In early January '44 we went ashore on the black sand beach of Empress Augusta Bay, Bougainville in the western Solomans. We were replacements for a Marine division that had made the initial landing on November 1, '43.

As replacements, we reaped the benefits of a cleared bivouac area, hard surfaced main roads, gravel side roads and walks, even a movie screen in a cleared area with wood benches. We quickly set up our six-man pyramidal tents, assembled army cots and settled in for the night after a canned ration dinner.

The next morning we set up our shop areas, unpacked tools and supplies, helped with set-up of mess area and supply tents. On the second morning the first batch of equipment for repair started rolling in and we were in business.

Something needs to be said about our spare parts situation: each month we submitted a list of parts that we expected to need. Each month our supply section had the same report: nothing came in. So we scavenged parts from equipment that was not repairable.

Within the first month at our new location the situation changed for the better. Someone had apparently recognized our needs and we received new pieces of equipment to be used for spare parts. As head of the Instrument group, I was entrusted with four 6X30 binoculars, two 7X50 binoculars, three seven jewel Elgin watches, a Battery Commander telescope and a few other such pieces.

But the real bonanza came to the Automotive group: four shiny new Jeeps! First, two of our company vehicles were traded in for newer models but we still had four Jeeps for prime trade material. The Company Commander had a quiet talk with our company carpenter and the two drove off - in a Jeep and in a truck. When they came back, the truck carried the carpenter, the CO, and a complete saw mill! We now had three Jeeps.

Our large wrecker now started hauling logs - mahogany. The saw mill buzzed and it wasn't too long before we had a wood-floored mess hall, a wood floored and sided headquarters building, and one by one, wood floored and sided pyramidal tents for the entire company.

Jeeps were a valuable commodity. Binoculars, watches, mess equipment, even rifles could be "lost" or "destroyed" with impunity. But to lose a Jeep was a court-martial offense. The loser wasn't put in prison; he lost a large portion of his monthly pay until the vehicle was paid for.

How could anyone lose a Jeep? Very simple: if the Navy was in and a Jeep was parked without an armed guard, another vehicle became sea-borne and quickly lost its olive drab color under a coating of navy blue. (Much later two of our men reversed the procedure and returned to our area with one olive drab and one navy blue Jeep.)

At one time we learned that the Special Services Unit had "lost" a Jeep and were willing to trade an ice-cream making unit, complete with a goodly supply of ingredients. We had ice cream for two days before the commanding general got wind of our good fortune. He decreed that ice cream should be the delicacy of the "fighting men" rather than the lowly repair crews. So the equipment was carted off and the general and his staff had ice cream for desert. Now we were down to two spare Jeeps. And no ice cream!

Our bivouac area was near the Torokina (TORE-O-KEY-NA) River. The location could not be pin-pointed near any village since there didn't seem to be any concentration of population anywhere within several miles of our camp. Somewhere north of us, across the main highway, was the camp of the Quartermaster Corp and the open air movie theatre. One evening while we were waiting for darkness to settle in so the movie could start, we were treated to a grand display of an eruption of Mount Bagana, the active volcano. It was spectacular against the background of the island sunset.

As the usual companion to the volcanic action we had had a severe earthquake about six hours before. With the first shock we ran out of our repair tent to the open area. The first thing I noticed was our Lister Bag - a large canvas bag filled with drinking water and suspended from a pyramidal structure. The bag was swinging madly a foot off vertical. I was having a hard time keeping my feet and came very close to being sea sick on dry land.

The island airstrip was also in the Torokina River area. One day Paul, one of the instrument crew, asked me if he could get up to the airport to look up his nephew. I told him to get a Jeep and pick up our monthly allotment of glass cleaning solvent.

He came back full of excitement. His nephew was the navigator on a flying fortress bomber and had just returned from a photo mission over Truk Atoll. The bomber had been stripped of all non-essential weight and loaded with extra fuel. Truk was thought to be beyond the range of any American base. Paul's nephew had smuggled aboard a ten pound bomb and threw it out the window as they passed over the atoll. After our news release of the flight (without mention of the bomb), the Japanese reported that an American carrier-based bomber had approached the atoll and had been driven off after a bombing run which caused no damage.

I had one visit to the airstrip. A transport planed landed and there was a great flurry of excitement as the passengers disembarked and marched off the field to a command structure. My guess was confirmed that the "big lanky guy" was Col. Charles Lindbergh.

