At 5:50 A.M. they were there. The 400 Marines piled into Higgins boats and chugged toward the beach. As Colonel Currin splashed ashore, he was greeted by a big man in singlet and khaki shorts, with weapon slung casually over his shoulder. He seemed quiet and cultivated, and Currin wondered what such a man was doing in a place like this. It was Donald Kennedy.
Two Japanese parties were approaching too, but the nearest was still at a village called Regi, busily burning the place down. In the race for Segi, Mickey Currin had beaten Major Hara by a good three miles.
Next morning, the 22nd, two companies of U.S. infantry arrived to bolster the position. With them came a Navy survey party led by Commander Wilfred L. Painter. He was in charge of building the fighter strip that would turn Segi into an “unsinkable aircraft carrier.”
Bill Painter was a brash, boastful officer, tolerated at headquarters only because he had a knack of living up to his boasts. This time it looked as though he had bitten off more than he could chew. He would be starting completely from scratch, yet he promised he’d have his strip ready ten days after the main landings on June 30. To many people 30 days seemed more likely.
Painter tore into the job as soon as he was off the ship. He had been to Segi twice before—once in February, again in May—to examine the lay of the land. Now he knew exactly what he wanted. Under his crisp directions, the surveyors got out their instruments, began taking sights, driving stakes and unwinding reels of line. His basic idea was to lay out the strip completely in pegs and cord. Then, when the bulldozers and graders arrived on the 30th, he would start building immediately. In this crisscross of string, he could already see taxi loops, drains, gasoline tanks, ammunition dumps, repair shops.
Rendova had visitors too. Around June 20 Kennedy forwarded a team of nine U.S. infantry and artillery officers by canoe. Led by Navy Lieutenant “Red” Redden, they made their way to Dick Horton’s camp overlooking Munda. Their job was to explore the shore around Rendova Harbor, where the troops would land on the 30th, and also to find positions for the big 155-mm. guns that would be used to soften up the Japanese. After several days of poking around, most of the party left with the data they needed. Redden and two other officers remained to help guide in the landing craft on D-Day.
About this time RAAF Flight Lieutenant R. A. Robinson led still another party to Horton’s camp. “Robbie” Robinson—never to be confused with “Wobbie” on Bougainville—was a free-spirited, beer-drinking old-timer who had been a Burns Philp plantation manager on New Britain before the war. Stationed at KEN, he was sent up via Kennedy with two radio operators and a coder to give Horton some extra strength.
At Rendova Harbor and Ugele village the Japanese garrisons warily watched all this activity. Lieutenant (j.g.) Naoto Niyake, a young naval doctor, noted that U.S. planes were constantly overhead, with no Japanese fighters to oppose them. In his diary he compared himself to “a lonely candle standing in the midst of a fierce wind.”
And well he might. There were only about 200 Japanese on Rendova altogether. Lieutenant Suzuki, normally in charge of the infantry unit on the island, was down with malaria at Munda, and there was a feeling of futility about the whole defense effort.
Lieutenant Niyake thought about his mother and his girl a good deal, and for solace dipped into his “comfort bag.” All he seemed to find was an article entitled “Worry Comes with Birth.” Small comfort. By June 25 he was resigned to the end: “I know I shall really feel helpless when the enemy lands. Our reactions now are slow, just like that.”
On the night of the 29th Dick Horton put Robinson in charge of the camp and went down to the west coast with Redden and the other two officers. Canoes were waiting, and they paddled to Bau, a tiny islet just north of Rendova Harbor. Landing, Horton led Redden to a tree he had picked out on the northeastern tip of the island. From here Redden was to flash a light between 5:00 and 5:15 A.M., guiding in the first troops, a specially trained group of jungle fighters styled “Barracudas.” Their leader, on his first mission since the dark days of Guadalcanal, was that tough old Islander Snowy Rhoades.
A fierce rain squall and gusts of wind buffeted Horton and Redden as they waited by the tree. Peering into the night, they could see nothing, but at 5 o’clock Redden began flashing his light as directed. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. No answering flash … no indication that their signal had been seen … no sign that anyone was coming ….
