Lonely Vigil Page 9

  The new arrival was Walter H. Brooksbank, the civil assistant to Australia’s Director of Naval Intelligence and the closest thing to a career professional in the whole organization. “B-l,” as he was called (to distinguish him from his brother “B-2,” also in intelligence), had helped develop the Coastwatching operation from the start. He had been in the New Hebrides straightening out a communications tangle; now he was checking up on conditions at Guadalcanal.

  He instantly took to Mackenzie’s scheme for expanding the Coastwatching network, and the plan was formally approved a few days later at a meeting with Resident Commissioner Marchant and General Vandegrift’s intelligence officer, Lieutenant Colonel Edmond J. Buckley. Nor was there any difficulty finding the right men. Henry Josselyn, formerly assistant district officer on Guadalcanal, had proved himself as a guide with the Marines during the Tulagi landings. Perky and resourceful, he was now “available” and volunteered for Vella Lavella. He had never been there, but he knew the Solomons, was used to working with natives, and Mackenzie was happy to have him.

  Choiseul was even easier. Nick Waddell, another young district officer, had established the first formal administration there in 1941. He knew both the area and the natives better than anyone else. He too had worked with the Marines during the landings and was now recovering from a spell of malaria and aching for a new assignment. He was a natural.

  So the men were chosen, but how to get them there? Brooksbank took on the assignment and headed for Espiritu Santo, the Allied advance base in the New Hebrides, hoping to pry a PBY out of Rear Admiral John McCain.

  “No, Sir!” said the Admiral on hearing the request. It was an exchange made memorable to Brooksbank because it was the only time in a forty-year career that an admiral ever addressed him as “Sir.” McCain went on to explain, “It would just mean the Zeros would get my plane and your personnel.”

  Brooksbank now went to Admiral Ghormley to beg for a submarine. This could be difficult. The submariners traditionally didn’t like diverting their boats from their primary mission of sinking enemy ships. But this time there was no hitch. Ghormley’s Chief of Staff put through the request to SOWESPAC headquarters, which controlled the subs, and back came swift approval. Grampus would be leaving Brisbane October 7 on her next war patrol; she would deliver the Coastwatchers to Vella Lavella and Choiseul en route to her station.

  By late September Josselyn and Waddell were in Brisbane busily collecting supplies. This proved unexpectedly complicated. No one knew how much support to expect from the natives; so it was hard to know how much to bring. They’d be gone at least three months; so they mustn’t take too little. They’d be constantly on the move; so they mustn’t take too much. They’d be landing in highly capsizable rubber boats; so the packages must be waterproof. They’d be carrying everything by hand; so nothing (except the radio) should weigh more than 50 pounds. And to top it all, whatever they brought had to be small enough to fit through the submarine’s 30” x 30” hatch.

  While Josselyn and Waddell were working out this monumental logistical puzzle, Eric Feldt came to the conclusion that each of these missions really required two men. Lists of the “talent pool” were hastily consulted, and for an assistant Josselyn picked a tall, dark Australian named John Keenan, who had been a Patrol Officer on Bougainville just before the war.

  Waddell chose Carden Seton, a former planter from the Shortlands with an intimate knowledge of the whole area. Yet the choice wasn’t that easy. A physical giant of a man and a fabled figure in the Solomons, Seton was temperamentally a person of huge extremes. Aroused, he was a man of sweeping, overwhelming passion. At other times he was gentleness itself. No one could look after a sick or injured person with more loving care. This was a volatile mixture, and Waddell wondered what would happen when the two of them were thrown together alone. He need not have worried; from the start they worked in perfect harmony.

  October 6, their gear was quietly loaded on the Grampus, as the crew began wondering what was up. To avoid the attention that would naturally be drawn by four Australian servicemen embarking on a U.S. submarine, the Coastwatchers were now outfitted as American sailors. It was at this point that Waddell had a brilliant inspiration. Since they had to dress like gobs, why not act like gobs? So they spent a final, glorious evening on the town, ultimately stumbling aboard in most authentic fashion.

