Guadalcanal Diary Read online

  The cannonading continued, booming loud and bright and stopping, then starting again, for an hour and a half. And we stood and watched, speculating as to what was happening out there.

  Meanwhile a Jap plane came to buzz overhead in the dark and drop flares—over the beach where we had landed, over the airport, out over the sea to the northwest, whence the firing was coming.

  At about 2:30 some of the men said they were sure the sound of cannonading was growing fainter, and that this meant the Japs were being driven back. At three o’clock the last ponderous barrage of firing came to an end.

  I sought refuge this time in a Japanese sedan, probably the Jap commander’s vehicle, which had been left at the side of the road. The soft cushions felt good. Except for the slight disturbance of being bitten by mosquitoes, I was quite comfortable for the rest of the night.

  This morning I made a trek to the temporary command post of Gen. Vandegrift (Maj. Gen. Alexander A. Vandegrift of Washington, D.C., and Lynchburg, Va.). The general, a red-cheeked, exceedingly affable man, told me that the casualties on the other side of the bay, on Tulagi and Gavutu, have not been as heavy as at first estimated. On both islands, the Japs holed themselves up in caves and dugouts, he said, and fought to the last man. The conquest of Tanambogo was complete, he said, and today, the smaller island, Makambo, was being taken. The marines also had a secure foothold on the largest island across the bay, called Florida or Ngela. That was good news. But there was no news as yet about what happened in the sea battle to the northwest this morning.

  Back at Col. Hunt’s command post, in the late afternoon, I heard an amusing story:

  Our forces reaching Kukum, which had been an enemy strong point but was abandoned when we arrived, found many guns ready to fire, complete with ammunition, this morning. Among the guns was a three-barreled pompom of about one-inch bore.

  The marines fired a few test rounds from the pompom, today, and the shells fell into the water halfway between Kukum and Matanikau, which is the next village down the coast.

  Soon after the shells hit, a white flag was raised over Matanikau, indicating 1—That there are Japs in that village and 2—That they are anxious to surrender.

  Apparently, said the colonel, the Japs thought that the pompom was firing at them, and they got frightened.

  But the humorous part of the situation was that the marines were so busy, checking over the captured guns at Kukum and setting up new batteries there, that going down to take the Japanese at Matanikau would have been only a nuisance. So the marines kept on about their work, ignoring the frightened Japs. And that, it seems, must have been the most awful blow of all to the Jap morale, in view of the Oriental concept of face.

  MONDAY, AUG. 10

  This morning I went to Kukum to join a patrol of marines going to Matanikau to investigate the Jap offer to surrender. Kukum, I found, was a group of tin-roofed shacks along the coast, with a few little piers built out into the water. The shacks had been severely damaged by our shelling; there was scarcely a wall that was not pocked by H.E. fragments.

  Behind the row of houses and shacks, shells had ripped into a cocoanut grove, and struck squarely into a gasoline dump; it was here that we had seen the great fire on the morning of our landing. Evidently explosions had run through the fuel dump like wildfire, for the charred drums were puffed up like burned marshmallows, as if they had exploded from the inside outwards.

  But here too, I was told, much usable material had been captured by our people, including food, an abundance of machinery, and some untouched stores of gasoline and oil, as well as the guns and ammunition.

  The plan of our patrol to Matanikau today was explained to me by Capt. Kaempfer, who was leading the expedition. The pompoms were going to fire a few more rounds in the direction of the Jap-occupied village, in the hope that the white flag would be run up again. Then our patrol would be in a position to move in and investigate. That was the plan; what actually happened was far different.

  As we were about to start, Capt. Gale urged us to watch carefully for snipers. One of his men was shot in the stomach by a Jap last night, before the Jap was killed, he said. And another marine was shot in the leg, this morning, without ever seeing his assailant.

  “I don’t want to be an alarmist,” said Capt. Gale, “but there might be snipers in any of these trees. It’s best to keep a sharp lookout.”

  We watched the trees carefully as we moved out of the bivouac area and started down the coast, keeping about a quarter of a mile inland so as to avoid being seen by the enemy during our approach to Matanikau.

