Making those names and deeds known is the goal of this book.
* * *
With the exception of the Scouts’ role in the famous prisoner-of-war rescue at Cabanatuan, where five hundred Allied POWs were saved from certain death by a small force of 6th Army Rangers, the missions related in this book appear not based on their significance or level of excitement but solely on the amount of information available. Teams like the one led by Lt. Robert “Red” Sumner loom large in this work, not because Sumner did anything the other Scout teams did not do, but due to the wonderful memoirs left behind by Sumner and made available to me by Russ Blaise, Lance Zedric, and Ann Sumner.
Likewise, interviews and memoirs by other Scouts, some deceased and some still living, make the missions of the Dove, Nellist, Rounsaville, Lutz, Littlefield, and McGowen teams appear most often throughout this text.
That is not intended to negate the work of the other five teams.
The work of the Alamo Scouts—all of them, including those who were not on teams, such as Terry Santos, whose story also appears in these pages—deserves the recognition and honor so long denied it. Their contribution toward American success in the southwest Pacific has never been fully acknowledged.
Again, that is a goal of this book.
* * *
Today, the surviving Alamo Scouts stay in close contact and gather once a year for a reunion. And while their numbers, sadly, are constantly diminishing, the spirit of camaraderie that I saw in 2007 does not fade.
In wartime, these men depended on each other with their lives. Their souls were forged together in ties stronger than family. This will continue so long as one Alamo Scout remains.
For just as surely as Dick Winters and the men of Easy Company were forever bound together, the Alamo Scouts, too, are a Band of Brothers.
CHAPTER 1
Hollandia: “Looks Like We Walk Home.”
Dove Team: New Guinea Coast, Midnight, June 6-7, 1944
“We’re there,” the skipper of PT-363 said in a hushed voice as he slowed the eighty-foot Elco, nicknamed by her crew the Aces Avenger, to a complete stop.
Lt. John Dove nodded, gazing toward the dark mass eight hundred yards away that was the coast of New Guinea.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll get off.”
“Water’s pretty rough tonight, Jack,” the PT commander cautioned. “You sure you want to try it?”
“We’re going,” Dove said, his usual boyish sense of humor giving way to an all-business attitude. He turned, left the boat’s cockpit, and headed toward the stern, where his six team members waited, sitting on the deck between a torpedo tube and the 20mm antiaircraft gun.
Compared to the PT boat crewmen in their blue dungarees, Jack Dove and his men looked frighteningly fierce. Their uniforms were camouflage, topped off with a soft baseball cap in place of a helmet, which could make noise or reflect a stray beam of light. Their faces and hands were smeared with grease paint. The men carried either M1 carbines or Thompson submachine guns, and each was armed with a .45-caliber automatic pistol. In addition, each soldier toted binoculars, one hundred rounds of ammo, a knife, two canteens, three days’ rations—a peanut-raisin mix—packed in small rubber bags, flares, and compasses.
Dove and his men were members of America’s smallest elite fighting force, the 6th U.S. Army Special Reconnaissance Unit, nicknamed the “Alamo Scouts.” The name Alamo was derived from their attachment to Maj. Gen. Walter Krueger’s 6th Army, code-named the Alamo Force in honor of Krueger’s hometown of San Antonio, Texas, where the famous Spanish mission stands as a monument to the Americans who died there 108 years earlier.
The Scouts had been gleaned from hundreds of volunteers and trained for one purpose: to infiltrate Japanese lines, gather intelligence, and get the hell out in one piece.
“We believe the Japs are pulling back from in front of our lines at Hollandia, westward toward Wakde,” Dove had been told by one of Krueger’s G2 intelligence officers earlier that day. “We’re going to put you ashore near the Taorum River just west of the village of Armopa, about midway between Hollandia and Wakde. We want you to confirm that the Japs are pulling back, estimate troop strength if possible, as well as their overall condition, meaning are they capable of regrouping and launching a counterattack.”
