Lonely Vigil Read online

  The episode showed clearly that Japanese pressure was growing, and that harsh treatment awaited any Westerners caught. On December 23 Father Lebel visited Jack Read at Porapora to press once more for evacuation. Read said there wasn’t a chance; Eric Feldt had made that clear again and again.

  At this point Lebel had an inspiration. Would Read bypass the whole command structure and let him send an appeal in the bishop’s name direct to Admiral Halsey? After all, most of the nuns were American.

  Jack Read had no fondness for red tape, but this seemed to be going too far. Well, how about asking Feldt for permission to send such a message? Read still seemed reluctant.

  “Jack, this is an American bishop asking an American commander for the evacuation of American women!”

  As usual, Father Lebel got his way in the end. Jack Read radioed Townsville, asking permission to send an appeal direct to Halsey. Then began the long wait that inevitably occurs when a military headquarters, faced with an unusual request, tries to crank itself up for an answer.

  Christmas Eve, and time was running out. That morning the Japanese raiders struck Tinputz itself. Father Allotte, temporarily in charge; Brother Gregor, who ran the sawmill; and the mission’s three nuns barely escaped. While the two priests hid in the bush, peeking at the invaders, the nuns joined the group at Tsipatavai—making fourteen sisters altogether.

  The Japanese left during the afternoon, but that night word reached Tsipatavai that they were back again … maybe heading for the hideout. Father Lebel interrupted midnight mass to announce that the refugees must head deeper into the hills at once. “Be prepared to be cold, wet, and hungry. I want you to cooperate with everything I ask you to do. Move quickly and be ready for anything.”

  Half an hour later—1:30 A.M. Christmas morning—they were on their way. A native scout took the lead, with Sister Henrietta close behind, holding up a flickering lantern. The others trailed along in single file, each nun carrying a blanket roll with a few necessities across her shoulders. A bright moon helped light their way.

  Soon they came to a terrifyingly steep gorge, which the nuns descended on their hands and knees, clinging to roots and bits of rock. Then across a shallow stream and up the other side. It was an almost vertical climb, with very little to cling to for support. No one ever knew how the natives made it who were carrying the two sisters who couldn’t walk.

  They continued-faster now, but tripping, stumbling, slipping, always out of breath. At 3:00 A.M. they rested briefly at a mountain village, where the natives—awakened by this strange intrusion—stared at them in frightened bewilderment. Then on again, with Sister Elie from Tinputz handing out biscuits in hopes they would give the group fresh energy.

  The first rays of dawn began to brighten the sky, and everyone took new heart. They were now so high they could see the ocean through the trees. Surely their ordeal must be just about over. But Father Lebel wanted one more gorge between his party and the Japanese, so they made yet another harrowing descent and climb. Now at last he was satisfied, and they sank down on logs, resting their heads on their knapsacks.

  Father Lebel himself continued for a few yards, until he found a good, level spot suitable for a camp. The rest then joined him, except the independent Campbells, who decided to go on to the Australian commando post at Mutahai, still higher in the mountains.

  When the others reached the campsite, it was a very different Father Lebel they found waiting for them. During the long flight he had set the perfect example—always in good spirits, always full of energy—but now that they had reached their goal, the strain was telling. He slumped on the ground, shoes and stockings off, trying to ease the pain of his bleeding feet. He had deep circles under his eyes, three days’ growth of beard. He hadn’t slept for 52 hours and looked it.

  The nuns tried to make him comfortable. One of them bathed his feet … another made him a hot drink, spiking it with a shot of rum … another spread some banana leaves over the ground. Then they wrapped him in a blanket and “put him to bed.”

  The natives began clearing the bush and building a lean-to out of branches and vines. They worked fast, but most of the nuns were too tired to wait. Finding some huge taro leaves—literally six feet long by four feet wide—they laid these on the ground, curled up on them, and went to sleep.

  During the afternoon three of the Australian commandos arrived to report that the Japanese had re-embarked and everyone could safely go back to Tsipatavai. But Father Lebel decided they had traveled enough this Christmas Day; so they spent the night in camp, sitting under the stars, singing all the carols they knew and ending with the “Magnificat.”

