Out On The End Of A Limb!

Coast-Watcher McColl Tells How he Got Away From Maty Is. in 1942

Mr. K. H. McColl, was in the North-western islands when war came, and, later, was one of Eric Feldt’s famous coast-watchers on the Northern coast of New Guinea (and who is now a stock and station agent in Adam maby, NSW) * describes some of his adventures in the dark days of 1942.

Mr. McColl experiences were referred to in detail in an article by Rev.

Mr. Freund in February “PIM”.

Part One

TWO days before Pearl Harbour—that tragic December 7, 1941—we of the Coast Watchers had been warned to be on the lookbut for “enemy fleets.”

That could mean only one country— Japan!

I had been enduring an uneasy calm on Wuvulu, or Maty, Island, a small speck in the Pacific approximately 120 miles north of Aitape (mainland of New Guinea) and about 160 miles west of Manus (Admiralty Islands). With a few others I had been selected by the Naval Intelligence to act as a Coast Watcher, and supplied with a teleradio, codes, etc.

My position covered the most westerly approach to New Guinea.

Several strange ships had already made my island their rendezvous, and I had been able to report these sightings.

Then came December, 1941, and the hordes of Nippon came surging south.

Malaya—Singapore—Java—the Philip pines—and one day I couldn’t raise Rabaul any more! Madang and Wewak went off the air. I recognised that I was alone in a vast and now hostile ocean. My duty was still to report any hostile shipping moving towards New Guinea: but by this time VIG (Port Moresby) was so inundated with radio traffic, diverted from the now silenced control stations of Rabaul, Lae and Madang. that my attempts at contact were lost in the clamour of 78 other sta tions. I was too far away for anything but a feeble signal to penetrate south for nearly a thousand miles.

Shipping had been very scarce out my way during 1941. By January, 1942, I was entirely dependent on the produce of the island—fish and bananas for the most part, with an occasional fowl. No tobacco—apart from odd leaves of native

grown. My meagre supply of benzine used in the battery charger was running low. This meant cutting out the trans mitter and conserving the batteries so that I could at least keep abreast of the news. A quarter-hour each evening was all I could afford on the radio. I learned later that at this stage the Navy had written me off as another victim of the invasion.

Unknown to me I still had neighbours at Pelleluhn, in the Ninigo Islands, about half-way between Maty and Manus. Bill Tupling (another Coast Watcher) and Mo Johnsson were working out our salvation. We were to meet later in, to me, dramatic circumstances.

FOR the next few months I lost myself in a host of inventions, some success ful, some disappointing. (If anyone wants to know how to run an Electrolux refrigerator on coconut oil; or how to make sponge cakes out of bananas, they can contact me.) Many Heath Robinson contraptions were tried also, in an endeavour to have something ready to replace the motor spirit when my supply was finished.

Actually, the last few charges were made on (1) methylated spirit; (2) spirits of turpentine: (3) “Grille” (or ringworm) lotion. It speaks well for the motor (an original Briggs and Stratton) that it con tinued to work well for many months after this abuse, even though it took it some time to get out of the habit of belching out clouds of salicylic acid (from the “Grille” lotion).

Then, rieht on the death knock, two 44-gallon drums of aviation spirit were washed ashore! There always seems to be an element of luck, even in misfor tune. At last I was able to get back on the air and contact the outside world.

This was May 20, 1942 —my birthday.

Port Moresby, by this time, had sorted itself out, and I was able to make con tact and send a message out to my wife, who, up to this time, thought she was a widow.

Then, from Port Mtoresby, came omin ous news: “Jap administration ship at Lorengau (Manus). Get to the mainland as quickly as possible.”

That meant that the Japs were prob ably making an island-to-island sweep to pick up any remaining Europeans.

But how to get to the mainland? The only craft at hand were very small canoes, from which even the local natives got drowned at times, and I couldn’t see how I was to make a trip of 120 miles over the ocean, by myself, and loaded with the teleradio, batteries and charger, food and water. The thing would have swamned with the first wave.