Dove, a six-foot-tall, ruggedly handsome two-hundred-pounder who looked like a college all-American football star, nodded. A long way from his home at 153 West Norton Avenue in Hollywood, Dove was a deeply religious man who did not drink or smoke, and often led his men in the singing of hymns. This would be his team’s first mission, and as he contemplated the possibility of going into battle, he prayed for himself, his men, and even the Japanese.
“If you don’t want me to kill the enemy, Lord, don’t let me see him,” he invoked.
Rejoining his team on the 363’s stern, Dove looked to the two sailors standing by the inflated ten-man rubber boat.
“Get that over the side,” he said. “Let’s load up. Quickly.”
The sailors lowered the rubber boat into the wave-tossed water and held on tightly to the mooring ropes. The Scouts loaded themselves and their equipment, which included a heavy SCR-300 radio, into the bouncing dinghy.
Dove was last. Before stepping down into the rubber boat he turned to the one Scout who was not going ashore. Staff Sgt. Vern M. Miller of Jerome, Iowa, would remain on the PT as the contact man, monitoring the team’s progress via radio and arranging for its eventual pickup. The contact man was always a member of another Scout team. Miller was one of Lt. Woodrow E. Hobbs’s men.
Miller extended a hand.
“We’ll see you in two days, Jack. Good luck.”
Dove shook the hand, unfazed by Sergeant Miller’s use of his first name. Unlike larger army units, such familiarity between ranks was common among the small, elite Scouts.
Dove climbed into the rubber boat, seating himself at the rear in order to man the steering paddle. Once he settled, the mooring ropes were released and the Scouts pushed off from the Aces Avenger’s plywood hull and began rowing across the dark sea toward land.
Despite the load carried by the rubber boat, the ride was a rough one as the surf tossed it relentlessly. The oars bit into the water as the men struggled to push the boat toward shore, riding up and down the ocean swells.
As the men fought the sea, Dove’s mind was on the mission and the six soldiers accompanying him into action for the first time.
Just in front of Dove and straining with the oars sat T/5 James Roby of North Hollywood, and Pfc. Irvin J. Ray, who at age nineteen was the team’s baby. Generally a quiet and unassuming young man, he had tousled dark hair and hailed from Oakland Beach, Rhode Island. Ray had joined the army after his color-blindness disqualified him from the navy. “They like it if you can tell a red running light from a green one, so you know if you’re coming or going,” he joked. However, his disability sometimes helped him to “see through” camouflage as he noted shapes and was not deceived by colors.
Next came Staff Sgt. John G. Fisher of Jacksonville, Florida, and Pfc. Aubrey L. “Lee” Hall, the team’s only experienced Scout. A Texas native, Hall—who later would become the first Alamo Scout to win a battlefield commission and lead his own team—had been temporarily reassigned to Dove from the Barnes Team, which was dissolved when its leader, Lt. William Barnes, had been recalled to his old unit, the 32nd Division. Hall had been on the Barnes Team’s lone mission in March.
Ahead of them was a young Dutch and Javanese interpreter supplied by the Dutch East Indies Administration. At the very front of the rubber boat sat T/4 Denny M. Chapman of Kellogg, Idaho, and Pvt. Alton P. Bauer of Melvin, Texas, who, like Ray and Roby, were both manning oars.
All eyes were glued on the dark coastline that loomed closer and closer.
Suddenly Roby whispered, “Sir.” He pointed to a small glow emanating from the darkness, about three hundred yards to the right of where the rubber boat was about to reach shore. “Do y
ou see that?”
“I see it,” Dove whispered back, watching the point of light grow larger. “Keep going.”
Ninety minutes after leaving the Aces Avenger, the rubber boat scraped on the sandy bottom with a shushing sound. In an instant, the men were out in the shin-deep water, dragging the heavy boat out of the surf, across the narrow beach and into the field of tall, razor-sharp kunai grass, which grows in profusion on the coastal plains of New Guinea. Kneeling, the men waited quietly, weapons at the ready, for any sound of alarm that might indicate they had been spotted.
Hearing nothing but the cawing of jungle birds, Dove picked up the radio handset and said, “Dove. OK.”
“Roger,” came Miller’s reply.
