by Judy Nunn
‘Yeah, I know that.’ Chuck was embarrassed, he’d been on the verge of tears. He stood. ‘It’s fate, I guess.’
‘That’s exactly what it is.’ She wanted to take his hand, to offer some physical comfort, but she was aware of his self-consciousness. ‘It’s fate and there’s nothing you or anybody else could have done to prevent it.’
‘Yeah. You’re right.’ He gave a weak smile and tried to sound jaunty. ‘Well, I’ll see you around, Mamma Tack.’ And he beat a hasty retreat, thankful that no-one but Jane had seen him cracking up.
She sat for several minutes, absorbing the news. Wolf Baker was dead. And he was dead because of his devotion to Marty. If he hadn’t volunteered … if he hadn’t flown Martin to the Wasp… But she knew she couldn’t afford to think like that. It was indeed fate. Or the will of God, as Marty would say. She only hoped Marty would see it the same way. She hoped he wasn’t blaming himself and suffering like Chuck Wilson.
Martin thanked the Executive Officer for bringing him the news personally, and then returned to the chapel. He sat by the bulkhead where he normally stood to address his congregation. He didn’t pray, not at first anyway, he asked himself questions instead. Why did he believe Wolf was alive? Commander Dickey was clearly of the opinion that both men were dead, and why shouldn’t he be? That’s what ‘missing in action’ invariably meant.
Martin questioned his own positivity. Did he believe Wolf was alive because he had to? Because he was the reason Wolf Baker had been flying that aircraft? No, he was sure that wasn’t the case. His deepest instincts told him Wolf had survived, and so had Stubbs. Was God sending him a message? he wondered, and he knelt before the table, which served as his altar.
Martin Thackeray’s instincts were more than accurate. Even as he knelt to pray, Wolf Baker and John Stubbs were bidding farewell to Soli and Tura and their families before setting out from the village.
It had been Soli and Tura who had rescued them.
The brothers always fished at dusk well out off the coast of the cape, where there was a deep shelf in the reef and the big fish gathered. It was also a favourite feeding place for sharks and they’d frightened three of them off with their paddles before they’d hauled the white men aboard their outrigger canoe.
The men were lucky, the brothers thought. Lucky they weren’t wounded. There was plenty of feed around for the sharks, and they would rather eat fish than people. The islanders themselves often dived amongst the sharks to collect shellfish from the reef. But the islanders were careful not to cut themselves on the rocks, for if they drew blood the sharks would attack. Many a diver had been taken that way. The men were lucky they were not wounded, the brothers agreed.
Soli and Tura had taken the men to their village. They’d had to carry the bigger one because he was unconscious, but he was alive. And the women had given the other man fish and roasted coconut as he’d squatted with them around the cooking fire. He’d been very hungry. They’d fed the sick man some water as he’d muttered and drifted in and out of consciousness, but he’d been unable to eat any food. Then they’d bedded the men down in one of their huts and left them to sleep, wondering if the sick man would be dead in the morning.
Wolf, exhausted, had slept soundly that night. He’d been awoken now and then by groans from John Stubbs, and he’d heard the terrible gnashing of teeth as the man had writhed beside him on the floor of the hut. He hadn’t been able to see Stubbs in the blackness, but several times Wolf had reached out to grab an arm or a shoulder to try to comfort him.
‘Ssh, John. Ssh, it’s okay. Everything’s okay,’ he’d said repeatedly, until Stubbs’s groans had died down and he’d returned to a fitful sleep. Everything wasn’t okay, Wolf had thought, God only knew what hideous torment the man was suffering.
Wolf had still been fast asleep when the first rays of sunlight had streamed through the open doorway, and it was then that he’d felt the hand on his shoulder.
‘Leonard?’ he heard a voice say. The hand was shaking him now, and his ribs were hurting. He heaved himself groggily onto one elbow.
‘Leonard!’ the voice said. ‘Jesus Christ, man, I thought you were dead.’
Wolf stared up at John Stubbs. Stubbs, still wearing his canvas flying cap, was on his knees leaning over him, and he appeared to have regained not only his consciousness, but his sanity.
‘You’re alive, Len!’ Stubbs’s expression was one of utter incredulity. ‘I don’t believe it! It’s a miracle! You’re alive!’
