Two taps of his carbine stock and the team reassembled. Sumner indicated they were to follow him, and they hurried as quietly as possible toward the gurgling engine noise.
The river, a muddy brown ribbon of slow-moving water, was lined by tall grass. Lying in the grass and moving only their eyes, the team saw a Japanese barge gliding along the waterway, headed toward the sea.
Sumner was not sure why the barge was setting out with daybreak already starting to streak the sky. They generally moved under the cover of darkness. So it was with concern and confusion that he watched the thirty-five-foot-long craft, armed with two light machine guns, chug past their position at about ten miles per hour. The barge entered the sea, then turned and sailed south, between the shoreline and the breakers farther out.
Sumner led the team to the beach to keep visual and audio track of the barge until it was gone completely. He was unable to see what it was carrying, whether it was supplies or men.
* * *
Daylight in the tropics comes with startling suddenness, and by six fifteen a.m. the thinning darkness suddenly burst into complete daylight as the sun seemed to leap out of the eastern ocean. Sumner and his team were back by the river, resuming their watch. There, in the brush, the men broke out their morning breakfast, a six-ounce Australian date bar, washed down with water from their canteens. They ate in silence, keeping a sharp watch.
As he munched the date bar, Sumner noted that, less than one hundred yards inland of where it met the ocean, the river opened into an estuary with a number of small islands. From his position, Sumner could see large trees overhanging the water, and underneath two of them Japanese barges were moored. While he could see no enemy troops, the familiar smell of cook fires wafted toward him on the morning breeze. Breakfast was being prepared.
Voices in the distance convinced Sumner that more unseen enemy barges were moored elsewhere in the estuary.
“Those trees make for great cover,” Blaise whispered. “No wonder our flyboys can’t spot anything.”
“Yeah,” Sumner whispered back. “Half the goddamned Jap navy could be tied up out there and our guys wouldn’t see them.”
The Scouts watched the area for half an hour while Sumner jotted notes in a notebook. Then he signaled the men to follow and led them south, paralleling the shore, keeping about ten yards inland from the beach.
They had gone about a quarter of a mile when they came upon the ruins of eight native houses on the beach to the team’s left. Sumner signaled the team to spread out, and, weapons at the ready, they crept forward into the village. The nipa huts, five on the ground and three mounted on stilts, were empty. But discarded ration cans, cigarette butts, and nails once used to secure communications wire told Sumner that this site had been occupied recently.
“Observation post?” Jones asked.
Sumner nodded.
“From up in one of those huts on stilts, you can see the gulf for twenty miles in all directions,” Swart added.
“So why aren’t they here watching?” Sumner asked. “Where are they?”
As if in answer, a distant machine gun opened up, firing three separate three-round bursts. The Scouts dove for cover around the huts.
“Where the . . . ?” Coleman asked.
“About eight hundred yards away to the south, I’d say,” Sumner replied.
“Good Christ, did they spot us?” Schermerhorn said. “When? How?”
“Just sit tight,” Sumner said, and the men lay quietly, waiting, sweat pouring from their bodies with such profusion that Sumner feared the Japanese could smell him and his men from half a mile.
There was no more gunfire.
“Probably a gunner clearing his weapon,” Sumner said. “Let’s check it out. Weiland, take the point. Schermerhorn, the rear.”
The team began moving quietly in the direction of the firing when suddenly Schermerhorn whispered, “Down.” Five natives—two men, a woman, and two children—were approaching along the track from the north, coming up behind the team. At Sumner’s signal, the Scouts emerged from the undergrowth and surrounded the little group. Sumner imagined the people’s terror as seven heavily armed white men, their faces painted, suddenly appeared all around them.
“They’re scared to death,” Sumner told Swart. “Let’s get them off this trail and see what they know.”
The men led the small party of natives about sixty yards into the jungle, where Swart began speaking to them in Malay, the language most Dutch New Guinea natives spoke. He first allayed their fears by pointing to the Royal Netherlands East Indies insignia on his cap and the letters on his shoulder flashes, which most New Guinea adults recognized from prewar colonial days. Having reassured them, Swart began asking the natives about the Japanese, some of which Sumner could follow since he had some knowledge of Malay.
