General Vandegrift was observing activities unobtrusively from the edge of Henderson Field. I had accompanied him. The new Cactus Air Force commander, Brig. Gen. Louis Woods, USMC, came by, explained the developing situation, and asked, “Who do we go for, the cruisers or the transports?” The general’s unhesitating reply may not have been in accord with the dictates of Adm. Alfred Thayer Mahan, but as usual it was sensible: “The transports.”
The experience was sickening to those of our flyers who participated in the unavoidable slaughter that followed. Only five of the merchant ships made it to Guadalcanal, where they were deliberately grounded on the beach only to become the targets of our ships, planes, and shore-based artillery. It was a ghastly business with little profit to the enemy, who had landed only 2,000 men—many wounded and without weapons—200 bags of rice, and a small amount of ammunition. It was the final curtain of the Japanese effort to recapture Guadalcanal.
CHAPTER 15
Closing Out
On 16 November we received word from Adm. Kelly Turner that the 1st Division would be relieved by U.S. Army forces at an early date. Battalions were to be relieved in the order of their arrival in Guadalcanal proper. 2d Marines (less 3d Battalion) would go out after the 1st Division regiments because it was in better physical condition due to its less arduous service on Tulagi prior to 1 November, when it crossed over to Guadalcanal. However, the battle-tested 3d Battalion, 2d Marines, which had been on Guadalcanal almost from the beginning, was to be evacuated to New Zealand at the same time the 1st Division left for Australia. First Raiders and survivors of the 1st Parachute Battalion had already been taken out.
Army replacements poured in, and preparations for the takeover went smoothly. Marines, who habitually live out of their packs, wondered what the soldiers kept in those big blue barracks bags they brought along. We noted that the soldiers still had no combat uniforms and no field shoes. A few wore one-piece coveralls, which is about as poor a combat uniform as can be imagined. This gave rise to a scatological little ditty:
U.S. Marines what a blessing. We can crap without undressing.
They were otherwise well armed, well equipped, and well trained. No rifle grenade had as yet been made to use with their new M-1 rifles, and they soon realized that in jungle warfare some support weapon is still needed even in units as small as the rifle squad. We expected to get M-ls in Australia, so we gave them 800 Springfields complete with tromblons . These are bell-shaped devices that fit over the muzzle of a service rifle to hold a grenade in place when firing and give a degree of initial guidance to the grenade’s trajectory, the impetus being supplied by a blank rifle cartridge. We also included our remaining stocks of rifle grenades. Men always wanted these grenades. In the hands of an experienced man, they could be fired with remarkable accuracy up to 300 yards. Just as our last transport was leaving Lunga, an army boat went alongside and asked for 800 bayonets to go with the rifles. The bayonets were dropped into the boat, but Marines are still wondering how a soldier with a tromblon on the end of his rifle can use a bayonet.
Wearing a Marine Corps field uniform, Maj. Gen. Alexander M. Patch, U.S. Army, and the rest of his Americal (American-New Caledonian) Division staff arrived on Guadalcanal on 19 November but did not immediately take over. Patch gave me a sharp look when we met, no doubt recalling our prior meeting in Noumea, when he had instructed me to inform General Vandegrift not to expect any help from the Americal Division in connection with the forthcoming Guadalcanal operation.
His staff appeared competent and well organized. The army usually had admirable staffing. Unlike the army, which regarded staff duty as a prize assignment and the route to promotion, the Marine Corps regarded troop duty as far preferable, and people like my old friend Chesty Puller always referred to those of us on the staff as “paper shufflers” or “potted palms.” Patch had an excellent staff and used it to advantage.
