Lonely Vigil Read online

  As a base for exploring the possibilities, Wickham had prepared a leaf hut hidden deep in a jungle ravine. Horton set up his teleradio here, and the following night—Christmas Eve—he caught the distant signal of a San Francisco station. Bing Crosby was singing “White Christmas.”

  The other Coastwatchers, too, had their reminders. In the mountains of southern Bougainville Paul Mason was on the run again. The local Japanese political officer, Tashira, had won over many of the natives, and they were chasing him. Mason led his party still deeper into the interior, and just before Christmas a playful message arrived from Tashira indicating that his move was none too soon: “Come in and spend Christmas dinner with us, and bring your friends. If you don’t, we’ll shoot you on sight.”

  Instead, Mason had Christmas dinner with Tom Ebery, a European planter also hiding in the hills. It was nothing special and ended abruptly when a scout rushed up to report that the Japanese and their native friends were closing in.

  At Tangarare, Father de Klerk took time out from patrol work and returned to the little mission church to hold midnight mass. Some 400 people packed the place. It seemed like the old days, until, near the end, the distant rumble of guns reminded them how different it really was.

  At Noumea, the teeming Allied base 800 miles to the south, Merle Farland went to Major General “Miff” Harmon’s big Christmas party. Everybody was there—Admiral Halsey, all the brass, Allied liaison officers, French colonial wives, a few self-conscious American Red Cross girls. It was one of those parties where the ceilings are too low and the voices too high. Merle had a good time—especially when she had a brief reunion with Blondie Saunders—but there was something superficial about this babbling headquarters world. She thought of Vella Lavella and knew that was where she really wanted to be.

  8

  THE STRANGEST NEW YEAR’S EVE

  THERE’S NOT MUCH ROOM in a submarine, so Christmas was a matter of small pleasures for the crew of the USS Nautilus, patrolling off the east coast of Bougainville. For Ensign George Davis, it meant filling his pipe with the deliriously aromatic “79 Mixture” tobacco his wife had sent him. Then he lit up for a quiet smoke in the forward torpedo room.

  He was just settling down when the Nautilus’s skipper Lieutenant Commander William H. Brockman, Jr., happened by. “Davis,” he remarked, “let this be the last time I ever find you smoking a pipe while we’re running submerged.” Since Brockman said nothing to Chief Red Porterfield and an old torpedoman, who were also in the compartment smoking their pipes, the incident confirmed Davis’s hunch that young ensigns survived only by keeping a low profile.

  It also showed the blunt, unpredictable side of Bill Brockman. He was a passionate, exasperatingly stubborn man, but he knew no fear, would try anything, and had the complete confidence of his men. Alone among the submarine commanders at Midway, he had mixed it up with the Japanese carriers; later he carried a detachment of Carlson’s Marines in their commando raid on Makin. Now he was bringing the Nautilus from Pearl Harbor to Brisbane for whatever new exploits lay ahead.

  There was no hurry, and on December 29 he was still hovering off Bougainville, hoping for some fat target, when at 4:00 A.M. he received an unexpected radio message from COMSOPAC, Admiral Halsey’s headquarters at Noumea. It ordered him to proceed immediately to Teop Bay on the northeastern coast of the island, where some stranded personnel were waiting to be rescued.

  “How many women can you take care of?” the Nautilus’s communications officer, Lieutenant Phil Eckert, asked the commissary officer, young Ensign Davis, as more information about the refugees trickled in.

  “Any number, Sir!” brightly answered Davis.

  But the “women” Eckert referred to were a far cry from those Davis had in mind. Sister Mary Isabelle Aubin, for instance, was a fifty-year-old nun from Newport, Vermont, who taught school, spoke fluent French, and played either violin or trumpet as the occasion required. A born organizer, she was the natural choice as Superior when the Sisters of Saint Joseph of Orange, California, decided to send four missionary “pioneers” to Bougainville in 1940. Under her wing were another teacher, Sister M. Celestine Belanger of Lowell, Massachusetts, and two registered nurses, Sister M. Hedda Jaeger of Saskatchewan and Sister M. Irene Alton of Huntington Beach, California.

