by James R Benn
I caught a glimpse of movement across the river. I raised my pistol. Vouza shook his head no, lowering the barrel with his hand. I finally made out the figure more clearly. One of the men from the village, followed by the three others. The villager silently pointed downstream, to where a series of large, flat stones made for an easy crossing. Vouza nodded, and led us to the spot. But we didn’t cross.
The natives moved along the riverbank, jumping from stone to stone, not making a sound. Before coming opposite to our position, they climbed the riverbank in swift, fluid movements, their brown skin streaked with shadows as they filtered into the dark green jungle, gone before I could blink the sweat from my eyes. Then I understood.
The Japanese were coming. And we were going to ambush them as they crossed.
The only sounds came from the flowing water and the thumping of my heart. I tried to catch Vouza’s eye to get some sense of what was going on. How many Japs were there? Did he know? Did he care? He stayed focused on the riverbank, which at this point was the smart move, so I did the same after checking to be sure Kaz was in a good position. He and Deanna were behind a moss-encrusted rock. Kari was closer to the water, prone behind a fallen log. I couldn’t spot Porter.
We waited.
Then I heard sounds. The kind of sounds infantrymen make even when they work at being quiet. The subtle creak of leather, the slap of a canteen on a hip, the wood-on-metal clatter of slung rifles. Faint, but unmistakable.
A minute later a figure emerged from the bush, near the stepping stones. His uniform was a pale khaki brown, his shirt as sweat-stained as ours. He wore a cloth cap with a neck flap, and clutched an Arisaka bolt-action rifle that was almost as tall as he was. Stepping cautiously into the river, he looked upstream and down, crouching as if ready to run at the first sign of trouble.
Vouza held steady, and without a word spoken, we all knew he was calling the shots. No one was going to fire until he did. He let the lone soldier cross, coming within five yards of us. As soon as he gained the bank, he stood on the bare earth and scanned the thick underbrush, nervously poking at the greenery with his bayonet. When he was satisfied, he turned and waved to the rest of the patrol. Three other Japs came down the bank, followed by an officer wearing a sword, and then about ten soldiers clustered around the pilot, wearing a white silk scarf, khaki flight suit, and leather boots. His shoulder was bloody and he cradled the injured arm with his good one. The scout climbed the bank, turned and sat on a rock to watch the others cross, unaware of the hidden threat on both sides of the water.
A flash of shadow and spray of blood. John Kari with his hand on the Jap’s jaw and a knife drawn across his neck. Then the scout was gone, no sounds other than the faint rustle of Kari dragging him into the bush and a gush of blood on leaves as the soldier’s heart beat its last.
One of the Japs in the river looked up and called out. He spoke to the others and they laughed. Probably a joke about the scout taking time for a piss. A few more steps and the first of them were almost on top of us, the rest strung out, jumping from rock to rock.
Vouza fired.
We opened up on the soldiers to our front. Three, then four dropped quickly, the others shooting wildly, not certain where we were. The rapid semiautomatic fire from Deanna’s carbine behind me and the louder, slower Lee-Enfield single shots rang in my ear. I steadied my automatic with both hands and aimed two shots at the closest Jap and saw him crumple, blood staining the smooth rock beneath him.
More shots came in our direction as the remaining soldiers spotted us and fired, but they were in a panic, their shots high, zipping through the foliage like angry bees. The noise was deafening as everyone seemed to fire at the same moment. Porter came charging out of the undergrowth, firing and leaping behind a boulder, giving him a better angle on the enemy rear.
An explosion behind me left my ears ringing as I fell forward, tensing against the expected flow of blood or feel of red-hot grenade shrapnel. I was unhurt, as was Deanna, who winked as she raised her carbine.
Vouza dropped a soldier at the edge of the group protecting the pilot. Then the officer pointed with his sword to the opposite bank, obviously telling his men to retreat. Kari got another one and that hurried them on.
Right into the trap.
