Lonely Vigil: Coastwatchers of the Solomons

HUNTING DOWN THE JAPANESE was the last thing on Jack Read’s mind this same 4th of November. His main concern was how to elude them. For weeks he had heard rumors that Rabaul was sending a force of picked troops to get him at his hideout at Porapora in northern Bougainville; now it looked as though they were here.

  Focusing his binoculars on the little village of Soraken, 2500 feet below, he counted 100 men coming ashore from a Japanese schooner that had just anchored. Taken alone, there was nothing so unusual about that. Landing parties often poked about Buka Passage, and Read never worried because they always dressed in their whites. No one in his right mind would wear whites very far into the Bougainville jungle. But this particular group had black uniforms, and they were loaded down with gear. Each man shouldered a pack and a rifle, and they were followed by a line of natives carrying supplies.

  Read hung on for two days. The Porapora lookout was too good to abandon until he had to. But as the Japanese patrols fanned out, he finally signaled headquarters on the 6th that he was pulling back to the mountain village of Aravia.

  Eric Feldt understood. The head of the Coastwatching organization not only approved the move; he immediately ordered Read off the air. The Japanese might be using radio direction-finding equipment.

  November 7, and Read’s party moved ever higher and deeper into the interior. It was a hot, muggy morning—terrible for climbing—and worse in the afternoon. It began to rain, and it came down in torrents, the patented way it did in the Solomons. Read, Corporal Sly, the police boys and carriers continued on, pulling themselves up the slippery trail by roots and vines. Finally they reached a ridge where Read decided to spend the night. Visibility was nil—the rain, the clouds, the steaming jungle took care of that—and they sank down exhausted, too miserable to care really where they were.

  Then the rain stopped, suddenly as it often did. The sun broke through; the clouds vanished; the air cleared. Below them stretched a breathtaking expanse of sea to the east. Read looked—and looked again—for there on the horizon was a convoy of twelve big Japanese transports majestically steaming southeast.

  The orders might say radio silence, but they never contemplated a scene like this. Read immediately hooked up the teleradio, strung out an aerial, and began sending. No risk was too great. A convoy like that could be carrying a whole division to Guadalcanal.

  He was right. Aboard were 12,000 Japanese troops—the main body of the 38th Division, which would spearhead General Hyakutake’s fourth attempt to retake Henderson Field. It would be his biggest effort yet—and the simplest. Instead of complicated feints and flanking attacks, the Imperial Navy would first knock out American air power by bombarding the field; then the troops would land and smash their way to victory by frontal assault.

  When the convoy reached the Shortlands on November 8, the preliminaries were already under way. Some 1300 men had gone down on the 7th; another 600 would be leaving on the 10th; the main body would start on the 12th. And this time, instead of feeding them in piecemeal via furtive destroyer runs, Admiral Tanaka would shepherd them down in one big convoy—eleven transports guarded by twelve destroyers.

  The anchorage teemed with the traffic of a major operation. Destroyers raced in and out … tankers moved wherever needed … supply vessels hovered near the transports … the covering cruisers and support ships awaited their assignments … patrol boats and harbor craft scurried about like water bugs.

  From his lookout near Barougo in southern Bougainville, Paul Mason calmly studied the Japanese anchorage. He noted that the buildup was bigger than ever. November 6, he counted 33 vessels; by the 10th the number had increased to 61. He was now equipped with pages from Jane’s Fighting Ships, and he was marvelously precise in the summary he radioed that day. It was the largest concentration of Japanese shipping he had ever seen:

  AT LEAST 61 SHIPS THIS AREA, VIZ 2 NATI, 1 AOBAI, 1 MOGAMI, 1 KISO, 1 TATUA, 2 SLOOPS, 33 DESTROYERS, 17 CARGOES, 2 TANKERS, AND 1 PASSENGER LINER OF 8,000 TONS.

  At Lunga General Vandegrift pieced Read’s and Mason’s reports together with the other information flowing in. The latest radio intercepts, patrol plane reports, submarine sightings—everything pointed to an all-out Japanese attack in the immediate future. Once again the Marines hunkered down inside the perimeter.

