The frogmen

by Robb White

  "And there's too much enemy. You go up there with those shiny buttons and you'll come back with a lot of holes."

  Amos looked at the shattered jungle ahead. It now seemed not only sad but ominous. "Are there really a lot of them shooting at you?" he asked.

  "How many does it take to take you out? But there's one who isn't going to do it." The driver stuck his finger in the bullet hole in the seat. "I couldn't see him because he was down in a bomb crater, but I knew which way the bullets were coming so I raised the blade and let them bounce off that while I hunted around for a shot at him. He just kept on shooting at me so I went over to that hole and let the blade down on him. Several times. I filled his hole up and tamped it down good."

  "You haven't seen anything further up the island?" Amos asked.

  "There's Jeep tracks along the beach going somewhere, but I don't know. I tell you, this is as far as I'm going. If they want an airstrip up here they're going to have to give me a detail."

  Amos stood there debating what to do. "Well," he said, "I might as well go on up and take a look."

  "I wouldn't," the driver told him, "but, then, you're an ensign."

  As Amos turned away the driver said, "I sure wouldn't leave that gun hanging down my back."

  Amos glanced up.

  "If anything moves/' the driver said, "you'd better shoot it. Before it shoots you."

  Amos felt a little foolish, as though he were playacting, but he swung the light carbine around and held it pointing out in front of him the way he had been taught at college.

  On the beach again he walked along slowly, watching the island now and not the sea.

  Ahead, he could see that not all the trees had been knocked down. Around what looked like a little cove, a small section stood straight up out of the tangle of broken stuff around them.

  He had almost reached these trees and was climbing over a felled trunk spanning the beach when a voice said quietly, "Put the gun down and stand up.

  There was no hint of a foreign accent, but Amos remembered being warned about this sort of thing. There were stories from Guadalcanal about how the enemy had infiltrated the Marines' perimeters, speaking perfect English.

  Amos couldn't see anyone and wasn't sure exactly where the voice had come from. He thought about spraying everything with the carbine, just fanning it until the clip was empty, but then he remembered the grease and wondered if the thing would shoot at all.

  He laid the carbine down on the tree trunk and stood up.

  The man who stepped out from behind one of the shattered trees was a blond, sunburned Navy lieutenant. He was the first person Amos had seen on this island who was in a complete uniform. He was armed with a regulation .45 Colt automatic.

  "You Amos Wainwright?" he asked.

  "What's left of him."

  "Show me your ID."

  As Amos got his papers, the lieutenant said, "What are you doing in that ridiculous uniform?"

  "It was the uniform of the day at the place I left," Amos said, handing over his orders and ID.

  "What took you so long?" the lieutenant asked, studying the papers. "You're holding up the parade."

  "I didn't know I was in a parade. Look, Lieutenant, I've been flying around in one airplane or another for about a week. The last time I ate was Wednesday."

  The lieutenant gave him back his papers. "What's this about a missing fitness report on you, Mr. Wainwright?"

  End of the line, Amos thought.

  "I got an unsatisfactory fitness report when I left the Current Deaths Section of the Navy Department."

  "The what?"

  "The place where you fill out forms for dead people."

  "How'd you get an unsat report for that?"

  "It wasn't easy," Amos said.

  "So what happened to it?"

  Amos took a deep breath. "I stole it, sir."

  The lieutenant studied him. "Did you deserve an unsat report, mister?"

  "I don't think I did, sir."

  "All right, try to get a good one from this job and eVen it out. Where's your gear?"

  "It got lost a long time ago. Sir, have you ever heard of COPRA? One man said it was at Ottumwa, Iowa, and somebody else said it was a mine sweeper."

  "Bring your gun," the lieutenant said. "COPRA's not a ship, and it's not in Iowa. It's only an idea."

  The wooden ship, completely concealed under a canopy of palm fronds, was hardly more than a big boat. Amos estimated that she was about fifty feet long. She appeared to be all hull, with no superstructure; no deckhouse or bridge, not even any shelter for the helmsman. The wheel, which was far aft, stood exposed.

