Will warn aviation of your crossing Ferguson Passage.
Ben Kevu now took Kennedy and Ross back to Olasana, where they rejoined the rest of the group. As Kennedy announced the good news, the natives unloaded the canoe and began cooking a feast that seemed scarcely believable to the famished men of PT 109—yams, C-rations, roast beef hash, potatoes … even cigarettes to top it off. While some of the scouts cooked the food over Sterno stoves, others built a lean-to for the badly burned McMahon.
Mid-afternoon, and it was time to go. With Kennedy now lying in the middle of the canoe covered with palm fronds, Ben Kevu steered east, again across Ferguson Passage, heading for Gomu. Once three Japanese planes buzzed them. Kevu gave a friendly wave. Reassured, the planes flew off.
Toward 6 P.M. Reg Evans spotted the canoe and went down to the beach to meet it. At first he saw no passenger; then a smiling young American popped out of the palm fronds and greeted him: “Hello, I’m Kennedy.”
“Come to my tent and have a cup of tea,” was Evans’s polite rejoinder as he introduced himself.
Over their teacups he explained the rescue arrangements as they now stood. The PTs would be at Naru at 10 P.M. for the other survivors; Kennedy himself would go direct from Gomu to Rendova in Ben Kevu’s canoe.
Kennedy would have none of it. As a practical matter, he pointed out, he was the only one who knew exactly where the men were. Besides, he wasn’t about to leave the rest of his crew and go home by himself. Instead, he should join up with the PTs and guide them in.
Convinced, Evans radioed a new plan at 6:50 P.M. Kennedy would now meet the PTs at 10 P.M. near a tiny islet called Patparan on the eastern side of Ferguson Passage. Recognition signal: four shots from the boats, which he would answer with another four. He’d then come aboard and pilot the PTs the rest of the way.
Around 8 P.M. Kennedy said good-bye, climbed back into Ben Kevu’s canoe, and headed for the rendezvous at Patparan. There, another of those long waits began. The boats were meant to show at 10:00, but at 11:20 Kennedy watched the moon go down, and there still was no sign of anybody.
At last he heard it—the welcome rumble of PT engines. Then four shots in the night, which he answered with another four. A familiar shape loomed out of the dark, and Ben Kevu eased his canoe alongside Lieutenant (j.g.) William F. Liebenow Jr.’s PT 157.
“Hey, Jack,” hailed a voice from the deck.
“Where the hell you been?” Kennedy asked, memories of all those hours of treading water in Ferguson Passage briefly blotting out everything else.
“We’ve got some food for you,” the voice said cheerfully.
“Thanks,” said Kennedy, not quite ready to forgive, “I just had a coconut.”
But next moment he was aboard, and all was forgotten in the glow of seeing old friends again. Biuku and Eroni were on board too, and with their help Kennedy guided the boat through the reef to Olasana. Joyful shouts rang out in the night, and the tattered survivors of PT 109 were safe at last.
For Reg Evans it was all in the day’s work. The Americans had finally taken Munda on August 5, and these were exceptionally hectic times in Blackett Strait. He thought no more about the pleasant young officer with whom he had spent just two hours. As for Kennedy, it was another of those brief encounters typical of the war in the South Pacific—so crucial, life itself hung in the balance; yet so casual that in this case Kennedy never even remembered Evans’s name.
1 Another name for Naru Island.
14
THE FINAL TRIUMPH
FRANK NASH JOINED THE Coastwatchers because rear area duty with the Signal Corps “was not my idea of the war.” If a real challenge was what he wanted, he must have been satisfied on August 6, 1943. That day, when Reg Evans moved to Gomu, Nash became the only Allied fighting man on Kolombangara—one U.S. Army corporal against 5000 Japanese.
Fortunately the Japanese were soon too preoccupied with other things to notice him. On August 15, 4600 American troops landed on the southeast corner of Vella Lavella, inaugurating the Allied strategy of leapfrogging over important enemy bases and leaving them to die on the vine. Admiral Kusaka and General Imamura hastily began withdrawing their men from the Central Solomons before they could be cut off, and for the next six weeks a steady flow of Japanese barges plied the Slot, evacuating one strongpoint after another—Rekata Bay, Bairoko, Arundel, Gizo, and finally Kolombangara itself.
