The White Ghost

by James R Benn

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sesapi harbor was busy, PT boats coming and going, and destroyers steaming out toward the Slot. Native workers unloaded truckloads of supplies, and sailors stripped to the waist carried them from the docks to their waiting craft. The action had a frantic air to it, the rush to complete each task mingled with nervous laughter and foolish grins among the newer men, while the old hands ignored them, stacking ammo like split wood against freshening winter winds. Something was up, another big push up the Solomon chain in the offing, and we were being drawn along in its wake.

  We dropped our gear off at Cotter’s boat and kept going, down to the end of the pier by the PT tender. I’d told Jack I’d see him on his new command. We had an hour or so before we left, or hauled anchor, or whatever the navy types called shoving off, so Kaz and I decided to check out the new boat.

  “Impressive,” Kaz said as we took in the big forty-millimeter guns fore and aft. PT-59 bristled with armament and activity. Two turrets amidships sported twin fifty-caliber machine guns, and where the torpedo tubes had formerly been, more machine guns were being installed behind armored shields. An arc welder spit out white-hot sparks as a crewman worked on one of the mounts.

  “That’s a lot of firepower,” I said to Jack, who waved us aboard.

  “How do you like her?” Jack was all grin, shirtless in the heat, grease on his hands, and spoiling for a fight.

  “A lethal vessel,” Kaz said admiringly.

  “Exactly, Baron,” Jack said. “Now we’ve got the firepower to take on the Jap barges and shore installations. They won’t know what hit them.” He was positively gleeful, but I was more interested in how he looked as opposed to his boat. I could count his ribs, and though his skin was tanned nearly bronze, it had an odd tone to it, a shade of dark yellow that didn’t look healthy. His knuckles were a dark brown, even deeper than the rest of him. He caught me looking, and grabbed for a faded khaki shirt, pulling it on but not bothering to button it.

  “I’m taking her out, Billy, as soon as I fill out the crew.” It was a challenge, a dare to even question his fitness.

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine, Jack,” I said. It wasn’t my fight. If the navy saw fit to give him this gunboat, then that was the navy’s business. I hoped he didn’t get his men killed as he sought his revenge for PT-109.

  “All set, Skipper,” a sailor said from behind us, flipping up his arc welder’s helmet. “That’s the last mount in place.”

  “Well done, Chappy,” Jack said, stepping by us to inspect the welding job. The steel shields gave the gunners decent protection, at least from small-arms fire. Jack settled in behind one of the fifty-calibers, testing the rotation and angle of fire. “How’d you get the swivel to move like that? It was tight as a tick this morning.”

  “Oil, elbow grease, and the right tools, Skipper,” came the answer as he removed the helmet.

  “Hey, aren’t you the gunner’s mate from Al Cluster’s boat?” I asked, remembering the trip from Guadalcanal and the downed Jap flyer.

  “Yes sir,” he said. “Commander Cluster thought Lieutenant Kennedy might need an experienced hand getting these new guns installed.”

  “And I’m not giving Chappy back,” Jack said. “I still need to fill out my crew, and a gunner’s mate is a good start. Consider yourself shanghaied, sailor.”

  “Fine with me, Skipper. I was hoping you’d say that. This boat is a gunner’s dream come true.” Chappy left, clutching his tool kit along with an oilcan.

  “I’ll probably see you two on Rendova,” Jack said. “We’re headed up there as soon as everything’s ready and I have enough men.”

  “It looks like you’ve got reinforcements,” Kaz said. A group of five sailors approached from the dock, seabags carried on their shoulders.

  “Oh my God,” Jack said, a look of surprise on his face as he watched the men come on board. “What are you all doing here?”

  “What kind of guy are you?” the lead sailor answered. “You got a boat and didn’t come get us?” It seemed like an odd exchange between a swabbie and an officer, but smiles had broken out among the group as Jack waded in amongst them, shaking hands.

  “Kowal, Mauer, Drewitch,” he said, pausing a moment before each man. “Maguire, Drawdy. You guys sure you want to come along? I can’t guarantee this is going to be easy.”

