by James R Benn
“It’s a long shot, but they probably didn’t keep that many troops on Pavau. It’s small, and there’s no airstrip or large harbor. They could have been sent down to Guadalcanal, in which case they’re probably all dead. Or to New Georgia, where the fighting is now. But we could get lucky.”
“What do you think a Japanese soldier will tell us? How he massacred the natives at Porter’s plantation?”
“I don’t expect a confession,” I said, as we descended from the hills and took the road along the coast. I inhaled the fresh salt air, hoping it might wash away the images burned into my mind. Very interesting. “But I’d like to know more about how it got started. We heard someone killed a Jap first. If there is a living witness, I think he’d readily tell us about that.”
“And then relate his own version of what followed,” Kaz said.
“Right. But I don’t care about that. I care about who started things.”
“Porter—I mean Fraser—are you saying he fired the first shot? Intentionally?”
“Convenient, wasn’t it, that everyone on the plantation who could identify him was killed? I think maybe things happened much like he said, except it was the real Porter who stayed behind to gather people together while Fraser hid the boat from the Japs.”
“So everyone is in one place, and as the Japanese approach the plantation, Fraser fires on the soldiers,” Kaz said, pulling his brim low over his eyes as we drove into the fierce afternoon sun.
“Who react in rage at the nearest natives and Porter. Fraser makes his escape, and becomes Silas Porter. Out here, no one would question him. Porter is well-known as a hermit, and his story of survival is readily accepted, especially since he volunteers with the Coastwatchers.” No one questions a hero.
“Which is dangerous, but also an endeavor that keeps him hidden. The entire Coastwatcher operation is shrouded in secrecy.”
“Right,” I said. “A risky venture, but with a big payoff. After the war, he returns to reclaim his plantation on Pavau.”
“He’s killed three people to keep his secret,” Kaz said. “And believes Josh Coburn to be dead. He must be feeling rather secure by now.”
“We’ll have to use that against him,” I said, with as much confidence as I could muster, having no idea how to actually make that work.
We arrived at the dock in time for the air-raid sirens to wail. We made for a slit trench crowded with sailors and natives who’d been loading supplies. The ground was so wet, we were ankle-deep in mud, but no one minded when the bombs began to fall. The earth shook and geysers rose up from hits in the water, but there was no serious damage. It was over in minutes, a nuisance raid. We stuck our heads above ground and watched the Betties fly over Lumbari, about a mile away. Antiaircraft fire pocketed the sky with dark puffs of explosions and bright white tracers, but the bombers stayed on course, dropping what looked like small specks in wavering, wobbly lines that found their way to the PT base, sending distant, faint crumps into the thick afternoon air.
Silence descended like dust. The bombers made for the horizon and the guns stood mute. We clambered out of the trench, smiling. That idiotic grin at the joy of living after a brush with death plastered on our faces, Fuzzy Wuzzies and crew cuts alike. Everyone likes being alive, and even though most won’t admit it, more so when others are freshly dead.
We waited while a crew of natives pulled the launch from the water, where it had been swamped by the bombs that had struck off shore. An hour later, we were back on Lumbari, walking through thick smoke from the fires still crackling in the heat. A supply dump had taken a direct hit, thick, oily smoke rising from the shattered fuel drums. A jeep filled with wounded sailors drove past us, heading for the hospital tent. Nearing the beach, we saw a PT shredded by a bomb, luckily not Cotter’s PT-169.
We made for the communications center in Garfield’s bunker, and waited for things to settle down so I could have two messages sent out. The first was to Captain Ritchie, asking him to contact the Sydney police for a description of Peter Fraser, who’d once worked at the Lever soap factory. The second was to Hugh Sexton, inquiring if the man he knew as Silas Porter had come to the Coastwatchers with a hunting rifle back in 1942. I was betting the answer would be yes.
We ate in the mess tent. Greasy meat stew for Kaz and me, and powdered eggs and reconstituted potatoes for Cotter and the crew of PT-169. It was getting dark. In theory, they’d slept during the day to rest up for their night patrol, but between the stifling heat and the bombing Betties, they looked beat; listless and hollow-eyed. Still, they shoveled in what passed for breakfast and guzzled coffee, readying themselves for another rendezvous with the Tokyo Express.