The weather was invariable. Cloudless skies throughout the day. Hot, but not unbearably so. After dinner, right on the dot, clouds would roll in with a ten minute torrent of rain. Each man owned a large tin can, about a bucket and a half capacity. When the rain came down we would collect water off the sides of the tent and this would suffice for our laundry water.

We were no where near the combat area but received frequent reports of the progress. For a long period - nearly a month - the infantry battled to take hill 260. One day a lieutenant of infantry came in with a 17 jewel Hamilton watch. "It just keeps winding but it won't run." Diagnosis: broken mainspring. "Can you fix it?" Sorry, but no spare parts. "But I gotta have a watch; I'm going back up to 260 tonight." So I pulled out one of our spare new 7 jewel Elgins for him. Overjoyed with a watch that worked, he started off. I called after him: "You forgot your Hamilton." "It's no good to me, throw it away."

About a month later, a young CB (Construction Battalion) visited our repair tent. He was a watch repairmen and was set up with a dust proof trailer full of modern equipment. He was desperately in need of a balance staff for a Waltham watch. I just happened to have two GI Walthams that had his part. As he was leaving with a happy smile on his face he told me to look him up sometime. He had parts for nearly every watch made. What about a 17 jewel Hamilton mainspring? "Sure, I have loads of them."

So, following his directions, I found the CB area a few days later and picked up the repaired Hamilton that he had taken back when he left our area. I wore the watch the rest of my tenure overseas and should have brought it home. When rotation came up for me I got chicken, not wanting to answer "What are you doing with an officer's Hamilton?" They did inspect our baggage when we got on board ship but I could have gotten away with it.

One afternoon a field artillery sergeant requested repair of a spotting telescope that was set up in their forward observation post. I assumed the observation post was on the top of a hill or somesuch. When we got to the post the battery lieutenant met me and, while guiding me to where the scope was, he asked how I felt about heights. It was then that I learned that the scope was set up on a platform near the top of a very large tree.

My elevator was a wooden cage with a rope, a pulley, and two strong artillery men to supply the lift. So up I went, never looking down and trying my best not to betray my fear of heights. I checked out the scope and found it had a bent elevating screw shaft. Nothing to do but take it back to our machine shop for repair. The scope was a very large Japanese instrument of variable 40, 60 and 75X power. It was quite heavy.

It and I got into the cage for the return trip. (The artillery spotter said the distance to ground was 85 feet.) The two men lowered me to within about 35 feet of the ground and we stopped. One of the ground men let loose with a string of cuss words. Someone had swiped 50 feet of the rope for a clothes line. I hung suspended until they found the necessary footage to get me back to earth.

We were far removed from the battle area but we were on alert for air raids. Each tent dug an air raid shelter - a hole in the ground with a roof of logs. (Our tent found two large sheets of half-inch thick iron that reinforced our roof.) When the air raid alarm sounded, we hurried into the shelter. This happened about twice a week.

In actuality, we hurried into the shelter only if the danger from dropping bombs required getting into the shelter. One night the sirens went off and we could hear a plane in the distance. Suddenly a searchlight beam shot up, immediately zeroed on the plane, there was a flash of light and a trail of sparks dropped earthward. Of course, a mighty cheer went up.

Next morning, our usual assembly had an added touch. After the First Sergeant reported to the Company Commander: "All present and accounted for, sir.", instead of the C.C. instructing that the company should be dismissed, he told us that what we had seen the night before was not what we thought we had seen. Actually, he said, one of our PBY (flying boat) had been caught in the search beam and dropped a flare to warn us not to fire. If anyone had told us that an anti-aircraft director, guided by radar, had guided the search light and the new six inch AA rifles had fired a proximity fused shell, no-one would have understood what was being said. There was some discussion next morning, mostly on the line of "It sure looked like…" but if we'd been told the truth the comment would have been "Do you believe that bull? That's Buck Rogers stuff."

We had a Swede in the outfit - Swen (pronounced Sven). He was a student of Astrology and gave us the lowdown on the coming bombing raids. One afternoon he announced that we'd have a raid just before dinner but no-one would be hurt. Just as we were about to walk down to the mess hall we heard the siren and at the same time a low flying plane. Everyone dived for what protection they could find. The plane passed over and shortly after we heard two explosions. The bombs had fallen across the road in the Quartermaster area. Two men were lost.

