AFTER THE OUTBREAK of war in Europe, the younger members of the administration longed to escape the fretting inactivity of the Solomons and do something more active, preferably in a military capacity. Hence, like the other junior district officers, I was frustrated that I couldn’t join up. On the whole I had enjoyed my term of duty and had had some interesting experiences, but we could not see why we should continue to go round, holding court and collecting tax, when there was a war on at home. Had we not been in the Officers Training Corps at school? Had we not obtained certificates in tactics, and mastered company drill?
Consequently, when war was declared, Norman Bengough and I immediately wrote to offer our services to His Majesty. In reply we received only an acknowledgment. It soon became clear that the colonial establishment would not let us go, as our numbers were just the minimum required to run the Protectorate; all we were told, however, was that we were in a reserved occupation.
The final blow to our self-esteem was a circular that came round, informing us that if we did take French leave and get away we would incur a grave risk of not being reinstated after the war. This pronouncement got us all rather disgusted and very bitter.1 Little did we know how soon the war would be at our doorstep.
Later on we again offered our services and asked for release for joining up overseas. (At that point we had not begun to think much about the Japanese.) The reply from officialdom was the same: we were in a reserved occupation.
November 1941, and I had spent over a year in charge of San Cristobal, having passed the cadet’s apprenticeship and learned the administrative game. There I felt even more out of things: it was a much smaller, more isolated district, where one might not see another European for months on end. Normally, on completion of three years’ resident service, one was eligible for six months’ home leave; as my tour of duty was due to end, I put in for it.
The growing threat of war in the Pacific wrote paid to that hoped-for vacation. After much pushing and shoving, however, and a trip to Tulagi to plead my case, I wangled three months’ “local” leave in Australia, “on medical grounds.” Happy to escape the backwater of San Cristobal, I booked passage to Australia on the Malaita. At Tulagi, our “Home Guard,” still without weapons, was training like mad: people at last had begun to realize that Japan might enter the war. But everyone seemed to agree that if she did the war in the Solomons would be over in a matter of hours, and that there was not much use in staying on if one could get away.
As I stood near the rail, watching Tulagi and the other lush green islands fade from view, I recalled with mixed feelings the lighthearted days of my last three years. The old hands said that the best view of the islands was from the stern of the steamer, and yet they always came back again. To me, it seemed futile to go to Australia, but it seemed just as futile to stay behind.
Such was the state of affairs when the ship arrived in Sydney on 7 December. From the papers we learned that Pearl Harbor was a flaming wreck. Jack Keenan, a patrol officer from New Guinea, joined me at the stern rail—there seemed to be no point in going ashore. What on earth would happen now? After solemnly debating the situation, we tore up a one-pound note apiece and cast them out into the harbor. I did not foresee needing them much longer.
We found Sydney in a complete panic. No one appeared to know anything, with one exception: all the armed forces recruiting agencies had been informed that cadets and officers of the Western Pacific administrations were not to be taken on. There seemed to be nothing to do until I got a return voyage to Tulagi or knew definitely that I could not go back to the islands.
Anxious to play some small role in the defense effort, I became a volunteer ARP subwarden; but after a week, with not even a practice alarm, and no equipment except a yellow armband, I gave it up. Then I tried to join up again; this time, as the news got worse and worse, the RAN seemed a bit keener to have me. Capt. H. M. Newcomb, RN, who was taking in chaps for training as Asdic officers, was persuaded to allow me to fill in a form. He was a little more enthusiastic when we found we had been at the same school.
My orders, though, were still to return to the Solomons, on the first available transport. I found some satisfaction in the fact that all civilian shipping had been requisitioned, and that the Malaita was now a trooper.
Everything changed on 22 January 1942, when the Japanese bombed Tulagi. It hadn’t taken them long, I thought, to get to us, but as we had seen their reconnaissance planes in the Solomons back in November I did not feel that it meant very much. Mine was apparently the minority view, however, for after that matters rapidly came to a head. The dear old Burns Philp steamer Morinda was pulled off the Lord Howe and Norfolk run and gotten ready for an emergency trip to the Solomons. A coal burner, almost thirty years old, she always left a long smoke trail in her wake, so it was with some reluctance that I prepared to return to the islands.
On Friday, 30 January, some friends gave me a farewell party at Sydney’s leading night spot, Prince’s. An air of gloom hung over everything, and the sad farewells made me feel that, though I was the one going, the others felt far worse about it than I did. Or, perhaps, they just thought I was potty.