  It was a day late, but next morning Father Lebel got the best Christmas present he could have wanted. A runner arrived from Jack Read with permission from headquarters to send a message direct to Admiral Halsey, requesting evacuation. There was just one condition: It couldn’t be over 200 letters long.

  Lebel lay down in the thick jungle grass to think the matter out. This was his one chance to go straight to the top; he must make the most of it. There were, it seemed, three points to stress: first, that American women were involved; second, that they were in deadly danger; and third, that rescue was practical. But how to say all that in 200 letters: In the end he beat his quota, using only 171:

  URGENTLY REQUEST IMMEDIATE EVACUATION OF AMERICAN WOMEN FROM BOUGAINVILLE STOP FEAR REPETITION OF CRIMES ON GUADALCANAL STOP TEOP AND TINPUTZ HARBORS SAFE AND CONVENIENT STOP ETERNALLY GRATEFUL

  WADE

  He shrewdly decided that Bishop Wade’s name would carry more weight than his own, and felt no qualms in using it, since he had full authority to act in the bishop’s name.

  The message worked. December 28, Jack Read received word that a submarine would probably be sent, and on the 29th he was told it would be coming to Teop that night. This was moving too fast. Father Lebel’s party was now back at Tsipatavai, but it would take Read himself two days to get over from Porapora. Since all communications depended on his teleradio, he persuaded headquarters to hold everything until he could reach the scene.

  He started off early on the morning of the 30th, after sending a runner to Tsipatavai, alerting the group there to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. At the same time he sent messages to several other people he hoped to get out, even though they hadn’t been mentioned in Father Lebel’s appeal. There were, of course, the Campbells and Mrs. Huson. Another spunky widow who had stayed on for a year was Mrs. Chris Falkner, who had a plantation right at Teop Harbor. Then there were several other planters still hanging on, like Alf Long and Max Babbage down near Numa Numa. With luck he could get them out too.

  Finally, there was Fred Urban, the Austrian manager of Hakau plantation near Tinputz. He not only was an enemy alien but had been in touch with the Japanese when they first landed. They let him remain on his plantation, and there were rumors of further contact. To Jack Read it all smacked of collaboration, and he had held what amounted to a court martial. Father Lebel, who had great faith in Urban, rushed to his defense. In the end, Read allowed him to go back to Hakau on condition that he have no further contact with the Japanese. Urban obeyed to the letter, but Read remained suspicious. This looked like a good opportunity to get rid of him, and he was told to start packing.

  All parties had been alerted by the time Jack Read reached the village of Tasku at noon on December 31. He was about an hour inland from Teop Harbor, as close as he dared bring the teleradio. Hooking up the set, he alerted KEN that he was in position, and was told the submarine would probably come that night. Lieutenant Mackie, who was now on hand with some of his Australian commandos, hurried down to the beach to collect canoes, prepare signal fires, and hoist a white sheet in the trees—a prearranged signal to the submarine that all was well.

  Now it was 1:00 P.M., and at Tsipatavai Father Lebel checked to make sure everyone was ready. The big problem at the moment was footwear—all that tramping over Christmas had taken its toll. Sister Irene was clompi
ng about in Bishop Wade’s tennis shoes, and Sisters Hedda and Henrietta had nothing at all. Father Lebel quickly gave them his own last two pairs of sneakers.

  At 2:00 P.M. the caravan started, single file as usual, with Sisters Remy and Claire being carried on stretchers. Father McConville was in charge; Father Lebel himself stayed behind to help the Campbells, who had to come all the way from Mutahai and were bound to be late.

  All afternoon they trudged along the slippery trail. Downhill was always slow going, and to make matters worse, a heavy rain set in, soaking them to the skin. At 5:00 they reached Tasku, where they found Jack Read, earphones on his head, trying to get the latest word from KEN. They waited awhile, but there was nothing new. “Probably tonight,” but still not definite.

  Read ordered them to continue on to Fred Urban’s place and wait for further orders. Urban himself would join the party there. He emphatically didn’t want to go, but there was no sign of friction when the refugees reached Hakau around 7:00. He graciously welcomed them and served everyone supper on his verandah.

