WHEN I GOT to the office the next morning, there was little need to stop and think what to do. The queues of people and their multifarious business, as well as the station accounts, would keep me busy for days to come. The reorganizing of stores and growing of food continued. Most important of all was the air watch. It had become a full-time job, and extremely efficient: the Guadalcanal men had responded very well to training. They had excellent sight and hearing, and by now most of them could distinguish the different planes by the sound of their engines.
Visiting headmen reported anarchy on the southern coast. While they brought a lot of malefactors to court, most complained that there were many other scalawags whom they could not catch.
At lunchtime a new character entered the scene. He was a small, quite bald man who blinked his eyes in an odd way. Charlie Bird was a master mariner, and one of the old hands. It was not quite clear from where he had come—I had heard that he had been standing by to evacuate the RAAF. Charlie was going down to San Cristobal in a Chinese schooner, Sam Dak, with some harebrained scheme for starting copra production there. He also made the sensible proposal, to which I agreed with alacrity, that he take our careless caretaker, Frank Keeble, with him.
Andrew and my “commandos” were feverishly busy, coaxing, persuading, or bullying the coastal villages to move inland, and to organize a Home Guard to report any enemy or strange activity along their section of the coast. (As observation was our main role, there was no question of forming offensive sections. We were far too short of arms to inflict damage on an enemy force, however small, and it would be far more useful to fade into the jungle and continue observing.) Most of them were keen to help, but they lacked resolution. The most difficult thing to tell them was what to expect, and what would be important.
The police had so much to do that I could not spare anyone to carry on the investigation of Wilmot’s death, so I signed on four more police recruits for Aola and sent the four chaps relieved, in “plain clothes,” off to Koilo. Andrew would have to train the new men in the military virtues in his spare time. I lost no sleep over the fact that I had no authority to engage them. One of the lads signed on was a stocky, reddish-haired bush-man named Dovu, straight from the hills. Although he was completely untrained, I felt that he would be a useful member of the force in the future.
One quiet afternoon I found a bag of cement on the station. The cadet’s house had no steps, and it seemed a pity to waste it. Remembering my Colonial Service course training, I set up the necessary wooden shuttering and made some very fancy steps. No sooner had I laid down my trowel than Leong, the doyen of the remaining Chinese colony, appeared. The burden of his lay was simple: “We have no food, we have no bedding, we’re scared of the Japs, and we want a ship to come and take us away.” I patted him on the back and tried to explain the situation, but all I could really say was, “Bad luck, old man, it may be worse tomorrow.” What annoyed me about the remaining Chinese was that they were not prepared to do anything, not even to try to sail their schooners south; and so they went on, waiting and waiting—and for what?
I heard by teleradio that Rhoades had been commissioned a sublieutenant in the RANVR. Not that he had anything to show it: like me, he had neither a badge of rank nor a uniform. I myself was now a captain in the Protectorate Defence Force, yet I did not have even a plain khaki shirt, and my headgear was but an ordinary brown civilian hat. Macfarlan was the only one on the island in uniform. I sent Snowy a message of congratulation, inquiring whether he would call his shore station “HMAS Brush-Turkey.”
On Friday, 24 April, we had a welcome visit from some of the RAAF, come to stay the weekend. The crash boat brought ten of them, together with Hay, Macfarlan, and Stackpool.1 They all looked pretty pale and drawn, and seemed rather edgy. Like me and Mr. Micawber, they were waiting for something to turn up. Apart from the bombing, which was having its effect on them, there had been a complete lull in enemy activity. It was all quite strange: the Japs had been in the Shortlands for a rather long time, and it was reasonable to expect them to come farther south. There wasn’t much good in sitting around getting morbid, so I got on with the entertaining and arranged a cricket match between the visitors and a combined station team. I was jolly glad to see them.
At sundown on Saturday, Andrew turned out our entire “force” and put on a parade. Although we had no music, they put on a combination of beating the retreat and hauling down the flag, and the guests were duly impressed! On Sunday our visitors departed in a much happier state, and I was left to deal with a new guest, Father Engberink, who stayed till nightfall. We went over all the old arguments: he would not move without word from the bishop, so he still had made no preparations for leaving Ruavatu, his main object being to protect the mission plantations and property, even if the enemy came. I told him quite plainly that I did not think the nuns would be safe, but I had no power to order them to go.