“I think I prefer Algiers to these islands,” Kaz said, exploring his stew and picking out an unappetizing clot of gristle. “Let’s get this killer and go home.”
Home. Funny how the North African desert and mountains felt like home, now that we were away from it. For me, Diana Seaton was what made it special. I hoped she was still there, not off on another SOE assignment. I imagined her in the Hotel Saint George, in the very room where I’d left her. It was a pleasant daydream, but it didn’t last long.
“Yes,” I said. “Tomorrow we’ll see if Sakato has any POWs for us to talk to. Then check on those radio messages. If things add up, all we’ll need is a ride to Choiseul.”
“Simple,” Kaz said, pushing away his unfinished stew.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The answer from Sexton came quickly the next morning. Yes, Porter had brought his own weapon with him. A Mark II Ross, a Canadian rifle. It was still at Sexton’s headquarters. He ended the message with a single word. Why?
I knew the Ross. It was highly accurate, a sniper’s rifle. But it had little tolerance for dirt and dampness. It tended to malfunction if not kept completely clean. Long and heavy, it certainly wasn’t suited for jungle warfare. My dad told me he’d met Canadian troops in France during the last war who got rid of them as soon as they could pick up a Lee-Enfield from the British dead. Except for the snipers. They loved the Ross.
“Are you going to answer him?” Kaz asked as we motored across the bay.
“No, not yet,” I said. “I don’t think Sexton would want Fraser to get away scot-free, but I could see him wanting to keep a valuable Coastwatcher in place for now.”
“There is logic to that. We could simply wait until he is withdrawn from Choiseul,” Kaz said.
“Well, we’re not waiting around for that,” I said. “And Fraser is smart. He might decide to pull another disappearing act if he senses anything is up. The last thing he’d expect would be for us to apprehend him behind enemy lines.”
“There is some logic to that as well,” Kaz said with a sly grin.
“Besides, I don’t think either of us wants to hang around the Solomons any longer than we have to,” I said, hoisting myself out of the launch and heading for our jeep, still in one piece after yesterday’s raid. Heavy grey clouds blew in from the east, winds moving the hot, humid air without providing one bit of relief. Our khakis were soaked with sweat, and it was still early morning. When the rains came, sheets of warm water washed us clean for a moment, and then stopped abruptly, leaving us wet, steamy, and smelling slightly of mold.
At the POW enclosure three trucks were being loaded up with prisoners. We watched the small convoy depart, jeeps with GIs cradling Thompson submachine guns following each of the transports. The prisoners looked worried, perhaps wondering if the propaganda had been right and they were being taken off to be executed.
“Don’t worry,” Sakato said, approaching us from the Quonset hut. “None of those are of interest to you. I found four men who were on Pavau. You can see them whenever you want.”
“Great,” I said. “Where are those prisoners headed? They looked pretty glum.”
“New Zealand,” Sakato said. “Some guys have all the luck. They’re frig
htened of going to a larger camp. More chance of running into hard-core types.”
“Hard-core types wouldn’t surrender in the first place, would they?” Kaz asked.
“Not willingly, no. Some are found wounded or unconscious and wake up really unhappy to be alive. If they don’t find a way to commit suicide, they make life miserable for everyone else. But your four men aren’t in that category. How do you want to handle this?”
“Let’s talk to them one at a time, okay?”
“No problem,” Sakato said as we followed him inside. “I’ll have them brought into the interrogation tent. You guys leave your pistols in my office. No weapons, remember?”
“I thought you said these four wouldn’t be a problem,” Kaz said, unbuckling his web belt.
“No reason to tempt fate,” Sakato said. “I speak the language like a native, but there is still much I don’t understand about Japanese people. I wouldn’t put it past the mildest, most peaceful prisoner to kill himself and take some of us with him. It’s been beaten into these men from birth.”
