IT WAS, I recall, at the beginning of March 1942 that I was sitting in the district office at Aola on Guadalcanal, wondering what on earth to do with a crowd of native headmen who had come in from all over the island. And there they were, clustered round my desk, hoping I could put a stop to their fears.
What could I say to them? I had taken over the district only three days earlier. The headmen had heard that my predecessor, Dick Horton, had gone; now the only other European on the station had orders to go. Terrified of what the Japanese might do to them and their families, they wanted to know that I would not desert them. And there we were, undefended, with the Japs flying over us to bomb the RAAF advance post on Tanambogo Island, nineteen miles away. What to do? I puffed on my pipe and scratched my chin.
How could I explain what had happened? The Japanese were a people for whom the Solomon Islander had had little respect: he had known them as the scruffy sailors and pearl divers who robbed his reefs and spread disease amongst native women. How could the British be defeated by such people? Would we leave the islanders to their mercy? You cannot do it, they said; I sympathized with them. It seemed awfully close, and I felt terribly alone.
Trying not to show how moved I was, I wiped my brow and spoke quietly to the circle of anxious faces: “No matter altogether Japan ’e come, me stop ’long youfella.” There was an audible sigh of relief. “Business b’long youfella boil’m [follow me], all ’e way, bymbye altogether b’long mefella come save’m youme. Me no savvy who, me no savvy when, but bymbye everyt’ing ’e alright.”
“If you stick with me, someone someday will come and save us, and everything will be all right.” It was a flimsy promise, and it was with a sinking heart that I made it; but we all shook hands solemnly, and felt a little better, and they went home.
Feeble though it was, that pledge was the basis for the tremendous show put up by the people of Guadalcanal during the dark days that followed. Had I not given it—more important, had they not believed it—I would not be here to tell this story now.
I reflected on all that had happened since 1938, when I accepted an appointment as a Colonial Service cadet to the Solomon Islands. Back then, I was not sure just where they were. From my school days I recalled that Great Britain had annexed the southern Solomons to curb the excesses of the infamous “blackbirding” trade, which supplied native labor to the Queensland sugar plantations. I also vaguely remembered that the northern islands of the group had been acquired from the Germans by treaty.
Once I knew I was going, I read the delightful translation, by an early Lord Amherst of Hackney, of the Spanish account of Mendaña’s voyage of discovery. On 7 February 1568, three months after he set sail from Peru, Alvaro de Mendaña found the Solomon Islands, so named because they were thought to be fabled Ophir, the source of gold for Solomon’s temple. In April a party reached Guadalcanal, named after their leader’s birthplace in Valencia. On 12 May Mendafia’s company celebrated communion on a small headland they called El Puerto de la Cruz—to us, almost four hundred years later, it was Point Cruz, just west of the Matanikau River, which we gained and lost so many times during the fighting.
During my voyage out, I gathered from some fellow passengers that you just turned left out of Sydney Harbor, and after 1,750 miles the Solomons were the first group on the right. “Aah,” they said, “just a little bit of a trip!” I continued my reading. New Guinea, the Solomons, and the New Hebrides stretched three thousand miles from west to east, forming a natural semicircular barrier some one thousand miles northeast of Australia. They were Australia’s front-line defense toward Asia and the Pacific.
The British Solomon Islands Protectorate, as it was known, comprised an archipelago of more than nine hundred islands, extending nearly a thousand miles from northwest to southeast. The government consisted of a resident commissioner, a secretariat, a legal officer, several technical heads, and a district officer in each of the eight districts. Official mail came from Suva, Fiji, headquarters of the high commissioner for the Western Pacific, every six weeks. More urgent matters were dealt with by wireless.
The most westerly district, with headquarters at Faisi in the Shortland Islands, consisted mainly of the small islands lying in or about the Straits of Bougainville; it included the much larger Choiseul, named for a French naval explorer. The Gizo District comprised the New Georgia group, islands with attractive native names such as Vella Lavella, Kolombangara, and Gizo, site of the government station. To the east lay a large district centered on Ysabel (or Santa Isabel), another island named by Mendaña. In the center of the group were the two largest districts, both by size and by population. Malaita was long and narrow; Guadalcanal was shorter, but wider, and considerably higher. Between these two sleeping lions, the smaller district of Nggela, or the Florida Islands, curled round Port Purvis, perhaps the greatest harbor of the South Pacific, and the tiny island capital of Tulagi. Southeast of Guadalcanal lies San Cristobal, which, with Ulawa, Santa Ana, and Santa Catalina, formed another district, with headquarters at Kira Kira on San Cristobal’s northeastern shore. The Santa Cruz District embraced the easternmost islands of the Protectorate; the government station was at Peu, on Vanikoro.
I first set eyes on the Solomon Islands from the masthead of the motor vessel Malaita, which did the run from Sydney to the Solomons and New Guinea. My brother cadet and I had worn down everyone with questions and exhausted the conversation; by then it was three in the morning, but we were too excited to sleep, so we climbed the mainmast and dreamily speculated on our future. It was a heavenly night—the moon shown brightly on the smooth waters ahead, and the Milky Way shimmered across the sky. Slowly, as the ship slipped silently on, we became aware of a heady perfume, wafted toward us on a breeze; then, out of the sea, there rose the rugged outline of the islands. It was an entrancing moment. Little did we think that, four short years later, there would be many times when we wished we’d never felt their fatal attractions.