  Four men, stripped to the waist, were loading heavy sacks into the boat. They looked to Amos like Polynesians, big, handsome men, laughing and talking as they hoisted the sacks.

  "What's this?" Amos asked.

  The lieutenant stopped and looked at him. "One

  of the basic principles of the Navy is that an officer is told only what he needs to know. You will be told all you need to know, and I advise you not to try to find out any more than that. Do I make myself clear, mister?"

  "As a bell," Amos said.

  They climbed aboard the boat, and the lieutenant led him aft, walking on the sacks. A transverse bulkhead kept the sacks clear of the wheel, and they climbed this and dropped down into a wide, open cockpit. Forward, there was a wooden platform for the helmsman to stand on; aft, there was a narrow fantail deck around the stern.

  A door led into the engine room, which was equipped with the oldest diesel Amos had ever seen.

  The lieutenant led him on past the engine and through a door into a small room that looked long-used. The wood of the benches and table in the center were worn smooth. There were four plank bunks with only thin pallets for mattresses.

  "What kind of boat is this?" Amos asked.

  "Old," the lieutenant said. He motioned toward one of the two benches. "Wait here, mister."

  Amos noticed a wooden rack with china plates and big coffee mugs hanging by their handles. There were kerosene lamps in gimbals on the port and starboard walls. He could smell something good cooking.

  The door opened again, and for a moment Amos didn't recognize the man in dungarees carrying an armful of coconuts. "John!"

  "Amos! What do you know!"

  "That Hingman!" Amos said. "What a low blow!"

  "That's what I thought at first," Nash said, putting the coconuts down on the table. "That he'd really shafted me. But now I don't know. Even Hingman couldn't dope out a mess like this."

  "What's it all about?"

  "Search me. All I know is . . ."

  Amos looked past him as another man in dungarees came in, stooping down to get through the doorway.

  "Max."

  "Hey there, Ensign," Max said. "You look kind of beat up."

  Following Max came the motor mac, Reeder, and then the lieutenant.

  The lieutenant dropped a cloth sack on the table. "Wainwright, here's something to wear and a ditty bag with what you'll need. Give those blues the deep six." He leaned back against the wall. "Very well, let's don't waste any more time. Now here are your instructions.

  "First, you will stay below, forward of the engine, until you are told to come out. You do not come out until given permission to do so."

  "What's this all about?" Reeder asked.

  "I am explaining it to you," the lieutenant told him. "Second, the ship will get underway at 1800 hours.

  "Third . . ."

  "Wait a minute, sir," Reeder said. "What kind of lash-up is this? I thought I was in the Navy."

  The lieutenant looked at him as though he were something less than human. 'Third, strict obedience

  to all orders of your superiors is essential to the success of this operation. It is also essential to your personal survival. There will be times when you will be ordered to do things which will seem to you to be not only illogical, but also extremely dangerous. However, you are not to question these commands. Is t
hat clear?"

  Reeder started to say something, but the lieutenant cut him short. "You, Reeder, can start obeying your orders right now."

  "Now, you will turn in to me all weapons of every sort." He reached over to Amos and took the carbine. "Ammo?"

  Amos got the clips out of his pocket.

  "Side arms?"

  "No, sir."

  There were some beat-up wooden lockers built into the walls, and John, Reeder, and Max each went to one of them, got out their weapons, and laid them on the table.

  The lieutenant stood looking at the little pile of carbines and handguns, waiting for something. When no one moved, he turned to Reeder. "All right, Reeder. I said all weapons."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You were issued a .45. Where is it?"

  "The Supply Officer made me turn it in. 'Only one gun to a man,' he said. Here's the slip for it."

  The lieutenant glanced at it and then went on. "I want to emphasize one thing," he said. "What you're going to do is important, and it requires your cooperation. This is going to be harder to give than you

  may think now, but it is essential. Any disobedience or insubordination may cost you your life. Just keep that in mind when the peculiarities of the situation become difficult to accept."

