by James R Benn
Cotter turned, slowed the engines, and circled the wreck, but there was nothing to see but flames, nothing to feel but intense heat rolling off the water, nothing to care about but being alive.
For most of us, anyway.
The gunner’s torso lay against the bulwark, his life’s blood drenching the deck, the top half of his head nowhere to be seen. His lower jaw hung down, ribbons of muscle and flesh flung back above it, his tongue obscenely huge and pink against a dark, red space of nothingness. Shattered bone and brain were strewn against the steel bulkhead, splashed with blood. A single twenty-millimeter shell can do a hell of a lot of damage, taking only a split second to turn a living, breathing man into a riven carcass.
I had to tear my gaze away, the butchery of war as compelling as it was ugly and brutal. Deep inside, I knew why I had to look—not out of pity for the dead man, or the guilty thrill of carnage avoided, but to consider the possibility that I was no more than blood and gristle myself, that it could as well have been my own body cast asunder, revealing no visible soul, no humanity, no memories, nothing but cooling pink flesh.
I checked the damage to the boat, not interested in having it sink out from under us just as the fight had been won. The bow was pretty chewed up, and bullet holes decorated the bridge as well.
“Anyone else hurt?” Cotter asked, leaning over the bridge, wincing as he took in the scene below. No one spoke. I couldn’t get a word out, not even a grunt. I gave him a wave, trying to look like I was just fine. I saw flecks of blood on my hand and felt more running down the side of my face. I looked at Kaz, who had the presence of mind, if not the courage, to step into the gunner’s post and man the cannon. His face was spotted in blood as well—a fine, delicate red mist. Cotter increased throttle, and water soon broke over the bow, turning the pooled and darkening blood into a pink foam as it washed back over the side.
I leaned over the rail and vomited.
“I hope that pilot made it back,” Kaz said, wiping his face with a handkerchief. “Otherwise his maneuver held little merit.”
“And we could still be in trouble, if either of those pilots radioed our position,” I said, wiping my face with my sleeve. “Do you know how to work that thing?”
“I watched him,” Kaz said, his hands on the grip, his eye peering through the sight. “It seemed straightforward enough, but I hope for a more long-distance duel if we are attacked once again.”
Not for the first time, I marveled at Kaz’s ability to deal with any situation he found himself in. I guess after losing everyone you loved in the world, there was little surprise left in it. I went back to my binoculars, watching the sky for approaching fighters. Contrails drifted high above, thinning out as the planes dove to lower altitudes to bomb and strafe.
A few minutes later, I heard Archer shout from the rear of the boat. “Formation at two o’clock high! Twelve bandits!”
“On a course for Tulagi,” Gordie added.
I found them. Betties, it looked like.
“Fighters behind them,” Archer said calmly.
Cotter barked orders for the information to be radioed to Henderson Field, and then turned the boat to starboard.
“We’ll make for Russell Island and hide out until nightfall,” he told us. “We can’t get caught out in the open again. Those Betties might give us a working over on their return trip.”
We kept eyes on the aircraft as they passed by, intent on delivering their deadly loads to our home base. Lower and far behind, I made out a ragged formation of Wildcats, probably the squadron that had been scrambled to intercept the first group over Rendova. I hoped they had enough fuel and ammo left in case the Japs were headed for Henderson Field.
Cotter slowed as he approached one of the outlying islands. Crewman came forward to wrap the dead gunner—I never did catch his name—in weighted canvas for interment at sea.
“There’s no burying ground at Rendova. The base is on a small island, Lumbari, that’s basically a swamp surrounded by ocean,” Cotter explained, looking glum at the prospect of having to dump one of his men overboard with little time for ceremony. But he had the living to think of. A few words, bowed heads, a splash, and it was over. But some in this war had even less homage in death.
He took the boat past the small island, under cover of overhanging palms on the shore of Russell proper. The water was gentle here and slapped at the side of the hidden boat, rocking it like grandpa’s chair on the porch. Kaz and I rinsed ourselves with saltwater until all traces of blood were gone. Then we sat in the shade, a quiet, peaceful, drowsy rest as we waited for daylight and the war in the air to pass us by.
