by Homer Hickam
Phimble grinned a relieved grin, his teeth flashing in the hot white sunlight streaming through the canopy. “You still breathing?”
“Shut up,” Josh said, and turned his attention to the turquoise sea ahead, filled with landing craft, barges, and assorted small gray-painted naval vessels churning and chugging back and forth. The stretch of ocean between Melagi and Guadalcanal was called Iron Bottom Bay, its sad title reflecting the vast tonnage of American and Japanese warships resting now in broken death on its deep beige sand. Guadalcanal had been more than a land battle. The sea battle had been long and deadly for both sides.
Millie stuck his head through the hatch. “Was I seeing things or did we almost hit one of them freighters?”
“You’re seeing things,” Phimble answered.
“No, you weren’t,” Josh said, “but it don’t matter. We’re still alive, which Ensign Phimble here thinks is adequate praise for a pilot.”
Millie, wise enough to stay out of an argument between two officers, scratched up under his tub cap. “If you say so, sir,” he allowed with a bland expression on his thin face, made yellow by the Atabrine all the boys took every day. It was supposed to keep them from getting malaria, or so the docs said. The rumor was it also made a man sterile, not that any of them had much opportunity to discover if it was true or not.
“Got any coffee back there?” Josh and Phimble both demanded at the same time.
Millie disappeared aft and quickly returned with two steaming mugs. Phimble took his with one hand and pulled back the wheel with the other so as to barely skim across a Guadalcanal ridgeline, just missing the tops of trees that were left shaking from the prop wash.
“Why didn’t you just give them trees a good trim while you was at it?” Josh grumped as he used his hand to wipe away the coffee he’d just spilled down his shirt and on his pants. He considered them a fresh pair of utilities, too; they had been worn only two weeks since their last laundering, which Millie had accomplished in a brackish pond.
Phimble ignored Josh’s complaint and turned northwest, putting Dosie on a course across the length of the long green island. The sight of it seemed to improve his mood. “There she is, Skipper,” he said. “Guadalcanal. I still get goose bumps every time I fly over it. Lot of history down there.”
“A lot of dead men, too,” Josh said, just to be contrary, although he felt the same as Phimble. The island had been the location of an incredible series of battles where a lot of brave men had died. Josh and Phimble had been in the thick of most of it. It was miraculous they were still alive, and both of them knew it. The toughest night they’d spent had been on the nasty little hillside called Wilton’s Ridge fighting alongside Lieutenant David Roosevelt Armistead and his platoon of Raiders. Blood had flowed like a river all night.
Carrying a mug of coffee, Once Jackson came forward and slid between Josh and Phimble to pass through the hatch that led to the forward gun turret. His brother Again was already in there, manning the thirty-caliber machine gun. Once handed him the mug. “There you go, brother. Keep a sharp eye.”
Again gratefully took the coffee. “I’ll stay awake, I reckon. But I could use some company.”
Once gave the request some thought. “How about Marvin?”
“Perfect. I was hoping for some smart conversation.”
Aft, the boys were organizing a poker game. Megapode Dave, quite asleep, was perched inside the port gun blister. Marvin, stationed at the starboard blister, was looking at Guadalcanal passing below. Once, returning from his visit with his brother, patted Marvin on his head and made a request. “Marvin, would you be ever so kind as to go forward and spend some time with Again? He’s powerfully lonely.”
Marvin seemed to give the request some thought, then jumped down and trotted forward. Josh and Phimble both patted his little black-and-white bony head as he passed them to climb into the forward turret. There were muffled but joyful greetings between the two crewmates.
With the boys settling down forward and aft, and Phimble climbing up to a reasonable altitude where he wasn’t likely to hit anything, Josh slid into silence and drank his coffee. Gradually his thinking turned to David Armistead and what he’d learned from Gunny Billocks. After talking to Missus Markham, Josh had sought out the sergeant to get the straight skinny on what had happened on New Georgia. He’d found Billocks retired to his tent with an empty canteen that had recently been full of illegal applejack. That turned out to be a good thing. The alcohol had loosened him up. Billocks pitched his empty canteen into the mud, crossed his legs Indian style, and told Josh the whole thing.