As Swen crawled out from under a pickup truck, one of the fellows said: "I thought you said no-one would be hurt. Why did you duck under that truck? No faith in your "shtars" say?" To which Swen sagely replied: "There's no use in being a damned fool about it."

As background for the following: We had a garbage incinerator near the kitchen - mess hall. It was two 55 gallon drums welded together, front open and rear end half open. It was set on dirt so that it inclined at about a 15 to 20 degree angle. Garbage was stuffed into it, gasoline was added to each bucket of garbage and when all the present batch of garbage was in, it was ignited.

One day an unsuspecting K.P. was doing a sloppy job getting it ready. He opened the cap of one of the six drums of gasoline which were stored near the incinerator, tilted the drum until he had a pool on top of the drum, poured an extra can into the incinerator and with his clothes well spotted with fuel, stood in front of the incinerator and threw the burning torch in. It blew out at him and with his shirt on fire he turned and ran into the open drum of gasoline.

I happened to be walking up the path nearby. I heard the boom and turned to see what caused the noise when one of the automotive mechanics ran up, gave me a shove, yelled "Grab a shovel" and ran toward the fire, me close behind. He picked up a flat rock and pushed it over the open bung and the two of us shoveled dirt on top of the barrel. In a short time (though it didn't seem short to me), the fire was smothered on top of the barrel. In an even shorter time, the flames around the barrels were knocked down. We could hear a sizzling sound: the gasoline in the first drum was actually boiling. The cooks cooled the drums with buckets of water. The cooks had also rolled the K.P. into a ditch and beat out the flames on his clothes. He escaped with minor burns.

Before we could leave, the 1^st Sergeant had to write up an "incident report." We answered his questions briefly since we "didn't see it happen but only saw the results." As we were leaving the Sergeant made a remark about "heroes of the day." The auto mechanic who gave me the shove (he was a husky red-head) addressed the sergeant: "There aren't many heroes but there's a heck of a lot of people who do things like we did because they don't want to be called cowards." He turned on his heel and we left. He was one of the most sour, anti-social persons I ever met.

Sometime near the end of February the company was assembled for an unusual afternoon information session. A Japanese courier had been captured and he was carrying a briefcase which contained the complete plans for a coordinated counter-attack: the American forces would be subjected to a heavy bombardment by Japanese battleships and cruisers and simultaneous bombing by hundreds of aircraft. The Jap forces on Bougainville would follow this up with artillery fire to sweep all sectors of the American held area. Japanese ground forces would sweep in to drive us into the sea.

We were told to be on alert but to have no fear because:

1. No Japanese naval units were near the area and our fleet stood ready to fend off any attack that would be a suicide mission.
2. Japanese air force had suffered heavy losses and could not afford anything near a substantial sortie.
3. The nearest enemy artillery capable of reaching our area were far out of range and could only be brought into range by lowering the heavy weapons down a cliff, getting them across a large river, raising them up another cliff and emplacing them (and a large supply of heavy shells) several miles beyond the river. This, obviously, was an impossible task.
4. Japanese ground forces were far outnumbered by our force.

On the morning of the day when the attack was to happen, we woke to the sound of heavy artillery fire. Most of it was recognizable as out 105 howitzers or 155 rifles, but every once in a while we heard a "kerump" that didn't sound right. At our morning assembly this was noted and explained to be our 90mm anti-aircraft guns being used a field artillery pieces. So off we went to breakfast.

I was standing in chow line next to Art, the artillery repair section chief. Suddenly there was a very loud KERUMP and something whizzed about a foot away from my head and imbedded in one of the wooden mess hall supports. The support started smoking where the shrapnel piece had hit. Art yelled, "Incoming Fire!" and we both took off with deliberate speed. In fact, everyone evacuated. There were several reports of near shrapnel misses but luckily no-one was hit. Everyone settled down in the air raid shelter, dark and damp as they were.

I guess we stayed in the shelter for an hour or an hour and a half. We had a big hulk of a fellow who, when it sounded as though the incoming fire was getting close, would alternate a string of cuss words with prayers. When things settled down for a prolonged interval, Hank, the big hulk, entertained us with a story of an incident in his life in Peoria, Illinois.

Hank (name was Carl Hankins) was walking home from work in the early afternoon when a fellow stopped him and asked if he'd like to earn twenty bucks. This, at that time, was a week's wages for Hank. It seems there was a prize fight scheduled for that night and one of the preliminary participants couldn't make it. At first, Hank had grave misgivings but thoughts of twenty dollars and the promoter's assurance that the opponent would pull his punches and all Hank had to do was duck and hold on, the deal was made. Besides, it was only three rounds.

