Lonely Vigil: Coastwatchers of the Solomons by Walter Lord
For the next month they were pretty much on the move, but Kennedy managed to keep up a steady flow of radio traffic on Japanese movements, and he also had a chance to see Geoffrey Kuper under pressure. He liked very much what he saw.
Around the middle of June he decided that Kuper should operate independently. There was an extra boat now—a scavenging party had brought in an 8-ton auxiliary cutter called the Joan—and with his genius at radio, Kennedy put together an extra set from spare parts lying around. Kuper, with Linda and a three-man crew, took off for New Georgia. Soon he was radioing regular reports to Kennedy, using the rather odd call-sign, “Unattached K.”
The arrangement didn’t last long. Toward the end of the month Kuper ran aground in heavy weather and had to bring the Joan back to Isabel for repairs. This left New Georgia uncovered, and Kennedy decided to move into the breach. It was now clear that most of the Japanese convoys from Rabaul were coming down west of the Slot, and New Georgia would offer a far better spot for observing them. On July 8 he established himself at Segi—that perfect example of site selection—and left “Unattached K” to cover Isabel.
By August the Joan was repaired, and Kuper started down the northwest coast, planning to recruit some natives to cut a new trail across the island. Early on the 7th he was well on his way when the boat’s engine conked out, leaving her drifting and rolling in the offshore swell. At 8 A.M. he was still struggling with repairs when a fighter plane with stubby wings roared down from the clouds without warning. It held its fire, but buzzed the Joan twice and flew off. Later Kuper would recognize this sort of plane as a Grumman Wildcat, but this morning he didn’t know what it was. It happened so suddenly, he didn’t even notice the white stars on the wings.
The American landings in the Solomons had begun.
Geoffrey Kuper didn’t know this either. He only knew that the helmsman had fled the wheel, and the Joan was now stuck hard on a reef. No way to get her off till high tide; so he let go the anchor and ordered abandon ship. Loading the teleradio into the dinghy, he led the crew to a nearby beach.
He was still there around noon when he spotted 27 Japanese bombers flying southeast. Two hours later he watched them fly back—far fewer now and chased by American fighters. Some Zeros turned up, and dogfights erupted all over the sky. Three … four planes careened into the Slot.
Around 4 P.M. the Joan floated free of the reef on a rising tide, and Kuper completed his repairs. He then chugged out to look for survivors of the great air battle, but saw no one. As dusk fell, he headed back down the coast and into an ever-narrowing creek. Huge cypresslike trees lined the banks and almost touched overhead. As far as he knew, it had no name, but he called it the “Kilokaka hiding place” after the name of a nearby village.
On August 9 he learned there was a survivor from the great air battle after all. A native runner arrived to report that a flyer had been picked up on the beach and was now resting at a village near Mufu Point. American or Japanese? The native said he couldn’t tell the difference. Well, what did he look like? Short and rather stocky, answered the native. This sounded too much like a Japanese for comfort, and before going to the scene, Kuper dashed off a note asking the stranger to identify himself:
To the aviator shot down: Whether you be ally or otherwise, report to me immediately. Geoffrey Kuper, Base Defense Officer, Santa Isabel.
In a couple of hours the runner reappeared with an answer: “I am unable to travel. Gordon E. Firebaugh, Lt. (j.g.), USN.”
Kuper now hurried to the village, somewhat reassured—but not completely. His hand was on his pistol as he entered the leaf hut where the flyer was staying. One glance was enough to dispel all doubts, but it seemed that Lieutenant Firebaugh too had his worries. “What are you going to do with me?” he asked. “I don’t know whether you are a British or Japanese agent.”
Kuper said, “British,” and the alliance was formally sealed with a handshake. Firebaugh, it turned out, was a fighter pilot from the carrier Enterprise, covering the landings at Tulagi and Guadalcanal. Shot down during the dogfight on the 7th, he had bailed out of his burning plane and landed in the sea. Although his legs were burned and his Mae West leaked, he somehow managed to swim first to a tiny offshore island and later to Isabel itself. Here he was quickly found by the natives, and since then his only problem had been the local witch doctor, who wanted to treat his legs. “Perhaps tomorrow,” Firebaugh tactfully suggested.
