The White Ghost

by James R Benn

  “Have a seat,” he said. “I understand you boys have come a long way.”

  “How’d you hear that, Commander?” I said in my most polite voice. As far as I knew, a commander in the navy was close to a colonel in the army, so until we knew how things worked out here, it paid to observe the niceties of military rank. He also wore an Annapolis ring, so I figured he’d be a stickler for that stuff.

  “Between the pilots coming through here and the navy base on Tulagi, you can pick up a lot of gossip. I heard about two hotshots sent out here all the way from Europe to investigate us,” Cluster said, eyeing me as he sipped coffee from a chipped mug. “Figured I’d better check you out myself.”

  “Must be two other guys,” I said. “We came from North Africa. To look into the murder of a native, not to investigate the navy.”

  “Sounds like you might be ready to make an arrest,” Cluster said. “I heard you mention one of my men to Nix.”

  “Jack Kennedy is one of yours?”

  “I have two Motor Torpedo Squadrons up at Rendova. Jack is one of my best skippers, and he’s been through a lot.”

  “We heard about his boat being sunk,” I said. “And I know Jack from Boston. That’s why I was asking about him.”

  “You’re a friend of his?” Cluster asked.

  “We’re acquainted,” I said. “It’s been a while. But we have no plans to arrest anyone. We’ve simply been sent here to look into things.” Cluster looked at Kaz, then back to me. He set his cup on the table and leaned back, taking our measure.

  “You know Jack, but you avoid calling him a friend,” he said. “You’re both from Boston, but your accent doesn’t sound as Harvard as his.”

  “South Boston,” I said. “I was a cop before the war.”

  Cluster nodded, his face grim. “So either Jack’s father sent you, or someone who is an enemy of the old man,” he said. “Or this is the biggest coincidence of the war.”

  “No coincidence,” I said. “We were picked for the job, you’re right. But it won’t be a whitewash. Or a witch hunt. You have my word.”

  “Okay,” Cluster said. “And if that’s true, I don’t envy you the assignment.”

  “Tell me about it, Commander. I could use some of that coffee. Is it any good?”

  “Best in the Solomons,” he said, signaling for two more to a sailor at the grill. “Nix takes care of his pilots. Like I take care of my PT crews.”

  With that subtle warning in mind, we ate hamburgers and drank coffee. The chow wasn’t bad, and the hot joe was welcome even in the sticky, humid air. An occasional breeze blew the heat around, but it wasn’t long before our khakis were drenched with sweat. Many of the guys were shirtless or wearing grimy T-shirts.

  “Proper uniforms do not seem to be the order of the day here,” Kaz said.

  “Not on Guadalcanal,” Cluster said. “The rot is in the air. You can smell the decay. Those leather shoes of yours would be mildewed by morning and falling off your feet by nightfall. The humidity eats at everything. If there wasn’t flat ground for an airstrip, no one would want this place.” He shook his head as if in disgust at the very notion of the island.

  “Nixon said Tulagi was better,” I said.

  “A lot better,” Cluster said. “Which is why the hospital and naval headquarters are there. I’ll bring you over on my boat.”

  “Boat?” Kaz asked. “Is it a long journey?”

  “Less than thirty miles,” Cluster said. “An easy run. Unless the Japs make a daylight raid, but the action has mostly moved to the northwest, up to Rendova and New Georgia. They’re more likely to come at night. We still have a few hours before dusk, but we might as well get started.”

  “Why at night?” Kaz asked as we left the thatched-roof grill and blinked our eyes against the blinding sun.

  “A raid in force could come at any time. But after dark our propellers churn up the phosphorescence in the water when we’re under way. So the Kawanishis like to fly low and slow looking for phosphorescent wakes. They patrol the Slot—the main channel running through the Solomons—nearly every night. The wake is like a big arrow pointing right at us. We can’t see the Jap planes but they can see us. Not a good combination.”

  “We already had a run-in with a Kawanishi,” I said. “Our PBY almost collided with one in a cloud bank.”

  “Don’t worry,” Cluster said. “It won’t be your last.”

