By the third day they were running out of food. They had planned to live mainly off the land, but there was almost nothing edible, and at the noon break Father de Klerk opened their last can of corned beef. Dividing half the contents between himself and Warden, he explained, “Bill, this is the last you’ll get today. The rest is for tonight; so eat it slowly.”
Warden downed it all in two gulps, then bet he could persuade de Klerk to give him the rest of the can too. “Go ahead and try,” the Father told him, “but you’ll never get a crumb before sunset.”
“Well,” said Warden, “it’s my twenty-fourth birthday today.”
His heart utterly melted, Father de Klerk gave him the beef and his last crust of bread too. Twenty-three years would pass before Bill Warden confessed to his benefactor that it wasn’t his birthday at all.
Now there was nothing to eat, and that evening they were about to turn in hungry, when an old native emerged from the jungle, carrying the head of a pig. He gave it to the carriers, who graciously offered to share it. Bill Warden had seen better meals in his time, but tonight he was willing to settle for that.
The following evening, the 11th, they finally reached Nala, a major village of 200 natives in the heart of the island. Here there was plenty of food and rest, provided they could win the sympathy of the people. But this was by no means automatic. As always, the war was a mystery to the natives deep in the interior—just a fight between two sides of “whites”—and the villagers of Nala were doubly wary because they had just massacred a patrol of sixteen marauding Japanese.
How would these visitors react to that? Cautiously a native named Wiki, representing the chief, described the massacre and asked whether the district officer would punish the village. “Certainly not,” Father de Klerk reassured him. “These new soldiers are enemies of all of us. You will be rewarded, not punished.”
That settled, the villagers outdid themselves to make the travelers welcome. Food was produced; accommodations were arranged in the Luma, a sort of bachelors’ quarters; and a runner was dispatched to Gold Ridge, only eight miles away, where Don MacFarland was again ensconced with his teleradio. Toward midnight the runner returned with some “white-man” food and a message of welcome.
MacFarland’s note explained that the area between Nala and the American perimeter was crawling with Japanese. Why didn’t de Klerk and Warden come to Gold Ridge instead and wait until it was safe for all to go down together? But Father de Klerk decided they would try to get through anyhow after a few days’ rest.
All the 12th and 13th they loafed at Nala, occasionally walking to a nearby hill which gave a good view of Lunga plain and the sea. Kawaguchi’s attack was on, and it was like sitting in a theater watching a show: planes dogfighting, parachutes floating down, ships maneuvering, guns blazing, and Henderson Field shrouded in smoke.
Late on the 13th a runner arrived from MacFarland advising them to head for Belana, a village down toward the plain, about six hours away. The Gold Ridge group would join them there, and a Marine patrol would be sent to escort them all down to the perimeter.
It didn’t work out. Father de Klerk and Bill Warden got through, but not the Marines or the party from Gold Ridge. There were simply too many Japanese in the area south of the perimeter. Disappointed, Father de Klerk gave up his plan to reach the coast and headed for Gold Ridge instead. Here they could all wait together until the way down was open again.
Another long, hard day of climbing, and at last, around 5:00 P.M. on September 16, Father de Klerk, Bill Warden, and their string of scouts and carriers trudged into the Gold Ridge camp. As a final touch to the trip, their guide—a mischievous youth from Belana—slipped them by the camp’s whole system of sentries, so that their actual arrival was completely unannounced. If this suggested something less than perfect security, for the moment nobody cared. The newcomers received a tumultuous welcome.
Father de Klerk was quickly introduced to the refinements of Coastwatching life, Ken Hay-style. First, a comfortable chair with a Scotch and ice. Then a hot shower, clean whites, and an excellent dinner. With the American landings and the return to Gold Ridge, many of the hidden stores had been retrieved, and Hay’s Malaita cook-boy was never in better form. The dark days in the valley of the Sutakiki were over; once again the butter was served in ice.
On September 18 Father de Klerk was still relaxing on Gold Ridge, waiting for a chance to take Bill Warden safely through the lines, when two of MacFarland’s scouts burst into camp with some shattering news. The Japanese had just executed two priests and two nuns at Ruavatu, a picturesque Catholic mission on the north coast. Only Sister Edmée, an elderly Belgian, had escaped. Now she lay hidden in the bush, still wearing her mud-spattered black habit, trying to care for a seven-year-old orphan.