Steaming up Blanche Channel, Snowy Rhoades peered into the mist and could see nothing. He had been chosen to guide in the Barracudas because he had once been manager of the Lever Brothers plantation at Rendova Harbor and knew every inch of the place. But that didn’t help tonight. He couldn’t pick out the barrier islands that screened the harbor, nor was there any sign of the white light that was meant to mark Renard Entrance, where the landing craft would go in.
The Dent and Waters, the pair of destroyer-transports bringing the Barracudas, groped along the coast, finally stopping several miles west of where they were meant to be. The Barracudas piled into the Higgins boats, started for the shore, then were recalled at daybreak, when it became clear they were in the wrong place. The other ships in the invasion armada could now be seen gathering off the harbor entrance. Belatedly the Dent and Waters hurried into position, and once again the Barracudas embarked in the Higgins boats.
They were an odd spearhead. Instead of landing first and wiping out any resistance, they arrived ten minutes behind the troops they were meant to be leading. Making the best of it, Snowy Rhoades led his group through the men already on the beach and advanced into the plantation. Almost at once he walked right into two Japanese soldiers with raised rifles. They seemed undecided whether to fire or run, and before they could make up their minds, he shot them both.
Despite all their forebodings, the Japanese were unprepared when the blow finally fell. At Rabaul, Admiral Kusaka had noted the increase in Allied radio traffic and concentrated his planes for a counterblow, but when the traffic fell off after June 26, he dispersed them again. At Munda, General Sasaki positioned his guns to cover a frontal assault, apparently discounting a landing anywhere else. On Rendova the garrison had gone on the alert during the night, but when nothing happened immediately, they relaxed and were literally caught napping. One outpost managed to fire off four blue flares, trying to warn Munda as the transports arrived.
The garrison at Rendova Harbor opened up briefly with a machine gun, but seeing the size of the U.S. force, the men soon scattered into the bush. Lieutenant Niyake, the pessimistic young doctor, found himself with an isolated group of 22 men. Driven from the plantation, they headed up a trail that led into the mountains.
Holding down Horton’s camp PWD at the 2000-foot level, Robbie Robinson had his first hint of trouble early on July 1, the morning after the landings, when a stray Japanese soldier was sighted wandering nearby. Robbie got his Owens submachine gun, sprayed the bush without results.
Around 11:30 scout Pelope Lomae was sitting by a fire cooking tara with several other natives, when they sighted troops advancing up the trail toward the camp. It must be the Americans, they agreed, and delegated Lomae to meet them as the only one of the group who spoke English. He was greeted by a burst of gunfire. Lieutenant Niyake’s contingent, retreating up the mountain, had stumbled across the Coastwatchers’ hideout.
Robinson and his men began firing back, but the Japanese opened up with a light machine gun, and that proved decisive. No time to do more than grab the codes and maps, remove the crystals from the teleradio, and scramble into the bush. The Japanese chased them for nearly a mile, then retired to pillage the camp. They smashed the teleradio, burned the rifles, took the rice supply, and shot the camp dog “Spring.” One enemy soldier also had the time and curiosity to disassemble Robinson’s Rolls razor, then couldn’t get it back together again.
On the run and buffeted by a torrential rain, Robbie’s party slipped and slid down the trail that led to the east coast. They were almost at the beach whe
n they met another party coming up. A group of natives was bringing Lieutenant (j.g.) Arthur B. Wells, a downed Navy fighter pilot, to what they thought was the safety of PWD.
Robinson had no time to find this out. Taking one look at Wells, he simply blurted, “I don’t know who you are, but fall in line—they’re right behind me!”
The combined group now headed downhill, stopping just short of the beach. There were several enemy outposts nearby, and they didn’t dare take to the water in daylight. Dusk, and two big canoes appeared. They all got in and started north up the coast. Then a close call with a Japanese barge … a wet night on a barrier island … and finally on the morning of the 2nd they reached the American perimeter and comparative safety.
Safety—and chaos. The landing craft piled cargo on the beaches far faster than things could be sorted and stored. Soon rations, medical supplies, fuel and ammunition were mixed in a hopeless jumble. To make matters worse, the rain continued. The few plantation roads turned into ribbons of muck—one bulldozer almost sank out of sight.
