by Judy Nunn
‘It’s all right, John,’ he said. ‘It’s okay, I’m right here.’ Over and over he said it until, in his sleep, the man calmed down and the screech of grinding teeth stopped. Then he sat and waited for the next time, worried that if the dreams took over, John Stubbs would awaken once again a broken man. It was essential to maintain the delusion. If John Stubbs was not in control of his faculties in the morning, it would be impossible to take him over the hills.
Wolf must have nodded off just before dawn, because when he awoke, the sun was up and John Stubbs was standing, motionless, at the doorway of the hut. His back was to Wolf and he was staring out into the clearing.
Wolf cursed himself. He hadn’t heard Stubbs rise. What condition was the man in?
John turned. ‘You’re awake. About time. Christ you can sleep. Come on, let’s get started.’
John Stubbs appeared unaffected by the images of his dreams; he’d obviously forgotten them. Wolf breathed a sigh of relief and dragged himself wearily to his feet.
They ate before they left, and the villagers gathered to bid them farewell, the brothers giving them water in a bag made of pigskin, and a machete to cut their way through the undergrowth.
Although Stubbs now seemed steady on his feet, Wolf was worried. The brothers had seemed to indicate it was not far to the observation post, but then he didn’t know the islanders’ views on distance. ‘Not far’ might mean a couple of hours or it might mean a day’s walk, and Stubbs was certainly not up to a full day’s trek across the hills. John Stubbs was, furthermore, a stubborn bastard and it would be difficult to persuade him to take regular rest breaks. Then there was the possibility they might need to camp overnight. Wolf didn’t relish the nocturnal fits and the awful possibility that the man might wake completely insane.
Wolf would far rather have set out on his own, but when he’d suggested it as an alternative, Stubbs had adamantly refused. It seemed there was no alternative but to make a joint bid to reach the observation post and radio for help. John Stubbs was in desperate need of medical attention.
The two men bade a cheerful farewell to the islanders, John eager to get going, and Wolf full of misgivings.
They walked and climbed for three hours, heading for the distant landmark Soli had pointed out, a spiral of rock that sat like a beacon atop one of the hills. The observation post would be on high ground with a full view of the surrounds, Wolf thought, perhaps it might even be at the rock itself. At any rate, from the top of the hill they would be able to observe their position.
It was tough going in places, and John insisted upon taking his turn with the machete, cutting a swathe through the undergrowth as they made their way forward to the base of the hill. And then they’d started the exhausting climb, Wolf calling a stop now and then to swig from the water bag, pretending to need a rest break himself when John insisted they keep pushing on. The big man was sweating profusely. He was driving himself too hard, and Wolf was worried.
They were not far from the top now, they could see the rock. They’d lost sight of it during the climb, but Wolf had kept their direction steady, following the sun’s arc. He was feeling the effects of his lack of sleep and his bruised ribs were aching, but John Stubbs remained indefatigable.
‘Come on, Len,’ Stubbs said impatiently as they sighted the rock, ‘we’re nearly there, you can have a rest at the top.’ He took the machete from Wolf and surged ahead and, as he did so, Wolf saw the blood seeping through the flying cap, leaking its way out onto the collar of his shirt. The heat and exertion and sweat had reopened Stubbs’s wound. If the man kept driving himself like this he’d collapse. Christ, what the hell will I do then? Wolf thought.
‘Hey, Len! Come and look at this!’ A triumphant yell came from twenty yards ahead. Stubbs had reached the rock. Wolf struggled up the final rise to join him.
‘Some observation post!’ Stubbs gave a roar of laughter.
They were on a peninsula overlooking a broad bay and, resting at anchorage in the perfect natural harbour, sat scores of ships of every description. Wharves and jetties reached out into the water, and nestled amongst the coconut trees on the flat coastal area was a veritable city of quonset huts.
They weren’t on Malekula at all, Wolf thought and, still gasping for breath and feeling slightly hysterical, he joined in Stubbs’s laughter. Before them, barely two miles away, lay a vast American base. They were on Espiritu Santo.
