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A month before, on another clandestine mission, the men of the U. S. submarine Gato had seen the distinctive silhouette of Bougainville with its ominous active volcano. Back again, on 29 April 1943, to evacuate civilians and Allied troops from the Japanese-controlled island, their instructions were to watch for a large and a small bonfire. Yet, when they surfaced at dusk, they found themselves in the middle of a cloudburst and the land, hardly a mile away, was completely obscured.
"Nothing to it, Pilot; just follow directions.” Lieutenant Commander Bob Foley, skipper of the U. S. submarine Gato, was a congenital optimist. He shrugged—too casually, I thought—and added, "Even if the harbor was shown on this chart, you know we couldn’t trust the surveys, Mac.”
But the gray-green eyes he lifted from my chart of the northeast coast of Bougainville reflected some of my own concern. In his hand he held a message telling us to unload our unusual passengers, and pick up some others, at a place called Teopasino Plantation. This was a change of plans since we had sailed five days before, on 20 April 1943, from Brisbane, Australia. Then, we were headed for Teop Harbor, Gato port of call on a similar mission to the enemy-held island, just one month earlier. This new, alternate rendezvous was a few miles south of now-familiar Teop.
And therein lay our problem: where we’d been told to go, the chart showed a dotted coastline—which signified there were no landmarks nor soundings, no lighthouses, no channel buoys. Taking the message from the captain’s hand, I read again the instructions for entering Teopasino’s uncharted harbor, and shook my head.
"Approach large fire on course 180° until small fire bears 151° true, then head for small fire.”
Sailing directions like those belonged to the era of Louis Bougainville, who had discovered these islands back in 1768. We’d had six months’ exposure to the ambiguous cartography of the Solomons. While challenging our ingenuity, it had made us no less respectful of traditional precautions in pilot waters—especially me, newly assigned as navigator at the beginning of this patrol. I distrusted this odd-ball set-up, recalling the reports of grounding investigations that were required reading for junior line officers. Would the Gate's approach to Teopasino serve as yet another horrible example?
At this juncture, the struggle for the Solomons was
69
a stand-off. The United States and her allies at Guada- canal and the Japanese at Bougainville and the Bis- marcks were trading air raids, and naval surface ship raids up and down "The Slot.” Our submarines’ primary job was interdiction of enemy shipping, but clandestine missions such as this were becoming more and more frequent.
When the enemy had landed on Bougainville a year earlier, a hundred or more Chinese, as well as Australian and various occidental civilians, including many women and children, fled to the hills and jungles where they were held together in small groups by missionaries. Most of the Melanesian natives, although put to work by the Japanese, kept their old loyalties. Often at great risk, they helped to conceal and sustain the missionaries and their flocks.
Australian coastwatchers, for the most part former district administrators and plantation owners, observed enemy air and naval movements in and around the islands, and radioed this intelligence to headquarters in the southern Solomons. Although constantly moving, along with their small detachments of commando troops and native scouts, they kept in touch with the civilian refugees and arranged for their evacuation.
On our run into Teop, four weeks earlier, we’d brought out nine Chinese mothers and their 27 children, three Belgian Catholic nuns, and 12 Australian Imperial Forces (AIF) commandos. This time, in Teo- pasino, we were to land 15 fresh AIF troopers and a new coastwatcher, and were to pick up some more civilians and troops. AIF Captain Robinson, a portly, middle-aged Sydney hotel-keeper, once a district officer in the Teop area, was going to relieve Lieutenant Keenan of the Royal Australian Naval Reserve, the coastwatcher we’d landed in March.
The Gato submerged off Teop just before dawn on 29 April, and at first light we started looking for Teopasino Plantation. Captain Robinson said he’d often walked from Teop to Teopasino, so he alternated with the skipper on the periscope. During the ten-mile run, down the coast and back, neither of them saw any sign of a village or plantation. The dark green jungle with its mountainous background was continuously shaded,
or backlighted by intermittent sunlight, making it impossible to distinguish any features at all near the shore from two miles at sea.
By mid-afternoon, periscope surveillance of the coast remaining fruitless, Foley decided to hover about ten miles southeast of Teop, hoping to spot the promised signal fires after dark. But, when the Gato surfaced at 1804 that evening, she was in the middle of a cloudburst and the land, hardly a mile away, was completely obscured.
Even when the rain slackened a half hour later, there were no fires visible—only one very dim light, high on the hillside. When asked if dampness might prevent the lighting of fires ashore, Captain Robinson said his cohorts would be able to cope with that problem. Thus assured, Foley steered directly away from the island to widen our field of observation.
Twenty minutes later, his strategy was rewarded; the after lookout reported a distant light about four miles up the coast to the northwestward. Closing it at full speed, we watched the tiny glimmer expand, and then divide into two separate flickering bonfires—down low, right on the beach. Teopasino!
