I pressed my operational authority to the limit, every day insisting that our artillery must take more active counter-battery measures. Deliberately, I made a pest of myself in headquarters by asking for more and heavier artillery. I knew what should happen—and it did. Several days later two batteries of 155mm guns—one Marine and the other army— showed up in an AKA off Lunga Point, were landed, and within an hour of hitting the beach opened fire on suspected enemy positions well to the west of Kokumbona.
A year later, during my second tour on Guadalcanal, while planning the attack on Bougainville, I prowled around the old Japanese positions and found a gun park where eighteen of their 150mm guns, all intact, were lined up in a row. Nearby was a burned-out ammunition dump containing the remains of thousands of rounds of 150mm ammunition. The only sensible explanation is that we had destroyed their ammo dump early in the game and they were unable to replace it. If so, I believe the credit should go to a U.S. Navy destroyer that had bombarded the area at our request, causing tremendous secondary explosions and fires.
From the very beginning of the Guadalcanal Operation, the lack of purpose and determination by ComSoPac and the highly questionable quality of some of Turner’s views were obvious to General Vandegrift, who then derived his own mission from those circumstances confronting him. Vandegrift’s forces labored under grave disabilities not of his making and not fully understood in the rear area. Yet, as Admiral McCain had so forcefully pointed out, we were in a position to render a service far surpassing what might reasonably be expected of us. The general understood the supreme value of Henderson Field to the Allied cause and was determined to protect it. He steadfastly refused to devote any significant part of his slender resources to any undertaking that did not in some way contribute to the main purpose of our presence in the Solomons. Turner, with his short span of tactical attention, was constantly pressing for one or another of his schemes, further dispersing our already scarce resources.
The British were the most indefatigable and persistent in wishing to scatter our slim assets. Guadalcanal was not an Australian possession, as so many have presumed. It was British, part of their Solomon Islands Protectorate, one of dozens of widely separated islands and archipelagos of the tropical South Pacific ruled by a British governor general from his capital at Suva in the Fijis, over 1,000 miles away.
Sir Philip Martin, the incumbent official at Suva, paid us a visit. He had two apparent purposes: to have us hoist the Union Jack alongside the Star-Spangled Banner on Pagoda Hill and expand our operations to include physical occupation of the entire area—something the British had never done and we were not about to be drawn into. Underlying all this was an apparent suspicion on their part that we actually had a proprietary interest in this miserable place. General Vandegrift simply pretended not to take the matter seriously. The brief visit was an enjoyable occasion, and when he took his guest to the airfield, his farewell words were: “Well, Sir Philip, maybe we can make a deal. We’ll keep the airfield, and you and the Japanese can have the mosquitoes.” “Old Glory” continued to fly in solitary splendor on Pagoda Hill.
There were never any important differences as to aims and objectives of the United States and Britain—rid the area of Japanese, regain control of the Solomons, and win the war— but our dissimilar points of view were sometimes apparent. For example, mining for precious metals had been completely suspended in the United States as an activity contributing in no way to the war effort, but here on Guadalcanal we found a small gold-mining operation going on in the mountains to the east of our perimeter. Asked to give support, General Vandegrift offered them help in evacuation but declined on principle to assist them in any other way.
A partial solution to this British problem came about by happenstance. On Tulagi, Brigadier General Rupertus had substantial forces garrisoning the area and maintaining surveillance over Florida Island by constant patrolling. Otherwise there was no active day-to-day contact with the enemy, as was the case on Guadalcanal. The operations of the Marines on Tulagi and the military interests of the people from Ferdinand—the invaluable Australian Coast Watchers organization composed of Australian, British, and native personnel— were combined admirably to provide combat patrols and eradicate small groups of Japanese throughout the Eastern Solomons. This cooperative arrangement for gathering intelligence and eliminating Japanese was effective and mutually advantageous to the British, to us on Guadalcanal, and to General Vandegrift’s subordinate command, the Tulagi Marines, who quickly distinguished themselves as jungle fighters.
