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On PT-159, the operator stared at the glowing green screen intently. A second later, he shouted to the captain. “Radar contact, four possible barges, three miles distant, along Kolombangara.”
The skipper climbed down to look at the radar screen, then back up to stare into the blackness. After repeating the maneuver a few more times, he ordered the deck guns set to fire low. With the crude radar, he was still certain the blips were barges.
In fact, they were the four Japanese destroyers.
PT-159 raced close to fire and was met with fire from the heavy guns of the destroyers. Now knowing his target, the skipper pushed the buttons on the dashboard to launch a pair of torpedoes. Unfortunately, the skipper of PT-159 chose not to break radio silence to inform the other boats of the flotilla passing. The torpedoes missed and the flotilla steamed south without harm.
While the waters around Kolombangara Island were filled with Japanese destroyers and barges, along with American PT boats and heavy cruisers to the north, there was a different type of war being fought.
It was a solitary and introspective affair of waiting, watching, and reporting.
High atop Kolombangara Island, in a crude camp consisting of a bamboo hut, was a brave Australian armed with a telescope, binoculars, radio, and little else. Lieutenant Arthur Reginald “Reg” Evans was a member of the Australian Coast-watcher Service. The service had been formed in World War I to help in patrolling Australia’s vast coastline. The Australian Navy hit upon the idea of enlisting the help of local fishermen, harbormasters, and postmen to watch the coast and report any suspicious activity by telegraph. The idea proved successful and was reintroduced and expanded as World War II came along. Submarines, aircraft, and small boats transferred the coastwatchers to small islands in the South Pacific to provide eyes on the ground. They reported ship and plane movements, recruited local natives to help the effort against the Japanese, and provided weather reports for the Allied forces. The job was lonely, dirty, and dangerous.
The Japanese knew of the coastwatchers, and they hunted them down with dogs.
Reg Evans sipped a cup of tea and stared down at the black water. He had no way of knowing he would be instrumental in rescuing the man who would one day be elected President of the United States.
Amagiri arrived off Vila just as August 1 turned into August 2. Commander Hanami ordered his ship anchored, then waited as a fleet of barges and landing craft approached and swarmed around his hull. Soldiers assembled on deck, then began climbing down landing nets into the rectangular crafts in an orderly line. To the other side, sailors began to unload cases and crates from the hull, then filled stem nets that were hoisted up off Amagiri’s deck and down to the barges. Hanami paced the decks, willing the off-loading to go faster. The quicker he and the other ships of the flotilla finished, the less chance they had of being dead in the water when the sun came up.
Twenty minutes passed.
“The soldiers are all off,” a junior officer said finally, “and the last of the supplies are being handed down now.”
“Secure the landing nets and order the anchor hoisted,” Hanami ordered. “I want to be back in our slip at Rabaul before first light.”
The officer saluted and made his way forward, as Hanami walked toward the pilothouse.
August 2 was less than an hour old as Lieutenant Ke
Aboard Amagiri, Commander Hanami stared into the blackness. He was always uncomfortable when his ship was in Blackett Strait. The close quarters spelled danger if the American PT boats ever launched a coordinated attack. He turned toward the helm.
“What’s our current speed?” he asked Coxswain Kazuto Doi.
Doi stared at the gauge. “Thirty knots, sir,” he answered.
“The other ships are pulling away,” Hanami said. “Increase speed to thirty-five knots.”
Doi gave the order and Amagiri slowly began to gain speed.
Captain Yamashira, Amagiri’s second in command, made a notation on the chart. “We will be in Vella Gulf in approximately ten minutes.”
Like Hanami, Yamashira preferred the safety of open water.
In the black night, tall wakes lit by the phosphorescence in the water streamed from Amagiri’s bow.
Directly ahead, PT-109 was idling on a single engine. Lieutenant Ke
Ensign Ross was on the bow near the thirty-seven-millimeter gun. Ahead of Ross in the forward gun turret was nineteen-year-old Harold Marney. By training, Marney was a motor machinist, but tonight he had been assigned deck duty. The rear gun turret was ma
Maguire was to Ke
Two of the crew, Andrew Jackson Kirksey and Charles Harris, were off-duty and slept a fitful sleep on deck. Raymond Albert, a seaman second class, was on watch amidships, while Scottish-born motor machinist William Johnston slept near the stem engine hatch. Gerald Zinser kept watch nearby.
Belowdecks was the oldest man on the crew, thirty-seven-year-old Patrick “Pappy” McMahon, tending the engines. At this instant, Pappy was adjusting the flow of raw seawater into the engines to regulate the temperatures. Touching a manifold, he liked what he felt. Wiping his hand on a rag, he listened carefully to the engine-room noises. Something was amiss, but he could not pin down what it was. He climbed over an auxiliary generator to stare at a gauge.
The stray sound would save his life.
Like the edge of a knife, glistening wakes flowed from the bow of Amagiri as the ship hurtled north through the blackness. Commander Hanami paced the deck in the pilothouse. He knew the enemy was nearby — he could sense it — but so far at least, nothing had attacked.
“Ship to starboard,” the lookout suddenly shouted.
“Deck guns fire,” Hanami ordered.
As soon as he looked out the window, he could see the PT boat coming into view. Amagiri was right on top of the vessel, and Hanami knew the guns were too close to find their mark.
“Hard to port,” he ordered.
Hanami knew that if it got away, the PT boat stood a chance of lining up for a shot. He needed to sink the vessel or his crew would suffer the consequences.