I spent a few weeks at our administrative headquarters, Tulagi. Apart from Chinatown, our bazaar and ship repair area, the island was mostly a government preserve. Rainfall was high, so the houses, of wooden frame construction, had wide verandahs all round and hinged shutters to allow air circulation or keep out the rain. As the simplest and cheapest way to ensure a supply of fresh water was to collect it off one’s roof, this, generally of corrugated iron, was treated with a nonpoisonous red paint, as were the square holding tanks that were usually mounted in back of the building. In order to keep out white ants, the foundations, either hardwood piles or short concrete pyramids, rose above ground; they were capped with metal plates, whose flanged edges projected downward. Some of the older houses had wooden piles up to ten feet in height, as an added protection against prowlers. Kitchens were small separate buildings in the same style. The offices were of substantially the same construction, but as most of them were at sea level they were hot as blazes to work in.
Across the center of the island ran a wide range of gray volcanic rock, and on this most of the dwelling quarters had been erected. They all had marvelous views, and picked up any breeze that might be blowing. Houses and offices alike were dotted about in beautiful, parklike areas, where their white paint presented a striking appearance amidst colorful hibiscus, croton, and bougainvillea, and the occasional group of palm trees. These areas were immaculately kept by prison labor.
As the island was so small, one had to walk everywhere. The local headquarters of Lever Brothers, on Gavutu Island, and of Burns, Philp & Company, on Makambo Island, were both ten minutes across the bay.1 In consequence there was always a great coming and going by launch, and the government wharf, where Treasury and Customs were located, was the great gossip center, the equivalent of the village pump. Visitors from other districts would anchor their vessels close by, and if not invited ashore would sleep on board; some, especially old seafarers, preferred to do so.
Tulagi was surrounded by colorful reefs, and it was fascinating to explore them in a bathing suit and homemade glasses. These—ordinary pieces of glass cut to shape, in wooden frames with an elastic band—fitted snugly over the eyes; this allowed one to float face down and observe what went on. We usually took along a spear and an old sack, in case a fat fish swam by or a crayfish showed himself from a hole in the reef.
It was a pleasant place, but life there seemed so artificial, and I was impatient to get my teeth into something real. Soon, however, I was posted to Malaita, where I worked under the conscientious eye of the district officer, Norman Bengough.
The DO was responsible for practically everything. I learned what it meant to sit as the local magistrate; train police; keep prisoners’ warrants; act as coroner; inspect labor on plantations, do accounts, and collect taxes; supervise medical work; captain the district schooner; and even, on occasion, serve as collector of customs, boarding ships that had entered district waters without having touched at any other port in the group. The district officer was also, it seemed, the settler of disputes, not only between different groups within the native population but also between Solomon Islanders and Europeans.
My duties took me all over the island. I traveled by ship, if possible, but the district officer, or a trip to Tulagi for mail or rations, always had first call on the schooner, and I often had to go by foot. As there were no towns, there was little reason for roads—and, with the heavy rainfall, dense jungle, and frequent rivers, it would have been prohibitively expensive to construct them. Thus, bush walking was over muddy jungle tracks, broken by streams and rivers. In such a climate my expensive boots soon collapsed, and I took to wearing cheap gym shoes; I slipped more, but with the aid of a stout stick I was able to get to the end of the trail safely. No matter how far I had to walk, however, the appalling humidity quickly left me sweltering in my own perspiration, and a change was always needed at journey’s end.
We used to pad along in a long, silent column. A policeman, who knew the route, led the way, and I followed. Behind me came another constable, strong and sure-footed, who assisted me if the way was too slippery. We were followed by the carriers with our bedding and rations; they were supervised by the remaining police, who also kept an eye on any felons who had been sentenced to a term of imprisonment at any court held during the tour. These had the privilege of carrying the heaviest loads. The biggest burden was a heavy ironbound, padlocked box, which contained court and Treasury forms, registers, and silver money collected in payment of tax. We also had to carry tinned rations, to which were added whatever fresh fruit and vegetables we could find en route. The farther away we were from the coast, the less likely this was.
The work done was varied, and very interesting, but the walking got monotonous—the shady jungle was always the same, mile after mile—and I used to plan magnificent meals as I went along. It was a relief to emerge once again and see the sea, with a cool-looking white schooner riding at anchor: the district vessels were no luxury yachts, but they were infinitely preferable to walking through the bush, and there was usually fresh fish for lunch. After a plunge into the clear blue water, one could put on clothes and enjoy at least some of the benefits of civilization.
From Cape Esperance at the northern end to Marau Island at the southern tip, Guadalcanal is about ninety miles as the crow flies. It is some twenty-seven hundred square miles in extent. A lofty central mountain range of broken and difficult country rises steeply to eight thousand feet. The island is covered almost entirely by dense tropical rain forest, except for man-made clearings and the plains along the northern coast. Owing to the steep fall from the central massif, and to an average rainfall of two hundred inches per annum, there are many fast-flowing rivers. In consequence, walking any distance along the coast was most difficult, and it was easier to go by boat.