I recall one raid in particular. It was made against a twenty-one-man radio installation on Malaita, the most primitive of the islands, where even today a white man is at risk. The raid was conceived and planned by Maj. John Mather of the Australian Army, a graduate of the prestigious Indian Army Staff College at Quetta and, since our landing on Guadalcanal, attached to the 1st Division’s Intelligence Section (D-2). Mather’s scarred face gave an appearance of fierceness to this huge, powerful man, who was surprisingly soft spoken, well mannered, and gracious. For years he had been a recruiter in the Solomons. The natives swore by him. Even the hostile Malaitamen trusted him.
Accompanied by a native friend, Mather made a trip to Malaita, where they carefully observed the daily routine at the Japanese camp. Soon after returning to Lunga he prepared and gave me a document. We would term it “an estimate of the situation.” To John Mather it was “an appreciation.” By any name it was one of the best written, most detailed, and most logically presented papers of the kind that I have ever read. It specified step by step in exact detail what must be done, when, and why, to catch the enemy off guard. I went along with the plan but never expected much from it. I was mistaken.
A platoon from Tulagi, I Company, 2d Marines, commanded by 1st Lt. James W. Crain, moved to Malaita in two small sailing vessels. Landing under cover of darkness, they marched to the hostile camp, deployed, and waited for daylight. Just before dawn a Japanese left the enclosure and urinated on a bush under which a Marine was taking cover. The Marine never flinched. At daylight the machine gunner on guard in the watch tower climbed down to join his mates at breakfast, leaving the camp unguarded. This was the preplanned signal for the Marines to open fire. They did. In seconds it was over. One man survived. He was taken prisoner. We suffered no casualties. It was a microcosmic military masterpiece.
The Tulagi Marines performed many such missions, some of them, the largest ones, on Guadalcanal. As a staff officer, I always supported these patrols and raids, feeling that in some measure they were a repayment to the good people of Ferdinand, whose courageous Coast Watchers had done so much for us.
The anticipated attack from Rabaul never materialized, and for good reason. On the night of 11 October, a strong U.S. naval force of cruisers and destroyers commanded by Rear Adm. Norman Scott surprised the Japanese 6th Cruiser Division as it approached Guadalcanal. This was the same enemy division that surprised our ships off Savo Island on the night of 8–9 August. Now, well handled and trained after weeks of night battle practice, our ships closed on the enemy in darkness off Cape Esperance. It was Savo Island in reverse. In thirty minutes the Japanese 6th Cruiser Division was badly beaten. We had paid them back in their own coin.
This victory not only heightened morale among the Guadalcanal defenders but also removed the immediate threat of attack by overwhelming forces. It also permitted the long-planned reinforcement of our division by the 164th Infantry. This fine regiment of the army’s Americal Division, commanded by Col. Bryant E. Moore, USA, was composed of National Guard troops from the upper midwest states, the Dakotas and Minnesota.
Disembarkation and unloading were completed late in the afternoon of 13 October. Operational control of the army unit would pass to me the next day. It was decided to have the troops bivouac in the rear of the landing beaches rather than moving to the perimeter, where they were to relieve the 1st Marines for assignment elsewhere.
Their bivouac was in an expose
d area, and they took the precaution of digging in for the night. It was well that they did. That night an enemy force of two battleships plus cruisers and destroyers delivered the first of a series of heavy bombardments. For eighty minutes they illuminated Henderson Field and poured in a well-directed fire of fourteen- and twelve-inch shells, which really shook things up. Under their constant pounding, the earth seemed to turn to the consistency of Jell-O, making it difficult to move or even remain upright.
We suffered many casualties. Forty-one were killed, including some of our best pilots. Our wire communications failed immediately. During a momentary lull a radioman in my D-3 dugout—without orders—sent out a call sign to test our communications. The enemy picked up the signal. Response was immediate. Tons of fourteen- and twelve-inch shells began to land in and around the division CP. I thought about the 164th Infantry, out there in center field picking up all the flack in their bivouac area. They suffered casualties but, thankfully, fewer than I feared. What a reception for our new arrivals!
