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  With the launch refloated, Read and Lynch quickly worked out the mechanics of the evacuation. They decided Lynch would remain offshore and get the rubber boat ready, while Read went into the beach, loaded the evacuees into the canoes, and brought them out to be transferred. At some point Read broke the news that there were not only the nuns, but a number of other refugees—29 altogether. This was far more than Brockman expected—far more than could be carried out to the submarine on one trip. It was agreed to take out the women and the Pitt children first, then if Brockman approved, bring out the men on a second lift.

  Read paddled back to the beach, calling out that the submarine had come, it was time to leave. Sister Irene was still at Mrs. Falkner’s house chatting with some of the commandos when an excited native rushed up: “Boat he come! Boat he come!” Inside, Father Lebel was talking with Mrs. Falkner. She poured out her worries—her property, her house, all the reasons she should stay. Lebel listened patiently, then gently explained why it would be best for all if she left … and he felt sure she would want to help if she could.

  Finally she broke into tears and said, “Yes, Father, I will go.” In minutes she had a small bag packed and was on the beach with the others.

  Lieutenant Mackie had his canoes launched, paddlers standing by, and the loading was now in full swing. Jack Read was losing an argument with the Campbells over how much luggage they could bring. A few steps away the fourteen sisters knelt in the sand to receive Father Lebel’s final blessing.

  “What if I fall in?” Sister Irene asked the native paddling her out toward the Nautilus’s launch. The harbor was choppy, and it did not seem a silly question. Don’t worry, he answered, he’d pull her out. Somewhat reassured, she nevertheless took the precaution of saying her Rosary.

  Reaching the launch, the canoes clustered around, while Red Porterfield finished pumping up the rubber boat. He made some joke about the amount of air “these things” took, and to Sister Hedda his Oklahoma drawl was the most welcome sound in the world.

  At last all was ready. While the supplies for Jack Read were shifted to the canoes, the refugees piled into the launch and rubber boat. Some 21 were transferred altogether—seventeen women, the three Pitt girls, and Mr. Campbell, who had managed to squeeze in with his wife. When Mrs. Huson’s turn came, Lieutenant Lynch made some remark about excess baggage. Without a word she tossed one of her two suitcases overboard.

  Slowly the launch headed out of the harbor, towing the rubber boat in its wake. A native pilot guided them safely through the reef. From time to time Lynch flicked on a pencil flashlight, and occasionally there was an answering flash in the distance. No one said much. Moe Killgore, perhaps awed by the presence of fourteen nuns, used impeccable language.

  On the Nautilus Bill Brockman was anxiously waiting. Over four hours had passed since the launch shoved off—a far longer time than expected—and everyone’s nerves were on edge. The submarine lay flooded down to reduce its silhouette; the 20-mm. guns were manned; the 6-inch gun crews were standing by. Finally, at 3:00 A.M. the launch and rubber boat loomed alongside to everyone’s relief.

  Relief and surprise. SOPAC had said “a few” nuns had to be evacuated, but here were fourteen … plus six more women and children … plus a man. Nor was that all. Ozzie Lynch was already requesting permission to gas up and go back for eight more people.

  Fortunately Bill Brockman loved challenges and enjoyed the unusual. Here was a full share of both. The only thing that worried him was time. He was determined not to be caught here on the surface at daylight. He approved the trip, stressing that the launch was to be back by 4:30.

  The nuns were now scrambling aboard the Nautilus, aided by outstretched hands from the deck. Sailors guided them to the forward escape hatch and down into the forward battery compartment, which also served as wardroom. Here Ensign Davis was ready with coffee and sandwiches. Sister Hedda couldn’t get over her first sight of the table. “Real sugar! Real salt!” she gasped in an awed whisper.

  Topside, the launch cast off and headed back to the harbor entrance, where the eight remaining evacuees were waiting in canoes. They were deeper inside the harbor than Lieutenant Lynch anticipated, and getting back to the ship was a race with the dawn. Bill Brockman’s deadline of 4:30 slipped by, but he was still there at 4:41, when the launch finally eased alongside. More-than-willing hands hauled aboard Fathers Allotte and Morel, five planters, and the Austrian Fred Urban. There was good reason for all to feel relieved, but planter Fred Archer was particularly pleased. He was a great Jules Verne fan, and it seemed especially fitting that the submarine was called the Nautilus.