From the beginning there had existed a strange divergence between the army and Marine Corps viewpoints on overall strategy, and it now became critical. Our first army visitor, Maj. Gen. Millard F. Harmon, commander of U.S. Army Forces, South Pacific, insisted that Mt. Austen to the south of the perimeter was the key terrain feature, dominated the area, and should be held in strength. In a way he was right. Its possession would have been crucial to two field armies slugging it out in its very shadow and equipped with every engine of war from bulldozers to eight-inch artillery. But for a bob-tailed, two-regiment Marine division and the enemy as well, it was “off the battlefield” and of slight practical significance to either side.
No doctrinaire soldier but an experienced banana war campaigner, General Vandegrift had reached that conclusion at exactly twenty seconds after sunrise on 7 August, when, standing on the deck of McCawley, he exclaimed, “Good God, Jerry, can that be Mister Widdy’s grassy knoll? Change the objective to the airfield and tell Cates to reorganize there.”
That had been the first order of the campaign, and under the circumstances, it was a remarkably prescient one.
Mt. Austen was a huge, nightmare hunk of fantastic terrain. All the navy’s Seabees could never have built a road to its forward crest overlooking Lunga Point. Both sides sent periodic patrols across its slopes. Carlson’s 2d Raiders had their last contact near the crest, but they did not linger. Mt. Austen afforded an excellent view of our activities, but the inadequacy of Japanese field radio prevented them from establishing reliable communications, as was evidenced by the total lack of coordination of their attacks on our perimeter and their inability to interdict Henderson Field with artillery.
The Japanese used the northwest slopes of the mountain as a dishonorable banishing ground for failed units, which in accordance with the Samurai code should never be permitted to rejoin the ranks of those undefiled by defeat. There were numerous such groups scattered over the area. Suffering and starving, they received occasional rice but no medical support. The smaller posts were soon overrun and plundered by our native patrols. In some cases the natives would first cut the enemy off from where their arms were stored and then “deal” with them using clubs and stones instead of weapons in order not to reveal their own presence to nearby troops. The resultant accumulation of Japanese weapons in the hands of native civilians proved worrisome to both Martin Clemens and John Mather, but it was unavoidable.
The largest and strongest of these Japanese contingents held a strong point known as Gifu. It was established and operated by our old friend Colonel Oka, who had suffered complete loss of face. Why the Japanese called it Gifu remains unknown. One theory prevalent at the time was that the real Gifu, a somewhat remote and minor prefecture in Northern Japan, had its name used as a reflection of Japanese humor in the same sense that Americans sometimes use the word Siberia.
The army decided to clear these areas out before starting their final drive to the west. Successful in mopping up the smaller spots, they met determined resistance when confronting Gifu. It was eventually overrun, but at a heavy cost. Oka’s fate is not known, but he was a great survivor. A Colonel Oka was present on Saipan later in the war, but no one knows whether or not it was the same officer.
These events delayed the main attack until 16 January 1943, long after we had left the island for Australia, but the question remains unanswered: Was this Mt. Austen force a sufficient threat to U.S. operations to warrant the loss of life and the long delay involved? Theoretically these Japanese did offer a threat to our major force advancing westward along the coast, but as a practical matter these isolated groups were composed of sick and starving men unable to do anything more than die in place. In one case a Japanese platoon at Gifu that heard our broadcast urging them to surrender decided they were too ill and weak even to walk to the American lines.
Under the circumstances disclosed by subsequent events, it is obvious that Mt. Austen was just part of the scenery and of no significant import to either of the antagonists. In this context General Vandegrift had again displayed a masterful capacity for correctly
gauging the event itself uninfluenced by textbook theory, but to the army it remained an article of faith.
Nothing of particular importance occurred in the ground fighting during this period of overlapping command, for on 23 November, General Vandegrift decided to halt our push to the west and hold what we had. This decision was based on the necessity to shuffle army and Marine units in preparation for our departure and because intelligence sources still reported planned movements of Japanese sea and land forces.