  "Wouldn't it help us a litde if we knew what's expected of us?" Amos asked politely.

  "I think I mentioned to you, Mister Wainwright, that you will be told all you need to know at the time you need to know it."

  The lieutenant gathered up the weapons and went to the door. "Gentlemen," he said, his voice a little milder, "good evening, and I wish you a successful voyage."

  The four men watched him go out and close the door.

  Max lowered himself down on the bench beside Amos. "I joined the Navy to see the world. I'm ready to go home now."

  "What happened?" Amos asked.

  "Something is really fouled up," John said.

  "It doesn't matter what happened; it's what's happening now," Reeder said. "Where're we going in this old wooden tub? Who're those guys loading that stuff aboard? Who's that lieutenant? Man, I just don't like any part of this."

  "Not much we can do about it," John said, going over to the door.

  "We're not even on the pay record," Reeder said.

  Max shrugged. "What's to buy?"

  "John, how long have you guys been here?" Amos asked.

  "Three days. Waiting for you."

  "And they haven't told you anything?"

  "Nothing. All we've been doing is standing watch in the bushes. Nobody's been allowed to come anywhere near this boat."

  "No officers? I mean, with some rank?"

  "Nobody but that lieutenant. And he wouldn't let us leave, either. Not even to go down to the other end of the island and scrounge some decent chow from the Marines."

  "Somebody must know something," Amos said, almost to himself. "My orders say COPRA, and Beach told me that was in Iowa."

  "My division chief told me it was some place in Alabama."

  "What difference does it make?" Reeder demanded. "The thing is to get out of this before it's too late."

  They all heard the diesel start.

  Reeder went for the door. "Come on, let's go!" He pulled at the doorknob. "This thing's locked," he said in a small voice. "We're locked in here!"

  Scurrying over to one of the benches, Reeder grabbed the end of it. "Come on, you guys, help me!" The bench was bolted to the floor. "Get something to break this door down!"

  "Relax," Max said. "We're moving."

  The four men stood in silence, feeling the soft, slow movement of the boat.

  Someone topside laughed.

  The boat was in the open sea now; they could feel it against the wooden hull.

  "This boat got any guns or anything?" Amos asked. "Nothing," John said.

  Amos wandered around the little cabin. "Who's the lieutenant?"

  "The skipper, I guess. Name's Anderson." "You know what's in those sacks they were loading aboard?"

  "Coconut meat. Copra, they call it." "So that's where the name came from—COPRA." "We can't be going very far," John said. "Not in this little boat."

  "If you guys hadn't been so chicken we could have gotten off," Reeder whined.

  "Take it easy," Amos said. "Maybe it's all a mistake. Beach told me these orders came from CINC-PAC, so somebody must know something. Beach said they wanted a radioman, first class."

  "Great," John said. "I'm a radioman, first, but where's the radio?"

  Amos sat down on one of the benches, pushed his feet out across the floor, and began to laugh.

  This infuriated Reeder, who stomped over to him. "What's funny, Ensign?"

  "Well, it's not exactly my idea of the U. S. Navy, but it's a whole lot better than being chased by a piece of paper in Ottumwa, Iowa."

  John glanced at him. "You still got those troubles, Amos?"

  "No. I just traded them in for all these new ones."

  "Maybe they're just taking us over to some other island."

  "The Navy must be real short of transportation if this is the best they can come up with," Amos said. "Is this the only cabin?"

  "This is all there is. The rest of the boat's full of coconut meat."

  "Maybe something's hidden in it."

  "That's what I thought," John told him. "But I watched those guys shoveling that stuff into the sacks, and I watched them load. It's all coconut meat, ten feet thick."

  "No chow?" Amos asked, the idea of something to eat making his stomach ache.