  But with a difference. They were much stronger. The Navy had finally made up its losses in the early battles. It could now keep the sea lanes open, and a steady stream of reinforcements and supplies flowed in: October 30, some heavy artillery … November 4, a fresh regiment of Marines … November 11, more Marines, ammunition, and provisions … November 12, the 182nd Infantry.

  Responding to the Coastwatcher alerts, the CACTUS Air Force did its best to intercept the Tokyo Express. But Admiral Tanaka had his timing down pat. Some ships were hit, but most got through—65 destroyer runs between November 2 and 10. Now the big convoy at Faisi was ready to try its luck too.

  On the 11th the planes from Rabaul began bombing Henderson again. Admiral Yamamoto’s Combined Fleet edged south from Truk, and on the 12th two battleships, a cruiser, and fourteen destroyers moved in to soften up the field for the big attack.

  Thanks again to CINCPAC’s code-breakers, Halsey knew they were coming. For three nights the U.S. fleet slugged it out with the Japanese in what became known as the Naval Battle of Guadalcanal. American losses were greater, but the Japanese were stopped. They failed to knock out Henderson Field.

  While the battle raged, Admiral Tanaka’s big convoy started down the Slot, returned to Faisi on hearing the bad news from the south, and then set out again on the evening of the 13th. The weather was too thick for Paul Mason to see them go, but when the fog lifted early on the 14th, he flashed word that the anchorage was empty.

  All day, November 14, American planes pounded Tanaka’s eleven transports and twelve destroyers. Strike after strike took off from Henderson Field, joined by B-17s from Espiritu Santo and dive bombers from the carrier Enterprise. By evening six of the eleven transports were sunk, another so battered that it limped back to the Shortlands. The remaining four steamed doggedly on, reaching Guadalcanal at dawn on the 14th. Tanaka drove them hard on the beach and commenced unloading, as the air strikes began again.

  When it was all over, the Japanese had managed to land just 2000 of the 15,000 that set out from the Shortlands. Of 10,000 tons of supplies, only 260 cases of ammunition and 1500 bags of rice ever reached shore. General Hyakutake did the only thing he could do—he canceled the great attack.

  War can be a parochial business, and as the bombs rained down on Tanaka’s transports and the warships battled it out, the big excitement at KEN on November 14 was the sound of a single voice through the crackling static of the station’s receiver. After 23 days’ silence, NRY—Henry Josselyn and Jack Keenan’s Coastwatching station on Vella Lavella—was back on the air. The biggest gap in Commander Mackenzie’s network was filled at last.

  Josselyn had been anything but idle during those 23 days. After leaving Keenan on the evening of October 25, he had taken the faulty transmitter by canoe to the Methodist mission at Bilua, where the Reverend A. W. E. Silvester was still carrying on. It was an all-night paddle, interrupted at one point when a Japanese patrol plane spotted the canoe. As it swooped down for a closer look, Josselyn hid under some palm leaves. Seeing nothing unusual, the plane flew on.

  When he reached Bilua early the following morning, the Reverend Silvester greeted him with astonished delight. A small, energetic, immensely precise man, Silvester had been here since 1935. He was extremely efficient, and the mission station with its neat church, outbuildings, and airy residence was a real showplace. To the natives he was appropriately pious, but not above occasionally swatting anyone who got out of line. But it was a brand of paternalism that worked, for there were no natives in the Solomons more loyal or devoted than those on Vella Lavella.

  This was just as well, for the danger was growing. No Japanese had visited Bilua yet, but they were now on the island, and a few da
ys earlier a Zero float plane had shot up the mission launch. Preaching the gospel some 200 miles inside enemy-held territory, the Reverend Silvester was very isolated indeed.

  But he was not alone. Working with him was a slender, tousle-haired trained nurse from New Zealand. Thirty-six-year-old Merle Farland had switched from piano teaching to nursing during the depression. She came out to the Solomons in 1938 and insisted on staying when most of the other missionaries fled before the advancing Japanese. As she wrote a friend, “It is surely not consistent with Christian service that our medical work should be completely dropped because things are a little difficult. I am the only medical person left: Therefore I stay. There is no other course.”

  She had the right temperament, too. She was humorous, adventuresome, and a bit brisk, the way experienced trained nurses sometimes are. She presided over the mission hospital, which had its own compound complete with operating theater, wards, and a little out-patient clinic. The days were always busy—injections, setting broken bones, dentistry (which she loathed), maternity cases. The evenings were usually spent trouncing the Reverend Silvester at Chinese Checkers.