  It was 8:00 P.M. when Jack Read finally got the signal he was waiting for. KEN radioed that the operation was definitely on for tonight. He was to light his signal fires at 10:00, and everyone was to be on the beach ready for immediate embarkation.

  He hurried over to Hakau. There must be no slips or miscalculations. He himself would lead the party on this last leg. As they fell in at 8:30, word spread that they would be going by submarine. The nuns were utterly astonished. Visualizing their rescue, they had pictured planes, speed boats, island coasters, but in all their speculations, the possibility of a submarine never entered their minds.

  No time now to wonder what it would be like. With Jack Read leading, they started off. Close behind came Sister Irene with a lantern, and behind her the other nuns, the three priests, Mrs. Huson, and Bobby Pitt’s three young daughters. Pitt himself stayed behind with his wife and two boys. As half-castes, they hoped to stick it out in the bush but didn’t dare take a chance with the little girls. Bringing up the rear were a few of the A.I.F. commandos, who had magically turned up to help them.

  Here and there other lanterns and an occasional worn-down flashlight dotted the line of march, but it was really a game of follow-the-leader as they hurried through the night, tripping over roots, stumbling into mud holes, slipping on the wet leaves and grass. Holding her lantern high, Sister Irene found it impossible to please anybody. One minute Sister Elie would beg her to slow down—she had lost her glasses—then Jack Read would call out, “Faster, faster, we have to be there by 10:00!”

  Somehow they made it. Drenched and dishevelled, splattered with mud, the party finally pushed through to the beach, where the mood was more like a family reunion than an evacuation. Jack Read’s system of alerts had worked perfectly. Alf Long, Max Babbage, three or four other planters were on hand. Father Fluett had come up from Asitavi to see the sisters off. The rest of Lieutenant Mackie’s men were there too, organizing the canoes and paddlers. Many of these people had not seen each other for weeks, even months. There were quiet greetings, embraces, exchanges of news.

  Shortly after 10:00 Read’s favorite scout, Sergeant Yauwika, touched off two signal fires, one behind the other. The flames roared up, casting a flickering light on the group milling around. All eyes scanned the sea, but there was no sign of the submarine. The four Sisters of St. Joseph decided they had time to wash up and change to dry clothes at Mrs. Falkner’s plantation house, right on the edge of the beach.

  They walked into a different world. Not a cushion was out of place in the beautifully furnished living room. Bowls of sweet-scented frangipani graced the polished tables. Here and there a handsome lamp cast a soft glow, picked up and reflected by the carefully waxed hardwood floor. Servants glided in and out, going about their normal duties.

  Dressed in exquisite black lace, Mrs. Falkner graciously received the sisters. Having assumed she would be in the last stages of packing for the evacuation, they looked at her in astonishment. “I’m not joining your party to Australia,” she explained pleasantly.

  Outside, Jack Read was seething. After all the difficulty of arranging for the submarine—after all the work of collecting everyone together—it was just too much to have this impossible woman suddenly balk at going. Nor did he intend to have her on his hands just when the Japanese were increasing their pressure and he needed all the mobility he could muster. Dropping by the house from time to time, he begged, pleaded, argued, threatened. Mrs. Falkner remained adamant: She wouldn’t go. He finally told her she was going even if he had to use force. She seemed unmoved.

  Meanwhile a new problem was boiling up. There was still no sign of the Campbells. True, they had to come all the way from Mutahai, but they were now far behind schedule. Finally Father Lebel, who had stayed behind to help them along, appeared on the beach to report that they were on the way, but lagging badly. They had been on the road for nearly 20 hours and were just about all in.

  Jack Read had the perfect man for this crisis. Sergeant Bill Dolby was one of Lieutenant Mackie’s best commandos, combining great physical strength with rare determination and resourcefulness. Read quickly sent him up the trail with Private Waterhouse and a team of natives. If anybody could get the Campbells moving, Dolby would do it.

  Back on the beach, all eyes continued to search the sea. It was now after 11:00—Sergeant Yauwika’s signal fires blazed ever higher into the night—but still no sign of the submarine. The nuns, again in clean white habits, stood around in little groups, talking to pass the time. Some of the commandos had messages for home, and notes were scribbled by the light of the fires. In her beautiful house Mrs. Falkner continued to play the gracious hostess. Jack Read wondered what he would do when the ultimate confrontation came. But where was the submarine? How could it take this long?

