When John Frum Came

by Bill Schroeder

  He looked over the lists of words and realized that they were largely phonetic pronunciations of words that resembled English. More interesting were the penciled in notes made by the Marine who had owned the pamphlet. He had compiled a list of local obscenities and insults.

  Suddenly, in a fit of anxiety John sprang from the bunk and went out on deck. He was frightened by the prospect of truly being alone. Having no one else to talk to was unique. Maybe there are some natives alive on the island. Yeah, and maybe they’ll have you for dinner if you get off the boat.

  He leaned over the armor plating that shielded the walkway around the outer edge, and let his eyes wander along the shoreline. Any sign of life, human or animal, would make him happy. Then his eyes fell on something bright red on a palm tree, half laying in the water. He squinted and it took shape as a black man wearing a red bandanna around his head. John ducked down to keep from being seen back. Anxious as he was for human company, he wanted to make contact on his own terms.

  Staying below the edge of the bulkhead, he scurried back to the crew’s quarters. He had seen a carbine lying in a corner, under some red-tagged boxes. He dug it out and found it had a clip of ammunition in place. He slid a cartridge into the chamber and went back outside, still keeping himself out of sight.

  How do I do this? he asked himself. Do I fire off a bunch of rounds to get his attention? No. I might scare him into the bush and I’d never see him again. What do I say? ... “Hey buddy, how’s it hangin’?” How about “Hey, you!” He just didn’t know.

  Finally, he reasoned, You’re in the Navy. Right? How about Navy talk? He felt foolish but he stood the rifle against the bulkhead, and raised himself up on a step. With his head and shoulders above the edge of the armor plate he cupped his hands in front of his mouth and yelled, “Ahoy, on shore. Ahoy, on shore!”

  The startled Yani stood up and froze in position. He was taken completely by surprise. He was beginning to think that the boat was abandoned, but wondered about the wisdom of trying to board it alone.

  John waved his arm as a greeting. Yani waved back. He became excited and began to run back and forth in the ankle-deep water in a little pattern no more than ten feet wide. He couldn’t make up his mind if he should run out to the boat or wait for the man in the white sailor’s hat to call him. He knew from the Australians that you did not go aboard someone else’s boat without an invitation.

  John wished he had studied the Pidgin booklet a little more. He didn’t know what to say next. Pointing to himself, he said, “Me friend.” He pointed to Yani and said, “You friend?”

  Yani understood and said, “Yani friend. I go boat?”

  John waved his arm in a gesture of welcome, and Yani ran out to the LCM. He climbed up a welded ladder on the front of the craft next to the drop-door, and threw his leg over the edge. As they stood on the narrow walkway, the two men surveyed each other.

  John saw that Yani wore a piece of red calico around his head, and had on cotton shorts. Around his neck, he wore a mahogany cross suspended on a leather lanyard. Thank God, a civilized native.

  Yani, on the other hand, almost did a double take. He saw a man as dark-skinned as himself wearing white man’s clothes. He had seen many natives wearing khaki shorts and shirts, but this one wore blue clothes that covered his legs. He was unfamiliar with U.S. Navy dungarees. Furthermore, this man had shoes on his feet. He held a rifle loosely cradled in his arms.

  Yani took it all in and summarized the answer in a few words of Booga-booga.

  “I don’t understand? You speakee English?”

  Yani repeated himself in English. — “You kill all Witmen on board? Take clothes? Take cargo?”

  John was shocked. He was speechless for a minute, than said. “No. I didn’t kill anybody. This my boat.”

  Yani looked around warily. “Witman let you speak English?”

  “What the hell are you talking about. I’m an American. I always speak English. This is an American Navy ship.”

  Almost afraid to ask, but not able to resist, Yani said, “What is your name? What island you live on?”

  “I’m John Bartlett. I don’t live on any island. I am from America.”

  Yani heard only what he wanted to hear. “You are John? You are John Frum, American?”

  “Yes. Damn it. I am John from America,” he enunciated clearly and slowly.

