WITH THE JAPANESE NAVY subdued, equipment and gear rolled in every day, and many new units made their appearance. When I could get away from D-2, I dashed madly from one headquarters to another explaining the local setup and answering questions about bush warfare. Continuous air raids and night shelling were things of the past, and we almost became enthusiastic at the thought of having everything needed to defeat the enemy. There was always “Washing Machine Charlie,” but we could still laugh at him, although occasionally some unfortunate was killed. We began to think, rather cautiously and without speaking about it, that the day had almost come when we could leave things to someone else.
Thursday, 27 November, was Thanksgiving Day, my knowledge of which was restricted to what I had learned from my history books. The pundits at D-2 were arguing whether the day appointed by President Roosevelt was the correct historical date or not. I was very busy that day, and had not thought very much about its significance, so when I arrived late at the mess I found everyone “with their feet well in the trough.”
I was confronted by a huge—repeat, huge—plate of turkey, cranberry sauce, real live spuds, and pumpkin pie, and everyone was doing what Macfarlan would have called “giving it a nudge.” I licked the platter clean, and did likewise to an almost larger second helping. Afterward there was apple pie, with real apples and, of course, real pastry! I sat back, bloated but bewildered, not quite sure whether it was true. If it was, I could give thanks for the first real, normal meal in months and months; if not, it was a most satisfying dream! I heard that they had made a special point of getting the ingredients up in time. This was, of course, achieved only by air; but it was certainly worth it, to judge from the happy Marine faces around me. Back at D-2 there was no other topic of conversation. Howard, incorrigible as usual, said, “Gee, captain, why don’t you all celebrate Thanksgiving Day in England?” There was an amused silence as I racked my brains for a reply. The joke was on him, for all I could find to say was “We didn’t have to leave!” Everyone roared.
By the end of the month, I had more or less caught up with arrears of reports and other paperwork, thanks to the great assistance of David Trench. We also had paid off, on 23 November, the first lot of Solomon Islanders who had labored so valiantly down at the beach. They had been asked to work for only one month. Owing to the lack of proper records, the payout took far longer than expected, and it was pitch dark before we finished. Some of the men said they had not expected pay for their share in beating the Japanese, but I deemed it best to pay them all and save arguments afterward.
David and I had an anxious moment or two. We were assisted by Capt. Freddy (“Big Bad”) Wolf, one of the D-2 officers, who was no more an accountant than Trench or I. The three of us counted a hundred pounds in silver shillings several times and all got different answers. When we finally gave up, there was a general agreement that we were ten pounds short. In the morning, after we had been through all the lists, we found that we had paid off more men than we thought, and all was found correct!
On the twenty-ninth I got word from the resident commissioner that the high commissioner for the Western Pacific was coming from Fiji to pay us a visit on 2 December. I had to make all the arrangements. I spent a whole day trying to get an amphibian plane, which could land in the harbor at Auki, to go and collect Mr. Marchant, who was to be with us for the visit. Major Sampas,1 the responsible officer at 1st Marine Air Wing and a great friend of coastwatchers, with the best will in the world, did his utmost; but the three available planes all had holes in them, and it took a lot of hard labor to get one good one into the air.
I suddenly realized I had to smarten myself up. That meant I’d have to get some shoulder tabs somewhere, if I wanted to wear my beautiful new pips, and shave off my beard. The beard was the easier job: there were several willing helpers around with map scissors, and it was soon off, to the accompaniment of a lot of jovial leg pulling. I must say I felt quite strange without it! The shoulder tabs weren’t so easy, but we managed somehow, and the mob at D-2 decided that I would pass muster, but only just.