  The crew quickly hauled in the launch, drained the oil, and stowed the gear. At 5:37 the claxons sounded, the Nautilus submerged to 100 feet, and crept away from Teop.

  “Make the submarine your home,” said Bill Brockman, sensing the bewilderment of the nuns sitting in the wardroom. And he really meant it. He turned over his own stateroom to one of the Marist Sisters and the three Pitt children. The other women moved into the wardroom, an officer’s stateroom, and the Chief Petty Officers’ quarters. Various members of the crew gave their bunks to the priests and planters. Father Allotte lay much of the time on a cot in the forward torpedo room, praying with his beads. “Nothing can happen to this ship,” said a young crewman watching him.

  The refugees enjoyed a New Year’s Day dinner that seemed simply incredible after months of taro and pau pau. Soup, fried chicken, vegetables (even buttered asparagus), peach pie, and fruitcake appeared in miraculous succession. A neatly typed menu cheerfully proclaimed, “Happy New Year to All Hands and Guests.”

  After spending the day submerged, the Nautilus as usual surfaced at night. Now was the time for recharging batteries, gulping fresh air, picking up radio traffic. Tonight a message came in from SOPAC that meant a lot to Brockman, even more to his guests:

  CONGRATULATIONS, NAUTILUS. YOU WERE JUST AHEAD OF THE SHERIFF. JAP DESTROYER ENTERED TEOP HARBOR SHORTLY AFTER YOU LEFT.

  The Nautilus was always a happy ship, but never more so than during the next two days. The nuns quickly adapted themselves to submarine life. The heat was stifling—it averaged 94°—and they had only their long white habits, but they endured this new world of sweat and skivvy shirts with vast good humor.

  In only one respect did they fall short—they never learned how to work the “head.” Flushing the toilet on a submerged submarine was an immensely complicated business in 1943, and the facilities on the Nautilus seemed invented by Rube Goldberg. The process involved nineteen separate steps—mostly opening and closing various valves—which had to be done in exactly the right sequence, or nothing would work at all. Bill Brockman knew this would be a problem and gave Sister Isabelle a special course, so she could teach the others. But it was hopeless. He finally put his steward Billy Fernandez in charge of what became known as the “head watch.”

  Otherwise the nuns proved perfect shipmates. They showed an interest in everything, never got in the way, and soon were learning to play cribbage and that perennial Navy favorite, acey-deucy. In return, the crew showered them with gifts—toothbrushes, candy, cake from home. They even threw a children’s party for the Pitt girls, complete with wrapped presents. These turned out to be socks, sweaters, souvenirs and knick-knacks drawn from the crew’s personal possessions.

  There were serious moments too, as Brockman’s officers pumped the planters for useful information. They picked up a good deal that should come in handy later: Tanker traffic heavy off the north coast of Bougainville … ships usually kept about ten miles out … a patrol plane passed down the east coast every morning about 7:00 ….

  January 3, and the ship’s company learned that their improbable idyll was drawing to a close. The Nautilus—heading southeast for three days—was ordered to rendezvous with a Patrol Craft off Tulagi that night, transfer the evacuees, and resume her regular operations. Late in the evening Bill Brockman issued a typed sheet of instructions. Everything was spelled o
ut: Passengers would leave by the forward hatch, Lieutenant Eckert in charge; baggage via the after hatch.

  It was 2:47 A.M. on the 4th when radar contact was made. A minute later the Nautilus’s signal lamp flashed its challenge … and got the correct response. At 3:00 the dim outline of the PC 476 could be seen, lying about 900 yards off. The refugees were ordered up and emerged on deck. Now it was time to say goodbye, and there were even, Brockman noted a few farewell kisses.

  A rubber boat from the PC came alongside, bobbing in the choppy sea. “Don’t drop anybody,” Brockman called as the first nuns were lowered. It was Red Porterfield who came up with the practical answer: “We won’t drop them now after going way out there to get them.”