  They were stationed at Hanahan, a remote mission on the eastern coast of Buka Island. None of them had ever been to the South Pacific before; all were middle-aged; and war was raging over half the globe. In the face of what others might consider handicaps, they plunged into their work with good cheer and boundless optimism. To cover more territory, they even learned to ride bicycles and could be seen scorching along the jungle trails, their white habits flowing out behind them.

  December 8, 1941, and their lives were changed more than they had ever dreamed. At first, like most of the Catholic missionaries in the Solomons, they thought they could be above it all. Expecting Japanese occupation, Sister Hedda noted in her diary, “We wonder if the new officials will be staying at Buka Passage, and just what we are meant to do to fulfill our role as neutrals.” Seeing their bicycle tires wearing thin, she hoped they would last “until we can order some from Sydney or Tokyo.”

  Jack Read knew better. He urged them to leave while they could still get out, but they wouldn’t hear of it. Then, early in March 1942, the Japanese began landing on Buka, and on the 16th they executed Australian planter Percy Good and carried off Father James T. Hennessy, a Boston priest stationed at the northern end of the island.

  The news shook Hanahan, only 17 miles away. Father Lamarre, the missionary in charge, immediately ordered the sisters south. On March 22 they crossed over to Bougainville, and by the 30th they were at Asitavi, 90 miles down the east coast. But the Japanese were moving south too, and Bishop Tom Wade, the American-born prelate who was personally escorting the nuns, decided to disperse them. Sisters Hedda and Celestine remained at Asitavi; while Sisters Isabelle and Irene were sent to Monetai, a small inland mission still farther south.

  Here they found a lone German priest named Father Mueller living in the most primitive conditions. He gallantly gave them his own leaf hut, but this was no treat. It swarmed with mosquitoes, roaches, and a family of precocious rats. The two nuns gamely carried on. Sister Isabelle began teaching school and was soon giving trumpet lessons to Father Mueller. Sister Irene resumed her medical work, eventually visiting inland villages where no white woman had ever been seen before.

  July 5, the war once again came closer. The Japanese occupied Kieta and seized Bishop Wade, who happened to be visiting a nearby mission. They held him for an anxious month, then released him on August 2 and left Kieta as suddenly as they had come. The bishop made his way on foot to Monetai, greeting the sisters with a little song, “Just Released from Jail.”

  He now faced an ordeal far worse, in its way, than the entire Japanese army. He had a horrendous toothache. Knowing that Sister Irene had a set of dental instruments among her supplies, he asked her to pull the offending molar. She politely demurred, explaining that she had seen dentistry performed but had never actually done this sort of thing. The bishop told her that now was the time to start, or he would have to do the job himself. She finally agreed to try her skill the following morning and asked the bishop to say a mass for the success of the operation.

  More tangible help was on the way. Sister Isabelle found a French textbook on dentistry, and translated the chapter on extracting molars. That night the two sisters studied the diagrams together, trying to match the instruments they had with those illustrated in the book.

  Wednesday, August 18, Bishop Wade said the mass as promised, and appeared promptly at 8:30 for his dentist appointment. Sister Irene gave him a Seconal, added a shot of Novocaine, and seated her patient in a deck chair on Father Mueller’s porch. Then, while the entire village gathered around in a huge semicircle, she went to work. Sister Isabelle held a spoon as a retractor, and Father Mueller stood by for “emergencies.” But his servi
ces were never needed. After a few twists with the forceps, Sister Irene triumphantly held the tooth aloft. The crowd broke into wild applause, and the bishop said it didn’t hurt at all.

  Minus a molar but free from pain, Bishop Wade headed north to learn how the other missions had fared during his month in Japanese custody. It was now clear that whatever long-run benefits might result from the American landings on Guadalcanal, for the short run they meant even harder days for the missionaries on Bougainville. The five priests on Buka were rounded up, their missions closed and pillaged. At Turiburi three priests and seven nuns were seized and locked up in a small metal shed near Buin. And from Guadalcanal came the shattering news of the execution of the four missionaries at Ruavatu.

