Red Randall on Active Duty

by R. Sidney Bowen

  “Jimmy!” Red cried softly out of the corner of his mouth, as he kept his gaze riveted on the spot where he had seen the green leaves move. “Got your gun on you?”

  “Gun?” young Joyce echoed right at his elbow. “No. I lost the darn thing. Why? What’s the matter, Red?

  “I don’t know just what,” Randall grunted. “But I think I saw somebody sliding through that spot of jungle just over there to the right.”

  “Japs?” Joyce said in a tight voice that Randall just barely heard.

  “Don’t know,” Randall breathed. “Maybe it was just some jungle animal. But I sure saw something moving. I... Holy smoke, Jimmy!”

  Randall’s words were strangled in his throat, and a mad desire to race down the beach and plunge into the water seized him. But he could not move a muscle. It was as though his feet were nailed fast to the hard-packed sand. At his side, Jimmy Joyce gasped just once and then seemed to hold his breath.

  Chapter Nine – Friend or Foe

  LIKE TWO PETRIFIED fence posts Red Randall and Jimmy Joyce stood rooted in their tracks as the green jungle growth seemed to part like a curtain, and the huge figure of a man stepped out onto the beach. He was a good six feet tall, his skin was jet-black, but the bushy mop of hair on his head was a brilliant red. It stuck up and out in all directions, and its appearance gave Randall the crazy thought of a blazing sun setting over the peak of an ebony mountain. In his right hand the black man carried a long spear, and at the belt of his loin cloth hung a long-sheathed knife.

  A million and one thoughts raced through Randall’s mind as he stared at the stranger, who still stood halfway out of the undergrowth, staring right back at him. Then something he once had read in an adventure travel book came to him. Two things above all else are prized by the natives of the South Seas—tobacco and trinkets. Automatically Randall moved his right hand over to take off his wrist watch. Only he did not have a wrist watch. His watch, like his gun, had been lost in the plane crash. He suddenly caught sight of Joyce’s watch, and he reached out his hand.

  “Give me your wrist watch quick, Jimmy!” he whispered.

  “My watch?” Joyce echoed. “What do you mean?”

  “Give it to me, and shut up!” Randall hissed. “You want to get that spear through your belly? I’ve got an idea. Give!”

  “Okay,” Jimmy grunted, and handed over his wrist watch. “But I don’t get it.”

  “I’ll tell you later!” Randall snapped, and held the watch out in the palm of his hand, so that the black man could see it. “Lookee!” he said in a loud voice. “Velly nice present for good fellow. Make nice tick-tick sound. For you. Lookee! Velly nice, huh? You like velly much!”

  Randall took two steps forward as he spoke. The black man stood right where he was. He fastened wide black eyes on Red’s outstretched hand and scowled. About then the truth dawned on Jimmy Joyce, and he let out a yelp of protest.

  “Hey, that’s my watch!” he cried.

  “I know it!” Red snapped out of the corner of his mouth. “Shut up, will you?”

  “But I paid out...!” Joyce groaned.

  “So I’ll buy you another one sometime!” Randall cut him off. “Can’t you see he’s making up his mind whether to let us have it or not? Maybe this will make him our friend. Maybe we can learn where the heck we are from him.”

  “But, my gosh!” Joyce protested.

  But Randall was not listening to him. He took a few short steps toward the black man, smiled broadly, and nodded his head.

  “For you, yes,” he said. “Velly nice present. We no hurt you. We velly good friends, savvy? We velly good friends. Longa time no see, and stuff. Here. For you, friend. We all velly good friends”

  The black man stopped frowning and blinked. Then his thick lips parted to show huge stained teeth as Randall dangled the watch by the strap so that it caught the rays of the sun. The black man widened his smile and muttered something in a low voice that Randall did not catch. Shifting his spear to his other hand, he advanced slowly upon Randall in long strides. And all the time his bright black eyes were fastened on the dangling watch.