On the day appointed, the Duck behaved itself and the resident commissioner arrived safely about breakfast time. He was quite disappointed to find me almost properly dressed, except for headgear, and the beard gone. About 1200 the high commissioner, Sir Philip Mitchell, duly landed on Henderson Field with his staff in an RNZAF Catalina. He also wanted to know where the beard had gone. Back at division headquarters, Sir Philip impressed General Vandegrift greatly by presenting him with a huge flask of whiskey. On the general’s protesting that he could not accept all of Sir Philip’s stock, the latter replied, quite nonchalantly, “Oh, it’s quite all right. I’ve got another one just the same size.”
There followed much feverish discussion of plans for what was now called “The Solomon Islands War Effort,” in big capitals. In the late afternoon, I took Sir Philip round to the native camp, where he inspected the few scouts who were not out on duty. They remained stolidly at attention, at order arms. As I had expected, he commented on it; I was ready with the reply that, though they could all shoot straight, there had been no time to teach them rifle drill. Then too, instead of bayonets they were all wearing bush knives in rawhide scabbards with the hair still on, and consequently could not fix bayonets either!
Appearing satisfied with my reply, Sir Philip then told me he had heard from General Vandegrift that my lads had killed a very satisfactory number of Japanese. “Look here, young Clemens,” he said, “you realize you’ve been killing Japs without a license?” For a moment I didn’t understand. “Well, General Vandegrift says you have four hundred armed men and are doing a damned fine job.” “Yes, sir,” I replied, “but it’s up to you.” He told me to cheer up, that he had decided to regularize the situation by gazetting my scouting organization as a special battalion of the Defence Force, and would soon be sending me three British cadets who had done their military training and some Fijians and New Zealanders who had been trained as commandos. Then the high commissioner asked me an awkward question: how had I been paying the scouts and laborers up to date? I told him that, early on in the piece, I had seized all the evacuees’ money and paid everyone in advance as far as I could. “Since then, sir,” I said, “I have ‘arranged’ to get them paid up to the end of November, and if arrangements can be made to pay them henceforth, no difficulties will arise on that account.” (The general knew quite well that I had asked him for some Australian silver to pay cargo unloaders and had signed for ten thousand pounds “for intelligence received.” But I wasn’t putting that on the books!) Sir Philip looked straight at me, and I saw a ghost of a twinkle in his eye. “All right, you young devil,” he said. And that was that. We moved on to the native labor setup, and I explained how they were getting the rations and ammunition ashore and up to the front, and how they brought casualties back from the front line. I introduced Hart and Johnstone, and Sir Philip talked to some of the islanders.
Later on in the day, I was called to General Vandegrift’s hut. Sir Philip told me that the general was very pleased with what we had accomplished and, as the Marines would be moving out shortly, had suggested that I be given some leave. He had accepted the general’s suggestion, and approved the leave; would I get ready to depart Guadalcanal with him in the morning? “Yes, sir,” I replied weakly, hardly appreciating what it meant.
I walked back to D-2 almost in a dream. I could hardly control my feelings. Was I really leaving the island? I could hardly comprehend that the long ordeal was really over, or was it? We had got used to being left alone with our troubles. Going on leave? It would be only as far as Australia. I had no plans, but I could foresee a long program of eating ahead. That was about all our battered brains could think of!
I spent the whole night talking with the mob at D-2. Their ideas of how I should spend my leave were pretty lurid, and they all wanted to come too! Joking apart, we had all got used to each other, faced danger, made plans, and been on “shows” together; I felt as though I were leaving Colonel Buckley and the Marines to do it, although I knew that their days on the island were numbered too. There wasn’t very much packing to do, and I joyfully handed over the sheaves of signals and letters that were our records. David Trench carried on the good work.
To Andrew and Daniel, who had come up for the occasion, I bid a sad farewell, giving them messages for Vouza, and Eroni, and all my gallant section leaders, true veterans of Guadalcanal. Without their wonderful assistance, I certainly would not have survived to tell the tale. I was rather sad at missing young Dovu, who as I have mentioned had been brought back from Suagi on 1 November with a bullet through his shoulder. He had been amazingly lucky. It had passed just under his collarbone, struck nothing vital, and passed out through his shoulder blade, leaving a neat hole the size of a silver dollar. I had managed to see him only once in hospital, for the blighter, as soon as the surface of his wounds had healed, had “gone over the hill” and reported for duty with Vouza and the Raiders! He was still doing a great job. Michael, my personal retainer and cook to the Aola expedition, was quite overcome by the occasion, but he had Suinao for company, and he intended to await my return at Aola.