  This morning, the 26th, she was still in her quarters when Silvester burst in to announce he had a visitor—an American he said. Josselyn was, of course, English, but the confusion was understandable. He was the first Westerner Silvester had seen in six months. Josselyn, in turn, was amazed to find Merle Farland—he had no idea there was a white woman on the island.

  He explained his problem, and the Reverend Silvester understood perfectly. He himself was part of the network run by Donald Kennedy, the Coastwatcher at Segi on New Georgia. Silvester meticulously recorded all ship and aircraft sightings, planted native spies on nearby islands, sent regular reports to Segi by canoe. He couldn’t transmit, but he could receive coded messages on his short-wave radio, and he even had his own call letters—MSF, Merle Farland’s initials.

  Now he immediately dispatched a canoe to Segi with a message from Josselyn requesting a new transmitter. The message had to be relayed to KEN, and while they waited for an answer, Josselyn fitted easily into the life of the mission. He attended evening services and, Merle Farland noted approvingly in her diary, “made quite a good attempt at the hymns too.”

  On October 29 KEN radioed that it was impossible to send a new transmitter. Josselyn should take the defective set to Donald Kennedy for repairs.

  There was no question that Kennedy was up to the job. The radio hadn’t been built that he couldn’t fix. The problem was getting it to him. Even from Bilua, the trip was 130 miles through enemy waters. The natives could do it without arousing too much suspicion, but a white man with a radio transmitter was a different matter.

  Josselyn left at 7:00 P.M. on the 30th. He traveled only at night, moving from village to village. At each stop, he was handed over to a new set of paddlers and a new canoe—always the best the village had. The Reverend Silvester’s connections seemed miraculous.

  The first night they paddled across Vella Gulf, down Blackett Strait, and into Wana Wana Lagoon. At Mandou village he holed up for the day and lay watching the Japanese camp fires on the beach at Rendova.

  Then it was dusk, and on again. Soon they were dodging a steady stream of Japanese barges ferrying men and supplies to various posts. Their engines gave them away, but it was hard to judge sound in the dark, and one barge chugged by within twenty yards. Now they were in the Roviana Lagoon, and here they were met by a 30-man canoe sent up by Kennedy.

  On down the lagoon, with only one hurdle left. The Japanese were building an advance base at Viru Harbor, near the southeast tip of New Georgia, and it was just too dangerous to pass. So the canoe landed a little to the west, and Josselyn crossed New Georgia on foot, coming out on the north coast by the Marovo Lagoon. By this time it was daylight, so he holed up again until dark.

  Nightfall, and still another canoe picked him up. On down the coast they paddled, around the eastern end of the island, and into the sheltered passage that separated New Georgia from the island of Vangunu. The passage gradually narrowed, and finally, just before dawn on November 2, Josselyn and his transmitter were landed on Kennedy’s dock at Segi.

  Donald Kennedy was far more than the best radio repairman in the Solomons. As district officer for the western islands, he knew the area perfectly. Originally on Santa Isabel when the Japanese came, he instantly saw the greater advantages of Segi, with its central location and protected approaches. The charts might say “foul ground” and warn mariners to keep away, but he knew where the channels were. He was also a superb organizer. He took the old Markham plantation and made it a perfectly run base, complete with mess facilities, arsenal, and even a prisoner-of-war compound. Finally, he was a tough warrior—a resourceful commander and relentless disciplinarian. As one of his natives later confessed, only half-jokingly, they were more afraid of him than they were of the Japanese.

  At the moment these impressive credentials were underutilized. The big action was to the west toward Bougainville, and to the east on Guadalcanal. Segi was neither here nor there. It was in a dead calm—or was it the eye of the hurricane?

  In any event, Josselyn provided a welcome change, and as Kennedy puttered over the transmitter, the two men divided up their areas of responsibility. Josselyn would take everything west of Kula Gulf; Kennedy everything east.

  As for the transmitter, Kennedy diagnosed the problem as a bad transformer. He radioed KEN for a new one, then had the frustration of seeing it broken in the air-drop. Disgusted, he gave Josselyn his own transmitter. He could always patch up the smashed set he had just salvaged from a downed Japanese bomber.