Now he was put aboard a huge dugout canoe—nearly 50 feet long—and with Geoffrey Kuper steering and six paddlers at work, they raced down the coast. Entering the bay that led to the Kilokaka hiding place, Kuper covered Firebaugh with a tarpaulin—even friends were not allowed to see the exact location of the creek—and it was over an hour before he let the lieutenant sit in the open again. It was dark when they finally drew alongside the Joan, moored beneath the trees and lighted by a single lantern.
Helped aboard, Firebaugh was introduced to Linda, given a meal of rice and yams, and treated to a roll-your-own cigarette that was so strong it made his head spin. His quarters proved to be a mattress on top of the after cabin. The Kupers slept below, while the crew kept to the bow of the boat.
Early next morning “Unattached K” went on the air, reporting Firebaugh’s rescue and requesting a plane to pick him up. It seemed a reasonable request—the Americans always had plenty of everything—but this was 30 hours after Savo, and headquarters truthfully replied that they had no planes; would Kuper bring him to Tulagi? Understandably, they didn’t add that the whole Allied fleet had been destroyed or dispersed, and the trip would be entirely through enemy waters.
As dusk fell on the 14th, the Joan cast off, glided down the creek into the bay, and turned southeast along the coast. The tide was low, and they ran aground countless times during the night. Kuper would then wade the anchor to deeper water, giving something to pull on as they pushed with poles and rocked the ship loose. At sunrise they turned up a tributary and hid for the day under some trees. They were far behind schedule.
During the morning Kuper vanished into the jungle to visit a “friend.” Later the friend himself appeared, paddling alongside the Joan in a canoe. To Firebaugh’s surprise he turned out to be Chinese. Chan Cheong had been a prosperous storekeeper in Tulagi. When the Japanese approached, he didn’t flee south with the rest of the Chinese community but moved his family into the jungle and was now determined to sit out the war. There wasn’t much he could do to help the Allied cause, but he contributed whatever he could. This afternoon his contribution was a small rooster, which he gravely presented to Geoffrey Kuper.
It was as tough a bird as Firebaugh ever tasted, but that evening it did vary the monotony of yams at every meal. With darkness they continued on, through Thousand Ships Bay and into the open sea that separated Isabel from the Florida Islands. Engine trouble put them still further behind schedule, meaning that they must finish the trip by daylight—an inviting target for either the Japanese or trigger-happy American gunners.
It was a B-17, patrolling from Espiritu Santo, that first spotted them shortly after sunrise on the 16th. It circled them low, guns bristling, and the Joan had no colors to hoist. Firebaugh desperately signaled “U.S. Navy” by semaphore, and to everyone’s relief the plane apparently understood. It flew off, and an LST appeared, which escorted the Joan to a pier in Tulagi harbor.
As a Marine inspection party came aboard, Geoffrey Kuper emerged from his cabin. For the past week he had been barefoot, usually wearing only an old pair of shorts. Now he was resplendent in a beautiful green shirt, spotless tan military trousers, tan shoes, and an Aussie hat with one brim turned up. A small automatic pistol in a black leather holster hung from his waist. He looked splendid, and no one would suspect that he had not slept in 48 hours.
Back on Isabel August 18, Kuper received a radio message from Resident Commissioner Marchant (probably inspired by Donald Kennedy) to establish a permanent Coastwatching post at Tataba. He was now formally incorporated
At Tataba he moved into a leaf house with Linda and the teleradio and gradually built up a staff of twelve native assistants. Two natives were always on watch, the rest used as needed. Linda cooked for them all.
At the same time he established a network of scouts and contacts all over the island. He divided the coast into sectors and assigned each sector to a nearby village. Natives in canoes covered the entire shoreline at least once a day. He had no trouble getting volunteers; they poured in, and soon (as he later put it) “the whole island was scouting.”
The timing was perfect. Henderson Field began operating on the 20th, and the great aerial battles for its control were largely fought above Isabel. A whole new Coastwatcher “industry” sprang up—the rescue of downed American flyers—and in these early days no one played a more important role than Geoffrey Kuper.
His first “customers” arrived on September 17, when Marine pilot Second Lieutenant Archie M. Smith, Jr.—lost while returning from a bombing mission up the Slot—crash-landed his SBD a few yards off the coast. Smith and his gunner, PFC Tommy Costello, came ashore on San Jorge, a small island virtually contiguous to Santa Isabel. After a harrowing night when every firefly looked like the glowing tip of a cigarette held by some Japanese, they swam to Isabel itself and spent the next night in a deserted house near a native village. A Japanese calendar on the wall was not reassuring.