Guadalcanal is frequently hot during the day and rarely cool at night, but if one could avoid malaria, as I did, by taking regular prophylactic doses of quinine, one could keep remarkably healthy. It should be remembered, however, that this was under civilized conditions of regular food and sleep; living in a muddy foxhole, on two meals a day, was quite another story.
The northern shore has long, sweeping beaches of jet-black sand. Most of the coconut plantations were scattered along this coast, and the managers either rode horses or got about by truck. (The “green” coconut required for copra was often brought in by bullock wagon.) Several plantations had young rubber trees, which were coming into production when the war started. There were goldfields in the hills to the south, and one could take a strong truck most of the way across the grass from Berande plantation; but gold mining had not got far beyond the panning stage.
In the early days, when malaria was particularly virulent, Guadalcanal was known as the “Solomon Coast.” It was also noted for the cannibalism of its native inhabitants and the generous hospitality of its planters. This latter tradition was being nobly carried on by Kenneth Dalrymple Hay, the host at Berande.
Apart from the planters, prospectors, and traders, who were of all nationalities, the other European residents of the island were the district officer and the missionaries. The Melanesian Mission (Church of England) and the Seventh-Day Adventists were easily outnumbered by the Roman Catholic Marist fathers.
Besides the Europeans, who amounted to about fifty persons, there were fifteen thousand Melanesians, speaking at least six distinct languages, living on the island—some by the sea, others within reach of it, and others, real bushmen, in scattered settlements in the mountains. Some were Christians, some were pagans, but cannibalism had more or less disappeared. Their diet, when wages were not coming in, consisted mainly of root vegetables such as yams, taro and panna, and sweet potatoes. These were supplemented near the coast by coconuts, and by plantains up the valleys. Bananas and oranges grew in places, and the pawpaw, or papaya, grew in profusion everywhere. The coastal people further supplemented their diet with fish, and pigs were also kept. In the hills one found both wild and domestic pigs.
Many Europeans found yams and taro a pleasant change, but it was so easy to import foods that most had their requirements shipped in from Sydney, growing only their fruit and some of their vegetables. The steamer also brought their mail, batteries for the radio sets, and new books to read. In the hot, damp climate, the only foods that could be kept for even a few months were canned goods. All employed islanders got a ration consisting largely of rice and tinned meat, which also had to be imported. Consequently, when the Japanese invasion came, there was little means of replenishing our stocks of food, apart from planting vegetables and waiting for them to ripen in four months’ time. The village dweller did not normally plant more than he wanted for his own use, as he had to clear the jungle to do so, so there was no natural surplus of food. As a result, when inter-island ships were held up by weather and the plantation rice had been finished, it was difficult to get native vegetables as a substitute.
The government station on Guadalcanal was situated centrally on the northern coast, at Aola Bay. Although the DO who selected the site was a former naval officer, I never did think much of it. A safe anchorage is of great importance in the islands; Aola’s curving bay, with its fringe of palms at each end, was pretty enough, but very open. When the north wind blew in, one’s vessel had to seek shelter off Bara Island to the east, and to get ashore in a dinghy became a cross between surf riding and being ejected from a nautical jack-in-the-box. The land was level enough, but our naval friend had laid out the station in a rather peculiar way. Having marked out a six-hundred-yard beach line, he placed at each end a stone, and then took parallel bearings from them, at right angles to the beach. Luckily there were no villages in the hinterland, and it was only recently that arguments had arisen between villagers and government gardeners. On looking up the plans, I had to conclude that, as there was no rear boundary, the government station ran out to the sea on the southern shore!
The station was spaciously laid out into grass lawns edged by a wide variety of colorful croton hedges. One came first to the district officer’s house, a pleasant frame building with shady verandahs and a tennis court. On either side were houses for other senior officers. Bougainvillea, hibiscus, and frangipani, the fragrant pagoda tree, grew round each house. Farther back, grouped round the parade ground, was a line of large, stately buildings in the native style. These contained the district office, court, police office and barracks, prison, other auxiliary offices, and stores. Walking on, one came to the playing field, where cricket and football games were held. Farther on were the main hospital building and, across the playing field, a neat row of native huts. These were the wards of the hospital; here people from all over the island came to be healed.
There was little else on the level, except one or two shacks, of palm leaf and bamboo, that Dick Horton had erected for the teleradio. From here the land began to rise, and it had been cultivated into terraces by the families of islanders employed by the government. Here pineapples, sweet corn, and tomatoes grew amongst the root vegetables. The path climbed steeply to a small plateau; on this had been erected a house for a married cadet, who had arrived just in time to help close down the Protectorate.
This house was an experiment, a product of Dick Horton’s brain. It was an attempt to build a comfortable bungalow, using the native style of construction but adding modern conveniences. Later the house became, because of its coolness and commanding position, a convenient headquarters for reconnaissances behind the Japanese lines and, much later, headquarters for several training units. Behind it the jungle lowered in interminable darkness.
It was a pleasure to live in such pleasant surroundings. Aola was a natural night stop for those going south from Tulagi; they used to anchor off, bring up the mail, and, in return for the latest Tulagi gossip, take dinner off the district officer.