  We walked along the runway, heading for a line of vehicles. A burned-out bulldozer and a wrecked aircraft—Japanese and American, respectively—sat rusting in the sun. Weeds and vines grew through gaps in the shredded steel and aluminum, testament to the jungle pressing in on us.

  “Even metal doesn’t last long on Guadalcanal,” Cluster said, waving his hand over the pile of battle debris. “Rust, rot, and the jungle will swallow all this up. I wonder if people will remember this place when it’s all over. Seven thousand soldiers, sailors, and marines dead. The brass guess about thirty thousand Japs dead, all told. Out there in the channel, there’s so many sunken ships they call it Ironbottom Sound. Except for the occasional bombing, it’s basically a backwater, a stopover on the way to the real war.”

  “How long have you been out here, Commander?” Kaz asked.

  Cluster stopped, staring at the wreckage. He didn’t answer. Which was an answer. Too long.

  “Come on,” he finally said. “Let’s get you two outfitted for the Solomons.”

  “Whatever you say, Commander,” I said. We got in his jeep, tossing in our haversacks. I got the sense that we’d passed some sort of test. He’d warmed up, or maybe simply figured out that I was a pawn in someone else’s game. No threat to his men, at least not compared to the Japanese.

  Chapter Eight

  The army sergeant waved away our orders as I began to unfold them.

  “No need,” he said. “If you’re with the commander, you’re okay by me.” We were in a large tent with the sides rolled up, surrounded by K rations, Spam, artillery shells, grenades, medical supplies, and all the other tools of assault and sustenance.

  “Ditch them shoes,” the sergeant said. “They won’t last unless you’re going to sit at a desk over on Tulagi. And then not for long anyways.”

  “You have those new jungle boots?” Cluster asked. The sergeant nodded and eyed our feet, then reached into a crate to grab a couple pairs.

  “Try these on,” he said. “They don’t last long either, but they’re rubber soled and made of canvas. Water drains right out, and you can count on getting soaked plenty around here.”

  “So what good are they?” I asked as I slipped one on.

  “Leather combat boots mildew and rot,” he said. “Plus they keep water in when you get wet, so you end up with all sorts of fungi. The canvas boots don’t hold up over the long haul, but they’re a damn sight better than the old clodhoppers.”

  “Comfortable,” I said, lacing up the boots. It was like wearing tennis shoes. “Anything else we should have?”

  “You might want to get rid of that wool cap, Lieutenant,” the sergeant said to Kaz, who wore his British Army service cap.

  “I shall keep the hat,” Kaz said. “Otherwise I may be mistaken for an American.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” I said, to which Kaz raised a languid eyebrow.

  I swapped my garrison cap for a billed cap, or M41 HBT Field Utility Cap, Sage Green Herringbone Twill, as the army insisted on describing it. Shading my eyes from the glare of the sun would be important out here. I took a canvas holster to replace my leather one, figuring it would be hard enough to keep my .45 automatic clean without worrying about the holster decomposing around it. Kaz already had a tan canvas holster for his Webley revolver, which he had chosen because it matched the color of his web belt. Always the clotheshorse. Once the sergeant gave us an extra set of cotton khaki shirts and trousers, we were
all set to win the battle against mildew and jungle rot.

  I hoped that was as much fighting as we’d need to do.

  Cluster drove to the docks at Lunga Point where his PT boat was docked. As he braked the jeep to a halt, a low wail rose in the air, a familiar sound from London and North Africa. Air-raid sirens. Seconds later came the snarling engines of Navy Wildcat fighters, the sound growing louder as the planes rose in the sky and flew overhead, due north.

  “Let’s move!” Cluster yelled as he leapt from the jeep and made for the docks. We scrambled after him, haversacks in hand. The PT boat engines were rumbling; sailors held lines, ready to cast off. We raced up the gangplank as Cluster barked orders to the crew. Other PT boats were already underway, opening up their supercharged Packard engines as soon as they cleared the docks. Within seconds we joined them, sailors manning the two twin fifty-caliber machine guns swiveling their weapons skyward, searching for the enemy.