As for the civilians, most of the Roman Catholic missionaries had gone south or over to Malaita. Sister Edmée had safely reached Aola, in convoy with Campbell, whose cutter had come from San Cristobal to collect him; there Father de Theye from Avu Avu had met her and taken her to Malaita. Father de Klerk was still helping the scouts at Tangarare. Brother James Thrift was looking after the mission property at Marau; Eroni and Adams were still checking on submarines nearby. At Avu Avu, old Father Boudard, having managed to avoid every opportunity for evacuation, carried on his life’s work, quite independent of wars and civilization.
The schooner service was running smoothly. Six or more were now running stores and personnel to coastwatchers and small boats, and bringing back pilots from Malaita, San Cristobal, and Ysabel. They also traveled up and down from Aola to Lunga, thereby releasing Navy boat crews and craft for other jobs.
Sir Philip’s Catalina took off at 0900 on 3 December. As we moved off down the runway, I sat in the gun blister aft and had my last view of Wimpy, Koepplinger, Howard and Massaro, Michael, and, of course, our revered colonel. I felt very sad leaving “Buckley’s crystal ball outfit,” as when I returned it would be gone, never to be the same again. Our battered plot, the CACTUS area, looked very strange from the air. Queer new growths were appearing amongst the old familiar shell holes.
There was an air of finality about that departure, for though there would be many more scraps the worst was over on Guadalcanal. As it faded over the horizon, that city of sleepless nights, I could almost feel the strings that tied me to it break. It had been my “home” for ten short months, but what had passed in that time was still almost beyond comprehension, and like a dream.
As we passed high over San Cristobal, I wondered how Michael Forster was getting on. He had been so near, and yet so far from it all. Although he had probably not seen any Japanese, apart from their planes and ships by the score, he must have had an anxious time, and probably had felt as much alone as I had. Later I found out that he had taken his delight in keeping up the forms of government, and when relieved he had neat piles of monthly returns, all of them up to date, ready to forward to the secretary when normal government was restored. Michael’s only consolation during the occupation, apart from the occasional companionship of rescued pilots, must have been the choice tinned foods washed onto his shore from sunken ships. At the bottom of San Cristobal we passed Santa Ana, where “the Baron” was still holding out. He, too, had picked up several pilots, and had them returned to base. He was the father of Geoffrey Kuper, the coastwatcher.
I still felt quite bewildered. Was it all a crazy dream? We were flying fairly high, and the vibration of the plane’s engines had a peculiar effect on my ears. I felt completely detached from anything that had happened. Time ceased to exist. The steady drone was like a music staff over which my senses played a tune. My mind flitted over the happenings of the last few months; as I thought of the shelling, or the bombing, or even the talk at D-2, I could hear it all again. It was quite eerie. I tried to think of Sydney and what it would be like when I got there, but my brain would not function in that direction. It basked in the past, or merely free-wheeled. The reaction had set in. I was not alone anymore. I was not on watch. It was peace indeed. I gave up the unequal struggle and drifted into a beautiful sleep.
And so to Vila in the New Hebrides, where I met the Australian naval personnel who had picked up my signals when I was in the bush. In the bay lay a host of Liberty Ships, built in four days and loaded in six, waiting as many weeks until wharves could be built for their unloading. We stayed overnight, and I celebrated my safe arrival with the first bottle of British beer since the March before. Then on to Nouméa, capital of New Caledonia, where I said goodbye to Sir Philip and his party. And finally to Sydney, where a good time was had by all!