  Even when the black man was still a few feet away, he seemed to tower over Randall, and it was all Red could do to quell the impulse to drop the wrist watch at his feet and run like the dickens. He stuck where he was, though, a frozen smile on his face, and ice water in his veins.

  “Velly good friends, yes,” was all he could manage to say.

  Randall might as well have been trying out his special brand of pidgin English on a brick wall, for all the attention the tall black man paid. His dark eyes clung fast to the dangling watch. When he was near enough he reached out a mighty paw that reminded Randall of a fielder’s mitt. The Yank pilot swallowed, leaned forward, and dropped the wrist watch into the huge paw. The native made gurgling sounds in his throat as he held his hand flat and poked at the watch with the long forefinger of his other hand. Then he must have heard the ticking, because his eyes lighted up with delight, and he put the watch to one ear. For a good three or four minutes he played with the watch, admiring it from all angles. Randall heard Jimmy Joyce’s breath coming in low groans, but he did not take his eyes off the native.

  Then presently the black man buried the watch in his mighty fist and thumped the fist on his broad chest.

  “White man fella good friend,” he said in a voice that almost blew Randall over. “White man fella friend. Good!”

  “Hey, you speak English?” Randall cried as his heart leaped. “Why didn’t you say so? Where are we, anyway? We got lost, and...”

  He stopped short and gulped as the native scowled and shook his head.

  “White man fella no talk along me fella,” the man boomed. “White man fella talk along boss boy.”

  “What’s he saying, Red?” Jimmy Joyce breathed. “What’s he mean?”

  “I’m not sure,” Randall replied, and smiled at the black man as he spoke. “Something about not to talk to him, I think. Something about a boss boy. Maybe a boss boy is his chief.”

  The big black beamed and nodded.

  “Boss boy fella,” he said. “White fella talk along boss boy. Me come fetch longa boss boy. White fella make along talk boss boy.”

  The native nodded again violently, muttered something in his native tongue...and scared just about ten years off the lives of Red Randall and Jimmy Joyce when he suddenly whipped his spear high over his head, whirled on one big foot, and disappeared into the jungle growth like a bolt of black lightning.

  “Mi-gosh, Jimmy!” Red suddenly blurted out. “Were we seeing things, or was he really here? Boy, oh, boy! Did you see that guy move!”

  “No, I didn’t,” young Joyce said in a choking voice. “He went too fast for my eyes. Look, Red. What do we do now? Maybe he’s gone to bring back his gang—his tribe. And if he didn’t look like a cannibal, then I never saw a picture of one. Let’s go, Red!”

  “But where?” Randall shot back at him and made a sweeping gesture with one hand. “Where? Swim out and maybe meet sharks? Dive into that jungle and maybe meet up with heck knows what? But I don’t think he’s sore at us, Jimmy. Didn’t you hear him say we were his friends? If you ask me, he’s gone to get his chief, the boss boy he was talking about. Nope, there isn’t a thing we can do, Jimmy, except stick right here and hope for the best.”

  “But supposing what you think is all wrong?” Joyce argued. “I don’t feel like being a beef stew for some cannibal today. In that jungle we could hide, and...”

  “And he and his pals would find us soon enough,” Randall said with a shake of his head. “Besides, if he comes back maybe I can get your watch.”

  “Skip the watch!” Joyce growled. “I’ll settle for my neck, the way I feel right now. If only that damned Jap hadn’t knocked out our compass we might have...”

  “Yeah, but why cry over it now?” Randall grunted. “Besides, you and I can’t crab about bum luck. Why both of us weren’t drowned, I’ll never understand. We must have hit
so close to the beach that we were both thrown out onto it, and the wreck was washed back into the water. Or maybe it was a wave that tossed us up on the beach. But why we weren’t drowned...?”

  Randall stopped short, shrugged, and turned his gaze out to sea. Just then Jimmy called: “Red! Somebody’s coming!”

  Randall turned around to face the jungle. He tried to stand relaxed and keep a smile on his face. He remembered hearing some famous explorer say once that savages were like dogs. They could smell it if you were afraid. The thing to do was to act nonchalantly and smile as though everything was just as it should be.