‘Let’s move, Lieutenant.’ Stubbs was the first to recover himself and he took full command. As he started marching down the hill, Wolf followed at a more leisurely pace, prepared to sprint for help if Stubbs collapsed on the way. But he had a feeling John Stubbs wouldn’t.
At one o’clock in the afternoon of 12 September, John Stubbs reported to command headquarters on Espiritu Santo.
‘Lieutenant Commander John Stubbs, USN, sir,’ he said as he saluted, ‘and this is my rear gunner, Lieutenant Leonard Mitchell.’
It was only then John Stubbs collapsed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘He’s alive!’
The following morning, Chuck Wilson burst into Mamma Tack’s unannounced. When he’d arrived at the clinic, he’d seen Ronnie being bounced around on the shoulders of a serviceman who was standing by the open window chatting to Mary. Jane, however, had been nowhere in sight and, before Mary could stop him, he’d thrown wide the door and simply barged in.
The curtains of the treatment area were open, and Jane was tending the ulcerated leg of a twelve-year-old boy. They were both startled by the American’s sudden appearance.
‘Evri samting oraet,’ she said, patting the boy’s shoulder as she rose from her bedside chair.
Reassured, young Thomas sat back and watched the exchange between Mamma Tack and the ‘man blong Merika’ with avid interest.
‘Wolf’s alive!’ Chuck announced, and he swept her off her feet in a bear-like embrace which she returned, both of them laughing as he whirled her about.
‘Is he well?’ Jane asked when he’d finally released her and she’d regained her breath. ‘He’s not hurt, is he?’
‘Nope. He’s fine. Hell, he’s more than fine. He shot down three planes, he saved a guy’s life, he’s a goddamn hero!’
Jane laughed again. Pure elation surged through her. ‘Is he back? Why hasn’t he come to see me?’
‘He’s on Espiritu Santo, they’re keeping him there for a few days until they repatriate the guy he saved. Gee, he’ll probably win a medal, I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe I should have done the trip myself after all.’ He grinned happily. Chuck Wilson was in a state of euphoria. ‘But then I’m not Wolf, I wouldn’t have pulled it off.’
‘I’m so glad, Chuck,’ she said. ‘I’m so very, very glad.’
His excitement finally died down, and his grin slowly faded. ‘My best buddy’s alive,’ he said, ‘and that’s the main thing …’ Given his previous meeting with Jane, Chuck felt the need to make an admission. ‘But there’s something else …’
‘Yes, I know there is.’
She did know, he could tell, but he had to say it anyway. Just to her. ‘I’m not sure how I could have lived with it, Jane. And now …’ He shrugged, unable to find the right words. ‘Well, I’m off the hook now.’
‘You were never on it, Chuck.’
‘Yeah, maybe …’ He gave a gauche shrug.
‘I know,’ she smiled. ‘Easier to say.’ Then she hugged him again. ‘I’m happy for you, and I’m happy for Wolf. I’m happy for us all,’ she said, breaking the embrace and pushing him towards the door. ‘Now go away. I have a patient to tend to.’
She was happy for Marty too, she thought as she returned her attention to young Thomas who was sitting on the bed, enthralled by the incomprehensible drama that had unfolded before him. Just like Chuck, Marty no longer had grounds for self-recrimination.
‘It seems you were right, Dr Thackeray.’ Commander Dickey had the broadest grin on his face, and why not? During wartime one was rarely in a position
to impart good news.
They were once again on the hangar deck, Martin about to conduct the early morning Sunday service in the chapel area.
‘Wolf Baker. He’s alive, isn’t he?’
‘He most certainly is.’ The Commander noted that Thackeray was relieved but not really surprised, and he marvelled once again at the man’s faith. ‘John Stubbs too. They’re on Espiritu Santo. Baker’s remaining there until Stubbs can be directly repatriated to the States; it appears your friend Wolf has a stabilising effect on Stubbs’s mental condition. Don’t ask me how.’
‘Nothing about Wolf would surprise me,’ Martin smiled. ‘Thank you for bringing me the news.’ He shook the Executive Officer’s hand and, as the troops gathered about the chapel for morning prayers, he walked over to the table by the bulkhead.
Despite his conviction that Wolf had survived, Martin felt a huge weight lifted from his shoulders and, whilst he led the men in prayer that morning, he gave personal thanks to God.
