on top of him. Of course, it also works the other way around as well.

  ‘Moreover after each downpour the surface you move across turns to mud that, due to the peculiar nature of the soil type, also feels and behaves like grease.’ He concluded by saying, ‘Mount Austen will not be an experience you will easily forget, gentlemen. Of the two enemies, count the mountain as a close second.’

  It was just the kind of briefing that made me almost regret the decision by Intelligence to send me along with the marine battalion. When giving me the initial orders Colonel Woon had said, ‘Just your type of thing, Nick: plenty of jungle and sloshing about in the rain and then the glory of capturing the Japanese radio operator. But do be careful, son, we don’t like casualties in Intelligence, all that bothersome retraining to go through.’

  Coming to the end of this briefing on the mountain and the jungle Mather said, ‘I take it the untidy bloke in the Australian jungle greens is Lieutenant Nicholas Duncan from Army Air Force Intelligence?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied, laughing.

  ‘Well, Nick, I’m told that you have reason to suppose that only one Japanese field radio is operating from the mountain?’

  ‘Yes, sir, we have only identified one voice, and one fist when sending morse.’ In the radio unit we’d named the Mount Austen operator ‘Goat’ — for obvious reasons. Looking up to the mountain from the base, you could imagine him located in the rocky outcrop near the summit. It would be an ideal position from which to contact ships and even Rabaul, but, because of the constant bad weather and other ground level interference, we seldom received him clearly and we really knew, or rather guessed, very little about him. The best the direction finders had been able to give us was a ‘cocked hat’; that is, a triangle on the map giving a general area of the mountain as his location. While it narrowed things down a bit it was nonetheless like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

  ‘Well, Nick,’ Mather said, ‘my suggestion is that if you are going to be successful wheedling him out it’s going to have to be a one-man operation. He’s probably sending from a limestone cave, of which there are hundreds. If any more than one person attempts to catch him unawares it is likely to spook him well before you get near enough to find him or his equipment.’ Then he added, ‘Have you had jungle training, Lieutenant?’

  All about me faces turned to hear my reply. ‘Yes, sir, in New Britain and New Guinea as well as in Australia, on Fraser Island.’

  He looked at me doubtfully. ‘New Britain and New Guinea; in what military capacity?’

  ‘None, sir, as a butterfly collector.’

  A roar of laughter followed from the assembled marines, but because of my navy medal, it was of a good-natured kind. Mather was not the chuckling type, but nevertheless couldn’t resist milking a laugh. ‘Well, there are certainly lots of butterflies on the mountain, but I don’t recommend you take your butterfly net along.’ Another big laugh followed.

  I knew J.V. Mather was correct when he suggested I locate ‘Goat’ on my own. This wasn’t a job for a squad. I’d be back in the jungle on my own and, despite his advice, I felt Mather, even though we were fellow Australians, wasn’t all that impressed with the butterfly collector’s chances of finding the Japanese radio operator. Mind you, I confess I wasn’t that confident myself.

  The reconnaissance of the mountain began on the 24th of November with a battalion of marines led by Lieutenant Colonel Carlson and accompanied and advised by Mather. With us was a scout from Malaita who was a member of the native constabulary, and also the famous Sergeant Major Vouza. Their task was to guide us through the initial phases of the operation.

  Because I spoke pidgin and Solomon Islanders speak a similar version to that spoken in New Britain, I struck up a friendship with the two guides. Sergeant Major Vouza was the more gregarious and I was not surprised to learn that he was still pretty cranky at the way he’d been treated by the Japs and was aching for payback, a long tradition on the islands. While he laughed a good deal about this, I could sense he wasn’t going to be happy until he’d avenged the bayoneting he’d received at the hands of the Japanese patrol that had left him for dead, tied to a tree. He wanted to accompany me to the summit to find ‘Goat’ but it was outside his brief. I requested permission from J.V. Mather, who said he’d discuss it with Lieutenant Colonel Carlson. In any event, permission was refused.

  I admit I would have felt a lot safer with Sergeant Major Vouza at my side. But he said to me on parting, laughing uproariously as he spoke, ‘Time yufella come back long mountain yumi lookim man Japon, mifela like takim stakka head long em for putim long haus blo mifela.’ Roughly translated, this means ‘When you return from the mountain, we’ll go out hunting Japanese so that we can take their heads and place their skulls in my house.’

  On the 28th of November we located a trail on the north side of the mountain leading up into the slope and the real toil and trouble began. Even climbing the lower slope was sheer brutish effort.

  For me, being in the jungle was not the unfamiliar experience it was for the marines. I was accustomed to the dull, dark light, even to the limestone gorges, where the effect is of being in a huge Gothic cathedral. But on Mount Austen the gorges were more numerous, some of them very deep, with almost vertical sides where we’d be defenceless against a hail of enemy bullets if we were ambushed from above. This made almost every step a scary experience. You can’t move a battalion of men carrying fifty-pound packs over a rocky surface such as those found in a gorge without making a hell of a clatter.

  Then, as an added factor, there was the rain. If you are familiar with the jungle you know when it’s about to rain — there is a silence and then a thickening of the atmosphere, as if the air is swollen. Invariably, minutes later comes the roar of heavy drops tearing at the canopy a hundred feet above you. To someone who has spent time in the jungle there is no mistaking when a drenching is coming. Lieutenant Colonel Carlson wasn’t prepared to believe me until it was confirmed several times by the two scouts and their advice was promptly followed by a heavy downpour. We would get the hell out of a gorge before the explosion of rushing water could sweep us away. Or, alternatively, we wouldn’t enter a gorge if a cl
oudburst seemed imminent.

  Having proved my jungle credentials I was permitted to become a forward scout. I felt a great deal safer on my own than amongst the reverberatory clatter of a battalion trying to make ground with the elements and the terrain constantly against them.

  With each downpour of blinding rain, during which you could see no more than ten yards ahead, I comforted myself that this distance was perfect for the Owen. But J.V. Mather had been correct. The slopes were so slippery that it was often two steps up and three or thirty down for the marines. It was like a three-dimensional game of snakes and ladders where a missed step, like an unlucky throw, sends you, accompanied by a hail of curses, into the file of men behind you.

  With me acting as a scout with the two native constables, we managed to stay out of trouble and avoid Japanese forward patrols. We didn’t want them to know we were on the mountain and thus be ready and waiting for us in their artillery positions on the slopes and near the summit. But the noise of our advance was difficult to muffle, and after three days we happened upon a small ammunition and weapons dump that we promptly destroyed. Encouraged by this find, Company F was sent out on patrol to search the area thoroughly, with the constable from Malaita as their guide. One of these patrols, of single squad strength, stumbled across an enemy force of around a hundred men in a bivouac on a rocky slope during a rainstorm. Because of the noise of the tropical downpour and the impossibility of seeing for any distance, both sides were caught by surprise. The Japanese had their weapons stacked and the marines used their automatic small arms to all but wipe them out. Seventy-five Japanese lay dead after the brief and violent encounter, the blood from their wounds carried away in the runnels formed in the mud by the pounding rain.

  There were no marine casualties, but the following day a marine was killed by an enemy sniper and I was given the task of eliminating the Jap. I borrowed a Springfield, sighting it first. I enjoyed the patient stalk, listening to sound and movement that you sense are alien in the jungle, often not moving for minutes at a time. It took me an hour to cover the fifty yards needed for a clear shot.