  Just then the moving jungle growth parted again and this time two black figures stepped out onto the beach. One was their pal of a few moments ago. The other black was even bigger, and his tremendous mass of red hair was of an even more brilliant hue. He carried no spear, though a sheathed knife hung at his belt. And that belt held up a pair of dirty and tattered canvas pants, not a loin cloth. Randall told himself that he must be the “boss boy.” He certainly looked like the chief of something. And he was smiling just as broadly as the black who had gone to fetch him.

  The pair of natives walked down the beach toward the two pilots, and the chief said something in his native tongue. Randall shook his head, and made a little waving motion with his hand.

  “Me no understand,” he said. Then pointing to Joyce and himself, he continued. “Us Americans. Us birdmen. Fly in air like all the same bird. Savvy? Get lost. Us get lost. Look!”

  Randall stopped talking long enough to point at the four main points of the compass, then shrugged, shook his head, and gestured with both hands, palms upward.

  “All same lost!” he said in a louder voice. “Fall out of air, savvy? Hit much water. Bang! Go sleep. Long time wake up. On beach. Here. Man bird gone. Look-see water. Savvy? Man bird all gone. Us all same lost. You all same understand? You savvy?”

  The big black smiled and nodded.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” he said. “Your plane crashed, eh? That is too bad. That’s most unfortunate.”

  Randall actually staggered back a step, his mouth open, and his eyes popping.

  “What...what did you say?” he managed to exclaim. “You...you speak English? English?”

  “Oh, yes, certainly,” Randall heard the words as though some one were speaking to him in a dream. “I learned the language during the years I was in Australia. At Darwin and at Wyndham. I was Second Assistant Foreman in charge of native labor. Nine years. Building railroads. Then they wouldn’t let us stay there anymore. We were dirty blacks, and not wanted. They shipped us back to our native islands, the Solomons.”

  “The Solomons!” Jimmy Joyce exclaimed. “Are we in the Solomon Islands?”

  “Oh, no,” the big black said, and shook his mop of flaming red hair. “You are in the Philippines. This is Siquijor Island. And that is the Mindanao Sea where your plane crashed.”

  Chapter Ten – Enemy Base

  A DOZEN TIMES Red Randall tried to open his mouth, tried to speak words. However, for twenty long seconds he could only gape at the two huge black men.

  “The Philippines?” he finally managed with a tremendous effort. “You mean the Philippine Islands? But...but...?”

  “Yes, the Philippine Islands,” the other said and laughed deep in his throat. “But you wonder why we are up here? Why we are not in the Solomons?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m wondering why,” Randall stammered. “Is your whole tribe with you?”

  “No,” was the reply. “Only fifty of us. Only those who came with me a year ago to work on the coconut and sugar plantations. An American, one of your countrymen, hired us. He was a good man. He paid us well. We had a nice place to live and good food to eat. And then...”

  The big black paused, and Randall caught his breath. The smile faded from the other’s face. His eyes glowed like two balls of black fire, his two hands closed into fists, and his thick lips were drawn back flat against his teeth.

  “The Japanese came!” he suddenly continued. “First with their airplanes and bombs. Then with their troops and big guns. They burned everything. They destroyed everything. We were helpless. We had no guns. We had nothing. To remain would be to die. But we remained until the plantation owner was killed. The Japanese came at night, knocked on his house door, and shot him down. Then they burned the main house, and all the other houses. We would have fought them, but we had nothing with which to fight. That was on Luzon, not far from Manila. We fled in the darkness. Southward. There were Japanese everywhere. We had to keep on, at night. We made boats that took us from island to island. They were not strong boats. Often they sank under us and we had to swim to the nearest land and hide. The Japanese were everywhere. Two weeks ago we reached this island...but the Japanese were here, too, and they captured us all.”

  The big black stopped talking and Red Randall experienced the sensation of being hit square between the eyes. He heard Jimmy Joyce catch his breath and then heard him blurt out the words: “Japs? Japs, here on...on this whatever-you-call-it island?”

