Christmas on Bougainville: A Marine Remembers

In a makeshift chapel behind the front lines on Bougainville, three American soldiers take Communion conducted by Capt. Lawrence M. Brock, Chaplain of the 182nd Infantry Regiment, Americal Division.

by Bill Silliker with Ruth Silliker

It always rained on Bougainville. When the sun broke through in honor of Christmas Day, 1943, it was a pleasant surprise. The 2nd Provisional Raider Regiment (under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Alan Shapley) now had two reasons to celebrate: they could dry out in the sun and enjoy a turkey dinner on its way from the field kitchens.

On 1 November we had come over from Pure Water Island with the 3rd Marine Division, landed successfully on the narrow beach and discovered our enemy was not the 50,000 Japanese garrisoned there, but Bougainville itself. Earthquakes, bugs—centipedes, scorpions, snakes—you name it… horrible little devils that make my skin crawl even now. Bougainville—an island of mud that claimed everything we tried to transport over it. Amtracks disappeared; ammo dumps vanished; even our light pack howitzers went under the water and buried themselves in the mud below. Anything that got through was carried on our backs.

That first night on the beach I huddled safely inside a Japanese pillbox. “Washing Machine Charlie” was paying us a visit, dropping a string of bombs. At the all clear, we ran from our hiding places, yelling, congratulating ourselves. We turned in horror at the sight of a young corporal covered with blood. Blood dripping from face… hands… body.

“Corpsman! Corpsman!” he screamed.

Sudden, inane laughter broke out as the men gathered around the “wounded” Marine.

“It’s ketchup!”

“Ketchup!” the witless corporal yelled.

“Yeah, Charlie must have hit our rations pile.”

The laughter relieved the tension enough to allow us a little sleep before we began the tough job ahead.

We slugged our way through mangrove swamps, vicious jungles, and mud. December 10th found us on higher ground. Our front lines were set up in a defense perimeter which, eventually, secured the entire Empress Augusta Bay. We had taken as much of Bougainville as planned and were now busy guarding the passes from the mountains. Ten thousand Japanese were left bottled up inside those mountains, cut off from their own lines of supply and starving to death. Bougainville was still a crawly, miserable, humid place but the higher terrain and containing the Japanese inside the mountains were reason to rejoice.

On 24 December the “sky pilot” sought me out.

“Sergeant,” he said, “would you sing at the services to-night?”

“Tonight? Yeah, I guess so.” I hesitated to say no… it was Christmas Eve.

“How about ‘Adestes Fidelis’?” he asked, pursuing his ad-vantage.

“In Latin!”

“I’ll coach you. No problem.”

I didn’t share his enthusiasm but he was a very persuasive man. The Catholic service was held first. If my Latin was faulty, I’m sure only the Chaplain knew. “O Come All Ye Faithful,” at the Protestant service, went along more confidently.

“This is the second Christmas in this God-forsaken Pacific,” I thought as I settled in for the night. “Next year I’ll spend Christmas in Massachusetts, U.S. of A.,” I promised myself.

Christmas of the previous year had been in my thoughts the past week. I’d heard my old home, the USS Alchiba, was somewhere nearby and the boys on the beach had word I wanted to know if they sighted her. The Alchiba had fished me out of the sea way back in August 1942 as a survivor of the U.S.S. Elliott and I’d served with her men for five months. Last time I’d seen the old tub she’d been gasping on the shore at Guadalcanal, gaping holes in her side and bottom from two Japanese submarine attacks. I was eager to see my friends in the crew and congratulate them on the remarkable feat of getting the Alchiba back to the States and into action again.

Christmas morning found me busy with duties of the day when word came up from the message center.

“Phone call for you, Sarge, at one of the beach emplacements. The Alchiba’s in!”

I jumped in my jeep and headed down. The beachmaster from the Alchiba made arrangements for me to go aboard. It felt good, walking up her gangway once more and saluting the colors. Stepping aboard, the ship’s doctor was the first to spot me. He thrust me against the bulkhead, pried open both eyelids, and moaned, “God, Bill, do you ever have yellow jaundice!”

He hustled me down to the mess hall where the crew clustered about.

“Gee, Sarge, are we glad to see you! You’re okay? We’ve been thinking about you… heard you were here.”

I suddenly felt like a prodigal son (or brother).

“Got any souvenirs?” was the constant cry.

Cursing myself for not thinking to gather up more, I emptied my pockets of the few things on me—labels from saki bottles, Japanese ammo, other trivia.

The P.A. suddenly boomed with the old familiar voice of Captain “Pappy” Shaw. He wanted to see me on the bridge. I felt I’d really come home as he flung an arm across my shoulders and ushered me into the wardroom.

Pappy barely listened to my congratulations of his promotion from exec to captain as he pummeled me with questions.

“How’d you ever wind up in the Raiders, for Christ’s sake?” he pried.

“Quickest way I could find back into the Marines. Admiral Turner thought I was nuts, too, to leave the Flag but he said he understood… once a Marine… or something.”

“You look awful, Sergeant,” Captain Shaw said. “How much do you weigh? You check in with the medics when you go back, you hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything we can do for you? Anything at all? You just name it.”

“I know the guys would be awfully happy if I showed up with ice cream and some fresh eggs. It would sure make our Christmas!”

Pappy turned on the P.A. “Commissary Office,” he barked. “Give Silliker anything he wants.” He turned to me and thrust a handful of gaily wrapped Christmas presents across the desk—a wallet, handkerchiefs, a box of razor blades and a razor.

I unashamedly admit tears stung my eyes as we shook hands, hoping I’d see this salty, old Navy man again someday.

The jeep and I went back to the guys at the command post—the conquering hero laden down with a case of fresh eggs and gallons of ice cream to top off the turkey dinner.

Yes—it was a Christmas to remember—that Christmas of ‘43 at Bougainville.

Just behind the front lines on Bougainville was the scene of this church service conducted by Capt. Brock, Jesuit father, Chaplain of the 162nd Infantry Regiment, Americal Division.

Members of the 182nd Infantry Regiment fighting on Bougainville, go forward to take Communion.

The soldier choir that participated in Catholic high Mass in the 2nd Battalion, 148th Infantry area on Bougainville Island. December 24, 1943.

Christmas tree of Battery C, 136th Field Artillery, 37th Division, on Bougainville. December 25, 1943.

Lt. Col. Kirker, chaplain of the 37th Division, holds communion services on Christmas Day in the jungles of Bougainville. Taking the communion is Maj. Gen. Robert S. Beightler, 37th Division commanding general. December 25, 1943.

In an underground surgery room, behind the front lines on Bougainville, an American Army doctor operates on a U.S. soldier wounded by a Japanese sniper. December 13, 1943.

Chaplain Joseph A. Rabun, of the 9th Marines, celebrates Christmas on Bougainville.

Soldiers of the 145th Infantry carry a wounded comrade off of Hill 700, Bougainville Island, March 1944.

U.S. commissary troops manufacture ice cream with home-made ice cream machine, Bougainville.

World War II post card image of soldier eating ice cream.

Marines moving up to the Bougainville front lines ran afoul of General Mud. Here some of the Marines demonstrate carious forms of footwork for muddy going. The leader (right) is recovering his balance after a misstep, the third Marine from the end lifts his feet high, while the other Leathernecks just plow right through.