  The boat took them in batches of six to the PC, where sailors helped them up a rope ladder thrown over the side. Other crew members lined the rail, peering into the dark, trying to figure what was up. Catching a glimpse of the white habits of the nuns, one mystified sailor asked, “What are we taking aboard, sacks of flour?”

  By 3:49 all the Nautilus’s guests had left, and the submarine vanished into the night. Watching her go, Sister Hedda felt her eyes fill with tears.

  December 31, 1942, proved an eventful New Year’s Eve in Tokyo too. After weeks of soul-searching and buck-passing, Imperial General Headquarters had come to the reluctant conclusion that indeed Guadalcanal could not be held. The garrison was starving and support impossible. Any further investment of the national treasure would be throwing good money after bad.

  Resplendent in full-dress uniform, the Army Chief of Staff, Lieutenant General Gen Sugiyama, and his Navy counterpart, Vice Admiral Osami Nagano, called on the Emperor during the day. They reviewed the problem and formally recommended withdrawal. His Majesty gave his approval.

  On January 4—the same day the Nautilus evacuees reached Tulagi—a staff officer, Major General Ayabe, arrived in Rabaul from GHQ. He brought with him a set of top-secret orders implementing the decision. The troops were to be withdrawn in late January and early February, but this did not mean, he stressed, the end of the Japanese effort in the Solomons. On the contrary, operations on Santa Isabel, New Georgia, and the northern Solomons were to be pushed more vigorously than ever.

  The effect would be a whole new chapter in the air war over the Islands … and another opportunity for the Coastwatchers to prove their unique value to the Allied cause.

  9

  FRIENDS IN NEED

  IT LOOKED LIKE ANY other Tokyo Express to Marine fighter pilot Captain Jack R. Moore in the early morning light of January 15. Actually, the purpose this time was not to land troops for some new offensive, but to put fresh men ashore to cover the Japanese evacuation of Guadalcanal. Now the nine destroyers were scurrying back up the Slot, and the CACTUS Air Force was trying to stop them from getting home.

  The results were disappointing. No hits, and Moore’s Grumman caught a burst from a covering Zero. His oil pressure fell … the engine froze … and he splashed heavily into the Slot.

  Breaking out his rubber boat, he found himself midway between New Georgia and Santa Isabel. It was a toss-up, but he chose Isabel and began paddling east. The distance was perhaps 30 miles, but he hadn’t reckoned on the current. It took three days to get there.

  On the afternoon of the 18th he was offshore looking for some sign of life, when two natives in a canoe paddled alongside. They spoke no English but seemed to know what they were doing. With reassuring smiles they escorted Moore to their village, bathed and fed him, and lashed together a leaf shelter where he could rest.

  Next morning they put him in a canoe and took him down the coast to another village. Here too everyone seemed to know what they were doing. Early on the 20th guides and carriers appeared and took Moore over the mountains to the eastern side of the island. Now another group of equally efficient natives took over, and the canoe trip resumed.

  At last they came to a village called Tataba near the southeastern tip of Isabel. Here they were met by a good-looking, well-proportioned young man with dark skin and European features. He too had an air of self-assurance, partly because Moore was no less than his fourteenth visitor from the sky.

  Geoffrey Kuper was the only Coastwatcher in charge of a station who was born in the Islands. His father, Henry Kuper, was a German trader-planter who had come out before World War I, settled on Santa Ana off the eastern end of San Cristobal, and built up a splendid plantation. Like many European planters in the Solomons, he was lonely and found a native girl; unlike most of the others, he married her.

  Born in 1917, Geoffrey developed into a bright, personable boy, but given the colonial world of the time, with its rigid racial barriers, there was no place for him in the white planter society of his father. For a young man of mixed blood, there was only one route open to a good education and some semblance of professional status. This was to become a “native medical practitioner.” The NMPs, as they were called, were trained in the Fijis and came back to serve the district officers as medical assistants. While not technically a doctor, an NMP was about the closest thing to a doctor that most natives ever saw.

  When the Pacific war began, Geoffrey Kuper was NMP on Rennell Island south of Guadalcanal, working under Donald Kennedy, district officer for the whole Western Solomons. Brought back to Tulagi as the Japanese tide swept south, Kuper continued his medical work for a time at Aola and later on San Cristobal.