The natives opened fire from the bank and more Japs went down, the rest huddled in confusion, firing at the new threat and looking to their officer for orders. A bullet took him in the throat and he fell, his hand clutching his neck as spurts of blood escaped through his fingers. His other hand clutched the sword, now swung in our direction. He tried to get up but fell as his men got the message and charged our position. There were five of them left, plus the pilot, who staggered after them. He must have felt invincible with all the lead leaving him unscathed. Or did he know his bounty price?
Vouza stepped forward, firing at the men on either side of the pilot. I followed, but Kaz was even faster, jumping into the water and firing his Webley revolver, taking out the Jap right in front of the pilot. The last two men charged with their bayonets, their faces a snarl of anger, fear, and resignation. Shots from the far side of the river sent them sprawling, the water washing their blood from the rocks.
The pilot stood alone and forlorn, bodies all around. He gaped as Kaz and Porter checked him for weapons.
“Good shooting for such a little guy,” Porter said, slapping Kaz on the back. “Didn’t even nick this fella once!” He turned the pilot roughly and pushed him back across the river with his rifle barrel.
Vouza went to the officer, who was still holding his throat, blood bubbling out across his hands. He picked up the sword from the side of the dying man and leaned on it as he studied him.
“You seeim these scars?” Vouza said, touching each of the knotted scars on his chest and throat. “Japan man give me these. But I no dae. You dae.” With that, he swung the sword, separating the body from the head, severed hand still grasping the wound as the head rolled into the water to be taken away by the current.
Chapter Thirteen
Fortunately the Japanese patrol hadn’t discovered our boat. We boarded with our reluctant passenger, who was at turns surly and morose. Getting shot down, wounded, then rescued is one thing. But to watch your rescuers massacred before your eyes must have been a real shocker. Then to see the motley force responsible, well, that would be enough to drive any sane man over the edge. We tied him up and thankfully left Malaita, heading into the setting sun.
“You all did well,” Vouza said. “No one even scratched and a pilot to bring back.” He sat on a crate and lifted his face to the cooling sea breeze.
“What happened?” I asked Vouza as we lounged on the deck. “The scars, I mean.”
“Last year, on Guadalcanal,” he said. “Mi lukim Jap positions. I go as native wanting work. They grab me and search me. I had hidden a small American flag marines gave me, folded in lap-lap. They found it and beat me. Tied me to tree, ask where marines are. I tell them nothing. They hit me with rifle butts, and still I say nothing. The officer tells his men to use bayonet, not to waste bullets.”
“You received those wounds all at once?” Kaz asked.
“Yes,” Vouza said, caressing each of the rough scars. “Here, here, and here. Jap officer stab my throat with his sword, cut off part of my tongue. Thought he killed me.”
“How did you get away?” I asked.
“They leave me for dead. I see many Japs headed for the marines. Two, three hundred. A big attack. So I chew through the ropes to get loose and crawl back to marines. I tell them attack coming. They had time to get ready. Kill many Japs.”
“That’s the Battle of the Tenaru he’s talking about,” Kari said. “The big attack on Henderson Field. Almost the whole Jap force was wiped out, seven hundred at least.”
“All because Jap officer didn’t want to waste one bullet on me,” Vouza said, and gave out a throaty laug
h that got us all going. Except for the pilot, who hung his head and studied the deck.
We docked at Tulagi and turned the Japanese pilot over to navy intelligence. As soon as news of our encounter got around, Hugh Sexton organized a party to celebrate. There was beer and booze, mangoes, sweet potatoes, rice, and fish cooked on an outdoor grill. And more booze. I decided Coastwatchers survived months in the jungle by thoroughly pickling themselves.
Deanna had freshened up and looked like she’d been at a hair salon all day instead of providing medical aid and covering fire. A couple of striking Chinese women made up the rest of the female contingent. Clad in bright silk, they added color and cheer to the khaki and brown assembly. Kaz and I cleaned up as best we could, threw on clean shirts, and went out looking forward to the evening and the company.
Until Jack showed up. I should have known his radar for the fair sex would have picked up on a party with three beautiful women, especially on the male-dominated island of Tulagi.