“You’re both lucky to be alive,” Gordie observed as we all relaxed amidships. “That was a damn close-run thing, as Wellington said at Waterloo.”
“I don’t know about Wellington, but if I were really lucky, I wouldn’t be wringing a dead man’s blood out of my socks,” I said, laying the pair of them out to dry and rolling up my trouser legs.
“Can’t say I appreciate that pilot bringing the Zeroes down on us,” Archer said, his voice an angry snarl. “Nearly got us all killed, the selfish bastard.”
“We had the firepower, and he was in trouble,” Cotter said, rising to go below. “It was a risk, and he took it. I’m going to check in with Rendova.”
“Calculated with the odds in his favor,” Archer said to Cotter’s back. “I’ve managed to keep myself alive so far. I don’t need a crazy Yank giving the Japs a leg up on doing me in.”
“Steady on,” Gordie said. “No need to blame the Yanks.”
“Steady on yourself,” Archer growled. “There’s blame enough to go around. First we lose Daniel, and it’s that Yank Kennedy who’s first on the scene. Then the Chinaman, and lo and behold, friend Jack was there, too. Poor Deanna gets knifed in Chinatown, and what do you know, she was his girlfriend when it suited him. I’ve had my fill of Yanks for a while. The bush is sounding like a safe place for a change.” He stalked off to the stern as the sound of aircraft droned overhead. We all ducked, as if that might make a difference.
“Don’t mind him,” Gordie said. “Nerves, that’s all. The past few weeks have been hectic, and with the killings, it’s been hard to relax and prepare mentally for the hard road ahead.”
“What’s the current situation on Ranongga?” Kaz asked. Gordie and Archer were headed back to their previous station.
“We don’t know,” he said. “The good news is that the invasion of New Georgia is bringing the war closer, and the island could be taken in the next few months, if I read the tea leaves correctly.”
“What’s the bad news?” I asked.
“That the Japs understand that as well, and may have established a garrison there. They have a small base at Emu harbor at the northern end of the island. They’d occasionally send patrols out, but by the time they got anywhere near us, the natives would have given us ample warning.”
“It is not a very large island,” Kaz said. “It must be hard to hide.”
“Easy enough if you have time to take the radio down and go off into the bush or up into the mountain. But if the Japs have established other bases since we left and manage to coordinate against us, it’ll be a different matter altogether. We’ve had our share of good luck so far, but since we came out, luck seems to have eluded us. I think that’s what got Archer spooked. Me, too, for that matter.”
Everyone turned silent as we heard the distant approach of aircraft. Not the steady hum of a formation, but the oncoming sounds of diving whines and turns, throaty open throttles and the sudden chatter of machine guns.
“It’s not healthy out there,” Cotter said, returning from below. “The PT base at Rendova’s been bombed, as well as our positions on New Georgia. The Japs sent fighters on down the Slot to draw our Wildcats away. That’s what we’re hearing.” He jerked his thumb up, toward the leafy palm tree cover, the
noise of dogfights ebbing and flowing over the island just out of sight. “Soon as the sun sets, we’ll head for Lumbari. The fighters will all be home by then, drinking their saki or scotch.”
“Then all we have to worry about are the Kawanishi,” Gordie said. “Delightful.”
“You knew that when you signed up for the cruise, Gordie,” Cotter said, slapping him on the shoulder. “I’m going to get some shut-eye.”
“He seems like a decent guy,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“You mean not the type to leave his comrades in the lurch?” Gordie said.
“More that I’m surprised he’d lie about it. From what I understand, he still insists he carried out a search.”
“Which seems unlikely, given the flames from the burning fuel on PT-109,” Kaz put in.
“Tell me, either of you,” Gordie said, “how long did you think that Zero was attacking us before it went down?”
“Forever,” Kaz said, to which I nodded my agreement.
