Shadows In the Jungle (15 page)

Shortly after returning, Hobbs, along with Staff Sgt. Leonard Scott, Lt. Raymond Watson, an Australian officer attached to the ASTC, Dutch officer Lt. Louis Rapmund, and a native guide, were dispatched on a mission with multiple goals. The first objective was to monitor Japanese barge traffic at Seroei, off the southern coast of Noemfoor. Rowing into the harbor on a rubber boat, they discovered just one heavily damaged barge abandoned on the beach.

Moving next to nearby Naoe Island, they captured a native who had been accused of spying for the enemy. Their mission ended the next day on Koeroedoe Island between Japen and western New Guinea, where they pinpointed Japanese coastal and mountain guns, and mapped out enemy beach and harbor defenses at Manokwari Harbor.

Despite the American advances, Japanese troops, both those in front of the Americans and those bypassed by MacArthur's leapfrogging up the New Guinea coast, continued to receive supplies and reinforcements, mostly brought in by shallow-draft barges. Because of U.S. air superiority, barges could only move at night, and lay hidden by day.

To ferret out these hiding places, commanders turned to the Alamo Scouts.

CHAPTER 6

 

 

 

 

L
t. Robert “Red” Sumner's team had not had an assignment since graduating from the ASTC at Mange Point near Finschhafen on June 22. So he was elated when, on July 10, he was put on alert for deployment to the PT base at Mios Woendi Island. PT boats meant action.

Sumner sent Staff Sgt. Lawrence E. Coleman to draw equipment for the team, then took the men through two days of refreshment drills, including handling of the rubber boat, radio use, jungle survival, and scouting skills, followed by a trip to the shooting range, where weapons were sighted-in.

While most of the team used carbines or Thompsons, Coleman drew for himself one of the newly issued M3 “grease guns,” the .45-caliber, stamped metal submachine gun with a folding wire stock. Coleman also requisitioned a 60mm mortar and a BAR, although these, as it turned out, would be left in camp.

Before dawn on July 18, the men hoisted themselves aboard a deuce-and-a-half truck for a quick ride to the airfield at nearby Sentani. There a C-47 transport, its engines thrumming, awaited them. They had no sooner plopped down on the jump seats that lined each side of the plane than it taxied to the runway and was airborne, banking northeast, over Vitiaz Strait to the open ocean, for the nearly six-hundred-mile flight to Biak Island at the mouth to Geelvink Bay. Around ten thirty a.m., the C-47's wheels touched down at Borokore Airfield, one of three airstrips on Biak's southern coast, along the Japen Strait. Upon debarking from the plane, the team was assigned a squad tent and told to sit tight. A short distance away, a battery of 105mm guns sent harassing rounds at the enemy positions, a few thousand yards inland.

“They shootin' at Japs?” Pfc. Edward Renhols asked, startled at the first salvo.

“They aren't duck hunting,” Cpl. William F. Blaise replied.

“Parts of this island are still hot,” Sumner explained. “Wander too far into that jungle and you'll end up with your fool head mounted on some Jap officer's trophy wall.”

The harassing fire kept up all through the day and into the night, to the discomfort of the Japanese and the Alamo Scouts alike, both of whom were deprived of sleep.

On July 20, Sumner and his men boarded a PT boat for the three-hour trip to the 6th Army HQ and the main PT base on Woendi Island, southwest of Biak. John McGowen, already a legend since he and his men had conducted the first Alamo Scout mission back in February, met the team as their boat tied up to one of the several long piers that jutted out from the sandy beach.

“Hi, Red,” McGowen greeted Sumner. “Welcome to Woendi. Looks like I'll be your contact for this mission. I'll help you get your team situated, then we have a briefing with the Ops officer for PT Ron Twenty-one.”

Slinging their weapons and gear over their shoulders, the men followed McGowen to their temporary billet. En route, Sumner learned he would be transported by Squadron 21, one of many PT boat units operating out of Woendi Island. Ron 21, led by Lt. Cmdr. Selman S. Bowling, consisted of five boats, PT-128, -131, -132, -320, and -321, all eighty-footers manufactured by the Elco Naval Division of the Electric Boat Company.