  “Hell, Skip, we wouldn’t ship out with anyone else,” one of them said, a radioman second class by his two stripes and lightning-bolt insignia. Jack stood among them for a minute, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his head downcast like a shy schoolboy. Then he turned away, heading to the bow of the gunboat, his arm draped around the barrel of the forty-millimeter cannon.

  “Who are you guys?” I asked the radioman.

  “We’re all from the 109,” he said. “Maguire, sir. Me and Mauer were on the 109 when she went down. The other guys had been wounded a few weeks ago and just got out of the hospital. We heard the skipper got a new assignment, so here we are. Don’t tell me they got the army on this boat, too?”

  “No, we’re just visiting,” I said. “You feel okay about shipping out with Jack after what happened?”

  “He got me back alive,” Maguire said. “He never gave up. I’d trust him with my life.”

  That wasn’t a sentence I ever heard or expected to hear about Jack Kennedy. I mumbled something appropriate and moved away, the men from the 109 mingling with the rest of the crew as they stowed their gear. I worked my way forward, past the bridge, up to where Jack stood. His thin arm was still holding onto the gun barrel, the other shading his eyes as he gazed out over the water. I stepped closer and saw that he wasn’t shading his eyes from the light.

  He was hiding them. From my vantage point I could see tears coursing down his cheeks, salty drops hitting the steel deck at his feet, vaporizing in the heat.

  Jack Kennedy weeping. Another thing I never expected to see in this life.

  I stepped back, unwilling to intrude, marveling that this rich, spoiled playboy had inspired so much loyalty. And that a guy who never seemed to care much about anything stood alone, crying at the thought of the trust these men had placed in his hands.

  Kaz was chatting with the new crewmen at the stern. The gunner’s mate was working on another machine gun setup, this one on the starboard side. I strolled over, watching him work as I waited for Jack to get a hold of himself. I noticed his name, Ellis, stenciled on his denim shirt.

  “Why do they call you Chappy?” I asked, leaning against the bulkhead and enjoying a spot of shade.

  “That’s ’cause of these tools I use,” he said, grabbing a small leather case filled with rachet bits. “My uncle owns a company called Chapman Manufacturing. They make all sorts of hex keys, slotted screwdriver bits, ratchets, that sort of thing. When he heard I was a gunner’s mate, he sent me this kit. Whatever the navy throws at me, I can take it apart and put it back together again with these babies. So the guys started calling me Chappy, and it sorta stuck.”

  “Doesn’t the navy have enough tools to go around?”

  “Not out here, Lieutenant. We have to scrounge for most everything. But with this tool kit, I’m a walking machine shop. I can even get some Jap hardware working if it’s not too banged up.”

  “Lieutenant Kennedy is lucky to have you aboard, Chappy,” I said. “There’s plenty of gunnery here to keep you busy.”

  “It’s a whole lotta firepower to throw at the Japs,” he said. “I get the feeling the skipper is itching to get back at them for what they did to his old boat.”

  “Can’t blame him,” I said. I wished Chappy luck and climbed up to the bridge, where I found Jack, shirtless again, wearing aviator sunglasses and a fatigue cap pushed back up on his bushy hair. The sun was harsh, but I figured he’d donned the glasses mainly to cover his reddened eyes.

  “Take care, Jack,” I said, offering my hand.<
br />
  “See you in Rendova,” he said, giving me a firm shake. “I hope you find your man.”

  “I will,” I said. “I don’t have all the answers yet, but we’ll find them. There’s always a clue. There’s always something.”

  I clambered down off the boat onto the dock and turned to see Kaz stop to speak with Jack on the bridge. I waited, wishing I had a pair of sunglasses like Jack’s as the afternoon sun beat down.

  “What was that about?” I asked as we walked back to PT-169.

  “I asked Jack about the incident with the automobile,” Kaz said.

  “Why the hell did you do that?” I asked, stopping to face Kaz, surprised at my own anger. I didn’t need Kaz fighting my battles for me, and I sure as hell didn’t want Jack thinking I did.

  “Because I was curious about the kind of man he is,” Kaz said. “I am still suspicious of him.”

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “He has no recollection of the incident. He thought it amusing when I recounted it, but it apparently meant little enough to him at the time.”