We suffered severe losses in aircraft. Only one of the indispensable SBDs survived the night undamaged. Others were damaged but repairable. Many were completely destroyed. Herculean repair efforts by the line crews made a few of the planes flyable. This small flight took off just before sunset to make a strike on an approaching convoy of seven large transports. The attack was desperately driven home and succeeded in sinking one large transport and damaging another. The five undamaged ships pressed on, and at daylight, 15 October, were observed unloading troops and supplies in the Tassafaronga–Doma Reef area ten miles west of Lunga Point.
Our small force of surviving fighters and dive bombers entered into a frenzied melee, making repeated attacks on the enemy transports after penetrating an intense canopy of antiaircraft fire from shore batteries, transports, and escort vessels. Our planes were under constant attack by Zero fighters coming in relays to cover the transports. By 1100 one transport was sunk and two were beached and burning. The remaining two ceased unloading and fled. As they passed Savo, a formation of B-17s attacked and scored a direct hit on one transport. It burst into flames.
With the departure of the Japanese transports, our aircraft turned to the dangerous but highly important work of destroying enemy cargo piled along the beaches. Great fires and large explosions were observed from Lunga Point. Our pilots had not overlooked the Japanese lack of target perception at Red Beach during the time of our initial landing and did not make the same mistake. Despite all our efforts, the Japanese had brought in a substantial reinforcement of their strong force already ashore. This success would, without doubt, encourage them to repeat the process.
General Geiger was greatly disturbed by the vulnerability of his aircraft in their exposed position and did everything possible to deceive the enemy and reduce losses. The Pagoda was torn down; it provided too convenient a registration point at night for Japanese naval gunfire. Wrecked planes from the bone yard were lined up wing to wing as inviting targets for Japanese pilots to waste their ammunition.
He also established a secret dispersal airfield just outside the perimeter wire on the east flank, where a long grassy expanse provided a clear area of fire for the right battalion of the 1st Marines’ sector. I set up a plan for heavily outposting the field when in use. Then I noticed a high pinnacle exactly south of the airstrip and commanding its entire length. This would have to be held at all times, or the field would be unusable. Since the hill was on their front, the 7th Marines were given this outpost chore. They were not too happy about it. Detailed plans existed for their safe withdrawal in case of a general attack—if the field was not in active use.
In order to avoid detection, improvement of the field was limited to the removal of objects considered hazardous to flight operations. Few persons knew of the existence of this “phantom” fighter strip. It appears on no maps and is not mentioned in the official monograph, but it served us well at least once when it was used as a dispersal strip. The heavy rains accompanying the November battles prevented its further use, but the outpost was destined to give us the first alarm and three precious hours to brace for the Sendai Division’s assault upon Puller’s battalion when it came on the night of 24 October.
The day following their arrival, the 164th Infantry relieved the 1st Marines, who took over the left half of the large sector formerly held by 5th Marines, thus doubling the infantry strength in what was now believed to be the more dangerous approach to the airfield. It was the only open area lending itself to defense in depth and for this reason was assigned to the 1st Marines, commanded by Col. Clifton B. Cates, an outspoken protagonist of this mode of defense. A doctrinaire soldier of World War I, he wanted three days to conduct the relief, but Vandegrift would not hear him out.
Cates then got me on the phone and gave me a thorough lecture on the forty-two consecutive steps taken to effect a proper relief. I, too, had once memorized the three-day forty-two-step routine and with forbearance listened to his scolding lecture. But I kept thinking of a tale told me years before by an officer who took his company of Marines up to the front lines at Verdun in 1918 to relieve a company of French infantry. The French company commander, impatiently awaiting the captain’s arrival, took him to the parapet, waved his arm toward the horizon and exclaimed: “Voila le boche!He weel shoot at you! Au revoir et bon chance.” And was on his way. So much for the forty-two steps!
Despite his minor shortcomings, Cates was a splendid regimental commander. In six months he had turned a bunch of post–Pearl Harbor recruits, a handful of old-time sergeants dragged kicking and screaming off their planks in various navy yards, and a group of green lieutenants just out of Quantico into a fighting machine of the first order. His company commanders were from the peacetime reserve, people like Charlie Brush, who wiped out Colonel Ichiki’s advance party at Tetere. They and even some of the young lieutenants would be commanding battalions when the war ended. These officers would leave the Corps, many to embark on remarkable careers: U.S. senators, governors of states, and heads of worldwide corporations such as Bechtel and Merrill Lynch. There would be an assistant managing editor of Life magazine, and one of these officers, Lt. John Jachym, who has already been mentioned, would buy a half interest in the Washington Senators—but not, I am sure, by saving his Marine Corps pay.