The area around Lunga was the center of all the trouble during the Guadalcanal campaign. The Lunga River, one of the largest in the island, has three mouths, and the Tenaru River, two miles to the east, is probably another. Through the ages, the action of the Lunga and of the Ilu, a mile east of the Tenaru, had formed a large, diamond-shaped delta, some three to four miles square. This, with the area east of the Ilu down to Koli Point, was open country, which had been acquired by Lever Brothers. I am not sure of their total holdings, but at that time they had three adjoining plantations: Kukum (also spelled Kookoom), on the west; Lunga, intersected by the three river mouths; and Tenaru, to the east. All had coconut palms in full bearing. (Some of the trees must have been rather old, for part of the area was used as a cattle-breeding station, which furnished cattle to Lever’s other plantations. These not only provided excellent beef but helped to keep down the growth between the palm trees and supplied manure.)
Much of the plains behind these plantations had suffered some sort of chemical leaching, and trees would not grow there except along the natural water courses. The plains were covered with kunai grass, four feet high; in war this added greatly to the difficulties of scouting, and both sides avoided them whenever possible. Their main advantage was to our pilots, several of whom made emergency landings there, and found their way back.
When I first arrived in the Solomon Islands, each district had a wireless set for communication with headquarters in Tulagi. After the start of the European war, Eric Feldt, who had recently been appointed head of the Islands Coast Watching Service, came round to see us all; further sets were provided, and the system for observing and reporting strange things gradually took shape.
In early February 1942, with the Japanese everywhere in advance, “Tulagiradio,” our headquarters communications setup, was about to move to Malaita with the resident commissioner. Bob Taylor, the senior wireless officer, had been ordered to Australia;2 his assistant, Tom Sexton, set up his station at the RC’s new headquarters at Auki, and settled down to receiving our messages and sending on our reports down south. Norman Bengough spoke with us on the regular teleradio schedules while he was still at his Auki district headquarters. Sexton performed miracles with his equipment, maintaining regular contact with Vila in the New Hebrides, more than six hundred miles away, and also with Fiji, even farther across the Pacific. Of course, he used Morse code, while we amateurs did all our work on voice. The Australian naval people at Vila soon were listening day and night, and frequently picked up our immediate traffic direct.
Our all-metal teleradio sets had been designed for the Flying Doctor Service in northern Australia. They were suited to the tropics, and easy to operate and maintain; but they were not made for hiking, and I had a lot of trouble moving the heavy six-volt batteries and the charging motor. One also had to carry tools, fuel, oil, and spares. The vital part was the vibrator, one each for transmitter and receiver; they were temperamental things, and to this day I am quite unable to describe them technically.
As I have noted, we were all relative amateurs at this wireless game. The district officers had had some practice, but men like Rhoades and Kuper had to start from scratch. The former, a veteran of the Australian Light Horse in World War I, was a quiet but determined chap with a wicked gleam in his eye. A bit of a cricket player, he had early acquired the nickname “Snowy,” after a famous Yorkshire cricketer. As Rhoades was a bachelor, and had no orders to the contrary, he stayed on to manage the plantation at Lavoro, at the western end of the island.
Geoffrey Kuper was the medical practitioner on Rennell Island at the outbreak of the Pacific war. Brought back to Tulagi when the Japanese began their southward advance, he was at Aola when I took over as district officer on Guadalcanal. As I had a second NMP, I agreed to let Kennedy have him. Young, keen, and energetic, Kuper kept tabs on the enemy and did a great deal of medical work too. But he had to be ready to flee at a moment’s notice: another NMP, Hugh Wheatley, who was dispatched to the Shortlands in March with a teleradio to gather intelligence, was promptly captured by the Japanese. He was never seen again.