It looked like a golden opportunity for the Japanese, but at Rabaul Admiral Kusaka was still trying to reassemble his planes. He mounted small strikes on June 30 and July 1, and did manage to torpedo Kelly Turner’s flagship McCawley. But the coup de grace was supplied by a PT-boat which inadvertently sank the “Whacky Mac,” thinking she was Japanese.
On the 2nd Kusaka finally put together a full-scale attack, and it was devastating. Sneaking in from behind the mountains, 68 bombers and fighters caught the Americans by surprise. Fuel dumps exploded in flames, and over 200 men were killed and wounded.
Dick Horton was lucky. He missed the full brunt of the strike. Escaping the confusion on the beaches, he had established himself on a small offshore islet, and it was here that Robinson’s party caught up with him. Learning the details of the attack on PWD, Horton now sent a reconnaissance team up the mountain to learn what was left of the camp. Luckily the Japanese missed the hiding place of the spare teleradio. It was brought down to the beachhead, and PWD was soon on the air again.
Beyond the perimeter, Snowy Rhoades took charge of mopping up the scattered Japanese. Learning that a small party was hiding up a river near the southeast coast, he loaded a barge with eighteen U.S. infantry and ten armed natives and went after them. They sneaked to the spot undetected and found the Japanese cooking rice in a small depression near the river bank.
Rhoades asked the lieutenant commanding the infantry to plaster them with a few rifle grenades. The lieutenant pointed out that half his men had taken a wrong turn, and he didn’t want to attack until he was at full strength. He then went off to look for the strays, while Rhoades and one of the natives crept closer to watch the Japanese.
Suddenly an officer, wearing a Samurai sword, left the group, strolled to a bush ten yards from Rhoades, and began taking a leak. Snowy froze, hoping the Japanese wouldn’t see him and spoil the element of surprise. The officer finished, glanced casually around, and his eyes fell on Rhoades, standing right there in his jungle fatigues.
He let out a startled yell, and Rhoades fired a burst, killing him instantly. As the rest of the Japanese grabbed their guns, Snowy ran for better cover by the river bank. Here he and the native crouched down, listening to the enemy search the bush a few yards away. The native rose up, hoping to get off a shot, but was almost cut in two by a Japanese machine gun. Fighting on alone, Rhoades kept firing at every sound he heard, hoping to give the impression that there was more of him than one.
Finally the U.S. infantry unit moved up and began firing rocket grenades at the roots of a banyan tree where the Japanese machine gun seemed to be located. They silenced the gun, killed a warrant officer manning it, and routed the rest of the enemy party.
By the time Rhoades checked the body of the officer he shot, some American souvenir hunter had already beaten him to the Samurai sword. But he learned the officer’s name from his diary. It was Naoto Niyake, the moody young naval doctor. Despite the sword, Niyake met something less than a Samurai’s end. He was not filled with martial zeal; he was filled with gloom and self-doubt. He did not die gloriously; he died taking a leak.
Meanwhile the drive on Munda was moving ahead. Early June 30—even before the Rendova landings began—two companies of the 169th Infantry seized the barrier islands guarding the entrance to Zanana beach. They were guided by Clay Boyd, back for another patrol behind enemy lines. July 1, the big 155-mm. guns were landed on Rendova and commenced bombarding the airstrip. On the 2nd Major General John H. Hester began ferrying his troops across Blanche Channel to the Zanana beachhead. Early on the 5th Marine Lieutenant Colonel Harry Liversedge’s mixed force of Raiders and infantry began landing at Rice Anchorage to block off Munda from the north.
Frank Guidone was offshore in a native canoe, marking one flank of the landing beach with a flashlight. A few miles to the west Rear Admiral W. L. Ainsworth’s cruisers and destroyers were pounding the Japanese posts at Bairoko and Enogai to cover the landings. As the salvos thundered louder and nearer, Guidone’s two native paddlers decided they had had enough. They dived overboard, leaving him teetering alone in the canoe, trying to keep his balance and the light steady at the same time.