First Lt. Walter S. “Tabasco Mac” McLlhenny, destined to head the McLlhenny Avery Island interests in Louisiana, was also a highly successful but fiercely independent company commander coming directly from the reserve. I once had occasion to go with General Geiger well out of the perimeter in Cates’s sector. He wanted to see for himself whether the open area south and southeast of Red Beach was suitable for airfield construction. Tabasco Mac’s company provided security for our movements. The old general, once the finest company commander in the Corps, was obviously delighted to be with a ground outfit for a change and took great interest in everything he saw. McLlhenny put on a fine show.
I asked Lt. Col. Lenard B. Creswell, who commanded 1st Battalion, 1st Marines, “Isn’t McLlhenny in your battalion?” His facetious reply, “Well, yes. In a way he does acknowledge a sort of loose relationship.”
After the war McLlhenny was active in numerous Marine Corps organizations and ultimately retired as a brigadier general, USMCR.
During this time we began receiving a steady stream of visitors from the rear areas, some from as far away as Washington. None stayed long enough to really understand our situation, but all gave very pessimistic and inaccurate—and unsubstantiated—accounts when they got home. The farther from Guadalcanal one got, the more negative and defeatist the outlook. Some of this got back to the men via the evening bullhorn broadcast at Kukum, where whoever could get away would walk miles to guffaw at Tokyo Rose and her crude attempts at propaganda. Our Marines were astounded to learn that there was “grave doubt in the nation’s capital” as to whether we could hold out. They hadn’t heard about that— and didn’t like what they heard. Marines got mad and booed the bul
lhorn, particularly the night of 19 October, when Secretary of the Navy Knox feebly told a news conference, “I certainly hope so,” when asked if we would be able to make it. Uncomplimentary things were said.
I often wondered why some visitors were permitted to come. There seemed to be no specific reason beyond casual curiosity.
One visitor that I recall vividly was an officer of a type Australians call a Pommy. His ancestors may have lived in the Antipodes for a century and a half, but he still talked about “going home” to England for Christmas. They are not greatly admired and fortunately are few in number. This one walked into our miserable dugout near the end of a very bad day. He was a handsome young major wearing a beautifully cut uniform and a splendid Digger hat, appearing as if he had just come off the parade ground at Sandhurst. After looking us over disdainfully, he spoke to my assistant, Maj. Bill Buse: “I say, what do you chaps do to keep fit?”
Good question that. We hadn’t thought much about it lately. Like everybody else, we were just trying to keep alive from one day to the next.
Fresh from a tour of duty in England, he was a survivor of the “lunnon blitz,” as he described it. He glanced over our situation map and shook his head in disapproval. We then entered into a spirited war-gaming exercise in which he defeated me with an endless number of Japanese battalions maneuvering at lightning speed across mountain ranges to thwart our every effort. We were done for. No doubt about that. He even told us so.
Just then the third air attack of the afternoon, a mean low-level affair, hit the command post. We all “assumed the position” and hunched up as we sat on the ground with our backs to the coral wall to reduce the effect of concussion from a near miss. The Pommy looked at us in utter contempt as I told him to get down with the rest of us. Instead he moved to the entrance, screened by only a sandbag blast deflector, and struck a heroic pose. “Get away from there!” I yelled. Too late. I heard it coming. A fragmentation bomb. It made a direct hit on a shelter next door—just a few feet away. Concussion knocked the Pommy flat to the ground with the force of a five-ton truck. The beautiful Digger hat went flying. We were relieved to see him get up, unhurt. He stood there and yelled, “Jesus Christ!” at the top of his voice. After that he dropped all the condescension and talked like a regular guy. He was impressed. I wonder what he said when he got home. There were four casualties next door—all native scouts.
No Bended Knee Page 17