  October 10, the bishop discussed the situation with Father Albert Lebel, the priest in charge of Tinputz Mission. In the course of their talk the bishop formally gave Lebel full authority to act in his name on the evacuation of all the sisters still on Bougainville.

  He couldn’t have made a better choice. Born and raised in Brunswick, Maine, Father Lebel had been in the Solomons for thirteen years, the last ten on Bougainville. He knew every trail and short-cut. He was now about 40—old enough to have a backlog of experience, yet young enough to take the physical beating of living in the bush, always on the move. He had boundless energy. Even on Sundays at Tinputz, as soon as mass was over he would immediately open his clinic and start treating cases.

  Most important, Father Lebel could get along with anybody. Bougainville had more than its share of eccentric Europeans, and there was always the latent clash of interests between missionaries, planters, and government officials. Getting things done required enormous tact and patience and the ability to adjust to other people’s whims. Albert Lebel learned this early in life. He had to. He was the fourteenth child in a family of seventeen.

  Diving into his assignment, he decided that the first step was to prepare a safe, convenient place where the nuns could be collected until rescue was arranged. There were at least a dozen sisters involved, and at the moment they were scattered among five different mission stations, as much as 90 miles apart. Here his intimate knowledge of the island came in handy. About 90 minutes’ walk from Tinputz was a little village high in the hills called Tsipatavai. The natives were trustworthy, and he knew the chief well. Best of all, it was near Teop Harbor, sheltered water, free of the Japanese, and ideal for evacuation whether by boat or PBY.

  A quick visit to his friend the chief produced immediate results. The entire village went to work, building a leaf dormitory some 50 feet long which would help house the refugees.

  Now to get them there. Farthest away were four Marist sisters at Soveli, deep in the interior, 90 miles to the south. Father Richard O’Sullivan, a priest who had escaped from the Buin area, escorted them up. Meanwhile Sisters Isabelle and Irene headed north from Monetai, rejoining Sisters Hedda and Celestine at Asitavi. By November 13 all eight nuns were assembled there awaiting Father Lebel’s next instructions.

  At the moment he was busy taking the most daring gamble in his whole rescue scheme. Near Buka Passage, and completely under the thumb of the Japanese, was the mission of Tarlena. Two priests and three nuns were confined here. Two of the sisters were so ill they could barely walk, and all five were under strict orders from Captain Ito, the local commander, to stay put. A guard was posted to see that his orders were obeyed. Nevertheless, Father Lebel was determined to save them all.

  November 24, he set out for the beleaguered mission with seven of his huskiest natives. It was a 30-mile walk, and to make it more difficult, he didn’t dare take the well-beaten coastal track. Reaching Rugen, a former coffee plantation, he found Jack Read there with his teleradio. The place had been chosen for a supply drop, and the plane was expected that night.

  It was Father Lebel’s first chance to tell Read what he intended to do, and surprisingly Read was less than enthusiastic. The plan was a long shot at best, and if it failed, the Japanese would crack down hard. “It’s a big risk, Father.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ve weighed the pros and cons, and the pros have it.”

  Read pointed out that the Church would no longer be able to argue that it stood apart from the war. “Now you are on this side of the fence.”

  Father Lebel said he knew that too.

  Read finally gave up and did the only thing possible: He asked how he could help. A good police boy would be useful, Father Lebel suggested, so Read lent him Corporal Sali, one of his best.

  The expedition continued on across the island, reaching the village of Chabai at dusk. Now they were on the northwest coast, just five miles below Tarlena. Here the natives went to work, cutting poles and lashing them onto two cane chairs, which would be used for carrying the ailing sisters. Then they ate and rested for what was bound to be a long, hard night.

  After dark two of the natives sneaked through the bush to Tarlena and made contact with Father McConville, the priest in charge. They quickly reported that Father Lebel was waiting nearby, and a brief meeting was held where the arrangements were explained. Luckily the sentries had taken the night off, and the coast was clear.

