Lonely Vigil Page 5

  For the American commanders leading the assault, it was hard to believe it could go so easily. They had taken the Japanese completely by surprise. It was late morning before any fighting developed, and then—as so often happens in war—the pattern was quite different from what had been expected. All the advance planning assumed that Guadalcanal would be hard, Tulagi easy. Actually the reverse was the case. Most of the Japanese combat troops in the area were on Tulagi and its neighboring islands. Holed up in caves and dugouts, they fought to the last man.

  No such problem on Guadalcanal. The Japanese were mainly construction troops with little stomach for fighting, and the 400-man defending garrison couldn’t make much of a dent. Together they all fled west into the bush. The Marines pushed in and along the coast, incredulous at first, then exhilarated. Would it all be this easy?

  Not if Vice Admiral Gunichi Mikawa could help it. Like everyone else at Rabaul, the commander of the Japanese Eighth Fleet had been caught off guard by the blow. Now he quickly hammered out a counterstroke. Planes scheduled to raid New Guinea would attack the Allied shipping off Guadalcanal instead. All submarines would concentrate on the Solomons. A transport-load of troops would head there right away. Mikawa himself would pull together all available warships—five heavy cruisers at Kavieng, two light cruisers and a destroyer at Rabaul—and attack the Allied force.

  At 9:30 the planes were on the way. Twenty-seven high-level bombers, followed by 17 Zero fighters, took off from two different airstrips, wheeled into formation, and headed southeast. It was the shortest course possible—a straight line to Guadalcanal, passing over the southern coast of Bougainville.

  3

  “FORTY BOMBERS HEADING YOURS”

  HIGH ON A STEEP slope called Malabita Hill near the southern coast of Bougainville a middle-aged man in white shirt and shorts peered through a pair of round spectacles at the planes passing overhead. At first glance Paul Mason looked like a bank clerk who had somehow strayed into the jungle. He was small; his mild blue eyes seemed to abhor violence; and he had a self-effacing diffidence that would seem far more appropriate in an office than in the bush.

  This was, however, deceptive. Mason was born in Sydney but had been in the Solomons since 1915. And although he was indeed small, he had the strength of an ox and an endurance that was the wonder of even the old Islanders. He had other assets too that specially fitted him for his present work. He was an expert at repairing and operating radios. As manager of the Inus plantation on the east coast of Bougainville, he knew both the area and the natives intimately. When he volunteered for Coastwatching work at the start of the war, Eric Feldt eagerly snapped him up.

  With Mason in the south and the Assistant District Officer Jack Read in the north, Bougainville would be well covered. For incidental support the two Coastwatchers could look to the A.I.F. commando unit that had been guarding the unfinished airstrip on Buka. Driven off by the Japanese, these men were now operating on Bougainville as small reconnaissance teams under their commander, Lieutenant John H. Mackie.

  So far nothing much had happened. Mason first stationed himself behind the town of Kieta, working informally with four of Lieutenant Mackie’s commandos. After the Japanese raided Kieta on March 31, the commandos withdrew to Mackie’s camp to the north, and for several days Mason was alone with two natives. Then, about April 10, he was joined by four more of Mackie’s men, who had been routed by a Japanese patrol from their station at Buin on the south coast.

  This proved an unhappy combination. The usually mild Mason was in a snappish mood—perhaps because he felt the commandos had been careless in almost letting themselves get caught at Buin. To make matters worse, one of them, Sapper Douglas Otton, had a badly infected leg and naturally was of little use. After a week of it the commandos left, hoping to work their way north and join the rest of Mackie’s detachment.

  “Slim” Otton soon realized he just couldn’t go on. His leg was acting up, and like it or not, he would have to go back to Mason. One of the others, a happy-go-lucky wireless operator named Harry Wigley, then said he’d stay too; so the group split up, with Otton and Wigley returning to Mason’s camp.

  To their surprise, Mason was all smiles. It turned out he had a special dislike for the two men who had gone on north, but nothing against Otton and Wigley. From now on the three men formed a happy, cheerful team. “Wig” did the radio work; “Slim” processed the intelligence; while Mason, as he modestly put it, “sat back mostly giving free advice.”