Then Wolf realised. The man was not sane at all. John Stubbs thought Wolf was the rear gunner who’d been killed. What should he do? Surely it was best if he played along with the delusion.
‘I sure am, John,’ he said. ‘And you’re conscious. You’ve been out to it since we crashed yesterday.’
‘Have I? Was it yesterday? Christ, I’ve been having some dreams. You remember the sharks, Len?’
Of course he did, Wolf thought. He’d been terrified. But how could John Stubbs remember the sharks? He’d been unconscious.
‘Yeah, ’course I do, I was scared as all hell.’
‘I thought they’d got you. I was so sure …’ John’s voice trailed off and a haunted look crept into his eyes. The images were there, quite clear in his mind. They were in the water. Miles from anywhere, no land in sight, just him and Len. And Len was wounded, bleeding badly.
‘I’ve been hit, John,’ Len had said.
‘Hang in there,’ he remembered saying. ‘Hang in there, buddy.’ He could see himself saying it. And as they’d bobbed uselessly in their lifejackets, he’d kept on saying it. He’d fed Len water from the survival kit and when the sharks had arrived, he’d chucked chlorine everywhere, but it hadn’t done any good. They were surrounded by Len’s blood and the sharks had gone wild. He could still hear Len’s screams. But he hadn’t let go. It had become a tug of war. Whilst the sharks had ripped away in a feeding frenzy, he’d held onto Len’s lifejacket, yelling and screaming himself. Long after Len’s screams had stopped, he was still yelling, and the sharks were still feeding. He’d wondered why they didn’t attack him, but it seemed they were only interested in the bloodied meat.
He didn’t remember the rest of the night, or the next morning. But he remembered when they’d picked him up. He’d still been holding on to Len. He’d had his arm around his lifejacket and Len had looked so white, so very, very white. ‘Hang in there, buddy,’ he’d said as the patrol boat approached them. ‘Hang in there just a bit longer, we’ve made it, okay.’
And then he’d heard someone say ‘Jesus Christ!’ and he’d heard someone else being sick as they hauled the torso aboard. The little that was left beneath the lifejacket had been drained of all blood.
Wolf sat up quickly, ignoring the jab of pain in his ribs. John Stubbs was shaking uncontrollably and there was an inexpressible horror in his eyes. Was he about to throw a fit? Wolf thought. Was he going to become catatonic?
‘It’s okay, John,’ he said, kneeling and clasping the big man firmly by the arms. ‘It’s okay. I’m here. See? I’m right here.’
The horror in John Stubbs’s eyes faded to relief, and he slumped back on his heels. ‘Oh Christ, Len,’ he said, putting a hand to his forehead and shaking his head. ‘I’ve had such dreams, such terrible dreams.’
‘Well, you put them right out of your mind. I’m here and we’re safe, and that’s all that matters.’
‘Yeah. Yeah you’re right.’ Stubbs nodded emphatically, and then he smiled. ‘Hell, it’s good to see you, buddy.’
‘You too, John.’ Wolf returned the smile. If he was to get the man to safety, he realised, it was imperative to continue the delusion. ‘You had me worried when you were unconscious. It’s good to have you back.’ Wolf rose to his feet. ‘Now let’s find out where we are, shall we?’
‘Any idea?’
‘New Hebrides, one of the islands to the north. My guess is Malekula.’
Stubbs stood, and Wolf noticed that he was rather shaky on
his feet, which was hardly surprising. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah sure.’
A small group of women and children were waiting outside the hut, curious to see the white men. As Wolf and John appeared, the children gathered around them and the women giggled and chatted amongst themselves in their strange tongue. John swayed unsteadily, about to fall, and, whilst Wolf propped him up, one of the women ran for help.
They were in the communal centre of the village, the blackened remnants of an often-used cooking fire in the middle, logs strewn about, and the open doorways of a dozen or so primitive thatched huts facing onto the gathering place. Wolf sat John down on one of the logs.
‘Sorry, buddy,’ the big man said, ‘just a bit dizzy, that’s all.’