“Cheery guy,” I whispered to Kaz as we stashed my .45 automatic and his Webley revolver in Sakato’s office.
“Another man between two worlds,” Kaz said. “I do not envy him.”
“I don’t envy anyone on this island except Josh Coburn and his coffee,” I said, as we made for the interrogation tent. The flaps were rolled up to let in what breeze there was, except for the side that faced the POW pen. No reason to advertise. Guards flanked the entrance, rifles with bayonets fixed at parade rest. Sergeant Harrison guided in the first prisoner, ushering him to the chair opposite Sakato. A small table separated us, with Sakato in the middle and Kaz and me taking a back seat on either side.
“Taku Ishii, Private First Class, 20th Division,” Sakato said, looking up from the file in front of him. The soldier nodded, bowing deeply to Sakato, hands straight at his side. Sakato nodded his head slightly in return, and gestured for the man to sit. He did so nervously, bobbing his head and chattering in what seemed like endless thanks. He was nearly bald, what hair he had cropped short. He was thin and bony, with a long face and sad eyes. His light-brown uniform was worn but clean, and I knew his condition was far, far better than what our boys were enduring in Japanese camps.
“Ask him where and when he landed on Pavau,” I said. Sakato rattled off the questions in Japanese and listened to the answer, jotting notes as he did so.
“It was in May of 1942,” Sakato said. “He doesn’t remember the date. He was on a destroyer that docked on the southern tip of the island. He says there was no fighting, no resistance.”
“Did he hear of fighting anywhere else on Pavau?” I asked.
“No,” Sakato said following their exchange. “He says he was there for less than a week, and pulled out when the navy garrisoned the harbor. He does remember bodies washing up on shore, but says they were civilians drowned in a ferry accident.”
“Did he go to the northern end of Pavau?” Kaz asked. No, came the reply. He never left the harbor area.
Next up was Matsudo Kufuku, Leading Seaman with the 3rd Kure Special Naval Landing Force. He performed the same bow before taking his seat. He looked tough, not quite as nervous as the first guy. His faded green uniform hung loosely on his frame.
“He’s a marine, right?” I asked.
“Naval infantry, yes,” Sakato said. “Our marines don’t think much of them, but that’s to be expected.”
“Can we give him a cigarette?” I asked, noting how Matsudo studied each of us. Wary eyes, but unworried. I had the sense he was a survivor.
“Sure,” Sakato said, shaking two Lucky Strikes from his pack, rolling one across the table to Matsudo, taking the other for himself. He lit both from his Zippo, and Matsudo leaned back, drawing the smoke in deep and smiling as he exhaled. Sakato asked the first question.
“Yes, he remembers. May, 1942. His platoon landed on the north side, in an armed barge, covered by destroyers. He says there was a small dock, but no enemy ships opposed them.”
“The north side? Are you sure?” Sakato repeated the question.
“Hai,” with the self-assurance that told me it meant yes.
“Ask him if they encountered resistance,” I said.
“Yes,” Sakato said, after listening to what sounded like an angry response. “First an ensign was shot and killed. He was popular with the men, since he didn’t treat them harshly.”
“Then?”
“They fired into the bush where they thought the shot had come from,” Sakato said. “They were all very angry.”
“It was a single shot?” I asked. That got another hai, followed by a more subdued response.
“He says,” Sakato began, releasing a deep sigh, “that the road from the dock led to a plantation. A big house, surrounded by smaller buildings. They fanned out, worried about the sniper. Natives came out and began waving their arms and shouting, but no one understood. He thinks they were being friendly, but others thought they were threatening.”
“Did he see a white man?” I asked.
“Yes. An old white man, he says. He came out of the house and stood with his hands held high. He spoke to the lieutenant in charge, but no one understood him. Then another shot was fired.”
“By the sniper?”
“Yes, Matsudo is certain of that. It didn’t hit anyone, but the natives started to run, the old man was shouting, and suddenly there was a lot of firing.”
“They killed them all,” I said.
Hai.
The next two POWs were of no help. One soldier who’d also landed on the southern shore and a mechanic who worked at a seaplane base on Pavau weeks after the invasion. But we only needed to hear that story once.