  Bill Brockman was doing his best. All day the Nautilus had been submerged ten miles off Teop Harbor, most of the time examining the shore with her periscope. There was no sign of the sheets that were meant to be displayed if the coast was clear; on the other hand, a periscope at ten miles wasn’t the ideal way to check this out.

  Brockman designated a three-man shore party for the night’s work. All were “volunteers,” but that was a bit of a euphemism. CBM Red Porterfield, for instance, had to go because he was the only man on board who really knew how to handle small boats. He decided that the most important person to have along was a good motor man. The Nautilus had three, but one was a little slow, another too meek. That left only CMM Moe Killgore, who moved fast and wasn’t meek at all. In fact, his mastery of four-letter words stood out even among a crew not known for its restraint in language. So Killgore “volunteered” too.

  Lieutenant Richard B. Lynch, the Nautilus’s torpedo and gunnery officer, would be in charge. Ozzie Lynch was a rangy six-footer of great charm and brilliance. Like many academically inclined people, he sometimes seemed a little removed from the practical world, but he balanced the other two men nicely.

  At 7:39 the Nautilus surfaced and began edging toward the harbor entrance. She was always a clumsy boat, and the charts as usual were awful. The night was pitch black, and it was hard to see anything ahead. Brockman took her in as close as he dared, and finally hove to about three miles offshore.

  Crew members scrambled onto the deck and immediately began rigging the boom to hoist out the Nautilus’s whaleboat. A slow business even in daylight, it took all the more time in the dark. Finally they got the boat into the water only to discover the motor was hopelessly flooded. So they hoisted it back and broke out the ship’s launch instead, as more minutes ticked by.

  Now the loading began. Tommy guns, flashlights, binoculars, rubber raft, a walkie-talkie, emergency rations—everything the shore party could conceivably need was dumped in. Then supplies for the Coastwatcher: cans of boneless chicken, corned beef hash, spaghetti, pork and beans, brandy miniatures—things Jack Read hadn’t seen for a year.

  Caught in the spirit of t
he affair, the crew below began sending up presents for him too—soap, cigarettes, a scout knife, toothpaste, sewing kit, pipes, tobacco pouch. Perhaps it was the tobacco pouch that gave Bill Brockman an inspiration. He still hadn’t forgotten Ensign Davis and the overwhelming aroma of that Christmas tobacco. He sent a sailor down who announced to Davis: “Captain says you have some pipe tobacco you want to give to the Coastwatcher.”

  George Davis knew when he was licked. He surrendered unconditionally and handed over the tobacco.

  It was almost 10:00 by the time Lynch started off, and almost immediately he was back with a broken rudder. Forty minutes more while the rudder was repaired, and then off again around 10:30. By now the two signal fires were blazing on the shore, and the launch was meant to take its bearing by lining them up. For some reason Lynch didn’t do this and instead aimed directly at one of the fires. The boat veered off course, ran onto a reef, and capsized.

  The three men tumbled out into the shallow water that surged around the reef. Scrambling to their feet, they began the slow process of righting the launch and bailing it out with their helmets. Killgore was furious—sure they would be taken by the Japanese—and his language was never more picturesque. He saved his choicest comments for Lieutenant Lynch, who silently took it all, but Porterfield got his share too.

  On the beach Jack Read and the others continued to wait. Thanks to Bill Dolby’s efforts, the Campbells had now arrived, and Father Lebel had taken on the job of trying to persuade Mrs. Falkner to come voluntarily. It was now nearly midnight, and still no sign of the submarine.

  Then suddenly Dolby’s sharp ears picked up the sound of voices out on the water. Read listened, heard something too, and took a native canoe to investigate. Several hundred yards out, he came to the Nautilus’s launch. Lynch, Porterfield and Killgore had just finished their bailing and were trying to push the boat off the reef.

  Read and his native crew pitched in, and the launch was soon refloated. The culmination of this joint effort came when one of the Americans reminded Read that it was New Year’s Eve and handed him a brandy miniature from the supplies they were bringing in. All hands paused for a moment to toast the occasion.