From his post behind Vila, Nash sent a steady flow of barge sightings by walkie-talkie to Evans on Gomu, who relayed them to KEN and PWD for use by the air strike command. The fighters and bombers then swept in strafing anything that moved, all too often including friendly villages and sometimes Evans’s own scouts and canoes. Evans fired off a stream of angry protests, which did little good. In the end he asked to be recalled and was replaced by Forbes Robertson, an easy-going old-timer. The only abstainer in the entire Coastwatching operation, he was known as “Dry Robbie” to distinguish him from his colleagues “Robbie” and “Wobbie” Robinson.
As the Japanese barge traffic tapered off, Frank Nash came down from the hills of Kolombangara and joined “Dry Robbie” on Gomu. Life turned out to be far different from the old days when he and Evans were a couple of neophytes in the bush, surviving on Spam and C-rations. Forbes Robertson knew everything about Island life—which fruits and fish were the best, how to cook them, and so on. For a few brief weeks Corporal Nash lived the idyllic life of a South Seas island king: superb food, not much work, and very little danger.
Early October, their idyll was over. As the last Japanese pulled out of Kolombangara, Robertson and Nash closed down Gomu and headed for Munda, where the captured Japanese airstrip was already operating “under new management.” The Coastwatchers’ advance base PWD had shifted here from Rendova, with Lieutenant “Robbie” Robinson in charge.
All attention was now focused on CHERRYBLOSSOM, the next move north. It called for large-scale landings on Bougainville itself, and as a preliminary the Treasury Islands—Mono and Stirling—were to be seized. They lay just south of Bougainville, only seventeen miles from the big Japanese base in the Shortlands, and nobody knew what to expect. In August a Marine reconnaissance team had uncovered only an enemy observation post on Mono, but that was two months ago. What was there now? And what about recent reports that a small party of downed American flyers was hiding out on the island? It was said they’d been there so long they’d gone native.
SOPAC command wanted a new reconnaissance and naturally turned to Lieutenant Robinson. Just as naturally, “Robbie” turned to Frank Nash, back from Gomu and restless for a new assignment.
October 21, a PT-boat roared north carrying Nash and his party. It was one of those highly diverse groups that seemed to work so well together in the South Pacific. Sergeant Bert Cowan was an old New Zealand bushman; Frank Wickham, another member of the enterprising family that dominated the Central Solomons; Sergeant Ilala, a Fijian stalwart in the Islands defense force. Lashed to the deck of the boat was a native canoe.
They arrived in the dead of night off Lua Point on Mono’s east coast. Launching the canoe, the four men paddled ashore to an empty beach—no sign of the Japanese or anyone else. They had no idea where they were, but it was no time to start exploring. They hid the canoe under some trees and spent the rest of the night on the beach.
At dawn they discovered to their surprise that they were only a couple of hundred yards from a native village. Friendly or hostile? It was impossible to tell; so Ilala, a man who could blend into any surroundings, slipped into the settlement to find out. He returned to report that the people were friendly.
Nash and the rest now moved into the village; and Frank Wickham, who knew the area best, took over. It turned out that indeed there were Allied flyers on the island—three of them—and a couple of natives went off to bring them down from their hideout.
An hour later the natives were back, explaining that the flyers feared a Japanese trick and wouldn’t come without seeing a white man first. Bert Cowan was se
lected and went off with the natives for a new try.
This time, success. When Cowan reappeared another hour later, he was accompanied by three of the most unmilitary-looking military men ever to represent an armed service. Their uniforms were in shreds, and one man in particular could have passed for Robinson Crusoe. Barefoot, he wore a pair of ragged blue dungarees held together by string, and the remnants of an old civilian shirt.