No time to lose. MacFarland immediately sent four of his best police to bring her up to the Ridge. To allay her fears, Father de Klerk penned a hasty note in French, assuring her that all would be well and she need fear no trap.
As the day wore on, more bad news. Snowy Rhoades came on the air to report that the Japanese were now moving down the southwest coast … that the bishop and missionaries were abandoning Tangarare … that he and Leif Schroeder were getting ready to destroy their transmitter and clear out too. Next morning the picture was even darker: The missionaries were scattering into the jungle, and Rhoades himself would head south by canoe that night. On the 20th MacFarland radioed KEN, urging some sort of rescue operation, and a few hours later came the welcome reply: Two PBY patrol planes would be sent to Tangarare to pick up everybody—missionaries and Coastwatchers—on September 28.
Rhoades and Schroeder packed the teleradio, left the cave for good, and headed down the Hylavo River to the coast. Here they picked up Second Lieutenant E. H. Farnam, an Army fighter pilot who had been shot down off Lavoro. Then the three of them climbed into Chief Pelisse’s magnificent 20-man canoe and were paddled south through a beautiful moonlit night.
They landed at Tangarare at dawn on the 24th, and Rhoades quickly set up the teleradio on Tsupuna Hill, about ten minutes’ walk away. With an abundance of optimism he hoped this distance might be less embarrassing to the missionaries if the Japanese showed up.
Tuning in at Gold Ridge, Father de Klerk tried to piece together the latest developments. Contrary to earlier reports, four of the missionaries were still at Tangarare, but the rest were dangerously spread out. If they were ever to be evacuated on the 28th, there was a lot of organizing to do.
Nobody was a more energetic organizer than Emery de Klerk, and he decided to head back to Tangarare at once. Bill Warden was now in good hands … Sister Edmée would be safe in a day or so … there was really nothing to keep him here. Four of the Nala men agreed to serve as guides; and with them in front and his own scouts behind, he set out after breakfast. MacFarland loaded him with C-rations, coffee, hash, and four packs of Lucky Strikes; while Ken Hay came through in handsome style with two bottles of dry vermouth.
Toward sunset, September 27, he arrived back in Tangarare after an astonishingly fast trip. The party rarely rested, and taking advantage of the brilliant moon, continued walking far into the night. They had one big scare when they heard a blast of rifle fire not too far away. Japanese patrols were clearly in the area, but that made them travel all the faster.
Approaching the mission, Father de Klerk sent messengers ahead, directing the various scattered parties to reassemble, and by nightfall every one was back. Now he had Snowy Rhoades radio a request that had been brewing in his mind for some time: Would Marine Division Headquarters let him stay on at Tangarare after the others left? He knew the code, could operate the transmitter, and would do far more good there than if he came along. Division Headquarters turned him down cold: “ALL, REPEAT ALL, MUST COME.”
There seemed no way out; so he spent the 28th organizing for the evacuation that night. The two PBYs could take only the most essential luggage; everything else was buried or hidden in the bush. Around su
nset the station’s biggest canoe began ferrying the group to the embarkation point. And then the anticlimax: Lunga radioed that the evacuation was postponed until further notice.
On the 30th it was on again for that very night. This time there would be only one PBY making two trips, but that gave Father de Klerk an idea. He would hang back, sending Bishop Aubin on the first plane to argue his case with the Marines. The Bishop wanted none of it—hot words were exchanged—but calm returned when, at the last minute, once again the operation was postponed.
At Lunga, Hugh Mackenzie was thoroughly exasperated. Twice now, Division Headquarters had canceled his arrangements for sending the PBYs. Presumably the planes were needed more urgently elsewhere, yet the Japanese were moving steadily down the coast. Rhoades and Schroeder would soon be trapped if something wasn’t done. Division clearly recognized the value of their intelligence, but seemed to regard them as expendable—a loss to be accepted as the cost of waging war.