I spent Monday morning trying to deal with arrears in court, but was interrupted continually by the lookout, reporting attacks on Tanambogo. The RAAF had had another bad bashing. Poor devils, they had only a few Bren guns, belonging to the AIF, with which to defend themselves. If only they had had something more lethal, I am sure that they would have returned as good as they got.
The bombing had increased perceptibly in volume, and it was clear that plans would have to be readied for the evacuation of Gavutu and Tanambogo. On 29 April Charlie Bird called on his way back from San Cristobal. He was going to stand by to evacuate the RAAF in an aged coaster, MV Balus,2 which had been hidden away in the mangroves at Dende, on the south coast of Nggela Island. Don Russell, the lieutenant commanding the AIF detachment, had asked for charts. They, too, were not unmindful of the fact that our time was limited, and he was getting the Ramada ready to flit.
For my part, I had finally admitted to myself that, sooner or later, I would have to evacuate Aola, and the sooner I made plans, the better. Consequently, I had made several reconnaissance trips into the interior, to find a spot where I could keep the teleradio going, no matter what happened. I chose a village called Paripao, eight miles into the dense jungle and about one thousand feet up, as our first point of retreat. It had enough tall trees to solve aerial difficulties and provide lookouts, and yet be unsuspected from the air. We used a palm tree for one end of the WT aerial; for the other we cut a long, straight sapling, erected it on a tabernacle, and carefully camouflaged it with long creepers. As the teleradio operation was paramount, I did not worry much about accommodation: the best camouflage was living in native villages, which could be quickly adapted and as quickly evacuated, leaving no trace of our occupation. We had a bolt hole for escape.
So much for my own worries. The lack of activity on our part must have made it clear to the Japanese that we had little in the way of naval forces in the area. Now they had at last decided to advance, and their forces were massing in the western Solomons.3 There was not much we coastwatchers could do about it except sit and wait. I could not help recalling the words of Henry V, in the third act of Shakespeare’s play: “We are in God’s hand, brother.”
The next few days were utter pandemonium. At 0700 on 1 May the RAAF crash boat arrived, towing one of the irreplaceable Catalinas. She had been damaged the day before: a Kawanisi, flying in very low over water and much earlier than usual, had evaded Schroeder’s notice and unloaded its bombs round two planes, which were moored off Tanambogo awaiting radio instructions from Port Moresby. Macfarlan, Rhoades, and I had shouted ourselves hoarse on the teleradio trying to pass a warning, but we couldn’t get through because the RAAF was busy taking orders from Moresby and the Cats were waiting to receive on a different frequency. The second plane had managed to take off across the bay, but not before a large hole had been blown in her wing; she never got into the air, and was eventually picked up by the Japanese Navy. Her pilot, Geoff Hemsworth, and his crew were never seen again.
Flight Lt. Terry Ekins, the Catalina’s commander, introduced himself to me and the shivering crowd on the beach. He wanted to have his plane towed to shore, and talked about flying in a rigger to mend her; but a quick look convinced me that “our Cat” was quite unserviceable, and would probably be with us for keeps.
The first thing to do was to hide the Catalina. Anyone who has ever walked round one will know what a difficult task that was. We assembled the men of three villages and all hands from the station, but she was far too heavy to haul off the beach, so the police went to half a dozen other villages for reinforcements. Meanwhile, we dug a slipway across the beach and lined it with coconut fronds. By noon we had four hundred eager helpers; having organized different teams, either pushing the plane or pulling on ropes, we slid the Cat across the sands until her wings were close up to the trunks of the overhanging coconut palms. The noise was indescribable, each team grunting and yelling as they heaved. Then the tail was covered with coconut fronds and the temporary slipway obliterated. The operation raised morale to a certain extent, but the calm sea and an almost imperceptible drizzle gave an eerie impression of stillness, and the noise of the bombing at Tulagi sounded like a grim warning of the storm to come.