The bottom line to the story was that Hank lasted three rounds but it took about ten days to get rid of the sore spots on his stomach, ribs and jaw. And he got his $20.00 "but it wasn't worth it."

We spent most of the day in and out of the shelter. By mid-afternoon we were able to leave it for the last time for the incoming fire had ended. This was the sum of the day's events:

1. No Japanese naval forces showed up.
2. Two Japanese aircraft flew over but were driven off by heavy anti-aircraft fire.
3. In one night the Japanese had disassembled four large artillery pieces, lowered them down a cliff, rafted them across the river and raised them up the opposite cliff, all with a supply of shells. Reassembled, the artillery was dragged to spots where it could cover most of our area.
4. Japanese ground forces attacked in force and retook some strategic areas but never really effected a break through. In sum total they were no longer a threat to retake the island. Their heavy artillery, repositioned on our side of the river, had been destroyed by counter battery fire.

The Japanese lost heavily in manpower and supplies in the perimeter attack which lasted, actually, for several months. None of their losses could be replaced since they were completely cut off from the outside world.

It was not a quick, easy victory. Our forces were three reinforced divisions - the Americal, the 37^th (Ohio National Guard) and the 24^th (the first black division to see action in the Pacific), plus a reinforced company of Fiji infantry. We were facing the Japanese 17^th Army. To our advantage, we had tank battalions supporting the troops, several Navy destroyers shelling enemy positions, Air Force and Navy bombers dropping tons of explosives. The enemy had none of these advantages but they were well trained and fanatically disciplined. It needed the full month of March of heavy, furious fighting to drive them back to positions where our perimeter was secure. It needed another eight months of constant combat to secure the island.

In addition to the ever present mosquitoes we also had centipedes (five to six inches long) and scorpions. Both could deliver a very painful but not life threatening sting. We had a tent mate who had a fatalistic fear that he'd never make it home (he did). If a bomb wouldn't get him, any one of the tropical diseases was sure to lay him low. One afternoon he was dressing after his shower, pulled on his army shoe and uttered an ungodly scream. He pulled off the shoe and turned it over. Sure enough, a centipede fell out and scrambled across the floor. Someone got a Jeep and we took him to the aid station.

He came back with a supply of pain killers, a very swelled leg and a note that he was to strictly stay off the leg and repose in his cot for four days. The doctor assured him that it wasn't a fatal bite. We cooperated by bringing him meals and someone got him a pair of crutches to get to the latrine.

About this time, a few months after the perimeter attack, air raids completely stopped. So an order went out that each tent should destroy the bomb shelter and return the area to what it had been. So the next morning we stripped to the waist and started shoveling the dirt off the mound until we uncovered the coconut logs. I pulled the first log off, saw a flash of yellow and felt something run up my arm and over my shoulder. Someone yelled, "Scorpion!"

I dropped the log and we all put on fatigue jackets and leather gloves. We also armed ourselves with "bug squashers" - a machete, a slab of wood, or anything flat and easy to handle. Piece by piece we removed the logs which had become scorpion homes. Someone started a count as we squashed. We were actually at one hundred before we stopped the count as the last log came off. We had been sharing the shelter with these beasts!

We had a shower set-up consisting of a framework of logs which supported four 55 gallon drums. A system of plumbing interconnected the drums and, in turn, was connected to a pump that was fed by a trailer filled with water. When the level in the tanks reached a low level, the pump automatically was set in motion and filled the drums. The pump and level sensor were powered by a truck battery. Each drum had a shower head which was turned on by yanking on a rope. A wood floor extended under the showers.

One afternoon I was sharing the shower with three others. Just as I started rinsing, the pump went on. Just as I finished and was stepping out a terrible crash occurred and as the structure collapsed a cross bar caught me behind the right ear and threw me clear into a pool of black mud and soapy water. I could hear two of the fellows yelling, "Help me!" and I saw the fourth occupant walking around in circles. My thought was to get out of the muck and help where I could. Though I was completely conscious to what had happened, I couldn't, try as I might, move a muscle. It was probably a matter of seconds but it seemed like an interminable time before I found I could wiggle my foot and then move my legs. I was just finding that my arms were working again and I was getting to my feet when a dozen fellows ran in and started pulling the structure off the two injured. One had a broken knee; the other had a spike penetrate his Achilles tendon. Both were evacuated to New Zealand.