  “So what does that prove?” I asked, irritated at hearing the answer to a question I knew I shouldn’t have asked.

  “That he is exceedingly self-centered,” Kaz said. “I believe such a man could kill more easily than not.”

  “Yeah, murder is a pretty selfish enterprise,” I said, continuing on down the dock. “Nothing earth-shattering about that.” Why was I defending Jack? Hadn’t I thought the same myself not very long ago?

  “True,” Kaz said, nodding his head as we walked. “Although the man described by the PT-109 crew is quite a different character. Intrepid, loyal, even inspiring.”

  “What does that tell us?”

  “That Jack Kennedy is a complex man, capable of pettiness as well as sacrifice,” Kaz answered. “His actions involving you in the automobile accident demonstrate a disregard for others, and perhaps a fear of disappointing his powerful father. After all, who else would care, or be in a position to chastise him? But his resourcefulness here, in keeping his crew together after the sinking of his boat, demonstrates the complete opposite. From all accounts, he went far beyond what could be expected of any captain.”

  “That may be why I’m having a hard time understanding him,” I said. “He’s not the guy I knew. I think maybe that guy went down with the 109. Did he say he was sorry at all? About the car?”

  “No, he did not,” Kaz said.

  “Well, maybe not all of him went down with the ship.”

  “Boyle!” Cotter yelled from the bridge of PT-169. “Hustle up! We’re pulling out. Aircraft headed our way!”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “There’s a large force of enemy aircraft headed our way from airfields on Bougainville,” Cotter said as he eased PT-169 out of the harbor and into Ironbottom Sound. “They could be going for Rendova, Henderson Field, or Sesapi. No reason to hang around and find out.”

  “The trip will be more dangerous in daylight, won’t it?” I asked.

  “Yes, if we run into patrol aircraft. But this is a big raid. They won’t break formation to go after one PT boat.” That sounded good, as long as the Japanese remembered to play by the rules.

  “What can we do?” I asked.

  “Take these,” he said, handing Kaz and me binoculars. “Go forward and watch for aircraft.”

  We’d seen Archer and Gordie positioned aft, scanning the skies as we pulled out. We went toward the bow, behind the twenty-millimeter gun, which was manned by a kid in a big helmet, life jacket, skivvies, and shoes; enough clothing for a hot run in the Solomons.

  We each took a side, bracing ourselves between the bridge superstructure and a forward torpedo tube. As Cotter opened up the engines, the ride smoothed out into a steady thump thump against the rolling waves, fooling you into thinking you didn’t have to hang on. I realized Kaz and I were the only ones without life jackets, and that nobody had taken time to toss a couple our way. On the one hand, if we got hit, we were all going up in a giant fireball anyway, but it wouldn’t take much work to get tossed overboard either. I could swim pretty well, but not all the way back to Tulagi.

  It wasn’t long before a shout went up from the stern, Gordie and Archer having sighted fighters coming from behind. Cotter announced they were ours, flying up from Guadalcanal to intercept the Japs. Even so, every gun swiveled to target them as they flew high overhead.

  “Hold your fire,” Cotter yelled, knowing how trigger-happy his men could be. Out here, there was nowhere to hide, and dozens of swarming, snarling fighters were downright intimidating. Then I began to worry. Would they mistake us for Japs, and open fire?

  They passed over without incident, and I let out a heavy sigh, not realizing how nervous I’d been. I watched the fighters, figuring they were being vectored in by radar, or perhaps Coastwatchers. Soon I lost them, and gave the horizon a quick check. Dead ahead I saw an island, too far away to make out anything but a smudge of green.

  “Is that Rendova?” I asked the sailor manning the twenty-millimeter.

  “Naw, that’s Russell Island. We ain’t even close yet, Lieutenant.”

  Cotter kept on course for the island. I strained to see anything at all in the sky, alternating between the binoculars and my eyesight, trying to take in the full arc of the blazingly bright heavens in front of us. It was all azure blue, nothing but foaming water rising into a robin’s egg sky; so much to watch, and it all looked exactly the same.

  “There!” Kaz shouted, pointing up off the starboard side. Contrails swirled in all directions, evidence of a high-altitude dogfight. I trained my binoculars on the telltale vapor trails, but all I got was the occasional flash of sunlight off a fighter.