As Dove reported the team’s safe arrival, two Scouts deflated and packed up the rubber boat, its oars, and a full CO2 cartridge to be used for reinflation, and carefully hid them, noting their location. They then eradicated any signs of their landing as one of the men slung the thirty-five-pound radio onto his back. The team would take turns carrying it.
Dove motioned the team to follow and led them through the tall grass and into the rain forest, where they soon came upon a native coastal trail. Fresh footprints in the soft ground showed the trail was well-used. Dove turned west, moving toward the Taorum River.
He’d not gone a hundred yards when he stuck a hand in the air. The team froze in mid-stride.
On the ground before them an obviously exhausted Japanese soldier was curled up, fast asleep. Using his clenched fist to indicate “hold,” Dove silently crept forward. As he moved, careful where he placed each foot lest he snap a twig, Dove slid his knife from its sheath with his right hand and removed his cap with his left. Steeling his nerves, he sprang forward. Shoving the cap into the sleeping soldier’s face to muffle his cries, Dove drove the knife into the man’s chest. He felt the warm blood against his hand as the hapless soldier squirmed, then went silent.
Dove removed the knife, wiped the blade on the dead man’s uniform, searched the corpse for documents, then dragged the body off the trail and into the underbrush.
The team resumed their trek.
After another two hundred yards the men came across two more Japanese huddled around a campfire in a small clearing. This was the glow they had spotted from the rubber boat.
Dove studied the scene briefly. Realizing there was no way to surprise these men, he turned to Bauer, who was next to him. Silently, Dove pointed to his knife and shook his head. Then he pointed to his carbine. Bauer understood. Dove indicated that Bauer was to take the man on the right, and he’d handle the soldier on the left. Both men aimed.
“Now,” Dove whispered.
Gunfire crackled in the darkness as both men fired off several rounds. It was impossible to miss, and the two Japanese soldiers died by their campfire.
After searching the bodies, Dove had them dragged into the swampy forest and the fire extinguished. He was just ready to move out again when shots erupted behind him. A Japanese patrol had come upon the team’s two-man rear guard, who reacted by cutting loose on the enemy. The rest of the team quickly joined in and the loud skirmish echoed through the forest. The Japanese Arisakas barked in response to the rapid-firing automatic weapons of the Scouts, muzzle flashes puncturing the inky blackness of the night. Then the enemy soldiers evaporated back into the jungle and a stone silence descended.
“The Japs are moving along this trail in front of us and in back of us,” Dove said. “Follow me.”
He led the team westward for a short distance, then veered off the trail, moving ten yards into the underbrush. Finding a concealed spot where they could keep an eye on the path, the team hunched down and set up an observation post. The next five hours were spent in absolute silence as the Scouts, trying to ignore the island’s insect life that crawled over and around them, counted Japanese soldiers trudging by, some without weapons and all looking tired and hungry, Dove noted.
As the sun hit its apogee in the sky and began its descent, Dove decided to put distance between his team and the bodies they had left in their wake. Avoiding the footpath, he led the team westward, through the tangled muck of the jungle.
* * *
The Taorum River was a black ribbon in an even blacker night, one of many waterways that flowed down from the twenty-five-mile-long Cyclops mountain range that loomed ten miles inland. The team had spent the afternoon hours slowly, painstakingly wending its way through thick brush and muddy swamps that almost sucked the men’s boots from their feet with each step. All along the way, they were surrounded by the smell of decaying foliage, which, as darkness descended, created foxfire that twinkled around them like silent muzzle flashes.
Now it was about ten p.m. and the Scouts, exhausted after nearly twenty-two sleepless hours onshore, knelt in the underbrush on the river’s east bank. Waiting in absolute silence, Dove strained his ears for any sound from the opposite side. Hearing none, he turned to Hall and pointed to the other bank.
Hall, holding his weapon and ammo high, waded into the gently flowing water, crossing slowly to avoid any splashing. All eyes remained fixed on the far side. Weapons were pointed and at the ready. When Hall reached the safety of the far bank, Dove sent the next man. Within thirty minutes, the team was across.
Dove knew his men were exhausted, but it was imperative to keep moving. He wanted to at least reach the Mabaf River, another three hours’ march away.