Coastwatchers in the Solomon Islands with
Their Call Signs and Locations, 1942
| Coastwatcher | Call Sign | Location |
| C. N. F. Bengough, OBE; Capt., BSIPDF | ZGJ | Malaita (Auki) |
| W. F. M. Clemens, CBE, AM, MC, LOM; Maj., BSIPDF [relieved D. C. Horton, DSC Silver Star, (Br.); Lt., RANVR, 28 February 1942] | ZGJ4 | Eastern Guadalcanal (to August 1942) |
| M. J. Forster; Capt., BSIPDF | ZGJ3 | San Cristobal |
| H. E. Josselyn, Silver Star, DSC (Br.); Lt., RANVR J. H. Keenan, DSC (Br.); Lt., RANVR |
NRY | Vella Lavella (from October 1942) |
| D. G. Kennedy, DSO; Maj., BSIPDF H. Wickham; Sgt., BSIPDF | ZGJ5 | New Georgia |
| D. G. Kennedy
G. H. Kuper, BEM; Sgt., BSIPDF |
ZGJ6 | Ysabel |
| D. S. Macfarlan, DSC (U.S.); Lt. Comdr., RAN K. D. Hay; Sub-Lt., RANVR |
VQJ8 | Central Guadalcanal
(to October 1942) |
| H. A. Mackenzie, LOM; Lt. Cdr., RAN/DSIO | KEN | Central Guadalcanal
(from August 1942) |
| W. S. Marchant, CMG, OBE; Lt. Col., BSIPDF | VQJ | Malaita (resident
commissioner’s HQ) |
| T. O. Sexton, LOM, MID; Lt., RANVR H. W. Bullen; Lt., BSIPDF | ||
| P. E. Mason, DSC (U.S.), DSC (Br.); Lt., RANVR | STO | Southern Bougainville
(to July 1942) |
| A. W. McCasker; Lt., RANVR L. Schroeder | — | Ontong Java
(from December 1942) |
| W. J. Read, DSC (U.S.); Lt., RANVR | JER | Buka Passage, northern
Bougainville |
| L. Schroeder; P.O., RANVR | — | Savo (Nagotana Is.; to May 1942) |
| L. Schroeder (May—September 1942) F. A. Rhoades, DSC (U.S.), Silver Star; Lt., RANVR (to October 1942) |
VQJ10 | Northwestern Guadalcanal |
| A. N. A. Waddell, DSC (Br.); Lt., RANVR C. W. Seton, DCM; Lt., AIF |
DEL | Choiseul (from October 1942) |
| C. E. J. Wilson, district officer Mrs. R. O. Boye, BEM; Hon. 3d officer, WRANS | VQO | Vanikoro |
Don Macfarlan—“Macfarlan of the Glens,” as we christened him—had come up as naval liaison officer in Tulagi. He had not been long in the islands and had no experience of the jungle or the Solomon Islander, but his cheerful disposition was infectious, and with optimism and a sense of humor he overcame everything that both nature and the Japanese could throw at him.
Norman Bengough had to put up with me as assistant for two years. He was not worried at all by the Japanese on Malaita, but in April 1943, while acting as resident commissioner, he went on a reconnaissance in a RNZAF Hudson bomber, and it was shot down and lost with all hands. Bengough was a hard-working, conscientious officer, and his presence would be missed.
Dick Horton, my predecessor as district officer, left the Solomons to join the RAAF, but instead returned in a naval uniform with the U.S. Marines. He did valiant work, and was later put in on Rendova, where he earned the DSC. With him on the Rendova trip went Henry Josselyn, who had been his assistant on Guadalcanal.
Donald Kennedy had the longest spell of all of us in the Solomons. He had far less space in which to maneuver than we did, but in the later stages of the New Georgia campaign he not only had visitors but was flown back to Guadalcanal for consultation. One of Kennedy’s narrowest escapes came when he was out getting supplies in his schooner and found himself face-to-face with a Japanese landing craft. In the best Royal Navy tradition, he opened fire and rammed straight into the barge, which sank, and he got home none the worse. There were no enemy survivors.
Mrs. Ruby Olive Boye was to my knowledge the only lady coastwatcher in the show. She was married to Samuel S. Boye, the manager of the Kauri Timber Company on Vanikoro. We never met, but her voice remains one of my memories: she always sounded so cheerful and imperturbable that it did one good to hear her.
Michael Forster, the district officer at Kira Kira, never had any resident Japanese on his island. He carried on his normal duties throughout the Guadalcanal campaign and stayed on till he was due for leave and a relief was found for him. Kuper did the same.
The rest of us, however, eventually needed maintenance and repair. The resident commissioner, W. S. Marchant, became badly run down and was evacuated, a very sick man. Rhoades and Sexton retired with malaria and ulcers, but soon returned to carry out many another dangerous task. Macfarlan went out with malaria and jaundice, and even Kennedy, tough as he was, was approaching nervous exhaustion when he finally left the Solomons.
I remember seeing, when I first arrived in Tulagi, papers in which we beseeched the British government to let us have some more ammunition and a few automatic weapons. I believe that these were actually on the way, but were diverted to Malaya. Thus, when the statutory British Solomon Islands Protectorate Defence Force was called out in 1941, our only weapons were those of the police. These amounted to not more than one hundred eighty .303-caliber Lee-Enfields and a few Lewis guns, most of which were in Tulagi. As a result, when we expanded our various forces, we could not arm them until someone arrived with some weapons we could “borrow.”
When I took over as district officer on Guadalcanal, the police detachment had a total strength of nine.3 Corporal Andrew Langabaea was in charge, with Lance Corporal Koimate as second in command. I had two constables first class, Beato and Peli; three second class, Kao, Deke, and Chaparuka; and two third class, Londoviko and Chimi. They were the only ones who had had any form of military or disciplinary training. Together with my medical practitioner, a Fijian, and my senior clerk, from the western Solomons, Andrew and his men were the backbone of the system.
As a policeman Andrew had been regarded as rather slow, but his steadfastness and loyalty under miserable conditions earned him the British Empire Medal. Promoted sergeant major, he went in with me in the first wave at Rendova in 1943, and was wounded in the shoulder. For that action he was awarded the Purple Heart, a decoration normally reserved for U.S. military personnel.
The first two recruits I signed on, in February 1942, were Dovu and Garimani. The former was a stocky bushman with an infectious twinkle in his eye. He was a square peg in a round hole when it came to parade ground work, but he feared nothing, had a sure aim, and could pick up a trail like the proverbial Indian. On patrols he was always there when the shooting started, and I shall never forget that wicked look as, pushing rounds into his magazine, he would mutter, “B’long Japan ’ere.” There were four other notable recruits in the early days: Bunga, a former company sergeant major at police headquarters; Vura; Gumu; and Chaku. All four later ran patrols or small actions on their own.