‘Let’s have a look at you.’ Wolf started to ease off John’s flying cap, but stopped when he noticed the congealed blood that had seeped through the back, realising that the canvas had stuck to the man’s scalp. Hell, he thought, they were lucky the cap had contained the blood when they were in the water. But he didn’t voice his thoughts. It had been the talk of sharks that had brought on John’s near seizure.
‘There’s an injury where you smashed your head,’ he said, ‘it’s congealed.’
‘Right. Cap stays on.’ John pulled the sides firmly down over his ears. He knew the drill in the tropics, they all did, he’d be asking for infection if the wound was exposed, and the cap would act as a form of bandage. ‘Now let’s have a look at you.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Bull. I saw you holding your chest, you’ve probably got a busted rib. Take your shirt off.’
The women giggled as Wolf obediently stripped, and he gave a saucy wink to one pretty girl who covered her mouth with her hand.
There was an angry bruise across his chest. John examined it. ‘Does it hurt when you breathe?’ he asked.
‘A bit, but not much.’ Wolf took a deep breath, then he twisted from side to side. ‘It’s more when I move.’
‘The harness,’ John said. ‘Just a bruise. I don’t think you’ve busted anything.’
Wolf could see flashes of the old John Stubbs emerging, strong, authoritative and not to be messed with. He liked John Stubbs, he decided as he put his shirt back on.
The woman who had gone for help returned with the two brothers, one of whom was her husband.
Wolf had not seen the men’s faces in the darkness as they’d paddled the outrigger back to the island, but he’d seen them quite clearly at the cooking fire. These were the men who had saved their lives. He’d watched them whilst they’d held John’s head and fed him water from a coconut shell.
‘Thank you,’ he said, nodding and patting his chest and gesturing at John. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he repeated, and he offered his hand.
The brothers didn’t understand the greeting of the hand, but they knew what the white man was saying and they grinned and nodded in return and slapped him on the arm. Then they slapped John on the arm and grinned at him too. They were pleased that the other white man hadn’t died during the night.
Wolf decided that introductions were called for. ‘Me,’ he said, placing his hand once again on his chest. ‘Me …’ He’d been about to say ‘Wolf’, then he quickly remembered. ‘Len.’ He jabbed his forefinger into his chest, ignoring the stab of pain from his bruising. ‘Me, Len,’ he repeated, feeling as if he were in a Tarzan movie.
The men understood immediately. They pointed to each other and introduced themselves, the older as Soli, the younger as Tura. Then Wolf introduced John.
‘Him, John,’ he said, patting John Stubbs’s shoulder. John was still sitting on the log. He’d tried to stand when the brothers had appeared, but he’d quickly sat down again, he was still very shaky.
‘Imjon,’ the brothers grinned, repeating the name, and Wolf decided that was good enough. They were Imjon and Len and everyone was very happy.
By now all the villagers had gathered around them, even the elders. Theirs was a small village, tucked into a protected bay on the north-western coast of the island, with hills to the south-east, and it housed an extended family of little more than thirty people.
The village itself was very primitive. Wolf had noted no use of European materials as he’d seen in a number of villages on Efate. There was no corrugated iron or hessian. The huts were pole-built with thatched roofs and walls of natangora. Where the hell were they? he’d wondered. Miles from civilisation, it appeared.
It was time to discover their position, he decided, and his mimed enquiries became ludicrous. As was to be expected, ‘where is this village?’ met with no response, so he strode about pointing to the huts, picking up pieces of earth, gesturing all-embracingly to the sky, and the more he asked them ‘where is this place?’ the more his audience laughed. The children jumped up and down, clapping their hands, the women giggled and the men grinned. The white man was very, very funny. Even John Stubbs was finding him amusing, and Wolf was getting frustrated.
‘I give up,’ he said finally, sitting beside John, the children squatting all around him, happy little faces cupped in hands, elbows resting on bony knees, eyes shining expectantly as they waited for the next performance.
The laughter had died down, and John Stubbs took over. He stood, determined to ignore the dizziness that still threatened.
‘Soli, Tura,’ he said respectfully. He had correctly assessed that the brothers, although not elders, were well placed amongst the village hierarchy. Besides, they were the only ones whose names he knew.