Someone got a bucket of water and swabbed the mud off me. They handed me a pair of shorts (modesty), put me in a Jeep and took me to the nearest aid station. Though I didn't know it, the right side of my back from shoulder to thigh was scraped and bleeding. Apparently the crossbeam did it as I was thrown out. The doctor and the aide swabbed it clean, applied several bandages. As I was ready to go, he doctor told me I had blood near my mouth. "Open up; you put a tooth through your tongue. Do you want me to stitch it?" "Not unless necessary," was my reply. The doctor laughed and sent me back to camp.

The unhurt fellow (Stan) was a big, muscular 200+ pounds. He had no memory of the shower collapse. He remembers being in the aid station where the doctor found no cuts, bumps, or bruises. From all appearances, the structure completely missed him as it collapsed. A week later he fell asleep while driving a truck and went into a ditch. Again, no apparent injuries. He started complaining that he must have been hurt and would never get back home to his girlfriend. He was sent back to the hospital where they did a spinal tap, which was negative. He was sure, however, that the spinal tap was faulty and he would die overseas.

He was thoroughly examined with negative results and referred to a psychiatrist. Diagnosis: He wants to go home. He had been overseas, as were many of us, for 2 1/2 plus years. He was losing weight rapidly. Nevertheless, neither the MDs or the Psychiatrists would certify that he should be sent home. When his weight dropped under 130 pounds, our company commander made a special case for him to be shipped home on rotation, bypassing the lottery.

One of the other fellows in that rotation group wrote a letter on the end of the story. He had gone back to visit Stan, found that he had married, was discharged, had a defense job with big bucks and had gained all his lost weight.

When we had arrived in Fiji, it was decided that the division would be taken off Atabrine to "see what would happen." Quite a few cases of malaria showed up, so many, in fact, that only the severe cases went to the hospital. The less severe were dosed with quinine and put on bed rest. This was my first case of malaria. The Atabrine pills were restarted.

In early January, 1945, our company was put through a "landing drill." We assembled on the black sand beach and waited in the hot sun for an hour. Then, aboard LSTs and out to HMS Battleaxe, a dirty British troopship. We were told we would go down to the waiting landing craft by climbing down cargo nets. But not yet. So we waited and I suddenly realized that I had a good fever. They put me in a bunk and the fever changed to a chill. The doctor was called and he diagnosed malaria - "Get him to the base hospital." They radioed in and I was taken on top deck until a boat came to pick me up. The British officer deemed that I was able to walk down the catwalk on the side of the ship. The doctor said no so they lowered me to the water in a lifeboat. The waiting boat took me to shore where an ambulance was waiting. I wasn't really feeling bad at all.

As I walked up the beach, two men came running down with a stretcher. "Where's the casualty?" I told them "it's OK I can walk." They started laughing; one of them said: "Someone's gonna get smoked." Then, explanation: They had received a garbled radio message and the word went out to the ambulance to head for the beach and pick up a soldier who fell through an open hatch and down two decks. I was told, jokingly, that they'd have to beat me up a bit since it was right at dinner time and an emergency crew was waiting: an X-ray unit, a team of surgeons, a whole blood transfusion unit, etc.

When we got to the base hospital and I was introduced as the casualty (actually just a malaria patient), everyone was so happy that they wouldn't miss dinner that there were no repercussions.

I was put into a bed, examined, given quinine and told to sleep it off. Next morning I felt better but was told that I'd be there for four or five days. In mid afternoon a doctor came around, inquired how I felt. "All right, ready to go back to my unit." I didn't know I was being set up. In a little while, a sergeant came around: "Doc says you're feeling pretty good. We're awful short in the mess hall. Follow me." Actually, all I had to do was dish out the food for the chow line and put away a couple stacks of food trays. It was my first KP duty since Guadalcanal.

The next morning, the sergeant came around again, but this time to announce a visitor: Captain Benjamin Rabin, our company commander. "How are you feeling?" "Fine." "the answer to the question I'm going to ask is strictly up to you. We received orders to pack up and get on board ship for the Philippines by tomorrow afternoon. I've cleared it with your doctor to take you back to the company if you feel well enough and want to go. If you want to stay here, it's strictly your decision and will be understandable." By this time I was out of bed and getting into my fatigues.