American History

Lieutenant Isireli Korovulavula

The Bravery of a Fijian Soldier Makes American History

By Max Whatman

Solomon Is., March 28.

Subject: COMMENDATION.

To: 2/Lieutenant Isireli Korovulavula. (1) The officers and enlisted men of this unit join me in expressing our deep gratitude for the effort you made to bring back to this station 2/Lieuten ant Charles W. Cross, of this com mand, after the plane in which you both flew to Ebu was forced down in the jungle. (2) I have had many years of service in our Army, and have participated in two wars. Your actions in this inci dent are one of the most outstanding acts of sacrifice, determination and bravery I know, and it shall always remain in my memory as the great est example of personal sacrifice to a comrade-in-arms in our records. (3) With all other members of the United States Forces on this island, admira tion of the officers and men of the Fijian Forces is paramount in all ranks. By this act you have epito mised the tradition your unit upholds. (4) I desire to express to you my com mendations with the hope that I shall have the honour to serve with you and your unit in future operations. mHIS message is signed by an American X General with the formation to which Fijian troops are attached on Bougainville in the Western Solomons.

To it is added the following note from 2/Lieutenant Isireli’s Commanding Offi cer, Lieut.-Col. G. T. Upton, a New Zea lander: “My sincere congratulations on a splendid job.”

Behind it is one of the most dramatic stories of fortitude and courage in the face of terrible hardships in a campaign in which personal bravery and initiative are the principal factors.

In January, Lieut.-Col. Upton’s bat talion, in which Isireli is a platoon com mander, carried out a spectular feat in crossing Bougainville Island through enemy territory to the coast opposite Empress Augusta Bay. During the opera tion, Isireli, on reconnaissance, found a concentration of Japanese considered to be a bomber’s dream. A light aircraft landed on a landing strip carved by Fijians from the jungle with bayonets and cane-knives, and Isireli was flown back to the American beach-head" to guide the bombers.

The bombing operation was a success and Isireli, piloted by 2/Lieutenant C. W.

Cross, left to return to his unit far across the lofty mountains of Bougainville.

Engine trouble forced the machine down and it dived into the dense forest.

Freakishly, the plane remained wedged in the tops of tall trees, 50 feet above the ground. Neither man was injured, and there, looking out over an unbroken sea of tree-tops, they took stock of their position: only a general idea of their location, no compass, no food, no arms except Isireli’s sheath knife, no clothing, no blankets, no mosquito nets, and 50 feet above the ground in a wrecked aircraft.

First problem was to reach the ground.

Their tree had a thick, bushy top, but no branches to afford a means of descent.

No great difficulty for Isireli, as the Fijian’s ability in scampering up and down the smooth boles of branchless trees is almost uncanny. To the American pilot, however, the ground looked far off

and his chances of reaching it uninjured just as distant.

The answer to that particular problem was simple. Isireli manoeuvred his com rade on to his back and climbed down the tree with him. rE story of the next two weeks is easily told, for, with brief alarms when enemy patrols were encoun tered, it was simply a succession of grim days, battling through clinging bush, still without food and continually drenched with an unceasing rain which dripped through the dense mass of foliage above

to the steaming, murky jungle growth below. Nights were cold; Bougainville’s mountains rise to more than 10,000 feet.

Gardens grow only in the coastal areas and fruit is scarce. Nothing edible, even the most unpalatable roots, can be found in the forests of the interior. A lost man could wander indefinitely on this large, grim island.

Six times, the two men hid while Japanese patrols passed within a few feet of where they hugged the ground. For tunately, the Japanese, contrary to belief, do not patrol in silence. The high pitched chatter of their voices gives ample warning of approach, and to such an accomplished bushman as Isireli, con cealment presented no problems. Each time a patrol passed, the Fijian waited, tense, his knife drawn, ready to spring on any man who lagged behind. Such a stroke would have meant a rifle, ammu nition, and possibly food. However, that opportunity never arrived.

After many days, the strength of both

men was ebbing, and Isireli decided to make an effort, while he still could, to learn their whereabouts. Painfully, he swarmed to the top of the highest tree.

He saw the blue waters of the Pacific, and across a narrow strait, another island. He recognised the waterway as Buka Passage. They were at the north ern tip of Bougainville, close to the big gest concentration of Japanese on the island.

There was nothing for it but to retrace their steps. Isireli now had some idea of the direction in which safety lay.

He decided to make for the mountains, thus avoiding the enemy, and marking a more definite line of march.

THEN came the day when the pilot could go no further. He implored the Fijian to leave him. At length they argued the question, until Isireli prevailed, and hoisting the exhausted man to his broad shoulders, resumed the struggle against the fever-ridden jungle.

For four days, Isireli carried his com panion. They had been lost for 14 days —l4 days without food or shelter, fight ing the dense growth for every inch of progress.

On the fifteenth morning, Isireli again eased Cross to his shoulders. He stood, he swayed, his knees crumpled beneath him, and he fell to the ground. This time the American was adamant. It was obvious that the Fijian could carry him no further. The only chance was for him to struggle on alone and send back help when he found friends.

“Just build me a shelter of boughs,” he asked. “If I am dead when they find me, send my watch to my mother, my identification wristlet to my father, and this ring to my girl.”

“I broke down and cried,” Isireli con fessed. “For hours I argued with Char lie. Several times, I started off, only to return to him after going a hundred yards, but it was no use. The only course was to go on, so I left him.”

From then on, the journey was a nightmare. He had left his slacks and shirt with Cross as some protection against the night chills of the mountains.

At night, he huddled on the ground, bit terly cold in his tattered underwear. By day, he pushed wearily forward. At one stage he found his way blocked by the sheer drop of a waterfall which gashed the face of the mountain so deeply that he could not cross but must find a way above or below. So sheer was the ground that he could make progress only by climbing trees and swinging himself to the lower branches of other trees above him. Thus, by dragging himself up this natural ladder, he passed the obstacle.

By this time, his strength had nearly gone. The muscles which had served him so well on the Rugby fields of Fiji were slow to obey his will. He does not remember much of those last days, but he knows that he crawled on gashed and bleeding knees. rEN, he reached a clearing. It was a native garden. His bemused intel ligence sent him this last message before he slumped forward, unconscious.

There the natives found him, and the next thing Isireli recalls is waking on a bed in a native hut, fuzzy heads bending over him. anxiously, and a voice asking him who he was, where he came from.

It was fortunate for Isireli that in this remote , village there was a mission trained native teacher, who had suffi cient English, though of the “Pidgin” variety, to be able to understand what he was anxious to tell them. Immediately, a party left to look for Cross.

The natives nursed Isireli back to health, and after a few days, he set out again through the jungle to the hidden refuge of an Australian coastwatcher, one of that gallant band of men who have risked torture and death for the Allied cause. From there, another hazardous journey, this time along the coast, until Isireli—long given up—rejoined his unit.

It was the twentieth day when he reached that native garden. His 14 stone of healthy muscle had shrunken to 10 stone.

Cross has not yet been found.