  Yani fell on his knees and pressed his head to the deck.

  “John Frum, he come! John Frum, he come!” he said, sobbing.

  John leaned his rifle against the bulkhead again, and went forward to help Yani back to a standing position. Tears streamed down Yani’s face. He looked at the American and said, “I tell Big Man Duff today, John Frum, he come...”

  ***

  John felt like he had gotten on a moving train. He was confused by Yani’s behavior and wondered how anyone could have known he was coming. He only found out a few hours ago himself, and it certainly wasn’t anything he had expected to happen.

  He sat Yani down on a crate and let him get control of his emotions. “Where did you get that cross?” he asked, pointing to the mahogany pendant.

  “Big Man Duff give it to me. He is a bis who knows how to call ships. He taught me how to call this ship.”

  Bartlett’s imagination had a flare for the dramatic. He was an ardent movie fan. He had a mental picture of the islands and their inhabitants based on movies like “White Cargo” and “South of Pago-Pago” from the 1930s. From the name, John pictured Big Man Duff as a strapping, white, 260-pound sailor left over from the furnace room of a tramp steamer that ran aground. Although they had been sailing in Pacific waters, this was his first landfall since San Francisco. Yani was the first real native he had encountered.

  “Who is Big Man Duff?” he asked.

  “Him churchfella. Yani Churchboy. He come to Christ’s Despair to convert ignorant savages. He teach me magic formula for calling ships.” As John listened, to his dismay Yani recited “Big name watchem Sheepy-sheep; watchem Blackfella..” right through to the end.

  The American guessed that this was a prayer of some sort in Pidgin. “You mean he was a missionary?” John said, brightening with hope. “Is he still here?”

  “Yes, he is in camp on top of volcano. He come from America, too.”

  “An American missionary? Here, right on the island?”

  “Yes, he come from island called Boston. We Coast Watchers now. No more churchfella.”

  “Boston?” he shouted, “So am I.”

  “You from Boston Island. He from Boston Island. Maybe you know him.”

  “I doubt it. Boston is a pretty big place. But I have to talk to him. You take me to him?”

  Yani suddenly remembered his original mission, and turned very serious. “Yani have to go back on island, now. Sea spirits destroy Blackfella village. Ooma is gone. Yani have to drive out spirits first. Everyone is waiting on top of mountain for Yani to come back.”

  “You can’t leave now. I have to see your missionary and find out where I am. I have to contact my ship and let them know I’m alive,” John argued.

  Yani stood up. “I come back. We talk more.” He looked over the cases and guessed their contents. “You bring cargo? You bring tinkens?”

  “Tinkens?”

  “Yes, tinkens. Open box. Yani see if tinkens O.K.” He tugged at the paraffin impregnated cardboard carton he had been using for a seat. It did not yield to his fingers.

  “These are C-Rations. Food for American soldiers and Marines,“ John explained.

  Then, not waiting for John, Yani took out his knife, and slit the corner open. He could see the small, olive drab cans crammed into the waterproof box. “Yes, tinkens. Many, many tinkens,” he said excitedly. He pried two out and opened the larger with his knife while John admired his speed.

  Some of the contents of the can spurted onto Yani’s arm, and he licked at it. “Taste good,” he said. He poked into the can with his knife, looked at the contents and said, “How
you call? ... Worms?”

  John couldn’t stifle his laugh. “No. Spaghetti in tomato sauce.” He took one of the noodles out and put it in his mouth. Yani did the same.

  “Worms good,” he said and scooped out a few more with his fingers. He downed the contents of the can in no time. “All tinkens have worms?” he asked.

  “No,” John assured him. “Each one has something different in it. Some good — some not so good.”

  Yani held up a can. “No have picture on side. How you know what inside?”

  “I read the printing on the side. The words tell me what’s inside.”

  “You read words like Witman?”

  “Of course. All Americans know how to read.”