On the 19th they awoke to the sound of native drums, and Smith had visions of cannibals, a large pot, and himself as the entree. But they couldn’t hide forever; so they took a chance and revealed themselves.
Several of the natives spoke pidgin English, and they made it clear that the American must go to “the Chinaman.” This led to a series of canoe rides into the interior. Finally they came to a European-type sloop hidden in the bush. Up in the rigging, wearing a western shirt and shorts, was “the Chinaman.”
It was, of course, Chan Cheong. He escorted Smith and Costello to his leaf house, and for the next two days they relaxed in style. Even though a fugitive, Chan Cheong saw no reason to live like one. His beds were comfortable, the meals delicious—especially breakfast, which featured pancakes wrapped around apricot preserves.
Meanwhile Chan made use of the network of scouts and runners to alert Geoffrey Kuper. ZGJ-6 immediately contacted Henderson, and arrangements were made for a small amphibian to pick up the flyers on the 22nd.
Everything went off so smoothly that it wasn’t even necessary for Kuper to be on hand. He felt a little bad about this, and along with his final instructions, he sent Smith a brief message of apology: “I am sorry it has not been my pleasure to meet you two and have you as my guests, but I have no doubt Mr. Chan Cheong has been a good host, better than I could have been in these hard times.”
Two weeks passed, and Kuper’s network was tested again. On October 5 Lieutenant Commander John Eldridge, skipper of dive-bombing squadron VS-71, was forced down off the southwest coast while returning from a strike on Japanese shipping. Reaching shore, Eldridge and his gunner, ACRM L. A. Powers, Jr., were almost immediately found by Kuper’s scouts and brought to Tataba. They were evacuated by amphibian that very afternoon—the quiet, competent Eldridge was desperately needed to lead his squadron at Henderson Field.
Another two weeks, and two more members of VS-71 turned up. While flying a search mission over Rekata Bay on October 17, Lieutenant (j.g.) C. H. Mester was shot down and his gunner, ARM/2c E. L. Forwood, badly wounded. Picked up by the scouting network, they were brought to Tataba, and Kuper radioed for an urgent pickup. But this was right after the devastating Japanese bombardment of the 14th, and Henderson simply had no planes available. Kuper must cope with the situation as best he could. Falling back on his medical training, he successfully extracted several bullets from Forwood’s legs and left arm.
“Say, he’s just got another bullet out!” Forwood observed at one point in the operation.
“You must be getting lighter,” said Mester encouragingly.
Mester and Forwood were still at Tataba on October 25 when Marine fighter pilot Second Lieutenant John Henry King ran out of gas, splashed down just offshore, and was added to the group. King’s plane was almost intact, and Kuper hauled it up on the beach. Proud to have saved the U.S. government the cost of a new fighter, he notified Henderson and waited for someone to retrieve it. He was still waiting 34 years later.
These were trying days for the stranded flyers. General Kawaguchi’s attack—the third great offensive to recapture Guadalcanal—was in full swing, and there was evidence of hard fighting everywhere: air battles in the sky, warships knifing through the Slot, and on the 25th a big display of fireworks practically on Geoffrey Kuper’s doorstep. Late that afternoon Henderson Field bombers caught the Japanese cruiser Yura about seven miles offshore and sent her blazing to the bottom. The airmen at Tataba took turns watching the show through Kuper’s binoculars … and longed to be a part of it. When Kawaguchi’s last assault had finally been crushed, a landing barge arrived from Lunga on the 29th and picked the flyers up.
They were hardly gone when Kuper’s organization brought in still another flyer—First Lieutenant Wallace L. Dinn, an Army Air Force fighter pilot based at Henderson. Like others before him, he had fallen afoul of the Japanese anti-aircraft gunners at Rekata Bay, who seem to have been among the best in the business. The fighting on Guadalcanal had simmered down now, and on November 3 Dick Horton brought over the Ramada with a load of supplies and picked him up.