  November 11, Josselyn headed back for Vella Lavella. It was far easier than the trip down, for Kennedy lent him a launch, and by taking the long way home via the Slot, he avoided the Japanese barges. By dawn on the 14th he was again at Bilua, where the Reverend Silvester had gathered all the local chiefs and headmen to be organized for intelligence work. Working out assignments would take an extra day; so the new transmitter was sent ahead to Keenan, and it was his voice that Hugh Mackenzie heard when NRY finally came on the air that evening.

  Josselyn himself reached NRY on the 15th and found that his partner had been far from idle in his absence. Keenan had established the station at a place called Deneo, about three miles inland from Mundi Mundi and a thousand feet above the coast. There was a ridge here, and he had a lookout built in a tree atop the ridge. It commanded a broad view of the north and the west. On the reverse side of the ridge, about 400 yards to the south, he then prepared a leaf house for Josselyn, himself, and the teleradio. The intervening hill, he hoped, would interfere with any Japanese attempts to use direction-finding equipment.

  Far below the lookout—but in clear sight—lay the Japanese post at Iringila, about three miles to the northwest. On one of his reconnaissance trips, Keenan had crept within 500 yards of it, carefully studying the setup: a large building with red corrugated iron roof … a smaller store house … an observation platform built between two coconut palms. Permanently mounted on a swivel on the platform was a fine pair of telescopic binoculars, which Keenan noted with envy.

  So far the Japanese hadn’t been very active, but whatever they did could be watched and reported from Deneo. Events elsewhere on the island should be well-covered by Josselyn’s network of natives, for his meeting with the chiefs had been a great success. They all agreed to help; sentry posts would be established at fourteen different points along the coast; duty shifts were arranged so that the posts could always be manned without interrupting work in the fields. The sentries were to report all air and ship movements, enemy landings, any downed aircraft.

  The first test came on November 18, when Colonel LaVerne Saunders led eighteen B-17s up the Slot in a bombing attack on Buin. A swarm of Zeros caught the Colonel’s plane, killed the pilot, badly wounded the co-pilot, knocked out the left engines, and set the wing tanks on fire. Saunders scrambled into the pilot’s seat, and picking the
nearest island, he smacked down offshore in a plume of spray.

  Scrambling into two rubber rafts, the crew shoved off as the bomber sank. Saunders managed to get everybody out except the pilot, who went down with the plane. By the time they reached shore, the co-pilot was dead too, and the navigator, Lieutenant Nelson Levi, suffered from a badly wounded thigh. Saunders himself had a severe head-gash. Once on the beach, the survivors did their best to make Levi comfortable, buried the co-pilot, and began to wonder where they were.

  Soon they noticed a native canoe approaching from a much larger island two miles away. Friendly or unfriendly? There was no way to tell, but “Blondie” Saunders knew all too well that he was deep in Japanese-controlled territory. Taking no chances, he stationed his men behind various trees and bushes with the few pistols they had, prepared to fight to the end. Then he went alone to the shore to negotiate.

  None of the natives could speak English. But when he indicated he was thirsty, one of them ran up a tree like a squirrel and shook down some coconuts. Then they piled back into their canoe, and were gone again.

  Another hour, another canoe. Again Saunders stationed his men for a last stand, but as it drew closer, the Colonel saw to his immense relief that it contained a white man.

  Jack Keenan stepped ashore, introduced himself, and in what surely must have been a high in Coastwatching etiquette gave Blondie Saunders his card. Keenan had been on duty in the observation post that morning when one of the new native sentries rushed up to report that a big American plane was down, with survivors on nearby Bagga Island. While Josselyn stood by the teleradio, Keenan hurried to the scene with first-aid kit, and now—only three hours after the crash—was on hand distributing K-rations and bandage rolls.

  Next step was to get everybody over to Vella Lavella, where food, medical help, communications, and ultimate rescue would be easier. There were too many Japanese patrol planes to risk the trip in bright daylight, but as soon as dusk came, the survivors were paddled across. They landed at Paramata, Silas Lezatuni’s village, and this always-resourceful chief outdid himself. From somewhere he came up with blankets, a cooked meal, even knives and forks.