Aboard the USS Wasp, Martin Thackeray felt a greater sense of purpose than he’d ever known. His faith, badly shaken following Dunkirk, had been restored during his time in the New Hebrides. Martin believed implicitly that it was the love he and Jane shared, above all else, that had strengthened him, and he greatly missed her, as he always did when they were apart. But to serve God’s purpose, here amongst these men so sorely in need, was a mission for which he had been chosen. Indeed, he had been trained for just such a task. The very experience of Dunkirk, which had threatened his downfall, had prepared him for this. He knew what these men faced. He knew their inner fears and the doubts that beset even those with the strongest of faith, and he felt imbued with a God-given strength to help.
Wolf Baker had been right. In his few days aboard the Wasp, it was already obvious that Martin Thackeray was the best man for the job. The troops had instantly embraced him as one of their own. They knew he’d seen active service – it was even rumoured that he’d been at Dunkirk – and they knew that he’d volunteered to join the Wasp. They deeply admired him for that. Even the non-devout amongst them, and those of other denominations, not in need of Martin’s services as a chaplain, admired him. Hell, the guy could have stayed safely in Vila, they all agreed.
The Reverend Dr Thackeray became known as Marty. The immediate adoption of the nickname, although pleasing to Martin, puzzled him at first, as did the knowledge of his background the men appeared to possess. Then he realised it was Wolf’s doing. Wolf, in his inimitable fashion, had decided to pave the way, leaking information that had spread about the ship like wildfire, as anything of any interest always did.
After his early Sunday service, Martin breakfasted in the officers’ mess, then before the midday service he held several private consultations in his small cabin. He always made himself available for men who sought personal counsel, and already he had found there were many.
The rest of his Sunday was uneventful. He took his daily constitutional during lunchtime. It had become his routine to skip lunch, enjoying a solitary wander about the ship instead, and he always finished up on the flight observation deck to admire the view.
The vast aircraft carrier, over 740 feet long, the extreme width of her flight deck 109 feet, dwarfed her protective destroyers, always in sight a mile or so away. Intermittently over the past few days, Martin had seen the line of troopships far in the distance, and on occasions the battleships and destroyers of Task Force 16, escorting the 7th Marine Regiment to Guadalcanal.
The sight always impressed him. But, for all the might of the American forces, Martin thought, they remained mere dots on the Pacific Ocean. Even the 14,700 tons of the Wasp, a vessel massive and powerful beyond belief, appeared a toy in God’s scheme of things.
Martin felt very close to God on the observation deck, but he also felt very close to man. He wasn’t sure whether he admired man most for his presumption, or for his ingenuity. Probably both, he decided. And as man was also a product of God’s creation, surely He must admire him too? Martin always stopped his musings at that point. He was not here to question why God allowed men to war against each other; such thoughts had been his undoing in the past. He was here to offer his own faith as an example to others who might be doubting theirs. Man, admirable though he was, was his own enemy, not God’s.
He returned to his cabin and wrote a lengthy letter to Jane for the following day’s mail dispatch. It was the first time he’d written to her since he’d been aboard, and he expressed himself freely, as he always could to Jane. He wrote about Wolf Baker and the strange knowledge he’d had of his survival, and he told her of the strength of purpose he felt aboard the Wasp. It was as if they were chatting.
He held two more private consultations during the late afternoon, and in the evening, following dinner, he played a lengthy game of chess in the officers’ wardroom with Commander Dickey and then retired.
The next day he followed a similar routine, again admiring the view from the observation deck as the Wasp inched her way inexorably towards Guadalcanal. He could see a distant battleship with her destroyer escorts and, upon enquiry, he was told it was the USS North Carolina.
By Tuesday, they were some 150 miles south-east of San Cristobal Island, Torpedo Junction, dangerous territory, and the carrier was in a state of alert, planes constantly refuelling and rearming for anti-submarine patrol. There was no contact with the enemy during the morning, but shortly after noon a Japanese four-engine flying boat was downed by a Wasp Wildcat.