“I’d say less than four seconds, but it likely felt much longer facing it head-on. Time is different out here,” Gordie said, stretching his hand out toward the water. “On the sea, I mean, in one of these flimsy plywood crates filled with fuel and explosives. Daylight or darkness, it makes little difference; it seems as if the entire Japanese air force and navy is determined to blast you to hell. At night, the lines from tracers burn your eyes and the fire from a destroyer’s guns is a blindingly bright, vivid white. Shore batteries, too, not to mention the threat of deadly Kawanishi overhead. Maybe he saw the burning fuel and mistook it for enemy fire. He may have searched, and thought he’d done so for thirty minutes or so.”
“It could have been much less?”
“Quite possible. I can’t say for certain, but perhaps by the time they docked at Lumbari, every man jack among the crew swore they carried out a full-scale search. And believed it themselves.”
“It is quite easy to conjecture,” Kaz said. “But we were not the ones left adrift and alone. Lieutenant Kennedy and his men certainly see things differently.”
“Less forgiving, I’m certain,” Gordie said, lighting a cigarette. “Say, I heard you both met up with old Luckman. What did you think of him?”
“How’d you hear that?” I asked.
“Telephone, old boy. I checked in with Hugh before we departed. You are the suspicious type, aren’t you?”
“Sorry, occupational hazard. I thought he was hurrying things a bit. Not much that the government can do until the Japs are cleared out.”
“I think it may have more to do with the natives and getting them back working at prewar wages,” Kaz said.
“How are you going to keep them down on the farm, isn’t that how the song goes?” Gordie said with a smile. “Very likely. Luckman’s a big cheese with Lever Brothers, don’t let that government stuff fool you. They’re working hand in glove.”
“It sounds like he’s working in your best interests as well,” I said. “It’s going to be hard getting your plantation back on its feet once the fighting is past. Don’t you want the natives to return to work without demanding higher wages?”
“Look,” Gordie said, “I want to profit from my work as much as the next man. What I paid my workers before the war was fair, by the standards of the day. Things have changed, I understand that. But I’m not a Lever man and wouldn’t work for them if I were down to my last shilling. Some of us came out here to make our own way, not to take pay from a corporation.”
“Did you ever run into Luckman?” I asked.
“I heard him speak at some gathering in Buka Town, on Bougainville, before the war. Drinks with the islanders, Lever seeking out new talent to run their plantations. I wasn’t interested, except for the drinking. He knew his stuff, I’ll give him that. Wasn’t afraid to get out into the bush and visit the more remote plantations. I made it clear Lever wasn’t for me, so he passed me by. He saw plenty of others, though.”
“He remembered Peter Fraser, Silas Porter’s assistant,” I said. “Thought he was manager material.”
“Don’t mention that around Archer,” Gordie said. “He spent time kowtowing to Luckman, only to be told Lever wasn’t interested in him. Too rough with the natives, which is true enough. Archer didn’t take it well.”
“I thought he came out here to get away from civilization after his father’s ranch went under,” I said. “Working for Lever doesn’t quite match up.”
“I think he feared another failure if his plantation didn’t prosper. He’d had a run of bad luck, and his treatment of his workers didn’t help. Too much stick and not enough carrot, if you know what I mean. Lever would at least mean security, and he’d still be an islander, in charge of his fiefdom.”
“It sounds as if you do not like the man,” Kaz said, glancing back to be sure Archer was out of earshot.
“Not a matter of liking or not,” Gordie said. “I trust him. He knows the bush, and he’s not afraid of a fight.”
“Good with a knife?” I asked, glancing at the stiletto on Gordie’s belt.
“There’s several dead Japs who can attest to that,” he said. “But I doubt he’d turn on his own.” Gordie’s eyes shot to the shore, where two natives had stepped silently out from the jungle.
“Aftanun ol’ta!” Gordie said loudly, drawing the attention of the rest of the crew. He waved cheerfully, and they smiled back.
“Good afternoon?” Kaz asked.