  Mid-February 1942, Kennedy recruited him for a new job. By now most of the European planters had fled, often leaving their workers—migrants from other islands—stranded without food or money. The only solution was for the government to repatriate them back to their own islands, and Kennedy undertook to do this with Kuper as his assistant.

  Using the District sloop Waiai, they first cleared Rennell, then New Georgia, and early in March headed for the Shortlands. Here they visited Faisi … back to Gizo … and finally down to Ranongga Island, just below Vella Lavella. Life wasn’t all work, and on Ranongga Kuper met Linda Martin, daughter of a leading local family of mixed blood. In a week they were engaged.

  On March 28 the Reverend Silvester came over from Vella Lavella and married them, with Merle Farland in attendance. There were the usual toasts and refreshments, but when the newly-weds sailed away next morning, it was the Japanese who provided the big send-off.

  As the Waiai headed north for the Shortlands again, a Zero float plane swooped down from nowhere, machine gun blazing. Geoffrey, Linda, Donald Kennedy, the whole crew dived for cover as the plane flashed by at masthead height. It circled and made another run—in fact, five runs altogether—but the pilot must have been a poor shot indeed, for he failed to score a single hit.

  Continuing on, they reached Faisi that night, where two Catholic fathers invited them to stay at the mission. Kennedy toyed with the idea but finally decided to head for Choiseul Bay, their next stop, without further delay. It was just as well. Early the following morning the Japanese stormed ashore in a surprise landing on Faisi. It was the start of Japan’s big advance down the Solomons that culminated in the capture of Tulagi and Guadalcanal. Had the Waiai remained, the whole group would have been trapped.

  Kennedy and Kuper knew none of this at the time. Reaching New Georgia a few days later, they assumed Faisi was still safe, and two young half-castes, John Klaucke and Hugh Wheatley, were sent there with a teleradio. The Japanese snapped them up as they landed, and the ominous silence that followed was the first clue that the Shortlands were gone.

  The Waiai now headed for the southeast coast of Santa Isabel, where Kennedy had established a base at a village called Mahaga overlooking Thousand Ships Bay. Next, a quick visit to Rennell; then back to Mahaga around the end of April. On all these trips Linda went along, quickly adjusting to the peripatetic life of a Coastwatcher’s bride.

  May, and they were caught in the tide of the Japanese offensive. With the capture of Tulagi, they were now deep in enemy territory, and with the submission of George Bogese, the native medical practit
ioner on Savo Island, they were suddenly in deadly danger. He knew all about the Coastwatchers. Worse, he came from Santa Isabel himself, had plenty of contacts there, and knew the best hiding places.

  Early on May 17 Kennedy’s party sighted two Japanese barges with about 100 troops landing at Kolare, a small island directly below Mahaga on the southeastern coast of Isabel. Scouts soon confirmed their worst fears. Bogese was with the force and was now recruiting his relatives to serve as guides in an assault on the camp.

  There was little to do but wait. Besides Kennedy and Kuper, the defenders included only five police boys and six Rennell Islanders brought north on the Waiai’s last trip. Between them all, they had only five Lee-Enfield rifles. It looked like a last stand, and Kennedy prepared to destroy the teleradio and burn the fuel and provisions.

  Then a reprieve. A Japanese float plane appeared, dropped a message to the force, recalling it immediately to Tulagi. No one ever knew why, but whatever the cause, the result was clear. Kennedy, Kuper, and all the rest lived to fight again another day.

  But they didn’t get off scot-free. One of Bogese’s relatives showed the Japanese a creek where Kuper had hidden the Waiai, and as the barges retired they opened fire on the little sloop. The boat burst into flames and sank at her moorings.

  Clearly Mahaga was no place to linger. Kennedy put every one aboard his only other boat, an ungainly auxiliary ketch called the Marara, and sailed northwest up the coast. They had no particular objective—just some good observation point as far away as possible from Bogese and his relatives.

  For the next month they were pretty much on the move, but Kennedy managed to keep up a steady flow of radio traffic on Japanese movements, and he also had a chance to see Geoffrey Kuper under pressure. He liked very much what he saw.