  “I never see Blackfella read. Even Negeb not able to read. Always have to ask Witman.” He digested the thought for a minute. Then he decided a test was in order. “You know ‘Our Father huartin Heaven’ formula?”

  “Do you mean, do I know the Lord’s Prayer? Of course.”

  “You say?”

  John recited it in its entirety.

  Yani’s respect for John was magnified tenfold. Now he knew this was John Frum, ... that he knew how to call ships ... and no doubt knew many other things yet to be discovered.

  ***

  Yani waded ashore, continually looking back over his shoulder to make sure that the big steel box of a ship was still there. Finally, he had to force himself to direct his attention toward the devastated village that lay just inside the tattered ring of palm trees. It was only recognizable by the basalt outcroppings that had served as sort of a village square. From there, he could more or less establish where things used to be. Not even the bamboo skeletons of the flimsy houses were anywhere to be seen.

  He wandered through the rubble trying to remember the magic words Ooma had told him a long time ago. These were the word formulas that would drive the sea spirits off the land and make it again habitable for men. He stood atop the rocks and called the names of the monsters that lived in the water — the Hevehe. These creatures had been around since the days of Kilibob and Manup. There were tales of the combat that took place between them and the founders of the human race. The humans had won and claimed the dry land for men. Hevehe could only live in the deep water of the ocean. But now, they had built a mountain of water and climbed the mountain of land.

  The Hevehe had taken the oldest inhabitants of the island out to sea with them. They were also in possession of Ooma’s body now, since the Japanese had kept him from being cremated. The sea monsters had certainly captured the old shaman’s spirit as well. This troubled Yani a great deal. He wept for his father and said the formulas that might help release him from Hevehe control. When the tribe was once more established in the village they would build body-masks eight-feet high and perform the ceremony that would keep the monsters away for many more years.

  ***

  John Bartlett stood on the deck just outside the crew’s quarters, and watched Yani disappear inland.

  This is truly strange, he thought shaking his head in disbelief. How the hell did I wind up 12,000 miles from home talking to some strange, little guy who thinks I killed all the white men on board and took over the boat? He looks like a Negro, but the only thing we have in common is the color of our skin. He’s from another world. The worst part is that he says he was expecting me. He knew I was coming. He thinks I’m somebody named John Frum.

  John paced back and forth, looking at the tumbled boxes of food and government equipment. The stacks had shifted and in some cases had collapsed. Judging from the condition of the island, the most logical thing he could do with all this stuff was give it to the natives. Chances are that the tidal wave wiped out their food supplies. I couldn’t have arrived at a more opportune time. They can probably use every last can on this tub. What would Lieutenant Frankie and Mr. Francis say to that.

  He laughed out loud. “You snooty sons of bitches,” he yelled out to sea. “I’m gonna take pleasure in giving all your shit to a bunch of colored folks that can’t even speak English!”

  If the Navy objects, I’ll just say they overran the boat, and took everything. But what about this American missionary, Duff? The native said that he’s up on the mountain. No doubt he’s white. Once he sees this load of stuff, he’ll probably claim it for himself — especially once he sees that there’s just a li’l ol’ colored boy in charge of it.

  He bit his lower lip thoughtfully. Talking out loud again to himself, he said, “I guess there’s no two ways about it. I better find out what he knows about where we are. He might have some way of getting in touch with the Navy.

  “Shit,” he mumbled, “I don’t now if the Snitkin is still even afloat. If they are, do they care where I am?” He pondered that a bit. No, they don’t care where I am, but you can bet your ass they’re worried about the Admiral’s LC-whatever-it-is.

  ***

  After a couple hours had passed and he could think of no other ritual actions to take, Yani returned to the beach. He could no longer keep his mind on his work as a shaman.

  After months of going down to the beach and performing the proper rituals every morning, it had finally happened — John Frum had come. In spite of the Hevehes, this was the greatest achievement of Yani’s shamanistic career. He wished Ooma could have lived just another day longer to see that he had called a ship full of tinkens. He had to admit to himself, even he had not expected to attract such a vast cargo of canned food. He was hard pressed to acknowledge its reality when he saw it all in one place.