“Very good, Baron,” Gordie said and rose to speak to the natives, who approached the side of the PT boat, one of them carrying a spear. They had a rapid-fire conversation in Pijin I couldn’t follow, and one of them handed over a map to Gordie. He gave it a quick once-over, handed it to Cotter, and went below. Crewmen tossed them cigarettes and chewing gum. Gordie returned with two cans of Spam, which were even more eagerly accepted.
“Tanggio tumas,” Gordie said. “Thank you very much.”
“No wariwari,” the one with the spear said, waving to the rest of us. They turned and vanished silently into the thick bush, footprints in the sand the only evidence they’d been here. In a second, waves cleared away even that.
“Spooky buggers,” Archer said, returning to our group. “Glad most of ’em are on our side. What’d they say?”
Gordie lit a cigarette before returning to his seat. “A Zero went down about a mile offshore on the other side of the island. Men from their village paddled out when they saw the pilot parachute into the water.”
“Did they get him?” Cotter asked, looking up from studying the map.
“Hemi daefinis,” Gordie said with a smile. “He’s dead, finished. Came down bleeding, evidently. Sharks got to him before the native chaps. There was enough of him left attached to the ’chute for them to find that map.”
“Looks like they came from Buka, as reported,” Cotter said. “Routes to Lumbari and our lines on New Georgia are marked. Not much value as intelligence, but I’ll pass it on to G-2 when we get in tonight.”
“Things are pretty quiet right now,” I said. “We haven’t heard a plane in a while.”
“There’s still plenty of time for another daylight raid,” he said. “We stay here until dark. Get some rest.”
There wasn’t much else to do. I found a life jacket, not wanting to be without one on this trip again, and used it as a pillow, propping myself up against one of the torpedo tubes. Kaz did the same, along with the crewmen who weren’t on watch. Gordie and Archer sat at the stern, aloof now, perhaps steeling themselves for their upcoming mission. My eyes wandered to the dense, green jungle, thinking about the natives and how quickly they had disappeared from view.
Just as John Kari surely had, back on Choiseul with Silas Porter.
I’d been right about Kari lying when he said he hadn’t met Daniel on Pavau, but for the wrong reasons. Even if he were an unrepentant thief, that didn�
�t make him a triple murderer in my book. I couldn’t blame him for putting the past behind him and trying to start over, all the while hoping the war would cut memories short.
I tried to sleep. Even with my eyes closed, I could picture the natives melting into the bush. One second they were there; the next, they were gone. There and then gone. It felt important, but I had no idea why.
When I opened my eyes, the sun was skimming the horizon, and the cook—or I should say the poor slob assigned that duty—was distributing Vienna sausages and pickles for dinner.
“Sorry about the fare,” Cotter said. “We got more pickles than anything else for some damn reason.”
“I have been to Vienna,” Kaz said, eyeing the short, canned hot dogs coated in something that might have been tomato paste. “And I can tell you, the sausages there are nothing like this.”
“A delicacy for us, Baron,” Gordie said. “Or it will be in memory, after the first month of taro and sweet potatoes every day.”
“I never knew how brave Coastwatchers were,” Kaz said, forcing himself to chew and swallow.
A few minutes later, the engines started up, a deep rumble signaling our departure. Cotter eased the boat out from shore, negotiated the narrow channel, and headed northwest. The sun was down, the far horizon lit by the fading light, the sky above already sparkling with stars. A clear night. A dangerous night.
We tightened our life jackets as a crewman distributed helmets and weapons to the four of us along for the ride. A Browning Automatic Rifle for me, a Thompson submachine gun for Gordie, and M1 rifles for Archer and Kaz. We were instructed to take up watch aft, on the lookout for Kawanishi or anything else that followed the luminescent trail the propellers would leave.
“Be careful,” Cotter warned us when he came down from the bridge. “Don’t go off half-cocked. If you fire at anything, everyone else will, too. We’ll be lit up like a Christmas tree and visible for miles, so be sure before you shoot. Best to signal a crewman first if you’re not certain.”