Swart broke open a ration kit and gave the woman and the children candy from an opened pack of Charms. The two men asked for tobacco. Sumner told them in his best Malay that he feared giving them tobacco, as the smell of a burning cigarette might be picked up by a wandering Japanese patrol. He was assured that no Japanese were nearby. Still hesitant, especially after hearing the machine gun earlier, he handed over a few cigarettes, and the men lighted up immediately.
As the natives relaxed, so did their tongues. They told Sumner, through Swart, that about sixty Japanese, led by a lieutenant, along with ten to twelve barges, were on the river, manning a supply and staging area. The barges carried food, ammunition, and reinforcements to isolated garrisons farther to the south.
“This man says there is a large gasoline storage tank about twenty feet across and fifteen feet high along with many drums of fuel,” Swart said. “There is plenty of ammunition but not much food. There are several small houses scattered about for the troops and a number of mooring sites.”
“Are there any Nips around other than the sixty with the barges?” Sumner asked.
Swart translated, then said, “About two hundred. But they’re about a kilometer away.”
“That’s twenty to one,” Sumner mused, as he watched the natives chat and draw maps in the dirt, while pointing with sticks and smoking up the team’s limited number of cigarettes.
“The Japs have a radio station set up at the supply base,” Swart said. “But these fellas don’t know who they are in contact with. All they know is there is a loudspeaker and sometimes the Japs play music loudly. I guess trying to spread Japanese culture to the heathens.”
“Culture, my ass,” Coleman muttered.
The natives said they lived in a nearby village of about twenty inhabitants, who might become alarmed if they were missing too long. The men, Sumner was told, were forced to work for the Japanese as laborers, loading and hauling fuel and ammunition, digging trenches and shelters, and doing other menial tasks. Their pay was the standard island currency, tobacco or maybe rice. Judging by the leanness of these people, Sumner guessed they were underpaid.
Some of the men fished, Swart was told, but their catch was seized by the Japanese, who paid the hapless fishermen about a quarter of the value.
After about an hour, Sumner knew he’d gotten from these people all he was going to. Now what to do with them?
“Think they’ll rat us out if we let them go?” Blaise asked Sumner.
“What else can we do?” Sumner replied. “We can’t tie them up because once they’re found, half the island will know we’re here. We’ll have to hope they liked their former Dutch rulers better than they like the Japs.”
To secure their friendship, Sumner gave the native men twists of tobacco and the woman and children more candy. Swart wrote down their names in an official-looking notebook and told them they would be rewarded for their cooperation after the war. Sumner reiterated that they would be rewarded later.
“Bye’m bye all e givim you good fellow pay,” he said in pidgin English.
Then the natives were sent on their way. The team buried all the cigarette butts and food and candy wrappers
, obliterated the maps in the dirt, and struck off back to the river for a closer look at the supply base.
Silently, the team reconnoitered the enemy staging area, spotting several more barges. The large fuel tank the natives had mentioned stood three hundred yards away, camouflaged from the air by overhanging tree branches. As they observed, Sumner made notations on his map. They saw no enemy soldiers, but could clearly hear them.
“Wonder what they’re talkin’ about,” Weiland whispered.
“Prob’ly bitchin’ about the work and their officers, lousy chow, and crappy duty, just like our guys,” Jones replied.
“Pipe down,” Sumner said, busily taking notes. “Or we’ll end up as Jap chow.”
After taking in all they could, the team retreated back along the river toward the beach, near where they had observed the barge that morning. On the way, they found the log canoes the five natives had used to cross the water, which explained how they had approached Sumner’s men from the rear. Withdrawing to a spot near the ruined village, the team again dined on date bars, candy, and water.