The next day, having got no instructions from the hierarchy, I boarded Morinda with two other Tulagi-bound passengers, Jack Blaikie and Victor Shearwin—Police and Treasury, respectively. It seemed rather past the time for police work or collecting taxes. The crew, who were jumpy, refused to sail until we got a third cook; we waited five hours while they shanghaied one ashore.
At last we were at sea. I for one was glad of it, since the question of my status had at least been settled, if not exactly to my satisfaction. Unfortunately, we did not get the wireless news on board, so we could not be sure what was happening. As things were moving so quickly, we might even find Tulagi occupied by the enemy. The young purser, Harry Lukin, fondly imagined that he could defend the Morinda with our only armament—a Vickers gun, mounted atop the bridge; the way the vessel flapped and creaked in the choppy sea, I thought one bomb would shake her apart.
A restlessness now pervaded the ship. Her master, Captain Rothery, and crew were very keyed up—Morinda was carrying fuel and bombs for the RAAF at Tanambogo—and we were so defenseless that I felt almost naked. The black uncertainty was appalling: no one liked being alone, and men betrayed their nervousness by talking too much. I became certain of something I should already have realized, that the captain had orders to evacuate women and children, and possibly men too. Why, then, were we going back?
Sunday morning, 8 February, was nice and sunny as we steamed up between Guadalcanal and Nggela toward Tulagi. Again there was that feeling of helplessness, and my stomach was tied in knots; it was only when we saw the Kombito standing off that the tension was relieved. I had to laugh at Macfarlan, in his white naval uniform and tin hat, with full web equipment dangling all round him. With his gray, drawn face, he was ready for a dirty night—and it looked as if he’d had one. There were also some RAAF men, armed to the teeth, and Father Wall, who appeared just plain scared.
This military demonstration, we discovered, was prompted by a Japanese bombing raid, which was due at 1100. It was now 1045, and suddenly the sunny grin was off our faces. Lukin went aloft to ready his little gun; I didn’t think it would be of much use.
Slowly the Morinda steamed up Mboli Passage, and maneuvered as close to the mangroves as possible. Captain Rothery stopped the engines, and the awful, eerie quiet on board, as we faced, defenseless, our first bombing, was almost unbearable. All were hoping it was a mistake, but at 1100 to the second a shout rang out: “There she is—to the northward.” We were told to lie down. A fat lot of good what you did.
The next few minutes were hell. It was a four-engined Kawanisi flying boat, said the experts, and it circled twice while we waited. We felt he couldn’t miss; but, thank God, he did. The captain, peering through his binoculars, gave “Bombs away!” I didn’t bother to look. The plane went over, and then the bombs—four in line, about fifty yards on the port bow. Then the awful waiting while he circled—four more, but farther off, and astern. Lukin opened up with his Vickers—it sounded like an automatic peashooter. The Kawanisi, of course, was just high enough to be out of range. He circled again, then went off at last.
Mac, his sense of humor undamaged, broke the silence: “Well, by George, I was the first down!” Rothery didn’t want to stay, but at length we exited the passage and tied up at Gavutu.
The presence of many island vessels confirmed that we had arrived in the midst of a general evacuation. To this day, the memory of the scene on the wharf has remained with me—drawn faces, no islanders in sight, and piles of luggage and unpacked belongings. My first order of business was to report to the resident commissioner, so I got a launch and went over to Tulagi.
I found the place in a state of hysteria. The police force had been discharged, and Lever’s had taken out its people on the Kurimarau.2 Now everyone was looking out for himself, and looting appeared imminent. Worse, the resident commissioner was ignorant of the enemy threat: I suggested I return to San Cristobal, but Marchant said I must either go to Gizo or leave on the ship. The former course of action was out of the question, for the Japanese were already in the Shortlands. I saw Waddell and Miller,3 who had demolished their stations and evacuated the western Solomons. Both said it was sheer idiocy to return to Gizo now.
Reluctantly, I returned and told the resident commissioner that I would be leaving, as I had already signed up with the RAN. I tried to get my gear, but all the offices were deserted. The general opinion was that the Japs would take only a few days to come down from Bougainville. The Solomon Islanders, on the other hand, seemed bewildered. Why couldn’t we do something? Why send the rifles south? Well, I supposed, if senior men thought defense was useless, it might well be.
A typewritten letter from Ken Hay describes the chaos that ensued as people fled before the expected arrival of the Japanese:
4th. February 1942.
The Manager
Messrs Burns Philp and Co. Ltd.
SYDNEY.
Dear Sir,
After the departure of your Makambo staff for Australia I visited Tulagi to obtain stores and upon my arrival at Makambo I found that all administrative and police control had ceased after a few bombs had been dropped on Tulagi and that the locks of the Makambo stores had been broken and the stores looted. . . .