The battle for New Georgia had been hell, made worse by the inexperience of the army troops. Billocks told Josh of seeing evidence of panicky American soldiers attacking each other in the night with knives and shovels. Jap had also captured some of the scared army boys and nailed their bodies to trees where the doggies could see them as they came up. A lot of soldiers had taken one look at the bloody remains and run back to the beach. When some of their officers joined them, it had turned into a mob.
“I couldn’t blame them, seeing as how bad they was led,” Billocks said as he pushed a chaw of Red Man into his cheek. “They were green, Cap’n, green as grass, and they just got pitched into that awful place. Most of that island’s rougher than the Canal. You go ten feet back into the bush and you don’t even know where you are. Before we saw what was what, some of our boys started catcalling at the soldiers, saying things like one marine’s worth a hundred yellow doggies, but Lieutenant Armistead, he stopped all that, said we were veterans, that was the difference. Those boys, he said, they didn’t know nothin’ and it was up to us to show them how to fight. He found one of their officers who was buggin’ out and stopped him, talked to him, you know, the way only Lieutenant Armistead can. He turned that officer around, got some other doggies with him, too. ‘Come on, boys,’ he said, ‘let’s all go up there together and see what we can do. You don’t go up with us, you’ll regret it for the rest of your lives. You won’t be able to look your grandkids in the eye.’ It worked, blamed if it didn’t. Them doggies what came with us fought like marines with the lieutenant out in front of ‘em.” Billocks shrugged and eyed his now empty canteen. “A lot of them boys ain’t never gonna have grandkids now.”
Josh’s recollection of Billocks’s tale was interrupted by a call from Guadalcanal’s Henderson Field. “Hey, Eureka, did you forget to file a flight plan again? Where y’all boys goin’?”
“Hey diddle diddle, right up the middle!” Phimble sang.
“Take care, y’all,” came the reply. “Let us know if you see them sons of Nips coming our way, you hear?”
“You bet, buddy,” Phimble answered. He turned to Josh. “Love them southern boys.” Phimble had found his good mood again. Flying Dosie tended to do that. “So tell me again, why are we going up to Lumbari?”
“To get us a boat,” Josh said.
“Why do we need a boat? We got Dosie. She can take us wherever we want to go.”
“I suspect we’ll need something a mite slower that can poke around.”
“Oh yeah. Now I remember,” Phimble said, in an ironic tone. “So we can track a man down who’s headed somewhere we ain’t got no idea.”
“But Armistead will be slowed down,” Josh replied.
“How so?”
“He’s got a woman with him. He might as well have an anchor around his neck.”
In the aft compartment, the boys felt the tilt of the Catalina as Phimble turned the battered old bird north. Through the gun blisters, they watched Guadalcanal slide by for a little while, and then they got out the cards for some poker. They’d tried chess to while away the hours when riding in Dosie, but she vibrated the board so hard that one time she put Ready O’Neal in check all by herself.
Fisheye, Ready, Once, and Pogo sat cross-legged on the deck and anted up the necessary matchsticks, each deemed worth a dollar. “Five card stud,” Ready proposed.
“Why not?” P
ogo said happily. It was his favorite game.
Fisheye borrowed ten matchsticks from Ready. “How much do I owe you?” he asked.
Ready, after consulting a notebook taken from his shirt pocket, said, “Eight hundred and twelve dollars.”
Fisheye thought about the sum for a moment and said, “I guess I’d better start winning.”
“It would help if you paid attention to your cards,” Ready answered. “For instance, you maybe shouldn’t bet when your cards ain’t worth nothing.”
“But it’s no fun to just sit here,” Fisheye replied reasonably. “I get bored quick, you know that.”
“Well, I’ll just keep adding to my little book.”
Pogo tapped his knuckles on the aluminum deck. “No worry-worry,” he said. “You like for playum dis fella?”
“Yeah, we like, Pogo,” Ready answered. “Somebody deal.”