  "There's a whole lot of rice," Max said, "if you call that chow. And some things that look like sweet potatoes."

  Amos yawned and stretched. "I guess they have to move these little boats around at night, so we'll be wherever we're going by morning. And I don't think it's going to be Iowa."

  John sat down beside him. "You think maybe this is some kind of mistake, Amos?"

  "Could be."

  "It is!" Reeder yelled. "And when I get topside I'm going to straighten it out with that Anderson."

  A voice at the door said, "Good evening, gentlemen."

  The man in the door was a Japanese.

  He was wearing civilian clothes: a short, faded-blue-denim jacket with dull brass buttons, white cotton pants that were too loose, and blue tennis shoes. He had on a wide-brimmed straw hat and was carrying a cheap suitcase.

  For a second, all four of them were paralyzed.

  Then Max reached out and clamped the man's arms to his sides. Stooping to his level, he said, "Who you?"

  The man was perfectly calm. "Turn me loose, Max," he said, in English.

  "See if he's got a gun or anything," Max said.

  Reeder felt along the man's chest and around his belt.

  "Get that suitcase," Amos said to John. "See what's in it, but be careful. Max, you hold him. I'm going to get the lieutenant."

  As Amos went out, Max lifted the man up and sat him gently down on the table but did not let go.

  It was dark outside, the stars beginning to appear. Far behind, the island was a gray blotch raised a little above the level of the black sea.

  One of the Polynesians was standing at the wheel; the other three were sitting in the stern sheets, cooking something on an iron brazier, the glow from the burning charcoal dimly lighting their faces.

  "Where's the lieutenant?" Amos asked the man at the wheel.

  The man smiled at him, shrugged his shoulders, and held his hands out, palms up.

  "Do any of you speak English?" Amos asked.

  They smiled at him but didn't say anything.

  Amos climbed out of the cockpit and looked forward. In the dim starlight all he could see were the big sacks, which almost filled the boat from the bow to the cockpit bulkhead.

  He climbed out onto the sacks and walked forward. The sacks were packed solidly all the way.

  Calling Anderson's name, he went back to the wheel. He made the outline of a tall man with bars on his shirt collar, but th
e Polynesians just smiled.

  "The lieutenant! The boss! The head man! Where is he?"

  It was no good; they just sat and smiled.

  Amos looked back at the island again, guessing

  that it was no more than ten miles distant. Then he studied the compass face, which glowed dimly in front of the wheel. The lubber's line was steady onW.

  He hesitated a moment, staring at the sacks lying like corpses in the dark, then turned and went down into the engine room.

  John had the suitcase open on the bench and was carefully searching it.

  Amos whistled softly to him and waited in the dark as John closed the suitcase and made his way aft and along the engine.

  "He's killed the lieutenant," Amos whispered. "Pushed him over the side or something."

  "Who's running the boat?"

  "Those Polynesians are still aboard, but they can't, or won't, talk, so I don't know what happened. There's no sign of any more Japanese."

  "No other boat around anywhere?"

  "Not that I could see. We're about ten miles from the island. Anything in the suitcase?"

  "Only clothes and shaving gear."

  "What a mess! Look, I'm going to turn this boat around. Tell Max to hold the Japanese."

  "Think those guys'U let you?"

  "They don't care," Amos said.

  As John went back into the cabin, Amos stepped out into the well below the wheel. He smiled at the three Polynesians squatting around the brazier and then tapped the shoulder of the man at the helm.

  The man turned, and Amos made a motion that he would take over.

  The man grinned widely but shook his head.

  "We're going back," Amos said. "Something's wrong."

  The man just smiled and shrugged.

  Amos pulled at his hand, but the man wouldn't turn the wheel loose.

  "Come on!" Amos said. "Get down off there!''

  Hands from behind clamped his arms to his sides, spun him gently around, and pushed him back into the engine room. The door slammed shut, and when he pushed against it, he felt something outside wedging it shut.

  Scared now, Amos went forward into the cabin.