  “What’s happening?” I asked above the sound of the engines. Kaz and I hung onto the rail behind the bridge as the boat thumped against the waves in the open water.

  “Jap air raid,” Cluster shouted over his shoulder. “When we scramble fighters in a rush it means one of the Coastwatchers radioed in a warning.”

  “I thought you said the Japs hardly ever came over in daylight,” Kaz said, wincing as the boat plowed through a swell that nearly knocked us off our feet.

  “They must have known you were coming,” Cluster said with a grin as he spun the wheel to starboard, putting distance between our boat and the others scattering into Ironbottom Sound. After that all eyes were on the sky, searching for enemy aircraft.

  But our first sighting was a formation of four Wildcats. They climbed away from us, probably worried about itchy trigger fingers. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

  Then we saw what the Wildcats were after. A large formation, twin-engine bombers. Betties, they looked like, heading for Henderson Field. From above the Betties, Japanese fighter planes dove into the Wildcats, trying to intercept them before they had a chance to turn a Betty into a fireball. Cluster shouted an order to the engine room and the PT boat picked up speed, headed away from the dogfight and the oncoming bombers. The wind whipped against us, salt spray coating our faces. I glanced at Kaz, who had a landlubber’s pale look to his face. Me, I’d grown up going out into Massachusetts Bay with my dad’s fisherman buddies, so I enjoyed a ride across the wave tops. It was the men in aircraft trying to kill us I could do without.

  I saw one plane go down in flames, but it was hard to tell what it was. The sky was a confusion of contrails, smoke, flame, and the distant chatter of machine guns. A few minutes later, Cluster eased up on the engines.

  “What gives?” I asked.

  “We’re getting close to Tulagi,” he said as an island came into view. “We don’t run the engines at full bore for long. Wears them out. We’ve put enough water between us and the Jap planes. They’re probably going to hit Guadalcanal in any case.”

  That was a reasonable guess, but in short order we were watching two fighters circle, dive, and climb in a fight for advantage. As they dueled for position, they drew closer to us and farther from the other aircraft to our rear.

  “Looks like a Wildcat,” I said. “What’s the Jap fighter? A Zero?”

  “Nah, we don’t see many Zekes down this way,” the gunner next to me said. “They’re carrier-based. These are Jap Army planes from their bases on Bougainville, probably.”

  “It’s a Tony,” the other gunner yelled. “He’s headed for us!”

  The Wildcat dove to the deck, trailing smoke and heading for home. The Tony—I guessed fighters were boys and bombers girls—swung around to come at us from the port side. Kaz and I ducked behind the low bulwark behind the bridge and peeked out to watch the Tony’s approach. Cluster zigged and zagged, making for Tulagi and the protection of the antiaircraft batteries there.

  The Jap fighter was too fast for us. We were still a mile or so out when he opened up, his machine guns sending up spouts of water in our wake. Our machine guns and the twenty-millimeter cannon on the aft deck returned fire, sending the fighter into a climb to escape the tracers seeking him out. He made a giant arc across the sky and came at our starboard side. I saw a thin wisp of white smoke coming from his engine. Had we scored a hit?

  Then the Tony did. Rounds chewed into the bow of the PT boat, narrowly missing the bridge. Our guns followed the fighter as he roared overhead, staying with him this time. The trailing smoke grew as black and orange flames spread across the fuselage. A cheer went up from the crew, just in time to see the pilot bail out. The plane went into a spin and crashed into the ocean as his parachute opened, stark white against the blue sky.

  “Let’s go get ourselves a prisoner, boys,” Cluster announced as he steered the boat toward the downed flyer.

  As we neared the pilot, I leaned over the bulwark and watched him release his parachute and fumble with his life jacket. A crewman with a gaff stood at the bow, ready to pull him in. Jap prisoners were rare; I’d read about their last-ditch banzai charges and how they’d commit suicide with grenades rather than be captured. But this guy waved his arms as if he couldn’t wait to be hoisted aboard.