We had twelve police rifles, my .22 Winchester, and a couple of pistols to start with. Seven rifles, left behind by the RAAF, were rescued in the nick of time, together with several boxes of very useful ammunition. Gradually, through such additions to our armory, we were able to arm the other government servants, such as gardeners, clerks, hospital dressers, and store workers. They carried on their jobs where possible, and became our “Home Guard.” Our recruits had to get rifles from the Japanese—if they could!
Eroni Leauli, the medical practitioner, dispersed his drugs around the island, and until they ran out he operated several dispensaries. In between times, he reported whatever information came to hand and kept up morale amongst the Solomon Islanders.
My senior clerk, to whom I have referred above, was Daniel Pule (pronounced Pooláy). He was awarded the British Empire Medal for his excellent work in debriefing those bringing in information and compiling it into clear, well-arranged reports, which were sent by runner up to me in the hills. Daniel was also responsible for feeding the multitude and for keeping a record of what he did.
Bingiti, who had recently completed his training as a Native Agricultural Instructor, organized and ran the Tulagi and Nggela party. This entailed considerable risk, not only in getting onto Tulagi itself but in returning with the information across miles of open sea in a tiny one-man canoe. Although I have seen him as green as I felt on occasion, Bingiti normally wore a pleasant smile. He was awarded the Legion of Merit for a smart piece of work on a patrol with the U.S. 25th Division behind Munda in 1943.
Laena, the bosun of the cutter Lofung, was one of my trustier irregulars. He came from Faisi, in the Shortlands, and was much darker than the Guadalcanal men. Laena had been detailed to guard our little ships, secreted in the mangrove swamps at Marau Sound. A party of Japs spent several weeks there, and when they moved up he came too, and brought an accurate list of all their weapons.
Kimbo and Subaliligi were two of the hospital dressers. Both did good work, especially Kimbo, who coaxed some Jap soldiers into an ambush by selling them a fowl, then returned with their rifles and the fowl. Buru, another hospital dresser, opened a coast watch in the Russell Islands with Dick Horton in October 1942.
Li-oa, my gardener, had come with me from San Cristobal; owing to his quiet and retiring nature, he had been nicknamed Leo, the lion, by one of the planters. When he could no longer attend to formal gardens, he grew food in many impossible places. Later he became adept at slipping through Japanese lines with messages. True to the courage of his nickname, Li-oa volunteered for the landing at Rendova, and there he gave his life for his country.
Apart from those I have mentioned, there were only two others who had had any training. These were Anea and Tabasui. Anea, a mouse of a man, was the warder of the prison at Aola. He became the leader of the convict supply train to my bush headquarters, wherever that happened to be. Many times he was nearly swept away by flooded rivers, and once he became so paralyzed with fright that he could not walk, and had to be carried from the scene.
Tabasui was a totally different sort of chap. He came from our headquarters prison in Tulagi with a string of long-service convicts, all murderers. Tabasui exerted an iron discipline upon his charges by giving long lectures on the virtues of discipline. Later we found that his gift of the gab was not entirely suited to reporting, but stick him in a tight spot and he’d turn up trumps.
With the trained men as a skeleton force, each village on or near the coast was expected to report any strange sights or happenings. The scouts on coastal duty spent most of their time seeing that this was done, and teaching the villagers to be accurate. Corporal Koimate’s role was to collect information from the village coast watch in front of him and report it to either Macfarlan or me, depending on the urgency.
Recruits were brought in to my bush headquarters, releasing others for scouting details elsewhere. They were well trained, first for local security, then in the accurate observation and estimation of enemy ships, planes, and actions, and, later, of parties, numbers, and equipment. This process became continuous.
When Rhoades set up business, I could spare him only two of my regulars, Peli and Chaparuka. To these he added two of his own recruits, Tuaveku and Kabini, both reliable men; for the rest he relied on the local headmen and the village coast watch, which was established right round the island.
By the time the Marines arrived, the organization had got into shape, and in November it numbered about seventy-five scouts in four sections. These represented the responsible people in each area of occupied Guadalcanal during the vital stages of the campaign. The village coast watch was their supplementary eyes and ears, and their grapevine telephone service. Each section could call upon sixty or more reliable men, who were prepared to turn out for anything in the way of guiding or scouting, carrying supplies or ammunition, or getting out the wounded. It was impossible to keep records of these splendid fellows, but they played their part in passing the Marines about the jungle, arranging contact with the enemy, and collecting pilots, both Allied and Japanese. By the time the high commissioner came up, in December 1942, we had about four hundred scouts on the payroll.
To the tourist, Guadalcanal would be quite a large island. For those of us who had to hide there, however, it soon appeared to be woefully small. Although there were quite a few of us tucked away, with no roads, and with boat travel restricted, each group was virtually isolated. In fact, there were two strong reasons for maintaining this isolation. One was that the supply of European foodstuffs was fast running out. The other was that those of us who were reporting had to keep apart, both to see more and to keep the show going in case we were surprised by the enemy.