  His first decision was to re-establish the observation post at Buin. From here they could keep an eye on the Japanese naval anchorage in the Shortland Islands and cover almost any traffic starting down the Slot. Malabita Hill, a few miles behind Buin, offered the perfect vantage point, and Mason opened shop there around May 1.

  He was just in time to see a segment of the Japanese fleet setting out for the big fight developing in the Coral Sea. After that, there was little to report for a while, but still plenty to do. The camp was short of everything, and much time was spent on the teleradio trying to arrange a supply drop by one of the big RAAF patrol planes based at Cairns in northern Australia.

  The flyers were willing enough but inexperienced at this sort of work. The first drop was 70 miles off target. Undaunted, Mason borrowed a bicycle from a native, pedaled and walked to the drop site. He found nothing; so it was 70 miles back again—all for the exercise. Eventually the RAAF’s aim improved, and Buin received not only food but other supplies, including a petty officer’s cap and insignia to give Mason naval status.

  In July, Eric Feldt suddenly ordered them to move inland, he low, and keep radio silence until ordered back on the air. This suggested they were being saved for something big.

  At the same time, to confuse any Japanese eavesdroppers, Feldt gave Mason new call letters. Once back on the air, he was to use the first three letters of his sister’s married name. This could only refer to Mrs. John Stokie, wife of a New Britain planter; so from now on the station was STO.

  August 5, orders came to move back to the coast and start reporting all enemy movements to the southeast. Speed was essential. Plain language must be used, even though this made it easier for any Japanese listening in.

  By the morning of the 7th Mason was operating once more from Malabita Hill. Around 11:30 he caught the drone of approaching planes. In another minute 27 twin-engined bombers flashed by—Admiral Mikawa’s initial response to the American landings on Tulagi and Guadalcanal. Mason carefully counted the planes, rushed to the teleradio, and flicked on the emergency X-frequency. At 11:37 he called, FROM STO, 27 BOMBERS HEADED SOUTHEAST.

  Some of the Allied ships caught the message direct from Paul Mason—they knew about X-frequency and were tuned in. Most got it by a complicated but highly effective relay. Port Moresby, the control station for the Bougainville Coastwatchers, flashed it to Townsville, which sent it to Canberra, which shot it back to Pearl Harbor, where CINCPAC’s big transmitter broadcast it over the whole Pacific. One way or another, every ship in the invasion fleet got the word within 25 minutes.

  On the carriers south of Guadalcanal quick calculations were made. Buin was 300 miles away … cruising speed of the Japanese medium bomber was 160 knots … that allowed nearly two hours to vector out the Grumman Wildcat fighters, stack them west of the landing area, and put them in position to pounce. They needed every advantage: They packed a lot of fire power, but the Zero could still outmaneuver them.

  Down below the unloading stopped. On every ship the gunners stood waiting.

  At 1:15 some fighter pilot gave the “tally-ho,” as the Japanese bombers appeared west of Savo. They were flying in a wide and stately V-formation; the Zeros, which had started later, had now caught up and were flying cover. At 1:20 the Grummans poured down on them, and two minutes later the ships opened up. Here and there Japanese planes spiraled down trailing smoke. The rest came on, but they were shaken and their bombing was wild. “Rather a poor shot,” dryly commented Captain Fernco
mb of the cruiser Australia.

  About an hour later nine dive bombers damaged the destroyer Mugford in a brief attack, but the combat air patrol soon drove them off. Thanks to Paul Mason’s timely warning, the Japanese lost at least sixteen planes—a sobering statistic for the generally overconfident command at Rabaul.

  Off Guadalcanal the transports resumed unloading. By nightfall 11,000 Marines had landed. Ashore, the troops were fanning out west and southwest, still against virtually no opposition. The advance party bedded down in a grove of palms and amused themselves cracking coconuts.

  At enemy-held Rabaul, too, it was a quiet night after the day’s excitement. Only the ordnancemen were busy, arming the bombers with torpedoes for a new attack on the Allied invasion fleet in the morning.

  At 8:00 A.M. on the 8th the planes began taking off—some 44 torpedo bombers and fighters altogether. With the torpedo planes going first, they took off in stages, wheeled into position, and once again headed southeast on a direct course that would take them over Bougainville.