  But we saw no Japs for some hours, though there were several false alarms. At about 9:30 a runner appeared from one of our flanking platoons as we halted for a rest. “Captain,” he said to Capt. Kaempfer, “there are some Japs over to our left rear.” At the word, our men scattered and took cover. But no Japs developed.

  At 10:10 we saw the figure of a man at the foot of a tree, down the path ahead of us. He appeared to be wearing brown clothing. The brown mass did not move as we approached.

  Soon we could see that it was a Jap sitting by the tree with a blanket drawn up over his knee. At about fifty yards Capt. Kaempfer leveled his pistol at the man. But the captain did not pull the trigger, for the figure still sat as motionless as stone.

  The captain slipped the pistol back into his holster. “Never mind,” he said. “He’s dead.” As we passed the stinking body, the captain pulled the blanket over the puffy face. Evidently the Jap had died of wounds received in our naval bombardment, and the body had been drawing flies for several days.

  At 10:17, Capt. Kaempfer halted our column. “There are people ahead of us,” he said. He had a good long look with his field glasses. “I think they’re marines,” he said. They were: a platoon which had gotten ahead of our advance.

  “We thought you were going to open fire on us,” said one of the lads as we caught up with them.

  “We almost did,” said Capt. Kaempfer, with emotion.

  We had heard the pompoms firing their scheduled rounds behind us, but when I peeped through the foliage along the shore and had a look in the direction of Matanikau, there was no white flag visible. Not today.

  We paused in a clearing where a few tall breadfruit trees stood, chalk white and stately, and a deserted thatch hut squatted in the grass. This clearing, we knew, was quite close to Matanikau. But after the long march without contacting any enemy, and the several false alarms of the morning, we were disinclined to believe we would run into any force of Japs.

  I talked with two marines who told me, with great gusto, how they had fought and killed two Japs last night. “We were looking in some tents at Kukum,” said Corp. Edward P. Antecki (of Detroit), “when I saw the Japs. I hollered, and we started after ’em. They ran and got in behind a bush and started shooting.

  “We charged right at ’em,” continued Corp. Antecki. “I only had a pistol, so I had to get right on top of ’em before I could shoot. I fired five or six shots.”

  Private Reynolds (P.F.C. Terry Reynolds of Philadelphia) was eager to tell his story of the action. “There were two Japs, like stragglers,” he said. “They got in a hole. We ran right in on ’em. I used up a whole clip of bullets while we were running up. I had to dive into a hole and get out another clip and load, so I could shoot some more.”

  I asked Pvt. Reynolds if charging the Japs in the open was not a dangerous procedure. “As long as they’re trying to sight on you, you’re all right,” he said. “If they’re aimin’ at you, they can’t hit you.”

  There was a little crack at the edge of the clearing where we had halted. A rickety bamboo bridge crossed the creek, and beyond it lay a thick tangle of jungle foliage. The trail which we had followed thus far, however, continued through the jungle—a good, wide swath.

  I stood on our side of the bridge and looked down this trail with my field glasses and saw something that made me start. Three or four tense figures of men stood in the center of the trail,
several hundred yards away. They were looking in our direction.

  Others of our people had spotted the Japs, for Japs they were. But for the moment we were not sure.

  There were three or four of us standing in the path, looking at the Japs, and they were squinting at us, not yet sure that we were enemies. (The Jap Navy field uniform looks much like our marine utility suit.)

  “Those are our men,” said one marine.

  “I don’t think they are,” said another. And in the quick flash of a moment, we were sure and the Japs were sure. “Take cover!” someone shouted, and we hit the ground, while, simultaneously, the Japs vanished from the trail, disappearing as quickly as a frightened school of fish.

  After that we formed up quickly and pushed across the bridge and down the trail. Now we kept cautiously to the sides of the trail, using the trees as protection. Squads spread out fan-like to the left, in the jungle, and to the right, along the beach, to protect our flanks.

  At 11:10, we heard the cry “Halt,” to our left and ahead, and there was a rifle shot, which was in turn answered by another shot of a peculiarly sharp, high pitch. Then there was a burst of machine-gun fire. Then silence, as we pushed forward along the trail.