While this was going on, I had put my whole force on standby. It was just as well, for at 2000 I got a message from Kennedy that two large enemy vessels had been sighted three hundred miles from, and sailing toward, Tulagi. The Japanese were coming at last.
We were so busy that I did not hesitate to put the Catalina crew on the teleradio watch and the lookout and to give them other odd defense jobs. If Kennedy’s message was correct, the two Jap vessels, whose estimated speed was fifteen knots, should get to Tulagi within twenty-four hours. It was obvious that we should have moved off the beach a long time ago; but there we were—sitting ducks! We worked on into the night, with guards listening for any strange sounds; there were, thank goodness, no visitors.
Early next morning, from the lookout, there were continuous reports of planes over Tanambogo and Tulagi.4 We had no contact with the RAAF, who had gone to their hideout on Nggela. I saw six separate raids on Tanambogo; during one of them the crash boat, returning for the wireless operators, received a direct hit, and sank in a few minutes. The coxswain barely escaped with his life.
As the day wore on, it became clear that the Jap planes were out to destroy everything on Tanambogo. The little island was finished as an operating center: either it was so badly damaged that the boys could not put out the flames, or they were purposely burning everything and preparing to leave. I was doing quite a lot of burning myself, getting rid of redundant papers and other documents, ready to push off. A message came in that Macfarlan had at last gone bush—with the skids on—up to Gold Ridge, and Hay was following with the last known case of whiskey in the area.
On the station, I was, as usual, trying to do everything at once and encourage the others too. Andrew was doing his best with our defenses: he would appear every half hour to ask, “Which way me do ’long this one?” or to complain, about some medical dresser or crewman recently impressed as a soldier, “Thisfella sleep ’long night, ’e no savvy war ’e stop” (i.e., that war had come). “All right, Andrew,” I would wearily reply, “you savvy show ’im!”; and off he would go with the malingerer, ready to work overtime. Poor Daniel, a bureaucrat at heart, wanted to take all his beautiful blue forms and vouchers when we went bush; I told him that for now the days of three copies were over and that he should concentrate instead on the state of our ration stocks, as the Cat crew made big holes in our diminishing supply of tinned goods. Eroni, a rifle slung over his shoulder, was busy packing up hospital stocks for dispersal to different parts of the island. Another of the few chaps doing something constructive was a cheerful Ysabel man called Bingiti. He had been trained as an agricultural instructor, and with those prisoners who could be spared he was busy planting up as much of the station land as possible with native vegetables, which we would soon be requiring for food.
Ekins and his operator worked like slaves at the teleradio, which was humming all day long. At different times, three cutters with Chinese aboard arrived from the west, via Berande, fleeing before the storm. The mob was all breathless with jitters—they had seen the enemy warships, and that was enough for them. I listened to what they had to say and sent them on down the coast.
We had a prearranged signal with VNTG by which they were to indicate that they had cleared out safely and were on their way. Ekins didn’t know it, and I couldn’t for the life of me remember what it was. I got quite worried: was it “bacon and egg,” or “ham and eggs,” or was it “liver and bacon,” or “egg and sausage”? At 2330, with Tanambogo a red glow on the horizon, I was going down to the radio shack to call them, when Ekins’s gunner rushed out: “They want you urgently.” There was no need to ask who. I ran in and grabbed the mike. “VQJ4 to VNTG, VQJ4 to VNTG, over, over.” Amidst the appalling background noise, I could just hear a faint voice wearily calling, “Stike and eggs, dammit, stike and eggs, dammit, VNTG calling VQJ4, stike and eggs.” “Stike and eggs”—“steak and eggs,” that was it! And that was it—Tanambogo was a base no more. I found it hard to accept. Had they seen the enemy ships, had the Japs arrived, had they got away safely? There were many questions asked at Aola that night, and not a soul shut an eye for wondering what would come of it all.
The only good news we had during that grim night was that the Morinda was to come to the south end of Malaita to pick up all the Chinese. “Thank goodness,” I said to Ekins, “we can be rid of ours at last.” And then, half jokingly, I added, “I’ll have to send someone to see they don’t come back; I don’t suppose you’d like to volunteer for the job?” “Well,” he said, “might as well do something to earn my living.” “Bless you,” I replied, “you can start organizing now.” And so, in the middle of the night, the Chinese were chivied out and told the good news. They were divided into parties and put into three schooners, Varuna, Jones, and Kokerana, which were soon loaded down almost to the waterline.