“Well, do you have my cane?” Jack asked, his nonchalance masking any real worries he may have had about our investigation.
“We do,” I answered. “But we need to hang on to it a while longer. It fits the hole in Daniel Tamana’s skull far too well.”
“Really?” Jack said. “You found his body?”
“On Malaita,” Kaz said. “They have the most interesting burial customs there. Let me tell you.” Kaz steered Jack into a corner of Sexton’s spacious verandah. I watched as they talked, the genuine interest evident in Jack’s posture and gestures. He was an expert at soaking up information in which he was interested, and at discounting anything he didn’t want to think about. Or need to think about. He had the rich kid’s belief that any problem life threw at him could be fixed.
Not that I still hold a grudge after all these years. Six and a half, to be precise.
“Billy, come meet Fred Archer,” Deanna said, sliding her hand through my arm.
“Don’t you want to spend time with Jack?” I said. They hadn’t spoken but a few words since he arrived.
“He gave me the cold shoulder. He was polite enough, but a girl can tell. He’s zeroed in on one of those Chinese women.”
“Jack can be moody,” I said. But I knew what the deal was. Jack was all about the pursuit, and my guess was that he had already landed in the sack with Deanna and was now bored with her company. But that wasn’t anything I’d say to a nice kid like her.
She introduced me to Fred Archer, a tall, rangy planter who was in from his Coastwatching station on Ranongga. His accent was English, but he had the same weathered look as his fellow islanders.
“I came out with a small group of sailors from the Helena,” he said. “One of your light cruisers that went down in Kula Gulf. Most of the men were picked up by destroyers, but these eleven made it to Ranongga on a life raft.”
“Nice piece of work, that,” Porter said, joining us with a large whiskey in one hand and a cigar in the other. “Henry Josselyn on Vella Lavella had a hundred and sixty blokes wash up on his beach. That was a handful, to be sure.”
“Were they all rescued?” I asked.
“My lot was,” Archer said. “The natives hid them from the Japs and we organized a PBY to come get them as soon as the weather permitted. We—my partner, Gordon Brockman, and I—hitched a ride with them for this radio course. The plane took us to Rendova and then we came by boat to Tulagi. Josselyn had a damn hard time of it. One hundred and sixty sailors, many of them wounded, weren’t easy to care for. He and the Reverend Silvester hid them for more than a week, until destroyer transports could take them off the beach. Ah, here’s Gordie now.” Archer waved his pal over, and made introductions. Gordie was short and stocky, going bald, and halfway in the bag.
“Archer filling you with tales of our island exploits?” Gordie said, his Aussie-accented words slurring. “Don’t believe half of it, at least not the half that involves me!” He thought that was hilarious and laughed as much as everyone else put together.
“I was telling them about the sailors from the Helena, Gordie,” Archer said, an indulgent smile on his lips.
“Oh yes, a close-run thing,” Gordie said. “We’re lucky our small island didn’t get as many as Josselyn did. Wouldn’t have known where to put ’em.”
“Who is the reverend you mentioned?” I asked.
“Reverend Silvester is the Methodist minister I worked with. He stayed behind to tend to his flock. And his radio,” Deanna said.
“He’s a Coastwatcher?” I asked.
“Not officially,” she said. “But he already had a radio to keep in touch with the outside world, so it was the natural thing to do.”
“Seems to me the natural thing to do would be to get out,” I said. “Hiding alone in the jungle for months, on the run from the Japanese—now that sounds unnatural.”
“That’s us,” Archer said. “Crackers, as the Australians say.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Porter said. “Tell me, Archer, who are the Chinese ladies? I haven’t seen them around before.”
“Sisters to one of the Chinese merchants that came out with the Helena crew,” Archer answered.
“What were Chinese doing there?” I asked.