  “What happened?” I asked a marine who looked very nervous.

  “It sounded like a Jap .25 caliber to me,” he said.

  At 11:20 a runner came in from our right flank to say that two Jap landing boats had been found on the beach.

  I worked my way to the beach, through a tangle of vines, ferns and stunted pineapple plants, and had a good look at the boats. They were about forty feet long, with gunwales ornamentally curved like a pagoda—not like the straight, powerful lines of our own landing boats. Each had a bin-like hold for troops and a movable ramp, which could be let down to allow the troops passage to a beach, at the bow.

  There was a small wheel-house with a shield of metal plate at the stern. But the shield was obviously ineffective, for on one of the boats it was punctured on both sides by bullet holes.

  The Japanese had evidently been living aboard this craft. In the little cramped cabin under the wheel-house, we found bottles of saki, cases of hardtack and cans of meat. Also a small envelope containing a spent bullet—obviously one of those which had raked the wheel-house, and had been kept as a souvenir by one of the Japs.

  It was 11:40, and we were working our way down the beach at the fringe of the jungle, when there came a sudden spattering of sharp rifle reports to our left and ahead. Deeper-toned rifles took up the chorus, machine guns joined in, and the shower of sound became a rainstorm. Jap riflemen and machine gunners had opened up on our left flank, and our own rifles, sub-machine and machine guns were returning the fire.

  The sound of firing was coming from farther down the beach, too, and it took me only a second or two to flop amidst a row of marines who had taken cover behind a long white log which lay athwart the strip of sand.

  We lay there a few minutes while the marines fired down the beach and into the jungle on the left, and then I noticed all of a sudden that our lads had pulled their heads down, way down, and were lying extremely flat on the sand. In a minute I knew the reason. A marine on the far end of the log had been hit; he was holding one hand over the lower part of his face.

  “Corpsman!” somebody shouted. “Pass the word back for a corpsman. We’ve got a wounded man here!”

  The exchange of firing grew hotter. The marines behind the log had spotted two Japs down the beach. They were firing with automatic rifles set for full automatic fire. The Japs answered with flat-toned, rapid-paced machine-gun fire.

  Down the beach one of the Japs had jumped up and was running for the jungle. “There he goes!” was the shout. “Riddle the son-of-a-bitch!” And riddled he was.

  There was a lull in the firing. I scrambled for the jungle fringe, and worked my way back to the trail. I had just reached the edge of it, when another fusillade of firing broke out ahead of me. Again I heard the shout: “Pass the word back for a corpsman.”

  As I crawled along the edge of the trail, in the direction from which the firing had come, a breathless marine told me the news. “Lieut. Gately’s been shot,” he said.

  Again the request for a corpsman came back. There were three of these medical aides near me. I saw one of the three, Pharmacist’s Mate Wesley Haggard, get to his feet and start forward. “Hell, I’ll go,” he said. “Might as well get shot now as any time.”

  But he did not get shot. For some reason, the Japs were holding their fire for a few moments.

  The moments lengthened into minutes. I got up, and followed in Haggard’s steps. The Japs did not fire.

  The lull in the firing continued, and more marines left their cover and began to walk forward in the open, along the trail. It was a favorite Japanese stunt, as we found out before this day was over, to hold their fire until we got very bold and forgot about cover and then start shooting.

  I found Lieut. Gately (John J. Gately of West Roxbury, Mass.) lying on his back and smoking a cigarette. Corpsman Haggard had tended him well. Clean white bandage had been placed over wounds in the chest and one leg.

  “How do you feel?” I asked Gately, realizing the question was foolish. But what else, after all, can one say to a wounded friend?

  “O.K.,” he said, and tried to smile. He motioned feebly toward his chest. “Only flesh wound,” he said.

  “I saw the Jap sighting in on me,” he said. “Thought it was a marine. Said, ‘Hold your fire.’ Then I saw it was a Jap. We both tried to fire; both had safeties on, couldn’t.” Gately grinned. “Jap got off the first shots,” he said. “I got off burst of five.”