Standing six foot and three inches and powerfully built, John Stubbs was an impressive figure. Soli and Tura listened very carefully to what he had to say.
‘We,’ John spelled out very carefully, gesturing to himself and Wolf. ‘We, Len and Imjon …’ The brothers nodded. So far so good. ‘We are from far away.’ The brothers looked puzzled. Not so good. He gave a clumsy sweep of his arm to denote the other side of the world. ‘Far, far away,’ he repeated.
Wolf smiled, John’s mime was far worse than his.
‘We are from,’ John gave another dramatic sweep of his arm, ‘America.’
He was astonished by the instant reaction. ‘America,’ a number of the islanders repeated, and it seemed they’d understood. John glanced triumphantly at Len, and was about to ask the natives where they were from, but Len had suddenly leapt up, and was gesturing for him to be silent.
The islanders were not repeating John Stubbs at all, and Wolf knew it. They were saying ‘Merika’, and they were pointing south-east, towards the hills. Then somebody said ‘Johnny from Merika’, and several others took up the chant, still pointing to the hills.
Wolf had heard the phrase at Mamma Tack’s. ‘Johnny from Merika’ was quite popular with the locals, along with ‘okay’ and ‘sure thing’.
‘There are Americans over there,’ he said to John, ‘probably an observation post.’ Wolf nodded his understanding to the islanders and, when the chatter had died down, he addressed the brothers. ‘How far? How long to travel?’ he enquired, miming short and long distances with his hands. He couldn’t understand their reply, but by the looks on their faces, and their dismissive shrugs, the observation post was not far away at all.
John instantly took command. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, stepping forward, as if he was about to set off on the trek there and then. But he again swayed unsteadily, and Wolf made him sit down.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We’ll go tomorrow.’
‘You’re in command now, are you, Len?’ There was a sarcastic edge to John’s voice. Buddies they might be, but he was not accustomed to accepting orders from his rear gunner.
‘I’m afraid so.’ Wolf decided to take the bull by the horns and he ignored the dangerous glint in the man’s eyes. ‘You’ve suffered a wound to the head, you’ve been unconscious for fourteen hours and you’re no doubt concussed. It’s my job to take command.’
‘I see.’ John looked him up and down. It wasn’t like Len to be so assertive.
>
Wolf wondered whether he’d overstepped the mark. Was it suspicion he could see in Stubbs’s eyes?
‘Come on, John,’ he said reasonably. ‘You haven’t eaten and you’re suffering dizzy spells, you need food and rest, man.’
Good old Len, John thought. He’d never make it to the top brass, he lacked leadership skills, but he could always be relied upon for downright commonsense.
‘You’re right, buddy,’ he said. ‘We’ll leave first thing tomorrow.’
Wolf Baker didn’t dare sleep that night.
As soon as they’d kipped down in the hut, John was out to it, and at first Wolf was assured by the sound of gentle snoring beside him. But, as he felt himself drift blissfully off, it started. The writhing body, the gnashing of teeth, the groans. And then John was suddenly sitting bolt upright, and he was screaming.
‘Get away!’ he was yelling at the top of his voice. ‘Get away! Get away, you bastards!’ Then the screaming became unintelligible.
‘It’s all right, John.’ Wolf reached out in the blackness and grabbed the man’s arm. ‘It’s me. Len. It’s okay. We’re safe.’
‘Leonard? Len! Oh Christ, buddy, you’re alive.’
‘Of course I’m alive, John,’ Wolf said calmly, ‘I’m right here beside you.’
‘Oh. Oh Christ.’ John Stubbs was panting, his voice trembling in the dark, fighting for control. ‘What happened to us? Dreams. Crazy dreams.’
‘Nothing happened, John. We’re here and we’re safe. Nothing happened. Go back to sleep.’
‘Sorry, buddy.’ A deep, shaky breath. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.’
‘That’s okay. I wasn’t asleep anyway.’
And for the rest of the night, he wasn’t. He propped himself up against the wall of the hut, occasionally dozing off a little, but never allowing himself to fall so deeply asleep that he wouldn’t hear the first danger signs. The moment the writhing started, at the first gnashing of the teeth, before he heard the groans, he spoke. He didn’t dare wait for John Stubbs to start screaming.