  Awaiting them below was Australian Colonel C. G. Roberts, head of the Allied Intelligence Bureau, a sort of superagency coordinating everybody. He had come to give them a final briefing and was appalled by the frivolous chaps to whom His Majesty’s affairs were about to be entrusted. It was a very grim briefing.

  Next afternoon, the 7th, the Grampus finally cast off, slipped out of Brisbane harbor, and disappeared into the northeast. The skipper, Commander J. R. Craig, proved a good host, and for the next six days the Coastwatchers learned what submarine duty was like—the heat, the melting ice cream, the complicated “head,” the intimacy, even a depth bombing by a Japanese destroyer. But for Waddell the greatest discovery was finding that his companions had never played backgammon. He spent many lucrative hours teaching them the art.

  At 5 A.M. on October 13 the Grampus lay submerged just off the northwest coast of Vella Lavella, and Commander Craig began a periscope inspection of the shore. From time to time he consulted a set of charts based on nineteenth-century German guesses and the estimates of frigate captains a hundred years earlier. Nothing seemed to match this coastline of tangled jungle, or the solid reef that stretched before him.

  He called Josselyn and Keenan to the ’scope, but they were no help. They had never been here either. The only person really familiar with the place was Carden Seton, who assured everyone that there was a break in the reef, but he certainly couldn’t spot it. All day the periscope probed in vain, as the Grampus inched within two miles of the beach—about as close as Craig dared to go with these vague and ancient charts.

  About 3 P.M. they suddenly realized they were not alone. Several miles to the north a Japanese destroyer appeared, also poking around the coast. Commander Craig turned toward the newcomer, but finally resisted the temptation to attack. There could have been no more effective way to advertise the arrival of Josselyn and Keenan.

  At 6:50 the destroyer headed off to the northwest, and the Grampus too pulled back from the coast. Surfacing, she recharged her batteries while Craig and the Coastwatchers debated what to do. Did the Jap know they were there? Was she looking for them? Should they go on with the landing? They finally decided they should. If the destroyer knew they were coming, she would have hung around. And if she was landing a “reception committee,” the sooner Josselyn and Keenan got ashore, the better their chance to avoid a meeting.

  At 1:29 A.M. the Grampus was back again, now surfaced only a mile offshore, just south of the Mundi Mundi plantation—or where it was meant to be. There was no moon, but the tropical night blazed with stars. The sea was calm, oily calm, but the submarine rose and fell in the slow, heavy swell of the black Pacific.

  The crew undogged the after hatch … brought up the two rubber boats … inflated and launched them alongside the sub. Working as fast as possible, a sort of bucket brigade handed up the Coastwatchers’ gear and stowed it in the boats. It was a tricky business on this slippery, heaving deck, and one hastily-thrown food pack punctured the side of the second boat. Some optimist covered the hole with a piece of adhesive tape.

  The collapsible canoe was launched, and Josselyn jumped into it. Tying a line around his waist, he attached it to the first rubber boat, which towed the second. Taking his paddle, he dug into the water, and the little flotilla shoved off at 1:42 A.M. Keenan had planned to paddle too, but the puncture ended that. Now he sat in the second boat, his thumb pressed against the hole like the little Dutch boy at the dike.

  Taking a sight on a star, Josselyn struggled painfully toward the shore. From the conning tower Commander Craig waved a silent farewell, and the Grampus slipped off quickly into the
night.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, Josselyn inched toward the shore. For a lone paddler towing two ungainly boats loaded with 2000 pounds of equipment, he did very well; but it was 4 A.M. by the time he reached the reef. Leaving Keenan with the boats, he cast off and paddled south 200 yards, still looking for an opening. No luck … just a solid line of white waves crashing against the coral.

  Time was running out. It would be daylight in an hour, and they must be ashore and under cover by then. They had no idea whether any Japanese were stationed along the coast, but they knew they were hundreds of miles within enemy territory, and they couldn’t risk being spotted. The only course left was to head straight for the reef and shoot the breakers, hoping to land safely in the quiet lagoon beyond.