For Radioman Jesse Scott, Jr., it was the bizarre climax to an unbelievable 148 days. On June 16 he had been shot down into the Slot while flying as radioman on a TBF piloted by Lieutenant (j.g.) Edward M. Peck. Together with the third crewman, Machinist’s Mate Stanley W. Tefft, they launched their raft and started paddling for Vella Lavella, where they knew a Coastwatcher was operating.
Wind and current were against them. They were carried north and three days later washed ashore on Stirling Island—small, inhospitable, with high bluffs battered by a pounding surf.
The three men had no idea where they were, but they sensed they must be deep in enemy territory. Scott imagined Japanese marksmen lurking behind every tree and could only wonder, “Why don’t they shoot us?” Yet nothing happened, and they soon found a cave that offered a good hiding place for both themselves and the raft.
Next morning, June 20, they cautiously began to explore. It gradually became clear that their little island was uninhabited, but just to the north, only a hundred yards across a channel, lay a much larger island. This was Mono (although they didn’t know that yet), and they could see a couple of natives down by the shore. Taking a chance, the Americans hailed them.
On Mono, Roy Riutana and his wife had no idea who these strangers were, but they didn’t expect to see any one on Stirling. They had always been taught to report anything unusual to the authorities, and these days the authorities were Japanese. They turned and ran for the nearest command post.
The three flyers ran too, back to their cave to hide again. They stayed there the rest of the day, and the next as well, while a Japanese search party roamed the island looking for them. On the 22nd all seemed quiet again, and Scott ventured out on another reconnaissance. He hadn’t gone far, when to his horror he spotted three Japanese soldiers trailing him, about 200 yards behind.
He dived into a large hole in the coral, trying to make himself as small as possible. For the next eight hours he huddled there, his gun at the ready for a last-ditch fight. The Japanese searched all around but never found him.
Late afternoon, they were gone. Scott now emerged from the hole and resumed his reconnaissance, including a swim across the channel for a brief look at Mono. There was no sign of the Japanese on the beach where he landed.
When he reported back to the cave that evening, all agreed that Stirling was now too hot, and the bigger island would be a safer bet. Late that night they launched their raft and began working their way clockwise around Mono, looking for a good place to land. They finally picked Maloaini Bay, a secluded spot on the north coast.
All the next day and night they hid near the shore, listening in terror to the ordinary sounds of the jungle. To a lively imagination the smallest branch, shaken loose by the breeze, sounded like the whole Japanese army. On the 24th they finally decided to try their luck once again with the natives.
Following a jungle trail, they soon came to a group of 30-40 natives gathered together on a beach. The three Americans advanced toward them, hands held out in what they hoped looked like a gesture of peace and friendship. This time the natives didn’t run away. On the contrary, several said “Good morning,” and one of them, John Havea, had been to the Methodist mission school and spoke passable English.
John immediately grasped the situation. He led them to a cave, gave them some Japanese soap and a razor. Then, to their surprise he offered them “mates.” When they looked somewhat nonplussed, he elaborated, “I mean would you like mates for sleeping?”
They thought of all those indoctrination lectures—“never get mixed up with the native girls”—and virtuously declined. It was only after a restless night on the stone floor of the cave that they learned John Havea’s English had its limitations. He meant “mats,” not “mates.”
But they could not have fallen into better hands. The local chief Ninamo organized the village to hide and shelter the stranded Americans. This was no easy task: The Japanese were now sure the castaways were somewhere on Mono, and a search party of 24 men combed the area for them. Lieutenant Peck and his crew were moved five times the first week.
June 30, and life took a turn for the better. This was the day the Americans landed on Rendova, and the Japanese immediately began consolidating their forces in the Central Solomons. All troops were withdrawn from Mono, except a seven-man observation post.
The result was an informal truce, presided over by Ninamo. It was tacitly understood that the natives would leave the observation post alone, while for their part, the Japanese wouldn’t look too hard for the flyers.
Both sides thrived on the arrangement. The Japanese proved remarkably amiable, even alerting the natives when their radio indicated air strikes might be expected. Free from immediate danger, the three Americans began to relax.