Martin remained on the observation deck much longer than usual that day, enthralled by the action. The sight of planes taking off and landing on the carrier’s runway never ceased to intrigue him, and this afternoon they were busier than ever. He could still see the USS North Carolina and her escorts. She was a little closer now, barely five miles away.
At 14:20 hours, the carrier turned into the wind to launch eight fighters and eighteen SBD-3s, and to recover another eleven planes that had been airborne since noon. Having completed the recoveries, the ship turned easily to starboard, heeling a little upon the change of course, the air department continuing to work coolly and efficiently, refuelling and re-spotting the carrier’s planes for the afternoon mission.
At 14:44 hours, aboard Japanese submarine I-19, Commander Kinashi, his eyes trained through his periscope, gave the order to fire. The command was carried out, and Torpedoman Ohtani heard the hiss of air that signalled the launch of the tin fish. All six Type 95 torpedoes were fired in a spread, the USS Wasp their principal target.
‘Torpedoes!’ The lookout’s call from the Wasp’s conning-tower rang out loud and clear to the bridge. ‘Three points forward of the starboard beam!’
From his position on the observation deck, Martin could see them with shocking clarity. Three torpedoes were headed directly for the Wasp. He watched in horrified fascination as one of them broached, jumping above the water like a flying fish.
Captain Sherman ordered the Wasp’s rudder hard-a-starboard, but it was too late. In quick succession, the torpedoes hit the carrier amidships, gasoline tanks and magazines igniting, fiery blasts ripping through the forward part of the ship. On the flight deck, planes were thrown about like a child’s toys, and on the hangar deck, aircraft triced up in the overheads fell upon those below.
Fires broke out simultaneously in the hangar and below decks, the intensity of their heat detonating the ammunition of the anti-aircraft guns on the starboard side, fragments showering the crew. The number two 1.1-inch gun mount was blown overboard and the corpse of the gun captain was flung onto the bridge to land beside Captain Sherman.
Five miles away, two other torpedoes found their marks. The USS North Carolina and one of her accompanying destroyers, the USS O’Brien, were both hit.
Within only six minutes of their launching, five of the Japanese torpedoes had struck, and three US warships had fallen victim to the onslaught. But aboard the Wasp, the damage that had been inflicted was fatal.
Martin raced down t
o the flight deck to help a wounded crew member. The man had been struck by one of the aircraft as it had skated across the runway. A glancing blow only, but his right leg was useless, and he was trying to drag himself to safety, away from the planes careering about him.
Grasping the man under the armpits, Martin dragged him to the conning-tower and, beneath the protection of the observation deck, he examined the leg. There was no loss of blood, it was a simple break, and he told the man so.
‘You’ll have to hold up here for the moment, I’m afraid,’ he said. The man was in no immediate danger, and Martin knew that he must get to the medical station where there would be badly wounded men in urgent need of attention. ‘I’ll send a stretcher for you as soon as I can.’
The man called out his thanks through teeth gritted in pain, but Martin, having dived for the ladder to the deck below, didn’t hear him.
As he made his way through the hangar deck, all was bedlam. Fires had broken out, men were attempting to control them, others were shouting ‘keep clear’. But he kept barging forward through the smoke towards the hatch and the ladder that led below decks. He had to get to the medical station. Then he tripped over something. A body. And the body sat up and spoke.
‘Marty, is that you?’
Martin peered at the face of the young officer. ‘Huck?’ It was Charlie Finn, known as Huckleberry. Huck was a regular at the church services, a devout young Baptist from Ohio. ‘Are you all right, Huck?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, I’m fine. I can’t walk, though, my left foot’s gone numb.’
Martin bent over the man’s leg. Part of Huck’s boot appeared to have been blown away. Possibly part of the foot as well, he thought; through the smoke and the blood it was difficult to tell the extent of the injury.
‘Not surprising,’ he said, taking off his belt, ‘you’ve sustained a rather nasty wound, we need to stem the bleeding.’ He pulled the belt tight below the knee. ‘Right, now let’s get you to the medical station. Can you stand on your right foot?’ He helped the young man up, then, levering his shoulder under Huck’s armpit, he half carried and half dragged him, feeling his own bad leg buckle under the strain; his old injury still caused him trouble on occasion and he was not accustomed to carrying weights.