Both here and at Zanana the Americans found the going far tougher than expected. Initially taken back, General Sasaki quickly beefed up his defenses with 3000 men brought over from the island of Kolombangara. At Rabaul on July 4, General Imamura promised another 4000 from the northern Solomons, as Admiral Kusaka reactivated the Tokyo Express.
The terrain too proved worse than anticipated, and General Hester’s troops were less than prepared to cope with it. Mired down in the swamps and jungle, beset by spirited defenders, the men’s morale began to suffer. The advance fell behind schedule. The situation called for a number of remedies—one of them closer fighter support.
At Segi Commander Bill Painter watched the bulldozers clear the coconut palms from the area where he planned his runway. The Eastern Force of TOENAILS had arrived on schedule, bringing the heavy equipment Painter needed to translate his layout of pegs and string into a real fighter strip.
Work began while the ships were still unloading on June 30, and it didn’t stop even at night. Correctly gambling that the Japanese were too busy at Munda to bother with Segi, Painter rigged floodlights, and his Seabees worked all night, clearing trees and grading the site. July 1, his trucks began hauling coral from a nearby pit and spreading it on the runway. By noon on the 2nd his rollers were busy smoothing it out.
Then the deluge. On the night of July 3 a blinding tropical storm swept in, stopping work, drenching everything, dissolving the freshly laid coral paving. In a few rain-soaked hours Bill Painter was almost back where he started. He had guessed wrong in using “dead” coral from the pit. Now his only hope was “live” coral from the reef offshore. That wouldn’t dissolve, but it was hell to dig.
Dynamite did the trick, cracking the reef, producing great chunks that the Seabees crushed and spread on the runway. Painter urged them on, trying to make up for lost time. He seemed everywhere at once, rarely stopping to eat or sleep. By July 7 he figured he was back on schedule.
Then “Washing Machine Charlie.” On the night of the 7th a lone Japanese float plane—probably from Rekata Bay—droned over Segi, disturbing the peace with occasional bombs. They did little damage but stopped all work, as the lights were doused and the men took to their foxholes. It was the same story on the 8th and 9th.
Once again Painter desperately tried to make up for lost time. During the daylight hours practically everyone in the outfit was put to work spreading coral. Clerks and carpenters found themselves wielding shovels.
As night fell on the 10th, Bill Painter’s ten days were up, but he needed another twelve hours. The rollers were still working one end of the runway. But they could finish during the night—and complete the job on schedule—if Washing Machine Charlie didn’t turn up. Painter and Captain C. S. Alexander, who would be in charge of the s
trip, examined the evening sky. Clouds were rolling in, and it looked like no night for Charlie. They radioed that the field would be ready for 30 fighters at daylight.
But Charlie came. The clouds drifted away, and the familiar sound of his engine droned over Segi. When dawn broke, the rollers were still at work. Painter wondered whether to call off the fighters, but Alexander, an old flyer himself, was sure the planes could get in anyhow. The tower would simply warn them to land long. An hour later they began coming in—every landing perfect—and Bill Painter had made good his boast.
Donald Kennedy watched it all a little ruefully. It was his organization and leadership that had held Segi for the day when the Americans needed it. Yet now that they were here, he was almost a misfit. He really didn’t belong in this teeming world of bulldozers, supply dumps and repair shops, supported by the hordes of GIs now swarming in. He belonged to a far smaller world built around personal loyalty, personal authority, personal initiative, personal contact.
Now no one even knew who his scouts were. And after some trigger-happy sentry almost shot Kennedy himself one night, he finally moved his headquarters across the channel to Vangunu Island. Here he still serviced KEN with intelligence, but the private war of Donald Kennedy was over.
12
165 UNINVITED GUESTS
LATER, AFTER IT WAS all over, Lieutenant Commander John L. Chew decided that his big mistake was shaving that day. Chew was Assistant Gunnery Officer on the light cruiser Helena and a typically superstitious sailor. He always wore the same pair of old brown shoes and flash-proof jumper. (The jumper, in fact, was so important he wouldn’t let it be washed.) He always carried his lucky hunting knife on his belt, his lucky four-leaf clover in his wallet, his lucky silver dollar in his pocket. And he never, never shaved before going into battle.