As there was no Burns Philp representative at Makambo I decided to remove all remaining stores to Berande for safety. So far I have removed a large portion of the stores and am continuing to carry on with this work whilst the opportunity still offers and will forward you in due course a list of the goods removed.
All your important ledgers, cash books etc have been sealed and cased and will be forwarded to you under the personal care of Mr. J. A. Johnstone by first opportunity.
Pending further instructions from you I am carrying on your store business from here and invoicing goods to known clients. . . .
I have secured your current invoice book and am forwarding with Mr. Johnstone copies of invoices as from the 24th of December 1941 to date.
If it is your wish that I continue with the work that I am carrying on I shall be glad if you will radio me all necessary authority and also notify the Government as at present I have no proper authority. I will go to Makambo to attend to shipping of produce etc if any ship arrives provided I can obtain labour to do the loading. I will be taking in approximately 3000 lbs of rubber to ship and will continue to produce rubber here and copra also if labour is available.
I have no cash to pay wages with but perhaps you could make arrangements to forward some if opportunity offers.
Your Faisi and Gizo staffs have arrived at Makambo and I understand that both stores have been destroyed. The following ships are at Makambo: Lowoi, Loefung, Maravo and Salicana. It is my intention to take over these ships and endeavour to remove all your benzine, kerosene and oil stocks out here and put them inland and build leaf houses over them. After this has been completed I will find hideouts for the ships and leave crews and rations with them.
I would like to place on record the invaluable help which has been given to me by Mr. J. A. Johnstone and Mr. C. V. Widdy in evacuating your stores and I have asked the former to call and give you first hand information on the matter. . . .
Yours faithfully
/s/K.D.Hay
I went back to Gavutu. The evacuees were all at Makambo, but Captain Rothery had refused to come in that far. With things so disorganized, there was an awful shambles getting them over to Gavutu. Then Rothery refused to take people without tickets, absurd in such a crisis. Johnson and Blake4 tried to get on board to tell him that Morinda was a government charter, but they were turned away. Finally the captain agreed to take a certain number.
Blake made an arbitrary list of those going and remaining. I was to remain, along with several other men; Blake, though younger than they, was careful to include himself amongst the evacuees. A near riot ensued, as the panic-stricken crowd rushed to elbow its way on board; one fellow, a doctor, had his shoulder dislocated in the melee. Ken Hay, who also was staying, had words with a plantation man who was to be left behind, and who moaned on and on about how his wife would be all alone in Sydney without him. Fed up with his complaining, Hay, whose own wife had been evacuated to Australia in December, snapped, “Sneak back up on the gangway”—which the man, leaving his luggage behind, promptly did. Glad to leave the ship after witnessing such a disgusting display, I returned by launch to an empty Tulagi; by that time our last touch with civilization, however ignoble and uncivil, had sailed away.
The resident commissioner, who had decided to relocate to Malaita, again asked me to go to Gizo: he was convinced that the Japs would come no farther than the Shortlands. Marchant had his orderly and one servant left; the Bishop of Melanesia, Walter H. Baddeley, also had decided to stay with him. I gave the bishop a pair of shoes—I felt I might not need them much longer.
At 1000 on 10 February, as the AIF began blowing up civilian marine stores, I left for Auki in the Gizo. Chinatown was the scene of much looting that day, as its residents frantically left Tulagi in overloaded cutters and schooners. I found Bengough very smug, however—he seemed to think he could carry on indefinitely, without even preparing a withdrawal. His refusal to face reality was maddening. I could not stand it, so I returned to Tulagi.
Finding the resident commissioner alone, I told him that Gizo definitely was not on. Finally, Marchant, no doubt having realized that he needed every hand he could get, offered me either Malaita or Guadalcanal; I chose the latter, as Horton and Josselyn held views similar to mine, though I knew that the former wanted to go off and join the RAAF. I was given no instructions, policy, or plan, other than “act as Intelligence Officer”; so I presumed that, with God’s help and a toothbrush, we would do what we could.
The next day, after loading the Ramada with fuel oil, Henry Josselyn and I shared a tinned lunch on board with Ken Hay and Butcher Johnstone before weighing anchor at 1500 for Guadalcanal. Tulagi looked ghastly—every place was littered with smashed crockery and furniture. We tried to stop some Solomon Islanders who were loading canoes full of loot, but it was useless; Hay and Johnstone, who were going back to Berande plantation, were both very bitter about the way the evacuation had been handled.
En route, I said cheerio to the RAAF boys at Tanambogo. Their four Catalinas, and the AIF detachment that guarded their installations, were now our one slim line of defense in the face of the enemy.5