In Rhoades’s area, at the western end of the island, were three mission stations: Visale, near Cape Esperance, to his right; Maravovo, to his left; and Tangarare, farther down the west coast, near Cape Beaufort. Visale was the headquarters of the Marist Mission, which was under a bishop of the Roman Catholic Church. The Right Reverend Jean Marie Aubin came from France, for which he had fought in World War I. He was a man of character, whose courage I admired. Bishop Aubin took the view, to which he was entitled, that he was a neutral, and there was therefore no question of his evacuating his headquarters. We had many friendly but determined discussions on the subject, for I felt that I could not be responsible for his safety if he remained at the coast. In the event, he stayed, together with Fathers Scanlon, McMahon, and Wall; several lay brothers; and a considerable number of sisters.
The Reverend Leslie Stibbard was in charge of the Melanesian Mission station at Maravovo. He and his assistant, Frederick Rowley, ran a boys’ school and looked after the mission printing press, which caused us all great concern at one stage. At Tangarare, Father Emery de Klerk was ordered by the bishop to leave, but somehow contrived to miss the boat. From then on, in close cooperation with my scouts and the local islanders, he carried out many useful offensive operations.
It would be appropriate here to mention Leif Schroeder. An Australian, Lafe was an old “shellback” who had arrived in the islands in a square-rigged ship. He had run small vessels and prospected for various minerals, and when I arrived on Guadalcanal was keeping a trading store on Savo Island. Although I did not know about it till later, he was given a WT set by the RAAF chaps, to warn them of the arrival of enemy planes. Lafe was not an unqualified success on the teleradio, though, as he was very deaf.
In addition to managing Berande plantation, Ken Hay had assumed command of the corporate effects of Burns Philp, which had considerable properties on Guadalcanal and much merchandise in Tulagi. He also had the last case of whiskey on the island, and we had to be very polite to him! Before communications dried up, Ken was running a hot paper war, with the resident commissioner and his firm, over the latter’s affairs. When I got notes from him he used to report progress on this, with evident satisfaction or disgust.
When the evacuation came, most of the professional miners and prospectors made their way south. There remained behind three old hands, who decided that they would go on working their leases. These were F. M. Campbell, a burly Australian, who had retired from the police force to run his plantation on San Cristobal; A. M. “Andy” Andresen, a Swedish former master mariner, who had a plantation on Ulawa Island; and H. Freshwater, usually known to his friends as “Bilge,” who was an Englishman.
When sailing eastward along the north coast from Berande, one passed the village of Tasimboko on the shore, and then rounded Taivu Point. After this one was sailing southeast, and the next habitation worthy of notice was Ruavatu, another Catholic center. This was presided over by Father H. Engberink, who came from Holland. His assistant was Father Arthur C. Duhamel, from Massachusetts; there were also three sisters, Sylvia, Odilia, and Edmée. Led by Father Engberink, who was determined not to leave Ruavatu, they stubbornly refused all our efforts to evacuate them.
Continuing east past the Aola government station, one came to Rere plantation, where Frank Keeble stayed during the early days. Some miles beyond Rere is the Kau Kau River, the banks of which had been turned into a coconut plantation by Clarence E. Hart. Hart did not think that the enemy would bother him, so he carried on producing copra until he could no longer get laborers to work for him, and then retired up the Kau Kau. He was affectionately known as “Concrete Clarry,” after a very funny story about him. Apparently he fancied himself an engineer, for he constructed a concrete culvert on his plantation. It looked very nice until the rains came, and then it was soon washed away, as he had forgotten to make a hole for the water to pass through!
At the eastern end of Guadalcanal is another island, Marau. On the mainland opposite was another Catholic station, which had been ordered by the bishop to remain. Father Jean Coicaud was in charge, assisted by Father P. van Mechelin. There were also three Australian lay brothers, Brother Ervan (P. J. McDonough), Brother James (Richard L. Thrift), and Brother Ephrem (Ephrem Stevens).
Brother James used to get messages to me from time to time, and it was through him that I passed any messages for the local islanders. When, early in 1943, the missionaries’ evacuation was arranged, he sent me detailed instructions how to find their last bottle of brandy, which he had buried in the garden in case anyone passed that way again. It was a sweet and thoughtful gesture, which I found deeply touching.
Father Jean Boudard, a dear old man who knew, from his French upbringing, how to live on the land and take with a thankful heart what God gave him, was unharmed throughout the occupation and continued to minister to the south coast people at the Avu Avu mission station. Once I sent him a note saying we were getting rather hungry up in the mountains; though his reply took four days to reach me, attached to it, in a piece of newspaper, were a piece of his excellent French bread and a piece of his home-cured bacon! The bread would have been excellent, but for the fungus that had grown on it en route. There was nothing wrong with the bacon.
What concerned me most about Bishop Aubin’s decision to remain neutral was that his stations had the birth registers, with the names of all the people in the area. The Japanese were trying to compile a register of everyone on the island; if they had demanded the birth records the missionaries would not have been able to refuse them. As it turned out they did not, but had they ever put together such a list, and then issued a no-movement order, I would have had to close down or greatly modify our scouting system.