Lying to, well offshore, we partially flooded the main ballast tanks to increase the Gato's draft. If she ran aground, we could more easily refloat her by blowing out water. We had to take on blind faith that the bushwacker who was leading us into the alleged channel with his home-made navigational aids had been informed by our headquarters staff how deep-drafted a submarine is.
As Bob Foley said in his patrol report, "We gritted our teeth and followed directions.”
Assuming the first leg would take us through an opening in the reef, the captain lined up on the larger fire, the one to the right, from two miles at sea. Steering 180°, due south, at a cautious five knots, he was promptly set off the range by a strong easterly crosscurrent. He had no choice then but to speed up and angle right. The Gato crabbed her way headlong down the bearing line at ten knots.
The bridge was silent, except for Foley’s quiet orders to the helmsman, and the fathometer readings reported
mm
155°
155° 10'E
Today, 30 yean after the Gato’t rescue mission, the Teop-Teopasino region of Bougainville remains almost as mysterious as it then was. One looks in vain on H.O. 2926, with its scale of 1:262,220, for soundings, lighthouses, landmarks or channel buoys to guide the stranger in. Perhaps Teopasino can still best be approached at night by keeping an eye peeled for a "large fire on course 180° until small fire hears 131° true, then head for small fire."
over the speaker from the control room. The soundings decreased abruptly from 200 fathoms down to 90, then 50—and with the report of 20 fathoms we knew we were close aboard the rocks and shoals. The rotting, sweet, jungle smell pervaded the damp air as the black shoreline loomed ahead and far off on either bow. The towering mountains dropped from view behind the nearer, tree-covered hills now dimly outlined against the gray, overcast sky.
A single, tall, isolated palm tree stood out from its neighbors, directly behind the signal fire.
Our eyes and ears strained to penetrate the veil of light rain for the sight and sound of breakers. Not until just before the report of "Six fathoms!” came over the intercom, did a line of thin white surf appear> almost abeam to port and starboard. Foley cut his spe^ to five knots—and we braced for the crunch.
Instead, to our enormous relief, the soundings it1' creased. We were inside the reef!
The skipper stopped the motors and coasted until he had the smaller fire bearing 151°; then, he twisted around and headed directly for it at one-third sp»eed. paralleling the breakers. We were running down a black hole, its darkness accentuated by the yellow flame straight ahead of us—at the foot of a cone-shape^
hill.
About 200 yards down that line, Foley stopped backed, and then worked the motors to head us around toward the entrance. There was no way of judging ho* much room he had to maneuver in. Our radar useless in such close quarters; we couldn’t measure thc distance to the beach. We estimated it later to be nt1 more than 400 yards.
71
Bush Navigation in the Solomon Islands
Time now for the cargo and passenger transfer. The forward torpedo room hatch banged open and the landing party with five of our deck hands began hoisting up weapons and supplies. Lieutenant George )' | Everly, the Gato's gunnery officer, was going ashore to make contact, and to hurry up the loading and unloading. After he, and two sailors who had volunteered to crew for him, had broken out and inflated the rubber boat, they shoved off into the darkness, heading for a point on the beach midway between the two bonfires.
Ten minutes later, we heard shouts and laughter from the direction our boat had disappeared. This curious hilarity grew louder as the source approached, until suddenly a dugout canoe intersected the streak of faintly reflected firelight and crossed our stern from port to starboard. When it bumped alongside, we recognized the rangy figure with the broad-brimmed "digger” hat seated between two dusky paddlers. Lieutenant Keenan scrambled on board and climbed to the bridge where we greeted him like a long-lost friend, rather than one of our passengers landed just a month 3 earlier.
Clapping Captain Robinson on the shoulder, he greeted his relief: "Welcome back to Bougainville, Old Cobber! One week from now, you can have the sack, and I’ll catch the next sub out.”
He handed a sealed envelope market SECRET to the skipper and asked him to pass it on to the intelligence I headquarters. Then, between gulps of hot coffee, he outlined the night’s work. Six other canoes were loading up; the transfer would take about two hours altogether; we’d be getting 16 passengers in all, half troopers and half missionaries.
The next canoe arrived bearing a dignified, elderly Catholic priest and two younger clerics. Keenan helped them disembark, escorted them to the bridge, and introduced us to the Bishop of Bougainville, and his staff. The captain gave them a hearty "Welcome aboard!” and the Bishop, in turn, expressed their pleasure and relief to be with us on the first leg of their long way home to Belgium. They, and the five lay brothers who arrived soon afterward, were debilitated but cheerful—and uncomplaining about their assorted abrasions, ulcerations, poison oak rashes, and other minor ailments. They came aboard, one or two at a time, and we hustled them below for hot food and the ministrations of Doc Evans, our talented pharmacist mate.