  Five miles behind Aravia, a small mountain village in northern Bougainville, Coastwatcher Jack Read bent over the dials of his teleradio. This morning, August 8, was his first opportunity in two days to tune in. He had been so busy the day before that he just took a chance that nothing much was happening.

  He was, in fact, always busy. A dark, wiry, brisk man of 36, Read had been in the New Guinea public service for twelve years, but had never been on Bougainville until November of 1941. He had arrived then as assistant district officer at Sohano and never really had a chance to know the area before the war was upon him. In a way, he had been trying to catch up ever since.

  As the Japanese swept south, he was faced with the job of evacuating the families of the European planters. They were all difficult, and three of the women flatly refused to go. It was the same with the Catholic missionaries, who included 24 nuns. Bishop Tom Wade of Providence, Rhode Island, was one of those idealists who believed that the Church could remain aloof from the war and enjoy the respect of both sides. A few of the missionaries, like Father Albert Lebel at Tinputz, were under no such illusions, but most took their cue from the Bishop and tried to carry on. Read made it clear that they did so at their own risk, but in his heart he knew he couldn’t shrug them off so easily.

  When the first Japanese bombs fell on January 23, 1942, Read moved from his exposed station at Sohano to the hills behind Aravia. Next, a quick trip to Kieta on the east coast, where the remaining Europeans had panicked and fled, and the natives were looting the town. Read restored order, then headed back to Aravia, checking the various plantations and missions along the way. By now Lieutenant Mackie’s commandos were camped nearby, and when their communications collapsed, Read took on their radio traffic as well as his own.

  March 31, and the Japanese began landing at Buka Passage. The move trapped Mackie, who was visiting an outpost on the island of Buka with several of his commandos. Read rushed a warning to them, then arranged their rescue with the help of a resourceful Fijian missionary named Usaia Sotutu. In the dead of night Sotutu put Mackie and his men into a canoe and slipped them back to Bougainville.

  The Japanese soon got wind of all this from natives living on the Passage, but Read had his natives too. Sotutu organized a scouting network of “mission boys,” and a giant bearded constable named Sergeant Yauwika had marvelous contacts. The teleradio churned out a steady flow of information to Eric Feldt, particularly on the unfinished Buka airstrip, which the Japanese had taken in March and were now busily completing.

  July 14, and Read was told, like Mason down south, to lie low and keep radio silence until further instructions. And, like Mason, he was given new call letters to use. They would be his daughter’s initials. This could only refer to Judy Eleanor Read, so from now on the station was JER.

  Then nearly three weeks of watchful waiting. But unlike Mason, Read didn’t have to move back into the interior. He was already there. He had picked out his observation post at Porapora in April, but it was so good—2500 feet up and rarely any clouds—that he decided to save it. The natives could never keep a secret very long; so why risk blowing it too soon?

  But now the time had come, and by the morning of August 8 Read had packed his supplies, lined up his carriers, and was almost ready to go. It was at this point that he decided to tune in one more time before dismantling the teleradio for the journey. He aimlessly turned the dial to the 7-megacycles frequency, where he could sometimes pick up interesting aircraft traffic.

  The air was alive with the chatter of American carrier pilots and their ships. They were tossing about place names on Tulagi and Guadalcanal, and it was thrillingly clear that the “big show” was on; in fact, that Tulagi was already won. Read sat glued to the set, relaying the news to the natives who crowded around, and it was Sergeant Yauwika who first heard a new sound … a dull, throbbing roar that grew louder every second.

  Planes, many planes, were approaching from the northwest. The view was blocked in that direction, and in their excitement several natives shinned up the trees. Then, seconds later, the planes were there for all to see. A great formation of Japanese bombers raced across a break in the jungle, only a few hundred feet overhead … then a second group right afterwards. Read caught a brief but lasting impression of red discs—of propeller blades flashing in the sun—as he tried to count them.

  He twisted the teleradio dial to X-frequency and called Port Moresby. For agonizing minutes he could get no one. Finally some other Coastwatcher in New Guinea picked up and passed on his message for the Allied invasion fleet:

  45 BOMBERS NOW GOING SOUTHEAST

  Admiral Kelly Turner caught the relay of Read’s warning about 10:40 A.M. He immediately ordered the transports to stop loading and get under way … the cruisers and destroyers to take up defensive disposition … all hands to prepare for an air attack.