“What are you going to do with him?” Kaz asked Sakato when we were back in his office, buckling our web belts.
“Not much I can do,” he said. “He denies taking part in the slaughter. His story is that most of the other men had never been in combat, and that they were nervous and upset after their ensign was killed.”
“That has a ring of truth to it,” Kaz said. “Once the shooting starts, it can be hard to stop.”
“I think he’s telling the truth,” Sakato said. “He fought in New Guinea before being transferred to the Solomons, so he’s had combat experience.”
“How was he captured?” I asked.
“It was at Enogai Point on New Georgia. His unit had been pushed back into the ocean. The few who were still alive swam out into the water and blew their heads off with grenades. Matsudo came out of a cave with his hands up. He told me he’d been the only survivor of his platoon in New Guinea, and now again on New Georgia. He thought it was a sign that he was meant to live.” Sakato shrugged, as if a bit embarrassed by the story.
“If all that is true, he seems a decent man,” Kaz said. “He didn’t murder anyone, sees the value in living, and was honest with us. One could ask for worse in an enemy.”
“I didn’t ask for any enemies,” Sakato said. “But I’ve got plenty. Back home they put my folks in an internment camp, and out here I’m considered a traitor to the emperor, except by the pitiful handful who surrender. Sorry, I mean cease resistance.”
“This must be hard, Lieutenant, but you’ve been a big help,” I said, extending my hand. I felt for Sakato, a decent guy stuck out here, forever cut off from the land of his ancestors, alone in the midst of his own people. We shook.
“You’ve helped us catch a murderer,” Kaz said as Sakato fired up another cigarette. I wondered if Kaz felt some sympathy for the nisei, a man cut off from family and homeland by friend and foe alike.
“That’s funny,” Sakato said. “Bodies are being bulldozed into ditches on Munda Field, right across the strait. And you’re looking for someone who killed three people? Small potatoes, boys. See you in the funny papers.” He grabbed a
stack of captured documents and spread them out across his desk, ash from his smoke scattering across the delicate, dancing script.
“Well, we got what we came for,” Kaz said as we made for the jeep. “It was a long shot that paid off.”
“Yeah,” I said, wishing that it had cheered me up some. I climbed into the driver’s seat and looked into the POW pen. Standing by himself at the wire was Matsudo Kufuku, his sun-bleached green uniform unlike all the brown army clothing the other POWs wore. A man alone and apart, straddling two worlds, unready for death, uncertain of life. Like Daniel Tamana, John Kari, and Joe Sakato, each filled with his own brand of loneliness and longing.
Like Peter Fraser, except Fraser chose to break with his old world and start anew. Too bad it meant getting blood on his hands.
Like Kaz, with his family and perhaps his nation forever gone.
Like me? Separated from the only world I ever thought I’d inhabit, Boston and the sacred confines of the Irish brotherhood of the police department.
War makes white ghosts of us all.
• • •
Dark clouds blew overhead as we drove, churning thick and low, about to burst and crackle lightning. The pungent, zesty smell of rain ready to fall filled our nostrils as swirling winds lifted the palm branches high, showing us their light undersides as they rose toward the heavens. We might get soaked, but it would keep Betty and her friends at home, which was well worth a drenching.
We ended up with the best of both worlds. Thunder boomed in the distance and lightning bolts stabbed at the sea, the rains a grey wall moving northeast to the Blanche Channel, separating Rendova from New Georgia.
Back at Lumbari, we checked in with the communications center. There was a response to the question I’d asked Ritchie to pass on to the Sydney police. A description of Peter Fraser: six feet one inch, a hundred and eighty-four pounds, brown hair, brown eyes. No record of arrest. It was signed by Yeoman Howe, who had added Good luck. We were going to need it.
“That settles it,” Kaz said as we stepped out of the bunker and into the grey afternoon. “We have his description, the rifle, an eyewitness account of a massacre orchestrated by a hidden sniper, the testimony of Josh Coburn—what else do we need?”