“Hiding from the Japs,” Archer said. “Most of the small merchants in these islands are Chinese. Since Japan is at war with China, they generally don’t fare well under occupation. When the Japs landed in force on Vella Lavella, a small group of Chinese headed into the interior. They were fairly safe, but when the Helena crew had to be evacuated, it made sense to bring them along.”
“Since they couldn’t thank Henry Josselyn in person, the sisters came tonight to give their thanks to Hugh for helping to rescue their brother,” Deanna said.
“Sam Chang,” Archer explained. “Fairly well known in the local waters. You must have run into him, Silas. Pavau isn’t that far from Vella Lavella.”
“Yeah, I heard of Chang. We tried to do business with him, but we were too far off his route. Decent fellow, had a good reputation from what I knew,” Porter said.
“He visited the mission often,” Deanna said. “Had a thriving business before the war, buying and selling, importing Western food, that sort of thing. There’s a call for the comforts of home among the islanders. Marmalade and gin are favorites.”
“Why isn’t Chang here himself?” Porter asked, looking around.
“I heard he fell and reinjured his leg,” Archer said. “He broke it on Vella Lavella when he was in the mountains. He’s in the hospital here on Tulagi. His sisters live in the local Chinatown. They own their own stores and have done very well for themselves. Important in the community, from what I hear.”
“War is usually good for business, until it’s on your doorstep,” I said.
“Damn right, Boyle,” Gordie put in. “When the Japs poured into the Solomons, it ruined a lot of us. Archer here had a thriving plantation on Bougainville, and I was set up on New Georgia, both of us doing well selling copra to Lever Brothers.”
“Copra?” I asked.
“The dried meat of the coconut,” Archer explained. “They have to be opened, shelled, and dried, usually in kilns. Hot work, I’ll tell you.”
“And it’ll be hotter work paying off debts to Sam Chang, eh?” Gordie said, a bitter laugh punctuating his statement. “First the Japs take our plantations, run off the workers or enslave them, then old Sam takes to the hills, account ledgers and all. He says we still owe him, the bugger!”
“Are we talking serious money?” I asked.
“Well, before the war, when business was booming, no,” Archer said. “Everyone close to Vella Lavella did business with Sam. Even when the Japs attacked back in December ’41, we still had our plantations to run. We were stockpiling copra and waiting for the regular Lever transports to make the island runs. But by April ’42, the Japs were on our doorstep.�
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“Still had workers to pay and expenses, you know,” Gordie said. “A lot of us owed Sam a fair bit when the Rising Sun was hoisted over the Solomons. We lost everything, and to be fair, so did Sam. The Japs seized his goods and would have finished him off if he hadn’t taken to the bush. Can’t blame the fellow. He’s alive and he wants his money. Wish I had it to give.”
“What was your business, before the war, Lieutenant Boyle?” Archer asked, draining his whiskey and looking like he wanted to put an end to talk of debt and loss.
“I was a cop,” I said. “Detective in Boston.”
“Billy’s here to look into Daniel Tamana’s death,” Porter said. “Haven’t you heard?”
“Right, right,” Archer said. “How is that going? Daniel was a good man. I wouldn’t mind getting hold of the bastard who did him in.”
“We’re still gathering information,” I said, giving the standard police response. “Do you know of anyone who had a problem with Daniel?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Archer said, rubbing his chin. “But I always wonder about chaps like him. And John Kari. Well-educated natives—between two worlds, aren’t they?”
“What would that have to do with murder?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Archer said. “But there’s bound to be problems somewhere along the line. Daniel was a Melanesian who spoke the King’s English, like Kari does. Smart, too. Easy enough to run into a white man who doesn’t appreciate a Fuzz Wuzzy who speaks better than he does, if you know what I mean.”
“Or a native who doesn’t like one of their own acting like a white man,” Porter said. “I’ve seen that often enough. So I know what you mean about him being between two worlds.”
“It is true enough,” John Kari said, joining the conversation.
“No offense meant, John. I was simply making a point,” Archer said.
“I quite understand,” Kari said, with exaggerated politeness. “And it is a valid one. The only question is, does it apply to Daniel’s death?”