As evening came on, the team and three PT skippers were assembled in the briefing shack, seated before Bowling and an officer who served as the PT squadron's operations officer. A map of New Guinea, specifically the eastern shore of the Vogelkop Peninsula, was tacked to a corkboard at the front of the room.

“Smoking lamp is lit,” the officer said, intoning the old navy term from the days of sail that denoted when it was safe to smoke because the kegs of gunpowder had been stowed away. Some men fired up cigarettes, some did not.

“We've seen a lot of Jap barge traffic operating here in Cape Oransbari, south of the village of Manokwari,” the officer said. “We think there's a staging area near the village, maybe a refueling site and a place from which to transport supplies, rations, and ammo from western New Guinea to enemy garrisons still operating along the coast farther east. Because of the heavy foliage, our recon planes can't see a damned thing, and our boats aren't able to get in close enough to take a look-see either. That's where you Scouts come in. Tonight is dark of the moon. We will drop you just offshore at twenty-three thirty hours. You will recon the area and try to spot the Jap supply base, if indeed there is one. If you find the base, you will pinpoint it so our guys can get at them. Exfiltration will be twenty-four hours later. If for any reason you don't make it back by then, the boats will attempt another pickup at twenty-three thirty for the next two nights if needed. Communication will be by SCR-300 radios. Lieutenant McGowen will be your contact.”

“We'll be using three PT boats, the 128, 131, and 132,” Bowling injected. “You men will be aboard the 132 boat with Ensign Jones, here.” He pointed to a young officer. “The other two boats will stand by beyond the horizon, to provide covering fire if needed.”

“Are there any questions?” McGowen asked. Hearing none, he said, “Grab some chow and check your gear. We leave in two hours.”

The trip across the stretch of water where Geelvink Bay meets the Pacific Ocean was a lonely one. The dark, moonless sky and the inky black ocean made it almost impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

The three boats roared through the night. The 132 boat,
Sea Bat
to her crew, was at the point with the 128 boat,
Tug Boat Annie
, and 131,
Tarfu
, following to port and starboard.

For most of the trip, Sumner and his team—Coleman, Renhols, Blaise, Pfc. Paul B. Jones (no relation to the PT skipper despite the similarity in their names), Cpl. Robert T. Schermerhorn, and Pfc. Harry D. Weiland—along with Lt. Henry Swart of the Dutch East Indies Army, serving as interpreter, remained belowdecks. There they tried to get some rest despite the bouncing plywood boat's best efforts to prevent that.

Robert Sumner was a natural leader, and he had the well-earned respect of his colleagues. He took stock of a situation quickly and always seemed to make the right decisions. Joining the army right out of college, Sumner took to the strict military discipline and hard physical regimen like a fish to water. He felt he was made for the army to the point that he began to believe that he had always been a soldier since as far back as Julius Caesar.

At about ten thirty that night, five miles off the Vogelkop coast, the
Sea Bat
's skipper, Ens. Paul H. Jones, who was in command of the three-boat flotilla, engaged his underwater mufflers, funneling the exhaust into the water and thus silencing, as much as possible, the three Packard engines. While
Tug Boat Annie
and
Tarfu
dropped back, Jones closed on the coastline, guided by his radar and what visual landmarks he could discern in the night. Sumner's team, their faces blackened and gear ready, were on deck, rubber boat inflated and set to launch.

Half an hour later, the 132 boat idled a thousand yards offshore. The rubber boat was dropped overboard on
Sea Bat
's seaward side, held tightly against the hull by two crewmen hanging on to ropes, as the Scouts climbed in. Sumner, from his position in the back of the rubber boat, took a compass bearing and the team shoved off.

In the gentle one-foot swells, the trip was smooth and uneventful, even though a nervous Ensign Jones, lingering offshore, kept picking up strange blips on his radar that he feared might be Japanese destroyers, but were more likely ghost echoes.

Reaching the shore, the men hopped out and dragged the rubber boat across the thirty-yard stretch of beach, into the tree line, then hit the ground and silently waited for any sign that they might have been spotted. For fifteen minutes, none of them moved. Sumner next gently rapped the folding metal stock of his M1A1 carbine against the wooden upper hand guard—his all-clear signal—and the team quickly deflated the rubber boat. The escaping CO
₂
hissed loud enough to be heard in Hollandia, several hundred miles to the east, Sumner thought.