Nighttime descended over the jungle with typical tropical suddenness. In the darkness, the team slowly made their way to the pickup area. A hundred yards from where the boat lay hidden, Sumner deployed his men in a circle, set up guards, and let them get some much-needed rest. Their nerve endings were rubbed raw, both from the oppressive heat and the tension, and the team could use the break. He roused the men at ten thirty and they stealthily advanced toward the beach. The team halted within sight of where the rubber boat and radio were buried, and dropped to a knee. With all senses alert, they waited several minutes to make sure the Japanese had not discovered the site and set up any ambushes.
Then Sumner said, “Recover the rubber boat. Renhols, Jones, break out the radio and make contact.”
The rubber boat was quickly uncovered while Renhols and Jones retrieved the radio. They carried it to a nearby clump of vegetation, which allowed them a clear line of sight to the ocean, and switched the set on.
On schedule, at eleven oh five Renhols said into the handset, “Red One. Stand by.”
“Roger,” was the immediate response.
“Hot damn, Mac’s out there,” Sumner thought. “I didn’t even hear the boat approach.”
Now it was eleven twenty and Sumner said, “Inflate.”
The CO2 tank hissed and the popping sound of the inflating rubber boat sounded like artillery fire in the silent darkness. Sumner knew this was the most critical moment of their recovery. If there were any Japanese in the area, whether looking for them or on routine patrol or just out to take a piss, they’d have heard the pops and be hauling ass in the Scouts’ direction.
Within five minutes the rubber boat was inflated and loaded. Sumner looked at Renhols and nodded.
“Red One, launch,” Renhols said into the radio.
“Roger,” was McGowen’s reply.
Renhols swung the radio on his back and joined Jones to form a rear guard as Weiland, Blaise, and Coleman dragged the rubber boat into the surf. Sumner, Swart, and Schermerhorn joined Renhols and Jones as rear guard, with Sumner facing left and Swart right to protect the team’s flanks.
Once everyone was on board the rubber boat except the rear guard, Sumner sent Jones, then Swart, and then Schermerhorn. When they were safely on the boat, he turned, dashed into the surf, and clambered aboard.
“Hit it,” he said, and four of the Scouts began rowing with even, rapid strokes.
Sumner retrieved the steering paddle from under the boat’s cross member and guided through the lines of breakers. As the men rowed, Swart and Schermerhorn, weapons trained on the beach, covered the retreat. Each also had a paddle, ready to add their muscle to the escape if more speed was needed.
With Coleman at the front, setting the pace, the rubber boat slipped expertly through the breakers without once being in danger of tipping.
Finally making it beyond the coral, Sumner turned to Renhols.
“Give the visual signal,” he said.
Renhols laid his oar aside and took his hooded flashlight off his belt. He pointed it straight out to sea and gave the Morse code for R—dot, dash, dot.
The radio crackled as McGowen said, “Red One, got you.”
The verbal response was used so no eyes onshore would see the PT boat’s signal lamp. Beyond the pounding surf of the breakers, the men could hear the low gurgle of the PT boat’s muffled engines. Moments later the 132 boat came into view about a hundred yards out and to the right of the rubber boat.
The men rowed around to the seaward side of the Sea Bat, thus putting it between them and any hostile fire from shore; ropes were tossed out and the rubber boat was hauled in close, then the team crawled aboard the PT boat. With the help of the Sea Bat ’s crew, the rubber boat was dragged up onto the deck. As the team stowed their gear, Sumner, McGowen, and the PT skipper, Jones, went below into the Sea Bat’s tiny wardroom. The boat captain flipped on the battle lanterns, bathing the room in a red glow. Jones broke out his navigational charts of the area.
“So what do you have?” he asked.
“There’s a Jap supply base here,” Sumner said, consulting his notes and pointing to the area on the map just inland from the river. “About one hundred yards from the river’s mouth, it widens and turns southward. There are several small islands, with about a dozen Nip barges hidden under the trees. There are at least two fuel tanks and the place is manned by about sixty rice crackers under a lieutenant.”
As Sumner talked, Jones marked targets and radar bearings. Then he summoned his executive officer.