  “Keep a sharp lookout,” Cotter bellowed from the bridge. “If they’re making contrails, they’re too high to bother us. Watch for fighters breaking away.” I waved back, signaling my understanding, and returned to scanning the horizon, sweeping back and forth, dividing the sky into quadrants.

  Then I saw it. Black smoke instead of white contrails. Heading for us and losing altitude fast. I picked up the aircraft in my binoculars, but the billowing smoke and dead-on view obscured any markings. It was obvious he was in trouble.

  “It’s got to be one of ours,” I said to the gunner. “Probably headed back to Henderson Field.”

  “I don’t like the way he’s heading for us,” he said, training his weapon on the incoming fighter.

  “Don’t fire, wait!” I yelled, focusing on the smoke, glimpsing a brief image of another airplane, then another. “Behind him, two Zeroes!”

  “Yes!” Kaz screamed. “He’s coming to us for cover!”

  The gunner acknowledged a second later, saying he had the two Zeroes targeted. Cotter shouted to hold fire, and then suddenly the first plane was close enough to see, white stars clear against the blue paint job. Smoke poured from under the engine cowling as the Wildcat pilot went into a steep dive, bringing the Zeroes closer to our guns.

  The Zeroes were now unmistakable, their bubble canopies and red Rising Sun insignias stark against a light grey background as they closed in on the Wildcat, guns chattering, bursts of tracer rounds bracketing their quarry. The American fighter drew closer, no more than a couple of hundred yards above the water. As he banked to our right, giving the PT boat a clear shot at his pursuers, he lost even more altitude. I could make out oil streaks across his canopy and bullet holes along the fuselage, and I hoped he’d make it back if our fire could manage to distract the Zeroes.

  Then all hell broke loose and I wondered if the Zeroes were glad to trade targets.

  Great spouts of seawater rose up around us, the machine gun and cannon fire from the Jap planes creating a maelstrom as the two twin fifty-calibers behind me opened up, their rapid fire a counterpoint to the steady, slower hammering of the twenty-millimeter cannon. I ducked, shield
ing my ears from the clamoring of the weapons, the raging screams of men firing at the enemy, the snarl of engines, and the blood pounding in my head.

  Rounds thumped into the wooden deck, sending splinters flying past my face. I hung on as Cotter took evasive action and watched as the Zeroes pulled away, each arcing off in a different direction to divide our fire. One of them spat out a couple of white puffs of smoke as his engine sputtered and he continued on away from us. The crew cheered at the evidence of their marksmanship. The Wildcat was now a good distance to our rear, flying low and steady. If he didn’t make it all the way to Guadalcanal, he could probably ditch with a good chance of rescue.

  “Look!” Kaz shouted. “Twelve o’clock low!” The other Zero wasn’t escorting his pal home. He was coming back for us. This time he was flying close to the wavetops, perhaps hoping we couldn’t lower our guns enough, or maybe to maximize his own flame. Whatever the reason, the Zero looked like a demon breathing fire as it bore down on us. Cotter zigged and zagged, which I figured was to throw the Jap’s aim off, but it did the same for our gunners. Tracers zipped back and forth, filling the air between the plane and the boat with lines of burning phosphorous, deadly stitches of yellow-white seeking to destroy, to eliminate the enemy threat.

  It all happened at once. We were hit again, this time the gunner by my side taking a round in the head. His body dropped like a heavy sack just as the Zero blossomed into flames, parts blowing off as the plane stayed on course, inertia and momentum carrying it forward, straight for the splintered and bloody bow of our ship.

  Cotter spun the wheel hard to port, and once again I hung on, grasping the handrail and hoping that if I got tossed over, I’d make it clear of the boat’s propellers.

  The Zero lost more altitude, one wing dipping drunkenly, the pilot by now likely a dead hand on the stick. The wingtip brushed the surface of the waves, tossing up a delicate plume of water, a glimmering, incongruous spray against the trailing flames. The wingtip of the Zero seemed to balance on the water perfectly, until the aircraft cartwheeled and slammed hard on its back, the sea around it burning with aviation fuel.