Mackenzie wasn’t prepared to accept it at all. He was strictly “staff”—not meant to dabble in operations—but he now mounted his own rescue mission. By radio, he persuaded Malaita to send over the Resident Commissioner’s ketch Ramada, which he then put in charge of Dick Horton, the former district officer and now a naval sub-lieutenant assigned to KEN.
At dusk on October 3, with no permission from anybody, the Ramada slipped out of Lunga anchorage and headed west. If all went well, she would round Cape Esperance before the nightly run of the Tokyo Express and reach Tangarare at dawn. Picking up the evacuees, she would then return by daylight, when the Marine planes could fly cover if necessary.
Tangarare was alerted, and once again everyone began packing—except Father de Klerk. He had reached a momentous secret decision. No matter what the Marines ordered—regardless of the bishop’s instructions—he was not going to leave Tangarare. At this point he told only Father Brugmans, his closest confidant. Brugmans, who acted as a sort of mission treasurer, quietly handed him £20—virtually all the cash he had.
After supper that night, there was a knock on Father de Klerk’s door, and ten of the mission natives filed in. He thought they had come to say farewell, but this was not the case. Their spokesman Teotimo Sautu, the station’s chief catechist, bluntly asked, “Are you leaving too?”
“Those are the orders of the government and the Americans,” Father de Klerk hedged.
Then Sautu explained they had been discussing all those sermons about the good shepherd who does not run away when the wolf comes. “Father, did you mean that?”
“Of course I meant it.”
“Father, the wolf is here now. The Japs will take away our religion. Are you running off before the wolf?”
Father de Klerk could carry on the charade no longer. He explained that he really wasn’t going to leave—“not ever”—but it must be a secret, so nobody could upset his plan. Later this evening he would slip off to a hiding place, where he would remain until the boat had picked up all the others and left. Promising to send him four scouts, the delegation quietly withdrew.
Now it was time to tell Snowy Rhoades, who responded with the practical contribution of his .303 rifle and ammunition. Next, the sisters. This was a particularly teary parting—Sister Leone had been at Tangarare since 1905—but Father de Klerk managed to make them laugh by asking Sister Reine to jot down her recipe for curing meat. Then a final farewell for Father Brugmans, and at 10:00 P.M. he vanished into the night. Left behind on his desk was a short note addressed to the bishop:
Please do not wait for me when the ship comes. I have been urgently called away and cannot possibly be back to join you. I shall be all right. Farewell and bless me.
Fr. Emery
At daybreak on October 4 the Ramada arrived and hovered off shore, while Dick Horton scanned the beach with binoculars. One glance at the excited people waving and running up and down convinced him that no Japanese could be around. The Ramada inched through a gap in the reef, anchored, and Horton came ashore to greet his passengers.
On Tsupuna Hill, half a mile behind Tangarare, Father de Klerk waited until he was sure the boat was gone. By 8:00 it seemed perfectly safe, and in the bright morning sunlight he headed back toward the mission with his four scouts proudly carrying their rifles. As he approached, a great shout went up; natives crowded around him; and a small boy ran to the little mission tower and began ringing the bell. The shepherd was back with the flock.
5
NEW EYES, NEW EARS
WHILE THE LITTLE RAMADA was completing her rescue mission to Tangarare, a far more ambitious expedition was shaping up 1200 miles away at Brisbane, Australia. On October 6 crew members of the U.S. submarine Grampus, moored at New Farms Wharf, studied with curiosity the strange cargo coming aboard—cases of ration packs, folding camp chairs, four rubber boats, two collapsible canoes, a little whiskey, a great deal of radio equipment carefully wrapped in waterproofed canvas sacks. Even more curious, that night four merry strangers trooped aboard, wearing American sailors’ uniforms but speaking with unmistakably English and Australian accents.
The explanation went all the way back to decisions reached in Tokyo as the Japanese struggled to cut their devastating losses in planes and pilots over Guadalcanal. The Americans always seemed to be waiting for them, yet there was so little they could do. The planes had to strike around noon in order to cover the 1120-mile round trip by daylight. They had to fly the same course, because they didn’t have enough gas for fancy tactics. And they chose to fly low, hoping to cross up the Allies’ radar.