  What will Negeb say when he hears that John Frum has come to my island? But at least one point of the controversy had been finally cleared up — John Frum was a Blackfella. The surprising thing was that he was an American Blackfella. He had no idea such people existed.

  Chapter 36

  To the surprise of just about everyone on board, the U.S.S. Great Snitkin survived the tsunami, but it would be at least a day and a half before the Captain could determine just where they were. The only thing he sure of was that this was the Pacific Ocean. The ship was bobbing about like a cork in a sunfish pond since its main drive shift had broken. The problem was to contact help without letting Japanese subs know it was helpless in the water.

  While Lieutenant Bartlett was lying on his bunk trying to imagine what to do next, he was summoned to the Captain’s quarters. He knocked on the Captain’s door and was told to come in. He always went through a dramatic little show of proper military bearing, snapping to attention and almost shouting, “Second Lieutenant Francis X. Bartlett the Fourth, reporting to the commanding officer as ordered, sir.”

  “At ease, Lieutenant,” the Captain said.

  “For Christ’s sake, Frankie, we know you are a Marine and went to the Academy,” his father said. “Save it for the God-damned troops. We have real problems.”

  “Ease up, Lieutenant,” the Captain said. “I’ve told you any number of times, we’re not big on military formalities on this ship. Just about all the officers are 90-day wonders, pressed into service to fight the Japs. We get along pretty well here as long as everybody does his job.”

  “Yes, sir!” he answered a little less crisply.

  “Sit down. We better get this landing craft business straightened out,” the Captain said with an air of finality. “Now, were you charged out with the LCT?”

  “LCM, sir. I was assigned to off-load food and other supplies for the communication station on Bartlett’s Island”

  “Bartlett’s Island? I thought it was Island 321. How did it get that name?”

  “My father — er, the Admiral — thought it might be more appropriate.”

  The Admiral grinned sheepishly.

  “What was the matter with the original name, Merdsot Isle. That’s what the natives called it. I think it sounds romantic,” Captain Stoepel said, as his mind filled with bare-breasted native girls in grass skirts.

  “Begging the Captain’s pardon, sir, but I think Merdsot Isle translates roughly into �
��Dumb Shit Island,’” the Lieutenant said.

  “Oh,” said the Captain. “Let’s get on with the story.”

  “While the LCM was being loaded, its regular crew were on board your ship to buy non-regulation items that are not available on the island. One of our men, Apprentice Seaman John Bartlett, stayed on the LSM to oversee the loading of the cargo, sir. When the seas got rough, he was swept away with the tidal wave.”

  “Yes, and lucky you got aboard this ship when you did.” He added, “Is everyone in your unit named Bartlett?”

  “No, sir. There’s just the Admiral, myself, and the lost sailor.”

  “Well. I fear the Navy has lost a good man, Lieutenant. I am reporting LCM 666 as having gone down with only one man on board. We’ll hold a service for him on the fantail after lunch,” Captain Stoepel said, and looked as sad as he knew how.

  “Well, that brings us to a bigger problem. All the equipment for your communications station was on the LCM. Worse than that Island 321 seems to have gone down as well. The last we saw, the local volcano had become active and was swallowing everything in sight.”

  “What all this means, Frankie,” Admiral Bartlett cut in, “is that I am an Admiral without a command. Once we find out where we are, I am planning to resign my commission and go back to Marblehead. I’m too old for all this shit. I’ll leave this war up to you younger fellows. I think I can contribute more to the War Effort by running Xavier Shipping Enterprises.”

  The Marine was stunned. “But, sir. I’m the Ops Officer for the British-American Liaison unit. What will happen to me?”

  “The BAL unit never was activated. As far as I’m concerned, it never existed. Captain Stoepel, here, has agreed to take you on as a staff officer on the Snitkin. This looks like a fairly safe place to spend the war. He’ll take care of all the paperwork.”