  For this daring maneuver both Josselyn and Keenan transferred to the first rubber boat. Towing the other boat and canoe behind them, they paddled with all their strength. Catching a wave just right, they surged over the reef, and in a cascade of foam and spray landed safely in the lagoon. The canoe followed, but the second boat—now hopelessly waterlogged from the puncture—caught on a spur of coral, spun sideways, and capsized.

  Crates and food packs swirled around in the surf, as Josselyn and Keenan scrambled back to save what they could. Scooping up everything in sight, they put it all in the undamaged boat. They had lost only three food packs and one case containing money, tobacco, a pair of binoculars, and two bottles of whiskey. Luckily, the teleradio—vulnerable to any kind of moisture—remained safe and dry in the first boat all along.

  By 5 A.M. they were across the lagoon, and hauling their gear ashore. Dawn streaked the eastern sky; there was not a minute to lose. Back and forth they hurried, carrying the cases and packages into a clump of mangrove trees that sheltered the beach. By 5:45 everything was hidden—even the rubber boats—and they slipped under the trees themselves just as a big Kawanisi flying boat thundered by, examining the shore on early morning patrol.

  Following a quiet breakfast, courtesy of the Grampus galley, they pitched a small tent and prepared for a little rest. A wave of indescribable exhaustion overwhelmed them both. After a week in the submarine they were in poor shape anyhow, and the night’s work had drained them completely. They collapsed on their cots and slept as though drugged. Their clothes were still wet, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. At this point the whole Imperial Japanese Army could have come marching down the beach, and it wouldn’t have mattered.

  They spent the first two days mostly eating and sleeping, then cautiously began to explore the shore. There was still no sign of anyone—native or Japanese—and the war seemed very far away, except when the Kawanisis occasionally prowled by.

  On October 16 they reached the Mundi Mundi plantation, about a mile down the beach. In better times it had been a busy center of the copra trade, but now it was deserted. They moved into the empty plantation house and gradually transferred their gear from the beach to a hiding place about a mile up the Mundi Mundi River.

  Half a mile in from the stream they found a 300-foot hill, perfect for the teleradio. Here they built a camouflaged lean-to, covering it with sheets of galvanized iron from a plantation shed. Next the back-breaking work of bringing up the transmitter, charging engine, and all the rest. It was a job that normally took a dozen native carriers, but they still hadn’t seen another human being.

  October 22, and the great moment was at hand. They were ready at last to begin sending to KEN. Josselyn turned on the transmitter and felt the supreme satisfaction of making that initial contact … and then the supreme frustration of having the set go dead on him. Nor could they get it going again. They tried every trick they knew. Nothing worked.

  Nick Waddell and Carden Seton, the team assigned to Choiseul, were having their frustrations too. The original plan was to land them the night after putting Josselyn and Keenan ashore, and at first all went well. The Grampus spent October 14 making a periscope reconnaissance of the coast off Nasipusi Point, drew back and charged her batteries at dusk, then began her final approach on the surface.

  By 11:15 they were almost there, but that was as far as they got. At this moment an urgent message arrived from SOWESPAC: A big Tokyo Express was expected down the Slot. They were to drop everything and take station immediately off Visu Visu Point on the northern coast of New Georgia. Naturally it was a letdown; still Nick Waddell identified with that strange exhilaration submariners always feel when closing a target.

  He got his fill. Off Visu Visu the Grampus took on three Japanese cruisers and six destroyers. Lining up one target, Commander Craig fired a spread of four torpedoes, then dived deep to await results. He never knew whether he got a hit, but he certainly got attention. Sixteen depth charges poured down on the submarine—close enough even to throw Waddell off his backgammon game.

  Four days of chasing and being chased, then new instructions to get on with the Coastwatcher mission. On the night of October 19 the Grampus once again sneaked toward the northwest coast of Choiseul, and at 12:34 A.M. on the 20th Craig lay to, about a mile off Nasipusi Point.

  The crew were now old hands at the game, and in twenty minutes the boats were launched and loaded. Seton would paddle the canoe, while Waddell played anchor man in the second rubber boat. At 12:54 they shoved off and watched the Grampus vanish into the night. Now they were alone, and as they silently paddled toward the shore, Waddell was gloomily reminded of the passage in The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna: “Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, as his corse to the rampart we hurried.”