Once shuffled the cards. “We’re missing the ace of spades and the eight of diamonds,” he said. “Everybody remember that.”
“Fisheye, that means if you need an ace or an eight when you draw to make a pair or something, you’ve got less of a chance,” Ready said.
“Fisheye him one fella loser-man,” Pogo laughed.
“Shut up, you damned headhunter,” Fisheye swore. “I’ll show you who’s one fella loser-man. I’ll snatch hair belong you, make hoodoo magic, fix you good.”
Pogo touched the shark tooth on his necklace to ward off evil. “Fisheye him bastard fella.”
“Both of you, shut up,” Ready said. “Once, deal the cards.”
Once dealt the cards and the hands were played. Before too long, Pogo had the largest pile of matchsticks, while Fisheye had none. “Sell me some more matches, Ready,” Fisheye whined.
“Aren’t you ever going to learn how to play this game?”
Fisheye shrugged. “I can’t be good at everything.” He turned and called over his shoulder to Stobs, who was sitting at his radio console. “Hey, Stobs, where are we going and how come?”
It was assumed that Stobs pretty much knew everything since he could listen in on the officers. “We’re going up to the Lumbari navy base on Rendova,” he said. “We’re supposed to get a boat.”
“A boat!” Fisheye exclaimed. “That’s great! Be good to pull a wrench on a marine engine.”
“I hope it’s a big boat,” Once said. “With a big stern where we could fish with some heavy tackle. I’d like to catch one of them great long sharks that’s out here.”
“Yeah, it would be good if it had some heavy guns on board, too,” Ready said with an enthusiasm appropriate for a former gunner’s mate.
“Me like too much big fella boat,” Pogo agreed.
Stobs tamped down the excitement. “I don’t think we’re going to get a destroyer or anything. Maybe a PT boat.”
“They got torpedoes!” Ready grinned. “Boy, I’d like to shoot off one of those!”
“What do you know about torpedoes?” Once demanded.
“I know everything I need to know,” Ready answered, although he didn’t know anything.
Josh picked past the boys, heading for the pee-tube in the aft compartment. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Who’s winning?”
“Stacka match belong Pogo,” Pogo answered proudly.
“You good fella, Pogo,” Josh said.
“Why not?” Pogo answered, with a shy smile.
“Sir, are we going to get us a PT boat?” Ready asked.
“That’s the plan,” Josh answered, not surprised the boys had already picked up on the skinny.
“How come?”
“We need it to find somebody. Do you remember Lieutenant Armistead?” When all the boys nodded affirmatively, even Pogo, Josh said, “He’s disappeared up in New Georgia. Some people think he’s run off. Looks like it’s up to us to find him.”
“Which direction did he go?” Fisheye asked.
“Maybe north.”
“Toward Jap?”
“Could be.”
“How come it’s us what’s looking for him?”
Josh thought about it for a second, then said, “I guess we volunteered.”
After the skipper had moved aft to do his business, the boys sat quietly, their cards drooping in their hands. “I wonder why Lieutenant Armistead wanted to run off?” Ready asked, though he didn’t expect an answer.
“And how come he had to run toward Jap?” Once added.
“Does this mean we’re going to get killed?” Fisheye wondered.
Since Ready outranked the rest, they all turned toward him. “Some of us, probably,” he said, after a moment of contemplation.
“Hey, you old megapode,” Fisheye called. At the sound of the name of his species, Dave woke up, looked around, then raised his stubby wings. “You might want to join another outfit,” Fisheye told him. “We’re a bunch of volunteers. And you know what happens to volunteers!”
“Bless ’em all,” Ready said, shaking his head.
Dave, apparently irritated at being startled out of his dreams, stuck out his neck when Josh came back through, nipping him hard on the arm with his strong beak. Josh jerked his arm away, rubbing the rising welt. “What the hell’s got into you, Dave?”
Dave didn’t answer except to turn his back.
“I guess even megapodes got opinions about some things,” Once said, then clammed up lest he have to explain what he meant to the skipper, who didn’t much care for opinions except his own.