As that was done, Renhols flipped on the radio, and after it warmed up, whispered into it, “Red One.” This was the code phrase announcing the team had arrived and was proceeding. Had he said, “Red One, recover,” it would have meant trouble and stand by to pick them up. McGowen replied with “Mac One,” and Renhols switched the radio off.

Out on the water, the 132 boat quietly withdrew to rejoin the other two, out of sight, but ready. The SCR-300 had a fifty-mile range over water, so calling the boats back would not be a problem. McGowen's radio would be switched on for the entire mission.

That done, both the rubber boat and the radio were buried in the soft sandy earth among the eight-to-ten-foot-high scrub, while Sumner and Swart kept a watchful eye for intruders.

Indicating with his hand to “follow me,” Sumner led the team inland. After picking their way through fifty yards of sparse jungle, they came to a well-used coastal track. Advancing beyond the trail, they entered a small clearing and Sumner signaled “halt.”

“It's oh one hundred,” he whispered to the men who gathered around him. “We'll rest here. Coleman, two guards, hourly relief.”

At first sleep was difficult. The men were jarred awake by the slightest jungle sound, the rustle of the foliage, the call of a bird or an animal moving through the brush. Eventually, they settled in.

Just before five a.m. Sumner woke the team and, as they had drilled so many times, formed them into a circle about ten yards in diameter. He remained in the middle of the circle to control the movements of the men. They remained there, hunched down in the jungle, eyes and ears tuned to any noise or movement. At the end of fifteen minutes, Sumner gave one tap of the metal folding stock of his carbine, and pointed to his left. At the signal, the entire circle shifted about twenty-five yards and halted again. Fifteen more minutes, and the action was repeated. This last move put the team on the seaward side of the jungle trail.

Sumner consulted his map. He noted a river that flowed into the ocean, about sixty yards north of where he and his team now waited. Even as he studied the map, his mind registered a motor sound coming from the waterway.

Two taps of his carbine stock and the team reassembled. Sumner indicated they were to follow him, and they hurried as quietly as possible toward the gurgling engine noise.

The river, a muddy brown ribbon of slow-moving water, was lined by tall grass. Lying in the grass and moving only their eyes, the team saw a Japanese barge gliding along the waterway, headed toward the sea.

Sumner was not sure why the barge was setting out with daybreak already starting to streak the sky. They generally moved under the cover of darkness. So it was with concern and confusion that he watched the thirty-five-foot-long craft, armed with two light machine guns, chug past their position at about ten miles per hour. The barge entered the sea, then turned and sailed south, between the shoreline and the breakers farther out.

Sumner led the team to the beach to keep visual and audio track of the barge until it was gone completely. He was unable to see what it was carrying, whether it was supplies or men.

* * *

Daylight in the tropics comes with startling suddenness, and by six fifteen a.m. the thinning darkness suddenly burst into complete daylight as the sun seemed to leap out of the eastern ocean. Sumner and his team were back by the river, resuming their watch. There, in the brush, the men broke out their morning breakfast, a six-ounce Australian date bar, washed down with water from their canteens. They ate in silence, keeping a sharp watch.

As he munched the date bar, Sumner noted that, less than one hundred yards inland of where it met the ocean, the river opened into an estuary with a number of small islands. From his position, Sumner could see large trees overhanging the water, and underneath two of them Japanese barges were moored. While he could see no enemy troops, the familiar smell of cook fires wafted toward him on the morning breeze. Breakfast was being prepared.

Voices in the distance convinced Sumner that more unseen enemy barges were moored elsewhere in the estuary.

“Those trees make for great cover,” Blaise whispered. “No wonder our flyboys can't spot anything.”

“Yeah,” Sumner whispered back. “Half the goddamned Jap navy could be tied up out there and our guys wouldn't see them.”

The Scouts watched the area for half an hour while Sumner jotted notes in a notebook. Then he signaled the men to follow and led them south, paralleling the shore, keeping about ten yards inland from the beach.