As the loaded dugouts plied back and forth, we could hear the sturdy, cotton-candy-haired paddlers jabbering across the water between canoes—to each other in their Melanesian dialect, and to their white friends in pidgin English. When we worried that the lights and all the commotion would betray our pres
ence to the Japanese, Keenan assured us that the only enemy nearby, a small troop detachment at Teop, was snugly holed up for the night. His native canoes had sneaked out of the harbor there after dark—unnoticed, he was sure.
By 2300 all our passengers were aboard, and one canoe remained alongside. Keenan and Robinson exchanged good wishes with everybody on Gato’s topside and shoved off into the night.
About 2320, we heard shouts from the beach, and, assuming that meant farewells between George Everly and his crew and the people ashore, the captain ordered the engines started. Then, he maneuvered to head down the first leg of our departure track.
Just as the stern swung into line with the nearer bonfire, the flame weakened—and then it flickered out. And seconds later the larger fire, the one marking the
harbor entrance, was snuffed out. We were engulfed in blackness—and for a moment, stunned silence.
A salty oath broke the tension. "A hell of a time to turn off the lighthouses!” Foley turned to me and asked, "Now, how do we get out of here?”
For once, my chance to play Pollyanna. "A cinch, you told me, Captain. Remember?” And I didn’t try to hide my satisfaction as I pointed out our stand-by navigational markers: the conical hill, and the conspicuous palm tree.
Bob Foley grinned then, and said, "Okay, Mac; nice going! Now—come on home, George! and we’ll bust out of here.”
We waited, increasingly anxious and impatient, as the minutes passed, and no sign of the rubber boat. We guessed their problem: the Gato's hull was gray- camouflaged especially to give her invisibility at night. Even with the noise of the engine exhaust, boaters could pass within 100 yards and not find her on such a dark night as this.
About 2345, Foley had four men on deck beam their dim blue flashlights toward each bow and quarter. Finally, about midnight, there was a faint hail on the port bow—and in a few minutes, our three lost souls paddled into view.
George came to the bridge while the deck hands deflated and stowed the boat. When he caught his breath, he explained, "When the fires went out—with the overcast and no reference point on the beach—we
were completely lost. Until we saw that blue light, I was afraid we’d become involuntary coastwatchers.
"We wouldn’t have sailed without you, George,’ Foley said. "But you sure had us worried. Anyway, glad to have you back! Now—let’s hope we don’t go astray like you did.”
All the deck gear secured and hatches shut, the captain went ahead, one-third speed. Keeping the dim outline of the conical hill dead astern, bearing 151°, he crept back toward the entrance of the tight little cove. Then, as I ticked off bearings of the lonely palm, he rounded-to smartly. When he steadied up on due north, with the palm tree dead astern, I was relieved to see the bow pointing at a gap in the line of breakers.
With less apprehension than during our entry four hours earlier, we listened to the reported soundings drop from twenty to six fathoms—and then increase rapidly to 250.
When the bow lifted to the open ocean swell and started its familiar gentle pitch, the captain turned a big Foley grin on me and said, "See Mac, like I said: nothing to it! Just follow directions.”
A 1938 graduate of the U. S. Naval Academy, Captain McGivern served aboard the USS Trenton prior to World War II. His wartime service was aboard the submarines Gato (XO), Piper (XO), and Sea Devil (CO). Subsequent sea duty included tours as CO of the USS Best/go (SS 321), Jenkins (DDE-447) and Bushnell (AS-15). A graduate of the Naval War College. Captain McGivern served as CO MSTS Office Port Canaveral from 1966 until his retirement in 1968. Since that time he has worked at free lance non-fiction writing.
Shooting the Breeze
Not many of HM ships can have worn the flag of the Secretary of the U. S. Navy. When I was number one of HMS Oribi in 1942, we had that honor. Oribi was a fleet destroyer and we were detailed to collect Colonel Frank Knox from Thurso, in the extreme north of Scotland, and take him across the stormy Pentland Firth to Scapa Flow where the CinC of the Home Fleet awaited him.
It was a proud moment as we broke his flag at our masthead, and a cause of pleasure as we steamed through the Fleet, while battlewagons and other ships much our senior sounded off in salute, which Mr. Secretary Knox returned from the wing of the bridge, assisted by the bosun’s mate.
But what I remember most was an exchange of banter with his captain and aide. We had recently been on a Russian convoy in such appalling weather that a roll of more than 45 degrees had been recorded.
"That’s nothing, my boy,” said the U. S. Navy captain. "When I was an ensign, we woke up one morning and found there was a round turn in all our hammocks.”
—Contributed by Lt. Cdr. J. B. Lamb, DSC, RN (Ret.)
(The Naval Institute will pay $10.00 for each anecdote published in the Proceedings.)