6
The base for the PT boats was on a tiny key called Lumbari, just a few hundred yards off the main island of Rendova. It consisted of a sagging dock, a few Quonset huts set up on a muddy little hill, and a score or more of battered canvas tents. A rusty tender was tied up at the dock, and alongside it was a half-sunken Higgins PT boat, down by the stern. A rainbow stain of leaking petroleum surrounded the wreck. Other than the tender and the Higgins boat, no other boats were in evidence.
“What a dump,” Again said to Marvin as they poked their heads out of the nose hatch to take a look around. The other boys, clustered around the blisters, made similar observations.
Josh climbed out of the side hatch onto the dock and noted a sign that announced:
WELCOME TO PATROL BOAT SQUADRON I
LT. CDR. T. G. WARFIELD, COMMANDING
BENEATH THIS SIGN WALK THE BRAVEST MEN
IN THE SOUTH PACIFIC.
“Well, they ain’t humble in these parts, that’s for sartain,” Josh observed.
“Maybe they’re telling the truth,” Phimble allowed as he tied Dosie to a post. “Takes guts to live in a mudhole like this.”
“Stay here,” Josh told him. “And try to keep the boys out of trouble.”
“How could they get into trouble here?”
“You know our boys,” Josh said, then walked beneath the sign and up a boardwalk to a Quonset that was, according to a sign tacked over the door, the headquarters of the PT-boat squadron.
Josh knew that Warfield, the commander, was off-island, but the executive officer, informed by Colonel Burr’s clerk via radio, was expecting him. Inside the hut, he found a young sailor wearing khaki pants and a skivvy shirt marking on a big white board with a grease pencil. The youngster glanced at Josh, then went back to his marking. Josh perused the chart, then walked to the door designated LT. PERRY CARPENTER, USNR, XO, PATROL BOAT SQUADRON I.
Lieutenant Carpenter proved to be a handsome and trim young man with an Errol Flynn moustache, the very image of a brash and eager PT-boat commander. “Welcome to the forward edge of battle,” he said, standing and offering his hand, then waving Josh to a chair. “The message I got said something about you wanting one of our boats. Too bad they’ve gone north on an operation.” Before Josh could ask it, Carpenter provided the answer to his question. “Have no idea when they’ll be back. Could be days.”
“How long have they been gone?” Josh asked in a polite tone.
“Hasn’t been long.”
“Since you learned I was coming?�
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Carpenter smiled. “More or less.”
Josh did not return the smile. “Is it normal for you to send your boats out in daylight? I thought that was against PT-boat procedure.”
“Our skippers are resourceful. They’ll keep out of sight until they’re ready to go to work. Our work is hot and deadly, Commander, and we use our wits to fight the Jap.”
“Just for my education,” Josh said after a moment of squint-eyed doubting, “how do you keep out of sight a boat with three high-speed props that send out a wake about a mile long?”
Carpenter made a little steeple with his fingers. “During the day, the boys go slow and stay close to shore, stay tucked under overhanging trees, then attack at night. The Tokyo Express operates only after dark, anyhoo. We’re seriously disrupting the Jap’s plans in these waters with our tactics.”
Carpenter, of course, was spouting nonsense, and Josh knew it. For the most part, Japanese destroyers had simply brushed aside the PTs. It wasn’t the fault of the PT crews, who were often brave to the point of foolhardiness. They simply had the wrong boats and armament for the job they’d been given. Josh said, “Let’s cut the bull, Lieutenant. I know you’ve hidden your boats from me, and I can’t say I blame you. You figure a boat gets away under a different command, you won’t get it back. Well, you’re wrong in this case. You’ll get it back. I only need it for a week, maybe two at the outside. You have my word on it.”
Carpenter was not moved. “My boys are out on an operation, and I don’t know when they’ll be back. That’s all there is to it.* However, I do have the PT-133 available. You likely saw her tied to the dock.”
“I’d prefer a boat that is actually afloat,” Josh answered. “What happened to her?”
“Air raid.”