* * *
The trail led through the small village of Kaptisoe, which lay silent in the early-morning darkness. But the quiet was deceiving. Japanese troops, about forty of them from what Dove could determine, occupied the collection of thatched-roof nipa huts. Even now he saw shadows walking the grounds between the huts, possibly sentries making their rounds.
The trek from the Taorum River had been relatively short, just a couple of miles, but rugged thanks to the thick vegetation, mangrove swamps, and steeply ridged terrain. It had taken the better part of three hours. Along the way the team had seen numerous Japanese soldiers. Some were sleeping in clumps, fatigued beyond measure, while others lay dead of starvation or exhaustion brought on by illness. The Dove Team bypassed the sleeping men without rousing them. The dead were searched, then left where they had fallen, to be claimed by the jungle, their families back home left to wonder.
For the past thirty minutes, Dove had been scrutinizing Kaptisoe, trying to think of a way around it, but with neck-deep swamps on both sides, doubtless inhabited by some of New Guinea’s fierce crocodiles, his only course of action soon became clear. Gathering his team in a close huddle, he said in a hushed voice, “Going through the swamps is out. They might hear us and we’d be caught out there like sitting ducks. So we’re going to walk straight through. Nips have been moving along this trail all day and night. With luck, in the dark, those fellas will assume we’re just more of their buddies.”
“And if they spot us?” Fisher asked.
“We open fire and run like mad,” Dove replied. “Follow me.”
Rising, Dove led his men into the village, walking among the darkened huts and sleeping enemy.
Nerves taut, they had gone only partway when a Japanese soldier emerged from the nearby shadows. He saw the strange dark shapes of men walking through the village, and halted. Though the soldier was smiling, Dove could see fear creeping across his countenance. Taking four steps toward the man, Dove swung up his carbine and squeezed off two quick rounds into the man’s face. The impact of the .30-caliber slugs smacked the soldier backward and he hit the ground hard.
“Fire!” Dove said, and the team’s weapons were instantly in action, the flat, rapid crack of carbines blending with the sharp brrraaapp, brrraaapp of the Thompsons.
A Japanese guard came running out from a hut and was swept off his feet as a hail of lead ripped through him, creating a bloody mist with each impact.
“Go! Go!” Dove shouted as he and his men, spraying bullets in all directions, ran along the trail, through the village, and i
nto the gloom of the forest beyond.
The team raced on for several hundred yards, through woods and swamp, tripping over underbrush yet somehow keeping their feet, until Dove finally called a halt. He led them a few steps off the trail, where they sat to catch their breath.
“Jesus, that was fun,” the youthful Ray puffed. “Friggin’ O.K. Corral.”
The boy’s analogy—he loved cowboy movies—brought a chuckle from the men. Then Dove said, “This is home for the night. Settle in and get some sleep, but any man who snores gets a boot. And don’t forget those quinine pills, I don’t want anyone coming down with malaria. We’ll stand guard in two-hour shifts, two men each.” He pointed at Ray. “Wyatt Earp and I will take the first watch.”
As Dove sat quietly in the dark, listening to the jungle sounds mingled with the soft, easy breathing of his men, a sensation of scents came to his nostrils: the dank, moldering odor of the swamp and the fragrance of jungle flowers. Then a new smell came to him, that of sweating human bodies. Putting up a hand to signal Ray to remain silent, they sat still as a trio of natives walked along the path, passing not three feet from the sleeping Americans. Dove listened to their steps recede.
“Think they spotted us?” Ray asked nervously.
“I don’t know,” Dove said. “But we smelled them, so they must’ve smelled us.”
The answer to Ray’s question came the next morning, when one of Dove’s men shook him awake.
“Someone’s coming,” Dove was told in a harsh whisper.
Dove was instantly alert as a lone native drew near. From the man’s gaze and the wary manner of his approach, Dove was certain he knew exactly where the GIs were. Some yards away, the native stopped and began to speak.
“He says he’s a friend, that he hates the Japs,” the interpreter said. “He is inviting us to follow him to his village.”
The man gestured at the Americans.
“Water,” he said. “Ka ka.”
Shadows In the Jungle Page 2