Clearly the solution was to establish airfields nearer Guadalcanal. With less distance to cover, the Emperor’s “sea eagles” could maneuver more freely and vary their approaches. One such field was practically ready and waiting—the nearly-completed airstrip captured at Buka Passage. This alone would shave over 300 miles off the round trip to Henderson Field.
By the end of August construction troops and native recruits swarmed over the field, lengthening the runway and digging fuel dumps. From his perch at Porapora just across the Passage, Jack Read watched the work with interest. On August 28 he radioed KEN that the strip was at last operational: FIGHTERS NOW TAKING OFF, CIRCLING, LANDING BUKA DROME. SAW FOURTEEN UP SAME TIME THIS MORNING.
The Japanese could save another 208 miles by developing a new fighter strip on the plain near the southern tip of Bougainville. On September 9 several transports began unloading off the coastal village of Kahili.
A delegation of natives hastened up Malabita Hill to Paul Mason’s observation post about four miles in from the sea. Better clear out, they advised. The enemy had made brief visits before, but this time “they were bringing their beds ashore.” Mason hurried to the lookout and saw a lot more than beds. Tractors, trucks, heavy guns, and war materials of every sort were being landed.
Another native appeared to report that a Japanese patrol was already working its way inland, looking for the Coastwatchers. And to show that this was no rumor—that he really knew what he was talking about—he produced a Japanese cigarette that one of the landing party had given him.
No more delay. Mason, Otton and Wigley quickly packed their gear and headed deeper into the interior. Climbing steadily, they finally settled near the village of Barougo on a saddle of land that joined the Deuro Range to the Crown Prince Range. To the south they still had an excellent view of the Shortland anchorage, and eastward they could see across the busy Bougainville Strait all the way to Choiseul. On the debit side, a mountain spur caused a blind spot directly in front, and it was harder to pick up planes coming down from Rabaul.
It was also harder to identify Japanese shipping when the weather was bad, for they were now ten miles from the coast. References to the problem peppered Mason’s neat, concise reports: SEPTEMBER 16: VISIBILITY NIL … 17TH: FAISI NOT VISIBLE … 22ND: FAISI OBSCURED … 28TH: VISIBILITY HAZY … 30TH: A NUMBER OF WARSHIPS BUT HEAVY GROUND MIST PREVENTED COUNT AND IDENTIFICATION.
At KEN, the Coastwatcher con
trol center near Henderson Field on Guadalcanal, Commander Mackenzie was already worried about the gaps in his network. For nearly a month Read and Mason had been sending priceless advance information on Japanese air strikes—their warnings made the big difference—but they didn’t catch them all. On August 25 and again on the 26th, for instance, both Bougainville watchers missed the enemy planes altogether, and by the time they were picked up over New Georgia by Donald Kennedy, the next Coastwatcher down the line, they were only 35 minutes out—too close to intercept. The new enemy field being built at Kahili—and the new seaplane base at Rekata Bay on Santa Isabel—would mean still more undetected nights.
Then there was the Tokyo Express. The Japanese were relying on it more and more to strengthen their hold on Guadalcanal, and they were perfecting the timetable. By carefully gauging their departures from the Shortlands, the destroyers could remain beyond the range of the Henderson Field bombers till almost dusk, then run in fast, unload at Tassafaronga on the northwest coast, and be back out of range by dawn. If the “CACTUS Air Force” (as the pilots liked to call themselves) was to get a crack at the enemy, quick, accurate information was essential.
To Mackenzie the solution called for new eyes and ears in his Coastwatching network. He must fill the gap between Mason and Kennedy—some 150 miles—with additional Coastwatchers on Vella Lavella and Choiseul, the two islands below Bougainville that marked the beginning of the Slot. It involved complicated problems of recruiting, supplying, communications and transportation, but fortunately there was high-level help at hand.
On August 30 a courtly gentleman in a Palm Beach suit and Panama hat sauntered ashore from the destroyer Colhoun, just in with a shipment of emergency supplies. To the gawking, sweating, grubby Marines he looked like something from another world—a guest, perhaps, at a quiet summer hotel—and they watched with amazement as he made his unperturbed way to Commander Mackenzie’s headquarters.