They were now hidden in the interior of the island, living first at “Peter’s house” under a huge rain tree; and later at “Ula’s house,” where Ula herself presided over their fortunes. Anything but pretty, she was articulate, witty, and immensely shrewd. She spoke no English, but by now Jesse Scott was beginning to catch on to the local dialect. The three castaways relied on her advice.
Gradually they became a sort of tourist attraction, and a steady stream of native visitors turned up with yams, fruit, fish, plus an assortment of old Methodist magazines. When the native women came to call, they invariably wore their best things.
As the days drifted by, Jesse Scott found himself more and more fascinated by island life. He began learning the various native skills, and was immensely pleased when he finally could start a fire by rubbing two sticks together—something he never accomplished as a Boy Scout.
July 22, and the calm of Mono was broken by a commotion offshore. Two Zero float planes were circling low, strafing something in the water. Eventually they flew off, and a lone American aviator appeared, none the worse for his ordeal, paddling a small aluminum raft. He was Second Lieutenant Benjamin King, an Army fighter pilot whose P-38 had been shot down in the Slot six long days ago.
The natives rushed into the water, hauled King ashore, and took him to Ula’s house, where he joined the other three flyers. The very next day three more boarders arrived. This time it was another downed TBF pilot, Ensign Joe Mitchell, who paddled ashore with his crewmen Dale Dahl and Chauncey Junior Estep.
The castaways now numbered seven, and for the first time there were enough men to do something about their situation. After a long discussion they decided to ambush the seven Japanese, kill them, and take their launch. With luck, it could carry the seven Americans to safety.
Jesse Scott and one or two of the others were against the plan. They felt it was one thing to capture the Japanese—or kill them in self-defense—but not quite right to go out and “get” them.
The issue was finally settled by the old chief Ninamo. He decreed that there would be no ambush. The war, he said, was no concern of his, but peace was, and the present arrangement of seven Japanese and seven Americans seemed fair. Everyone must keep to his place. Since native cooperation was essential to any decision taken, Ninamo’s delicate balance of power prevailed.
But several of the men were determined to do something. Not all of them took to this isolated life as cheerfully as Jesse Scott, who could by this time identify all the plants and build a leaf house as well as the natives. The group now had two TBF rafts, and perhaps by lashing them together they could make the 53-mile paddle to Vella Lavella. Recalling the wind and the current, Scott thought it was hopeless, but on August 20 Peck set out with Mitchell, Estep and Tefft.
Next day they were back. Scott
was right. No raft—even two lashed together—could buck the Slot. But the disagreement left its mark. The others couldn’t understand how Scott could resign himself so philosophically to this isolated existence. He couldn’t understand why they fretted so endlessly, when there were fascinating things to watch, like land-crabs that glowed in the night.
The luxury of such bickering didn’t last long. On August 25 fourteen more Japanese arrived from the Shortlands, and on September 10 another 135 landed from Rekata Bay—the first of the forces being driven back by the Allied advance. The days of live-and-let-live were over. The new Japanese were tough customers, in the ugly mood that often goes with a troop withdrawal. They didn’t hesitate to steal the natives’ property, kill their pigs, and plunder their gardens.
Ninamo turned against them, and when Lieutenant Peck organized a new attempt to escape on September 12, the old chief provided a large war canoe. This time Mitchell, King and Tefft went along. As before, the two TBF rafts were lashed together, but the canoe ferried the party well out to sea, giving them a shorter and presumably easier paddle. Transferring to the raft, they still had a rough time with the wind and the current but were luckily sighted by a passing PBY. It gave them a lift the rest of the way to Vella.
Here they reported that Scott, Estep and Dahl were still on Mono, and a search plane flew over the following night, signal light blinking. No answering flashes were seen, and headquarters decided the remaining three men had probably been captured.
Actually, they were as free as ever. They had seen the search plane signaling and tried to blink back, but as so often happened in these night-time contacts, their answering light was missed.
How long they could stay free was another matter. Mono was now swarming with Japanese, and unlike the old days, the new troops were roaming and pillaging all over the island. On September 22 the three flyers regretfully left Ula and moved to “Reuben’s house,” much deeper in the jungle.