Round thy mysterious islet, and behold
Surf and great mountains and loud river bars,
And from the shore hear island voices call.
—Robert Louis Stevenson
Owing to the great distances between islands, communication and transport in the Solomons had always been by way of sturdy cutters and schooners, capable of riding out the worst storms and of sailing should an engine break down. The islanders, who are famous for their wonderful oceangoing canoes holding up to sixty people, preferred our little ships when it came to carrying cargo.
They varied greatly in size, shape, and condition. Most skippers took immense pride in a smart ship, but we had our “traveling dustbins,” especially amongst the Chinese traders. The government had a considerable fleet of vessels, all of different sizes. Let there be no misunderstanding, however: our ships were very small, the largest being not more than twenty tons burden.
The government vessels—there was one in each district, plus several at Tulagi—were wooden craft varying in length from thirty to sixty feet.4 They had Gardner diesel engines, easy for an islander to run, which gave them a speed of six to seven knots. They also had full sets of sails, which we used at every opportunity, except when negotiating tricky passages in coral reefs.
Largest of these was the Tulagi, the resident commissioner’s ship. A topsail schooner about sixty feet long, she had a hold for cargo, a galley forward, and a commodious cabin aft, with showers and modern conveniences. Tulagi had beautiful lines above the water, and elegant topmasts, but she rolled like an old sea cow, and her worm-eaten stern was reinforced with concrete. During the occupation, her beautiful white-enameled sides were painted black to render her less conspicuous, and she was stationed at Malaita.
The Ramada was the pride of the district officer, Guadalcanal. She was about forty-eight feet in length and had a useful schooner rig. With the foremast set, she used to get along very well. Ramada took it green over the bows in a rough sea, but was really quite unsinkable. She had the same sort of accommodation as Tulagi.
Wai-ai, the Ysabel district officer’s vessel, was similar in rig to the Ramada. Unfortunately, she was discovered laid up in a mangrove swamp and burnt out by the enemy. The Gizo, which had been stationed in the district of that name, had gone to Malaita when the place was evacuated. She was more of a launch, and best suited for lagoon work.
The G. F. Jones, named for a leading Seventh-Day Adventist, had been the flagship of the SDA mission. About forty-eight feet in length and of considerable beam, she was notable in that she had been built entirely of local timber by Solomon Islanders at the mission headquarters at Bilua in the Marovo Lagoon, southern New Georgia. After we began to use her for Marine reconnaissance parties, she was soon rechristened Franklin D. Roosevelt Jones.
Hing-Li and Kokerana were Chinese trading schooners of more or less traditional design. They were about forty-five feet long, and carried about fifteen tons of cargo. The former was sailed to the New Hebrides after she had done very useful work for me.
The Ruana, one of the largest schooners in the Protectorate, belonged to the Fairymead Sugar Company, which owned plantations on Malaita. She was hardly longer than the Tulagi, but she had a greater draft and was well fitted out, with a powerful diesel engine. Ruana was notable for the remarkable voyage that Butcher Johnstone5 made in her to the New Hebrides. She was there, doing outpost communication work, when some bright spark ran her on a reef late in 1943. Too bad—she would have been very useful back in the Solomons.
Kombito was a large and fast vessel, the property of Lever Brothers. They used her for recruiting, and for repatriating laborers to their home islands. She had a crude oil diesel engine, which emitted dense smoke from an exhaust trained up one of the masts. In 1939–40, when there were German raiders in the Pacific, the Kombito, with her smoke plume trailing over the horizon, gave more than a few planters a nasty scare.
The Guinair, also known as the Gynia, was a queer, launchlike craft that had been a flying-boat tender for New Guinea Airways. She was grossly overloaded and sailed down from Bougainville by a group of refugees, flying before the storm. Taken over by the AIF, she was left at Marau Sound when they evacuated the Solomons.
Lo-ai, a. small cutter with half a deck and cabin top, was sailed down from the Shortlands, where she had belonged to one of the firms operating there. She was in harm’s way on innumerable occasions, but seemed to have a charmed life.
The Rob Roy belonged to C. H. V. (Viv) Hodgess, who owned Paruru plantation on Guadalcanal. She was laid up in the mangrove swamps at Marau Sound. Unfortunately, when we got her out again, in November 1942, her stern gland leaked, and she kept sinking.
Some of these ships were very pleasant on which to travel; some were frightful. It depended upon the vessel’s age, and where the engine was placed. The weather, too, could be most trying: when it was good, it was very, very good, but when it was bad, it was horrid—in fact, so horrid sometimes that I would sit on the poop in a chair lashed to the rail, just waiting for it all to finish!
By November, when we had found that they could do all manner of vital things, most of the schooners had machine guns mounted fore and aft, and large white stars painted on their awnings or cabins to identify them for our own aircraft. These little ships were extremely useful—and often extremely lucky not to be blown out of the water by the enemy. At all times they were manned by native bosuns and crews. The Solomon Islanders, born and bred to the sea and used to canoes, were excellent and intrepid sailors, who would confidently take their vessels through the narrowest passage in the dark, if it was necessary; and there is no doubt that we could not have done without them.