  “Two hundred of them,” the big black said gravely. “And all well-armed with rifles and machine guns. Their camp is over on the other side. When we came they had a camp that dogs would not live in. They forced us to tear it all down and build a new one. They forced us to clear a wide space where their airplanes could land. But none has landed there yet. Only their boats come to this island.”

  “But...but you fellows!” Randall exclaimed when he could find his tongue. “Why are you still here? Why haven’t you escaped?”

  The big black smiled faintly and looked at him as though he were a little boy who had spoken out of turn in front of company.

  “There is no escape from here but by boat,” he said presently. “We have no boats. Only the Japanese have boats. And they would soon catch us if we tried to make boats. And where could we go? To some other island where there are more Japanese? They are everywhere. But those who captured us did not kill us. They made us work. Slaves, yes, but it is better to be slave sometimes than a dead man. And perhaps sometime...”

  The man paused and shrugged, but the savage hatred that lighted up his black eyes told both boys clearly what he was thinking.

  “Japs, here?” Jimmy Joyce breathed, as though he was still unable to believe it. “But tell me, Mister... I mean... What did you say your name was?”

  “John Smith,” the black man replied. “I took the name of John Smith when I was in Darwin. I keep the name of John Smith. It is a good name.”

  “It’s a swell name,” Randall said and nodded. “A good old American name, too. Shake hands, John Smith. This is Lieutenant Joyce. And I’m Lieutenant Randall.”

  John Smith beamed and took Red’s hand in his huge paw. The flier made no effort to draw his hand free until John Smith released it. Then the big black shook hands with Jimmy Joyce. As he said something in his native tongue to the black at his side, that one beamed, too, lifted his spear over his head, and replied with something that sounded to Randall like a man reciting the alphabet with his mouth full of sawdust. Red also noticed that the man knew just what to do with a wrist watch, because it was strapped about the thick black wrist. The strap was about an inch short, but the black had overcome that minor difficulty with a twisted bit of vine. The watch glittered in the sun, and Randall hoped that Jimmy would keep his mouth shut and say nothing about it. And young Joyce did not say a thing about his watch. He simply nodded his head at the black and smiled.

  “And the same to you, friend,” he said. Then looking at John Smith, he added with a little worried frown, “But it isn’t such a good idea for us to stand around like this, is it? What if some of the Japs pop out at us? That wouldn’t be nice for my friend or for me.”

  “You do not have to worry,” John Smith said. “Yesterday a Japanese boat arrived. Its leader had some good news for the head Japanese officer here on Siquijor. There was much joy and celebration. Last night they drank a lot of the drink they call sake.
It is very powerful, and not long after midnight they fell asleep. A few of them were detailed to work on the radio equipment that was brought ashore from the boat. The others are still asleep. They are like the dead from drinking so much sake. And those who were put to work are still working. You do not need to worry that they will find you here. No, they do not care to wander about the island.”

  John Smith showed his teeth in a smile as he said this, and both Randall and Joyce knew instantly what he meant.

  “So they’re setting up a radio station here, eh?” Randall murmured almost to himself. Then glancing quickly at John Smith, he asked, “Any idea what the good news was about?”

  The big black shook his head.

  “No, not yet,” he said. “I was not close enough to hear them when they were talking. I understand a little Japanese. There was a Japanese with me in Australia. He taught me a little of his language. It is too bad I did not kill him. There were many times when I could have killed him. I did not like him very much. I think he must have been a spy. He disappeared one day, and I never saw him again.”

  John Smith suddenly stopped talking and scowled as though he were striving to remember something. Presently he began to move his head slowly up and down.

  “There was a name I heard them cry out several times last night when they were drinking,” he said, pressing a huge hand to his forehead. “I must remember it, if I can. It was a name I have heard before. I...”

  Suddenly the big black beamed and whacked one hand against his thigh with a sound like a pistol shot.

  “I remember now!” he cried. “It was MacArthur. The name I heard them speak was MacArthur!”