November 28, 1942, was my fortieth birthday, and I received two presents. Both were from the decoding of Japanese messages. One was a Japanese 17th army message directing establishment of a large encampment at Numa Numa, a remote spot on the east coast of Bougainville, for the cantonment of “forces evacuated from Guadalcanal.” This was definite indication that, at the 17th army level at least, the decision to accept defeat had been made. Numa Numa appeared to be an ideally remote location for the establishment of a huge Gifu for what remained of their 2d (Sendai) and 18th divisions. Withdrawal would require an imperial rescript and other time-consuming paperwork, but obviously General Hyakutake had accepted defeat and was taking time by the forelock in an attempt to salvage as much of his defeated force as possible.
The second of the two messages received on my birthday reminded us that the war at sea was far from over. It warned us that an enemy force of ten destroyers bent on a resupply mission would reach Doma Cove, northwest of Kokumbona, at 2230 on 30 November. The good news was that a U.S. Navy task force was being ordered to intercept the enemy.
Acting on this unusually precise information, I asked Brig. Gen. Pedro del Valle, 11th Marines (Artillery), to move a 155mm gun battery to a site in the Matanikau area to be in position to pick off any disabled ships that might be within their range at daylight. Don Pedro complained bitterly as usual but complied and later became so intrigued with the idea that he left the guns there permanently.
A small observation post adjacent to the division command post provided a good view of the Doma Cove area, and I watched from there. The forces made contact almost exactly on schedule. There was no illumination and exceptionally little naval gunfire. Then the action ceased. It was totally unlike the desperate night battles I had witnessed before. I was mystified and dumbfounded.
Activity of some sort continued into the night, and it was apparent that there were ships off Lunga Point. But whose? Nobody had any information, and none of the ships replied to our signals. We began to hear fragmentary intercepts in English talking of “torpedo hits” and “hull damage.”
The right flank of Col. Red Mike Edson’s 5th Marines rested on the beach about 1,000 yards south of Kukum, and the observation post there sighted an unidentified ship. At 0200 Edson reported “our right flank observation post has spotted an enemy transport off Lunga disembarking troops into landing boats” and called for fire from our five-inch seacoast battery position on Lunga Point. I refused and continued my own efforts to ascertain what was going on out there. Then I learned that the “enemy transport” was our heavy cruiser Minneapolis (CA-36). She had taken a crippling torpedo hit, and the crew was trying to get her to the safety of Tulagi Harbour. The “landing boats” were small naval and Coast Guard craft clustered around her in an attempt to keep her on a course toward Tulagi. She either ignored our signals or was unable to make a light.
Minneapolis finally made it to Tulagi. The heavy cruisers Northampton (CA-26), Pensacola (CA-24), and New Orleans (CA-32) were also hit by torpedoes. Northampton sank. This substantial damage was a severe blow. Three of the four cruisers hit were eventually repaired, but for the time being they were out of the war. The Japanese lost one destroyer, the Takanami.
How could this occur? The Japanese Long Lance torpedoes were far more powerful and reliable than any of ours, and on this occasion they were fired with a high degree of skill and fantastic luck. We ashore could take consolation only in the fact that we had not, by rash action, added tragedy to the misfortunes of the night. Edson never completely forgave me for being right.
Hyakutake conducted a masterful delaying operation, and although he was attacked along the coast from two sides by U.S. Army and Marine units, he successfully evacuated his entire force of 11,000 men. For once there appears to have been remarkably close cooperation between the Japanese army and naval forces in successive night evacuations using destroyers as high speed transports.
The general wanted to leave a final message. I had noticed the broadening in his point of view over the long months of unending struggle. We were all in this together. There was no room in his mind for petty, parochial, interservice strife. For example, an Army Air Corps B-17 from Espiritu Santo scored a damaging hit on an enemy destroyer. General Vandegrift was a witness. In their daily summary the Cactus Air Force credited the hit to someone else. The general was outraged and had the dispatch cancelled, corrected, and retransmitted. He was a fair man and insisted on equitable treatment in every respect. These qualities made him a respected and successful commander of a complex and ill-ordered, all-service force of fighting men.