  But there was no time to lose. Once the Japanese learned they were gone, the chase would begin, and the missionaries must get as big a lead as possible. Father McConville agreed to have everyone ready in an hour and rushed off to alert the other priest, Father Morel, and the three sisters, who were just getting ready for bed.

  By 9:00 P.M. they were on their way, silently hurrying through a moonlit night. In the lead were the natives carrying the cane chairs with the two nuns who couldn’t walk—Sister Claire, old and worn out, and Sister Remy, who had a bad knee. Just behind was Sister Henrietta, who could get along on her own. Then came a large half-caste family—Bobby Pitt, his wife and five children … then a blind native girl and her companions … and finally Fathers Morel and Lebel. The departure was so sudden that Father McConville lingered behind to attend to a few details. He caught up with the party later.

  They had to keep moving, and it was an exasperating moment when Father Morel fell into a deep mud hole and lost his pipe. The entire caravan ground to a halt, while he sloshed around on his hands and knees trying to recover it. In desperation Father Lebel promised to give him another, but Morel would have none of it—this was his favorite, and for long minutes he continued to hunt, while Father Lebel pleaded and even tugged at him in vain. The search was fruitless, and the procession continued, with Father Morel now brooding in resentful silence.

  November 26, they finally reached Tsipatavai, and it turned out that Father Lebel’s faith in the mountain villagers had not been misplaced. The dormitory, another smaller bamboo house on stilts, various outbuildings, even a small church stood ready for the refugees.

  Now to get the eight sisters waiting at Asitavi. Led by Father O’Sullivan, they headed up the coast on December 5 in a small motor launch lent by a Chinese trader. Around noon on the 6th they staggered into Tsipatavai—weary, bedraggled, but still proudly wearing their white habits. They compromised their standards only to the extent of substituting navy-blue veils to make them less conspicuous from the air.

  At last Father Lebel had all his nuns collected together: eleven at Tsipatavai plus three more at Tinputz, less than two hours away. Anticipating this day, he had for some time been working on Jack Read, trying to get the Coastwatcher to arrange an evacuation. Read would have liked nothing better. He considered the nuns on Bougainville a weight around his neck, but it was no simple matter to get a plane or a ship.

  Several times during November he had queried Eric Feldt about the chances of evacuation, but nothing materialized. At Lebel’s urging, he again tried on December 16. The answer was the most discouraging yet: no planes or ships available, nor were any likely in the future. Read felt the only course left was to move the nuns deeper into the bush, plant food, and sit out the war.

  Impossible, said Father Lebel. He continued his prodding, while he tried to think of so
me new argument—some new approach—that might yield better results.

  Meanwhile the group at Tsipatavai was growing. Mrs. Edie Huson, a planter’s widow who had fled from her holding on Buka, suddenly turned up. Then came Mr. and Mrs. Claude I. H. Campbell, who owned a magnificent 7000-acre plantation at Raua on the north coast about three hours away.

  Like most Bougainville planters, Campbell was fiercely independent and had resisted all Jack Read’s efforts to get him and his wife to safety when the war broke out. The plantation was his life, and since it was isolated and without military significance, he hoped the Japanese wouldn’t notice the place. It worked out that way for nearly nine months, but his luck ran out in the early hours of December 22. At 2:45 A.M. an enemy schooner and some landing barges appeared without warning; a raiding party stormed ashore; and the Campbells barely managed to clear out before their house was seized.

  They fled to a hideout they had prepared, but the Japanese were hot on their heels, and they escaped only by tumbling into the gorge of the Ramoizan River. Climbing the opposite side, they found temporary shelter in a leaf hut. While here they learned the Japanese had burned their house and told the natives they would be back in a few days to kill the Campbells and “all the English.” Taking a scrap of paper Claude Campbell scribbled a hasty note to Father Lebel: “We are distressed and stranded at this place. Appreciate you come to see us immediately. Please come, Father.”

  The results were immediate. Within a few hours Father Lebel was on the scene, persuading the Campbells to join the group at Tsipatavai.