At 0530 on 3 May, just as Ekins was about to sail, a squat black craft was reported from the direction of Tulagi. It was the Balus with the RAAF, lock, stock, and barrel. They had escaped the notice of the Jap aircraft because of low cloud and slight rain. There were about forty of them, as gray and haggard a mob as I’d ever seen; some were at the very end of their nerve. The men had hardly eaten the day before, and looked pretty well all in, but they did justice to the breakfast we provided. It had not been pleasant for them during the last few days: as they had sneaked out of Tulagi Harbor, three enemy cruisers and a destroyer had sailed in, together with the transports that Kennedy had seen the night before. The Japanese were here, all right—in block capitals. They now had at least fifteen ships in the harbor.
Most of the men rolled over and slept on the lawn in front of the house, while Flying Officer Peagham, who was in charge, and Charlie Bird and I made plans. I was bitterly disappointed when Peagham told me that he wanted to get all of them away as soon as possible. I argued as much as I could in favor of their staying on as guerrillas or coastwatchers, but in view of the rough time they had had it was not surprising that they wanted to leave.
Shortly after the Balus arrived, I sent Terry Ekins and his little convoy off to Su’u, Malaita, to meet the Morinda. Although I rather doubted that she would now risk the trip, I was anxious to get the Chinese off my hands.
I was very busy all day long with Charlie Bird and the RAAF. The Cat crew helped me get the Balus ready for her long trip, while I dashed up and down to the radio shack, sending out the movements of Jap ships and planes and picking up messages from Kennedy, who was checking the Japanese Navy somewhere at the south end of New Georgia, and Macfarlan, who was now installed at Gold Ridge with a magnificent bird’s-eye view right into the harbor. Snowy Rhoades, having retired to “HMAS Brush-Turkey,” was sending out a splendid signal. I struggled to get the “dope” coded up and sent out as soon as possible: a twenty-four-hour radio watch was being kept in the New Hebrides, and I hoped they were picking up our “ball to ball” description of the Japanese arrival.
The evacuation of the resident policemen’s families from the station was progressing smoothly, and many were the anguished farewells as loved ones left with their possessions on their backs to walk to their villages. We kept it up all day, in case the Japanese Air Force came to call. There were planes rumbling in the area, but they did not come very close, and we could not identify them.
The AIF had spent most of the previous day helping smash and burn everything at Tanambogo and Gavutu, then stayed to cover the RAAF’s retreat. Finally, we had a faint signal that they were sailing Ramada direct to Marau Sound, to rendezvous with the RAAF and transfer to Balus for the trip south. This was depressing, as another AIF detachment was still holding out in Bougainville, but I had no chance even to try to persuade them to stay.
There was an awful lot to do, and little time to think. Things were happening very fast, and the position was very grim. I was pinned to the beach by the teleradio, yet I would have to get everything hidden away in the bush quick and lively, as a fast launch would take only two hours to come from Tulagi. When the time came for the Balus to depart, about 2000, I wondered whether Ekins’s Catalina crew would leave; but they were a good mob, and I was relieved when, to a man, they decided to stay and give me a hand until their captain returned from Malaita.
I stood with them on the beach. Everything seemed pretty final. The feeling of being left alone is never pleasant, and with the departure of the RAAF even Andrew was visibly shaken. The general opinion of the Solomon Islanders on the station was that, if this was war, they didn’t like it: the Japs had arrived, they could cruise over to Aola in a matter of hours, and there had not been a sign that we had anything with which to stop them. About 2100 Bengough sent the message that the Morinda wasn’t coming. I hoped the Chinese could be left on Malaita or could go on to San Cristobal. I knew I had been right in sending them.
That night, the third of May, was one of the most miserable in my life. None of us dared to go to sleep, in case some hostile visitor appeared out of the dark to catch us unawares. We had a constant series of alarms, which kept everyone on the alert, and I was up and down to the beach reassuring people all night long.