  Cluster shouted an order to the engine room and the PT boat slowed as we came within reach. The sailor extended the gaff to the pilot who took hold of it, jerking on it suddenly and pulling the crewman into the water. He reached into his life jacket and came up with a pistol. He fired two shots at the bridge as he screamed, his face now contorted with hate and fury. Paddling with his free hand for a better angle, he squeezed off two more rounds, aiming at Cluster and his executive officer. He was so close, the machine gunners couldn’t depress their guns to fire a burst at him. More shots rang out as the crew ducked for cover and the sailor in the drink swam for it.

  Kaz and I drew our weapons. Kaz crouched behind the bulwark and fired over the top, hoping to distract him. Our first shots went wide, and I saw the pilot load a new clip into his automatic, all the while yelling what may have been curses at us or prayers to the emperor. I heard Cluster order the engine to be reversed as we popped up again and fired, only to duck as rounds whizzed by our heads.

  “Stay down,” a voice said from behind, followed by the welcome sound of a Thompson submachine gun wielded by a gunner’s mate. He fired two quick bursts, hot ejected shell casings showering our shoulders. “Now you can get up, lieutenants. Welcome to the Solomons.”

  We stood. The top of the pilot’s head was gone, the sea around him stained red.

  “Nice shooting, Chappy,” Cluster said, tossing a life ring overboard for the crewman still in the water.

  “Everyone okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah, he put some holes in my boat but no one got hit,” Cluster said. “And for the record, that bulwark isn’t metal, it’s plywood. If he shot at you through that, you’d get wood shards as well as a bullet.” Kaz rapped on the low wall and got the hollow sound of three-quarter-inch wood.

  “Is there anywhere safe on this boat?” I asked.

  “Hell no,” Chappy, the gunner’s mate, said. “We’re a plywood boat sitting on three thousand gallons of high-octane aviation fuel. That’s why we like to go real fast.”

  Recovering the gaff and the overboard sailor, Cluster had the pilot’s body pulled in to search for documents. There were a couple of maps in his flight suit and a picture of a young girl in a kimono in his shirt pocket. Cluster kept the maps. The body was tossed overboard, the photo flipped into the sea as an afterthought. The engines roared into life as the PT boat made for Tulagi and a safe harbor. Kaz and I stood on the bridge, the cool breeze and calm coastal waters a relief after the blood and terror of crossing Ironbottom Sound.

  “I should have seen that coming,” Cluster said as the island loomed closer. “It’s never over with the Japs. The warrior code of Bushido and all that. They
consider surrender a dishonorable disgrace to the soldier and his family.”

  “It’s hardly surrender when you’re shot down during aerial combat,” I said.

  “Death in battle, especially if many enemies are killed in the process, is the most honorable fate for a Japanese soldier,” Kaz said. “To that poor fellow, there was no difference between the machine guns in his fighter and the pistol in his hand. It is what he was taught.”

  “I have a hard time thinking of him as a poor fellow,” Cluster said. “A classmate of mine, a marine officer, was on Guadalcanal in the early days. After a failed banzai charge at the Tenaru River, marines went out to help the Japanese wounded. The Japs set off grenades. Blew themselves and the marines who were helping them all to hell. That was the last time he let any of his men go to help Jap wounded.”

  “It’s a different war out here,” I said.

  “The Germans can often be barbarians,” Kaz said. “Very occasionally, honorable. You never can tell. At least out here you know what to expect. No quarter, no surrender.”

  “That’s what our boys learned real quick,” Cluster said. “If you give up to the Japs, they’ll probably torture or kill you, so you might as well go on fighting. Shoulda seen it coming.” He shook his head the way people do when they can’t believe how gullible they’ve been. I shook my own head, trying to rid it of the vision of the pretty girl in a kimono.

  Cluster skirted westward of Tulagi, coming into the harbor at the PT boat base at Sesapi. Across from the larger Florida Island, the Sesapi anchorage provided secluded and calm waters for the small craft and seaplanes tied up at the docks. Cluster eased his boat into his mooring and we clambered off, Kaz especially glad to be on dry land.

  “The base commander radioed that he arranged a jeep for you,” Cluster said. “You should report in. The driver will take you.” A vehicle was parked along the wharf, a sailor waiting at the wheel.

  “What about you?” I asked.