So it meant that I just had to stay put and take it. Having heard over the radio of the treatment' being meted out to Europeans by the Sons of —er — Heaven. I was not looking forward to a visit from them.

AT 4 p.m. on June 28, 1942, one of my native lookouts came dashing in with the news that a “schooner” was com insr. So—this was it!

*Mr. McColl has recently sold this business and is returning to NG.

I tuned up the transmitter and tried to contact someone just to say good-bye.

But, of course, no one would answer me.

The teleradio was dismantled and made ready, with the codes, to be dumped off the reef. (At Maty, the depth was about 1,000 fathoms.) Then I prepared to meet fate. How would I act when the time came? Would I be able to take it? Or would I turn craven? Not nice thoughts, but inevitable.

I spent an hour dying all kinds of hor rible deaths and, at the same time, try ing to calm the fears of all the natives, who had rallied to me at the house. Some were armed with bows and arrows; some with spears and axes, ready to help me fight it out. I have a soft spot for that crowd; they were ready to see me through.

Then—anti-climax. Bill Tupling and Mo Johnson came strolling into view. I nearly had a nervous breakdown.

Good old Mo had done a brilliant job fixing the motor of a small pinnace from Mai Plantation. He had inserted a CAST IRON gearwheel in the reduction gear, and cut up whatever suitable metal was handy to make clutch plates. He had few tools to work with, and it had taken him many months of weary work to complete the job. Those same makeshift repairs carried us to within 30 miles of Madang.

AND so we prepared for the dash to the mainland. Surrounded by the enemy, we had a slim chance of get ting to a place of comparative safety.

We considered that, once on the main land, we could, if necessary, take to the bush. We ‘all realised our position. The enemy was in undisputed possession of New Guinea as far south as Buna. Lae, Salamaua, New Britain; at Guadalcanal in the Solomons, and, as far as we knew, the whole north coast of New Guinea.

We considered that we had an even chance —much better than waiting for them to come to us —so we left it in the lap of the gods.

I said goodbye to my staff and put a match into 450 tons of copra which I had hidden in the bush. And so began what was to prove the last journey for one of us. War takes its toll, and Bill Tupling was to be the first of our little band to pay the price of victory. It was the road to my own near-destruction some months later.

THE thick night closed round us as we chugged away from Wuvulu, our only beacon being the glare in the sky from the burning copra. We little guessed that a Jap destroyer was not far behind us. The glare must have attracted him— but our very minuteness saved us from detection.

Our company consisted of P/O W.

Tupling, Mo Johnsson, Tex Beighton, Murray Crooke, Carolina Moeder and myself, and a native crew of three. • Came the dawn and no land visible.

Had we drifted too far west? We did not like the idea of landing in Dutch New Guinea, as we did not entirely trust the natives under Dutch control. All eyes were strained forward most of the morn ing—and then we saw the mountains of the mainland breaking the line of the horizon. At about 11 a.m. we pulled cautiously into the coast and contacted a native. We were 30 miles off the Dutch border!

We headed eastwards for Aitape with trepidation, as the native told us that some Jap warships had been there. About 3.30 p.m. we dropped anchor off Tumleo Island. Natives here reassured us about the enemy, so we paid a visit to Aitape and contacted poor old Wally Hook, a trader and recruiter. Wally was later, at

Jap instigation, killed by the natives, among whom he had spent many years of his life.

AT about this time Bill Tupling and I were ordered to land the others of the party at Bogajim (for evacua tion) and proceed to Sio, on the end of the Huon Peninsula, where we would find Lincoln Bell. So we proceeded on our weary way along the coast.

We raised Wewak early next morning and met up with Johnny Young, a trader, who was still pottering about that coast.