  Fortunately, there was little time for morbid meditation. About half-way to shore a strong crosscurrent caught them and began sweeping them down the coast. It took three hours of hard paddling to reach the reef, and then they couldn’t find the opening. Dawn was breaking, and in desperation they finally landed directly on the reef. Soaking wet, stumbling and falling in the holes in the coral, they carried their gear the last fifty yards to shore.

  By daylight everything was safely hidden except the two rubber boats. These remained wedged on the reef … a pair of huge yellow calling cards announcing their arrival. No time to devise a clever solution. Taking their knives and bayonets, they stabbed and slashed at the rubber until all the air was out. Then they dragged the limp carcasses to cover too, just as the inevitable Kawanisi appeared on its morning patrol.

  Too tired even for breakfast, they now collapsed in the bushes that fringed the beach. Soon it began to rain, and they roused themselves long enough to build a small leaf hut. They were resting here when a native named Beni, walking along the beach, stumbled across them. In one of those happy coincidences that sometimes make life simpler, he recognized Nick Waddell from the old days when Waddell was trying to establish British authority on the island. It proved a joyous reunion, and soon Beni was telling the newcomers everything he knew about the Japanese on Choiseul. There were some, it seemed, at the northern end of the island, but few anywhere else.

  Beni now went off to round up a couple of Waddell’s old police boys to form the nucleus of a scouting force. This would take a couple of days; meanwhile the two Coastwatchers simply marked time, drying their clothes and cleaning their guns. While they waited, they also debated an interesting question of policy. They had come ashore with just two bottles of whiskey. Should they drink it right away, or stretch it out as long as possible, perhaps holding it to mark special occasions? They drank it right away.

  A more serious question was whether to open up on the teleradio. Overhead they could see large formations of Japanese planes, tiny silver specks in the sky, winging their way down the Slot toward Guadalcanal. It looked as if a big show was brewing. On the other hand, they were dangerously exposed right there on the beach, and it would be a disaster if they were monitored and routed before they even got organized. In the end they decided to wait a few days until they had a chance to set up a lookout deeper in the interior.

  On Vella Lavella Josselyn and Keenan didn’t have the luxury of such an option
. All day October 23 they sweated over their balky transmitter, but it was no use. It still wouldn’t work. High overhead the biggest formations yet of Japanese planes rumbled by.

  On the 24th they finally gave up and returned to the Mundi Mundi plantation house in disgust. The job clearly required a radio expert, and the nearest was Donald Kennedy, the Coastwatcher at Segi on New Georgia, 150 miles away. One of them would have to take the transmitter there, while the other held the fort. But this meant finding natives trustworthy enough to organize a relay of canoes for the trip, and at this point they still hadn’t seen anyone, friend or foe.

  Suddenly, as they were still puzzling over the problem, they spotted two natives passing by in a canoe just offshore. Josselyn impulsively hailed them. The natives took one look, then paddled wildly out of sight. Fearing the worst, the Coastwatchers quickly packed their bedrolls and prepared to head for the interior. They were ready to leave when they spied a second canoe approaching. Focusing his binoculars, Josselyn made out several paddlers and a native passenger—certainly no Japs. He decided to take a chance and wait.

  The passenger was Silas Lezatuni, chief of Paramata village six miles to the south. Far from being hostile, he was friendly and full of information. Yes, there were Japanese on the island … with a radio … at Iringila just up the coast. The natives had watched them landing from a warship (apparently the destroyer seen by the Grampus), and Silas was astonished to learn Josselyn and Keenan had been ashore ten days without his people knowing it. How could this thing have happened? Josselyn decided this was no time to explain the invention of the submarine.

  Silas also confirmed that the Reverend A. W. E. Silvester, a Methodist missionary, was still on Vella Lavella, living at Bilua on the southern end of the island. A good man to see, Josselyn decided, before undertaking that 150-mile trip to get the radio fixed. He himself would go, while Keenan remained behind to set up an observation post, recruit some scouts, and start watching the Japanese at Iringila. Silas quickly arranged a canoe, and Josselyn was off before dusk. The mounting tempo of Japanese air activity told them that there was no time to lose.