“I want the other two boat commanders here,” he said, and the XO, Ens. Robert M. Muller, vanished.
Within twenty minutes, two more boyishly young naval ensigns were crowded into the wardroom. Jones outlined what Sumner had said.
“The flyboys can’t see them or hit them, but we can,” he said. “We’ll attack at first light and rake the area with everything we’ve got. I’ll be point, and we’ll go single-file.” He handed the other two men sheets of paper. “I’ve marked radar reference points, based on landmarks onshore. We’ll hit ’em at oh six hundred.”
With that, the meeting was over. Since daylight was five hours away, Sumner went into the crew compartment, where his team was sacked out. The small room reeked of jungle mildew and sweat.
“Get all the rest you can, fellas,” he told those who were still awake. “We’re gonna hit those bastards at daylight, and with all the firepower these boats carry, it’s gonna be a helluva show.”
With that, he lay down on one of the bunks and was instantly asleep.
* * *
What seemed like just a few moments later, a crewman was gently prodding Sumner.
“It’s oh five hundred, sir,” he said.
Sumner nodded, took a moment to clear his head and remember where he was, then roused his men.
“Come on, guys,” he ordered. “Up.”
Climbing topside, the team took up position on the starboard side of the superstructure, out of the line of any return fire from shore. This was the navy’s show, and they were mere spectators.
With the engines still muffled by the underwater venting, the three boats swung south, keeping about two miles from the dark coastline. All battle stations were manned. On the starlit water, Sumner could barely discern the other two boats, illuminated by the twinkling phosphorescence of the 132’s wake.
Sumner and McGowen stood side by side in the cockpit, leaning against the combing of the afterdeck house. Belowdecks Sumner could watch the illuminated radar screen, now unmanned because the operator was also a gunner. The river’s mouth was plainly visible on the radar. Jones had the con, a steering wheel similar to that of an automobile, jutting out of the console about waist high. Muller, the XO, was to his right. Both were somewhat protected by a thin steel splinter screen.
At five forty-five a.m., after cruising three or four miles south of the river mouth, the three boats c
losed in to within a few hundred yards of the shore. Jones took the microphone of his radio and told the other boats, “OK, here we go.”
He pointed the boat north and pushed open the throttles. The PT boat leaped forward, skimming across the ocean at twenty miles per hour. The other two boats followed about a hundred yards behind.
As they reached the target area, Jones yelled into his mic, “Commence firing.”
Instantly, the 132’s bow-mounted 20mm gun opened up, as did the four dual-mounted .50-caliber machine guns located in two gun tubs. The stern-mounted 40mm Bofors was last to join. This cacophony of noise, multiplied by the three boats, tore apart the quiet night. The darkness was lit by colored tracers, leaving a fiery trail as they sought targets inland. Brass shell casings from all the weapons clattered to the wooden deck, striking each other and ringing like the bells of Hell.
The PT boats walked their fire along the coastline. Then rounds from the rearmost boat found a fuel dump, and an angry ball of orange flame and thick black smoke billowed a hundred feet or more into the sky, followed by a deafening explosion. Incendiary rounds from the PT boats added to the deadly pyrotechnic display.
Sumner was speechless, as it seemed as if the entire shoreline was ablaze.
Passing the target area, Jones ordered the boats to do another 180-degree turn.
“We’re gonna hit ’em again,” he said.
The PTs raced back, pouring another barrage of fire into the area. Now there came a twinkling of light from the shore, followed by waterspouts and a whizzing noise in the air. The enemy was firing back, fortunately with light weapons. The .50 calibers on the PT boats zeroed in on the muzzle flashes, and the Japanese fire diminished. Meanwhile, in the staging area, more balls of flame rose skyward, adding to the inferno already in progress.
“On me,” Jones said into the radio, and turned his boat into the mouth of the river, the other two close behind. In the estuary, the PTs raked one shoreline, then the other, as well as the small islands. Fires raged everywhere, both onshore and on the water. Barges were shredded by the heavy fusillade of automatic weapons fire.
Shadows In the Jungle Page 12