  South of Guadalcanal the hovering carriers caught the relay too. Once again all available fighters took off for the Slot, while the task force’s combat air patrol climbed and orbited for an interception west of Savo.

  This time they were fooled. The Japanese did not come straight down the Slot. Instead, they curled north around the Florida Islands so as to come in from the east. They fooled not only the waiting Grummans but the fleet’s radar operators too.

  The cruiser Australia saw them first, 23 torpedo planes sweeping in from the east at noon. They were skimming the water—some only 20 or 30 feet high—aiming straight for the transports. But Jack Read had given Kelly Turner 80 minutes’ warning, and the Admiral used them well. The ships were all moving, circling at high speed, and the screen threw up a devastating curtain of fire. Two, six, no one knew how many Japanese planes exploded into the sea—they were falling everywhere. Only three managed to run the gantlet, and only one torpedo struck home. It hit the destroyer Jarvis, stopping her dead.

  Coordinating their attack with the torpedo planes, eight Japanese dive bombers now came plunging down. But a circling ship is hard to hit, and all their bombs were misses. Desperately, one of the bombers slammed into the transport George F. Elliot, leaving her a blazing wreck.

  In ten minutes it was all over. Here and there a Japanese plane straggled homeward up the Slot, but they still weren’t safe. The Grumman fighters—originally caught out of position—tore into the survivors. It was after 2 o’clock when they again passed over Jack Read on Bougainville. He had trouble counting them coming down, but now it was easy. There were only eight.

  Deep in the mountains of eastern Guadalcanal, Martin Clemens moved forward to Vungana, where he could get a better look at the show. Rising early on the 8th, he climbed to the lookout and was rewarded by an amazing panorama. Ships stretched everywhere; landing craft bustled to and from the shore, trailing wakes that looked like white brushstrokes painted on a canvas of blue. For practice, he counted up to 25 of them through his binoculars.

  He watched the air strike at noon too, and was awed by the immensity of
it all—the puffs of smoke that filled the sky … the flashes of every conceivable color … the bedlam of every imaginable sound. He was so excited he forgot to eat, and considering how hungry he was, he must have been excited indeed.

  As the calm of evening finally settled on the scene, he jotted his impressions in his diary, closing with the words, “And so ends another splendid day.”

  Splendid indeed. The Marines overran the main Japanese camp, captured all sorts of supplies and equipment, and at 4:00 P.M. took the greatest prize of all—the almost-completed airstrip. With understandable optimism General Vandegrift wrote his wife that evening, “The fighting is over now, and we have the place we set out to take.”

  Then an urgent message arrived from Admiral Turner, summoning him to the flagship McCawley. It turned out that Admiral Fletcher, worried about fighter plane losses, planned to withdraw his carriers immediately. This was appalling news. It meant the Amphibious Force would have to go too, with the freighters and transports still largely unloaded.

  There followed a brief discussion about a Japanese force sighted that morning by a patrol plane off the east coast of Bougainville. Since the pilot thought he saw two “seaplane tenders,” the force was probably going to Rekata Bay on Santa Isabel island, where the enemy was developing a seaplane base. It might mean trouble in a day or so.

  The conference broke up at 11:55 P.M., with Vandegrift heading for Tulagi on the minelayer Southmore to check the supply situation there. He had just settled down in the wardroom for a cup of coffee with a skipper, when a sailor shouted down the speaking tube, “Commodore, you better come up here. All hell’s broke loose.”

  Admiral Mikawa had arrived. In a remarkable combination of audacity and plain good luck his seven cruisers and single destroyer had burst through every Allied barrier protecting the Guadalcanal landing area.

  Now the fox was in the hen house. At 1:38 A.M. on the 9th the torpedoes hissed from their tubes, and at 1:43 the cruisers’ main batteries opened fire. At the same moment, spotter planes dropped flares silhouetting the Allied ships, and the Japanese flagship Chokai’s searchlights snapped on. They revealed a scene of surprise and confusion—guns still trained in, sailors scrambling frantically about the decks of the screening warships.