Kuper’s next customer was already on the way. On the 1st Marine fighter pilot Second Lieutenant Michael R. Yunck had also been clipped by the AA gunners at Rekata Bay. Splashing off the northwest coast near Austria Sound, he paddled southeast in his rubber boat. On the fourth day he finally met a party of three natives roasting a pig on the beach. Using a combination of pantomime and pidgin English, he tried to explain that he was an American aviator. He put on, he felt, a very good show: spreading his arms like wings … “flying” up and down the beach … pointing his fingers like machine guns … and adding sound effects. The natives watched for about 30 seconds, then the youngest spoke up with flawless British accent: “I understand. You are an American aviator. We work for Mr. Geoffrey Kuper, who is the Coastwatcher on the island, and we will take care of you.”
The organization sprang into action. Relays of canoes moved Yunck down the coast for three days … then guides escorted him inland for another day … and finally around noon on November 9 he reached Tataba. Having been fooled once, Yunck expected to meet a typical Britisher—“a Cooper spelled with a C”—and was somewhat nonplussed by the dark, lithe young man who came forward to greet him.
Like the others before him, Mike Yunck fretted to get back to Henderson Field. But once more the fighting had heated up—the Japanese were mounting their fourth great attack—and again, there just wasn’t any transportation available. In his impatience, Yunck even suggested going up to Rekata Bay and hijacking a Zero float plane.
This struck Kuper as an appalling idea—a good Coastwatcher survived by being inconspicuous—and he made a mental note to send this eager warrior on his way as soon as possible. A big canoe was obtained, and on the 16th Mike Yunck headed back to the wars.
And so it went. After Yunck there was Lieutenant Joe Murdoch … then a Marine pilot named Kovaks, who bailed out so high his face was bruised by hailstones … then Corporal J. E. Hartman, tail gunner of a B-17 and the only survivor when his plane was rammed by a Zero. Hartman was initially picked up by Seton and Waddell on Choiseul; they slipped him to Isabel, and Kuper’s network took over.
After the Japanese defeat in November, the air battles tapered off, and for the first time in weeks Geoffrey Kuper had no flyers on his hands. But this didn’t mean he was idle. Twenty-six survivors from a sunken Japanese barge had formed an outpost on nearby San Jorge Island and posed a growing threat. On December 18 Kuper’s scouts caught the party by surprise, rou
The Japanese seaplane base at Rekata Bay was another problem. Fortunately Kuper’s chief scout in the area, a native named Mostyn, had won the confidence of Lieutenant Yoneda, the Japanese commander, with gifts of fish and fruit. He soon had the run of the base, and his information was regularly used by the Henderson Field bombers. After every raid Mostyn would turn up to commiserate with Yoneda—and assess the latest damage.
Despite the bombings, the Japanese continued to develop Rekata Bay, and at KEN Hugh Mackenzie decided to establish a second Coastwatching station on Isabel to give the enemy base full-time coverage. On January 8, 1943, RAAF Flying Officer J. A. Corrigan, formerly a New Guinea gold miner, took over Kuper’s northern network of scouts and spies, including the ingenious Mostyn.
With January, Japanese ships and planes began reappearing in large numbers, and the great air war flared up with new intensity. Once again Geoffrey Kuper found himself in the air-rescue business: It was his network that brought in Captain Jack Moore on the 20th. As usual in times of crisis, headquarters could provide no transportation, and after waiting thirteen days, Kuper sent Moore to Tulagi by canoe.
As the CACTUS Air Force ranged far up the Slot harassing the Japanese planes and convoys, for the first time the other Coastwatchers too began playing a major role in these rescue operations. On Vella Lavella Henry Josselyn and Jack Keenan got word from KEN to keep a sharp lookout for two fighter pilots seen to bail out over the island of Kolombangara during a strike on January 31.
The scouts were alerted, and two days later a canoe arrived at Bilua with Staff Sergeant James A. Feliton of VMF-121. He had parachuted into a mammoth tree on Kolombangara and was badly shaken up when he fell to the ground. Discovered by Josselyn’s men some 24 hours later, he could shed no light on the other missing pilot.
But he was very much alive. During the strike First Lieutenant Jefferson J. de Blanc had single-handedly shot down five Zeros, before a sixth got him. Bailing out, he landed in the water off Kolombangara, swam ashore, and was picked up by natives a couple of days later. They then looked up one of Josselyn’s scouts and exchanged him for a sack of rice—a deal that still makes de Blanc wonder how much a fighter pilot is really worth.