His farewell statement issued on 7 December was written to reflect these views.
In relinquishing command in the Cactus Area I hope that in some small measure I can convey to you my feeling of pride in your magnificent accomplishments and my thanks for the unbounded loyalty, limitless self-sacrifice and high courage which have made those accomplishments possible. To the soldiers and Marines who have faced the enemy in the fierceness of night combat; to the Cactus pilots, Army, Navy, and Marine whose unbelievable achievements have made the name “Guadalcanal” a synonym for death and disaster in the language of our enemy; to those who have labored and sweated within the lines at all manner of prodigious and vital tasks; to the men of the torpedo boat command slashing at the enemy in night sorties; to our small band of devoted allies who have contributed so vastly in proportion to their numbers; to the surface forces of the Navy associated with us in signal triumphs of their own, I say that at all times and in all places you have faced without flinching the worst that the enemy could do to us and have thrown back the best that he could send against us. It may well be that this modest operation begun four months ago has, through your efforts, been successful in thwarting the larger aims of our enemy in the Pacific. The fight for the Solomons is not yet won but “tide what may” I know that you, as brave men and men of good will, will hold your heads high and prevail in the future, as you have in the past.
The actual change of operational command occurred about 1100 on 9 December 1942. Earlier in the morning Generals Vandegrift and Patch had left the perimeter to see a newly arrived National Guard regiment move into a defensive position down at the Matanikau. There was a little random rifle fire up ahead, and the advancing column instinctively “hit the grit”—and stayed there. This is just the moment when you need sergeants with number 12 combat boots to get things going again. There were none. One soldier even threatened to write his congressman.
General Patch was incensed. General Vandegrift, embarrassed, departed the scene. He took this opportunity to walk to our simple cemetery and bid farewell of the nearly 700 men and officers buried there.
Patch was still boiling two hours later when he entered the operations tent. He was looking for a dog to kick, and I was the victim. He strode over to my situation map, the beat-up homemade affair that had been pored over and studied by Admirals McCain, Turner, Halsey, and Nimitz, and shouted to my relief, “Surely we can do something better than this!” With that he put his stick under my map and flipped it off the plywood board.
My relief, who had been standing there holding something behind his back, stepped smartly forward and unrolled a beautiful map of Guadalcanal, something we had dreamed of but never expected to see. It was a copy of the map the army engineers had made for us in Australia, which had been “lost” en route to Auckland before the Guadalcanal operation began. How many of our Marines died or were wounded because we didn’t have that map? We ap
preciated those 800 cavalry sabers the army sent us to use as machetes, but a half dozen copies of that map would have been priceless.
I picked up the pieces of my old map (I left the thumb-tacks) and departed, but not before hearing my relief launch into an impassioned harangue to his assembled henchmen, beginning with the exhortation: “If we are to avoid the mistakes of our predecessors we must . . .” Sure, we had made mistakes, but Old George had taken and held Guadalcanal and had shown a touch of class along the way, something quite unknown to our successors.
The whole stupid business put me in mind of Gen. U. S. Grant’s story of the youthful Spartan warrior returning home from his first battle bearing the arm of a dead Persian on his shield. His veteran father asked, “Why did you not bring back your enemy’s head instead of his arm?” The unthinking youth replied, “Because someone had cut that off before me.”
The next two days were spent in an orgy of catch-up paperwork, reports, citations, recommendations, field promotions, and the like. I think everyone got some form of recognition. I recommended my two sergeants, Brant and Kuhn, for field appointments as second lieutenants. Jerry Thomas knew and admired both of these young men and gave my recommendation a fair wind. Both served throughout the war, went to college, qualified for regular commissions, and enjoyed full careers in the Corps. Kuhn retired as a lieutenant colonel. Brant became a colonel and eventually served as chief of staff of the 1st Marine Division.
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