At Sauri, about 2h hours’ walk, in the hills behind Wewak, was an OP being maintained by John Milligan, Charlie Bates and Kevin Minogue. These had moved almost everything movable out of Wewak and were ready for any moves in the area. They warned us of a pos sible Jap party on Blup Blup Island, off the mouth of the Sepik.

So, after leaving Wewak, we entered the Karau Lakes and. picking up a native pilot, we traversed the maze of water ways and mangrove islands of which these lakes are composed, until at last we entered a narrow channel which brought us into the Sepik River, about 22 miles from the mouth.

Not only did we dodge the Jap this way, but we also dodged the south-easter which was blowing strong along the coast. We still had to nurse the engine along.

Just on dark we dropped anchor off Cape Girgir, whore we expected to find Joe Searson, who was keeping tabs on any enemy movement in the Sepik area.

I went ashore to find him, but all I could see in the dark was a blank wall of casu arina trees.

Just prior to our arrival on the main land, the police boys at Angoram had

got out of hand and, after murdering some miners and the District Officer, had set themselves up as “masters” and had had the time of their lives. Most of them had been rounded up and liquid ated, but a few were still at large.

The first thing I noticed ashore in the dark was the clicking of rifle bolts in the scrub nearby. I wasn’t a scrap happy, having visions of the renegade PB’s pour ing out on me. However, I spotted one and dived on him, and he led me to Joe Searson’s camp. Apparently we had not been noticed until I was coming ashore in the dinghy, and their first thought was that a party of Japs were on their tail.

AFTER waiting a couple of days for the wind to drop a bit, we pushed on to Bogia, taking a couple of days* to get there.

We found John Black and Dan Power in residence, and a bit uneasy at our approach. In those days, the whole civil population had evacuated from the entire coast, leaving only a few hardheads be hind, so that any craft approaching was an enemy until proved otherwise.

So we found it all the way along the line. You can understand this when you realise that we were then in the middle of 1942, six months after the civil evacu ation took place. Up to our escape, we did not exist any more, so it was natural that a strange party should arouse sus picion.

Onwards from Bogia we paused at Cape Gourdon, and passed the time of day with Jimmy Reid, who was still on his plantation. From him we got some much-needed tobacco (which he was

growing) and then on again towards Madang.

But now our good luck was running out. We got as far as Megiar when the cast iron gear went with a terrific, crash.

I left the others at Megiar and, with Tex Beighton, set off to walk to Alexis hafen to get help. We left at 7 a.m. and arrived at Sek at 6.15 p.m., a distance of 33 miles. I would have sworn that it was 300 miles.

After towing the brave little pinnace in, Bill and I were split up. We had been so long getting to Madang that plans were altered.

Bill was detailed with Bert Olander and Bill Butteris to watch over Sio, and I was sent further down the Vitiaz Straits to join Lloyd Pursehouse and Harry Freund at their. OP at Wareo.

Freund has written of their fun and games and of my arrival, so I will only detail my own part in the subsequent events.

As we took up our positions, we were dispersed thus: At Madang: Ben Hall, Andy Smith, Mo Johnsson (who had been mobilised into ANGAU), Vic Neumann, J. McNicol.

At Yaula; “Blue” Harris (later killed in Hollandia), Ken Douglas, Dolf Obst (later killed at Cape Gloucester).

At Sio: Bert Olander (later killed at Arawe, Bill Tupling (later killed at Arawe, Bill Butteris (later killed at Cape Glousester), At Umboi: Lincoln Bell (later killed in the Finisterre Mountains).

At Finschhafen: Lloyd Pursehouse (later killed at Sio), A. P. H. Freund, myself.

There were to be more dispersals later during the tragic chapter of New Britain, December, 1942. Pursehouse and I were approaching Lae from Sattelburg at the time of the later moves, and our hurried recall has been described by Freund in his story. I still remember the horrible feeling as I decoded the same fateful signal: “Obst killed—Butteris captured—”

No word from Olander and Tupling.

Blue Harris and party were silent. The new style Jap had arrived. (A second article will be published in April)