  One of the shots Lieut. Gately had fired from his sub-machine gun, said a marine, had hit the Jap in the lungs. “He’s over there under a tree now,” said the marine.

  I found the Jap lying on his back with his legs drawn up. He was mute, and his face was expressionless. His beady little eyes blinked a bit, but his breathing was very faint. “Pretty far gone,” said Corpsman Haggard, standing next to me.

  Back on the trail, I saw another of our wounded, in the grass. A truss of bandages covered one side of his chest. He had been shot through the shoulder.

  The man whom I had seen hit on the beach was not badly wounded. Evidently a ricochet bullet had struck him in the mouth.

  Now the trail was fairly well filled with marines. And so the Japs began to fire again. First came the crack of a rifle ahead; then several more, apparently coming from all sides, and above.

  We took cover before the Japs could score any hits. I crouched amidst some sharp-edged pineapple plants, behind a tree. But the Japs were firing from our rear now. Evidently there were snipers in the trees back there. It was hard to take cover under the circumstances.

  I heard a bullet go phffft over my head, and another plop into the underbrush beside me. I moved into a denser part of the jungle—quickly.

  Then the firing stopped; our officers held a hasty council of war, and it was decided to return to Kukum, and come back to Matanikau later with a greater force of troops and clean out the Japanese sniper net. So, sending our wounded back on a jeep, we made the long tedious trek back to base.

  At Kukum, we heard “scuttlebutt” about the great sea battle which was fought yesterday to the northwest of Guadalcanal. In that battle, which had kept us aware and worried through much of the early morning, five of our cruisers had been lost, according to the rumor. Five Japanese cruisers had also been sunk in subsequent action yesterday. That was the story. There was no official word on the matter at Marine Corps headquarters, except the announcement that the Australian cruiser Canberra had been sunk.

  (Later it was learned that we had lost four cruisers in the battle of the early hours of yesterday morning. The ships were the Canberra, the Astoria, the Vincennes and the Quincy.)

  In the evening I went to a tent camp near the seashore, the camp of Capt. Hawkins, who had been my roommate aboard ship during the approach to Guadalcanal
. Capt. Hawkins told me his assault company, which with Capt. Kaempfer’s troops had seized the beach-head on Guadalcanal, had encountered no resistance the first day. They had captured five Jap laborers, and that was all.

  Capt. Hawkins, I found, had achieved the honor of being the first American invader to set foot on Guadalcanal. His boat had hit the shore first. Capt. Kaempfer’s boat, the second to touch shore, had been about seventy-five yards behind.

  I decided to spend the night in Capt. Hawkins’ tent, and was weary enough, after the long day’s trek and excitement, to settle down to a good sleep. But just as darkness was setting in, we got word that a submarine had been sighted offshore. That made the business of sleeping difficult, especially in view of the fact that our tent was only some 200 yards from the water’s edge.

  Would the Jap counter-invasion come tonight? Would the submarine, or submarines, come in close and shell our camp? Whatever happened, we would bear the brunt of it.

  The other officers in the tent were jittery. They talked like magpies, without ever a breathing space, far into the night. The favorite topic was home.

  Fortunately, there was no landing attempt, no shelling by Japanese submarines, that night.

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 11

  It was a quiet day. At headquarters, I learned that the transport which I had seen burning so brightly after the air raid of August 8th had been the George F. Elliot; that when all efforts failed to bring her raging fires under control, she was torpedoed by one of our own destroyers. The U.S.S. Jarvis, a destroyer, was attacked that day (and later listed as lost when the Navy could find no trace of her). But the fact that the Japs had lost all of the attacking planes more than evened the score.

  We heard the news from Tulagi that conquest of objectives in that area had been virtually completed, except for isolated snipers. Tulagi, Gavutu, Tanambogo were conquered and thoroughly occupied by our troops. We had a good foothold on Florida (Ngela) Island. About 400 Japs had been killed on Tulagi, 800 on Gavutu and Tanambogo, we heard. Bob Miller—the only other news correspondent on the island—and I made arrangements to go to Tulagi tomorrow.