Islands of Deception

by Constance Hood

  “And French, I speak French too.”

  The Captain raised his eyebrows and looked up waiting to hear more. He was visibly impressed, and Hank loved making a good impression. “My father was a merchant, sir. I also speak some Malay.”

  “Burns, we’re reassigning you.”

  “Is there something wrong, sir?”

  “I don’t think so. The combat photographers are all in a unit from Washington. There are only a few hundred of you guys, and only a couple of you speak foreign languages. Apparently, you have been recommended for Counter Intelligence. You’re good at finding things?”

  Hank couldn’t figure out what the CO meant. But he saw now that two letters had been pulled from his file.

  “Yes, sir!”

  The CO continued, “Your commendation from the FBI – says you participated in uncovering a matter of national security.” He paused to read the other letter. “And this other one, a still? … Was it any good?”

  “Sir, I don’t know. I don’t drink much.”

  “We’re going to have you go out to the South Pacific, but your identity will be as a Dutchman. You’ll be part of the U.S. Army, but they want you to be part of a team of college boys and foreigners who can figure out what is going on out there. You guys are going to some French Island, and we are in the middle of building a U.S. base out there. Only problem is, the French are a damned mess. They’ve got all the loyalties of a weathervane. Half are Vichy Nazi bastards and the occupied Free French are lost somewhere in their 18th century frou-frou.”

  “So who else is going from here?”

  “Nobody. Oh, and by the way, you won’t be meeting with other operatives. You’re all reporting up different lines.”

  “So what kind of training–“

  “There isn’t any.” Hank saw the CO shake his head in disbelief. The officer couldn’t even look at him.

  “No training, and incidentally there are 3,600 islands in the Pacific, each with a different chief, tribes of cannibals, and God knows how many settlements full of deported criminals. Beats me why the Japs want it. You’ll need to be careful, and very discreet.”

  Hank nodded, eyes wide and ears pulled back. He was a dead man.

  The CO opened up a second set of files and read some orders. “So here’s the deal. There are Dutch ships harbored in South Africa right now, and we’re going to fly you out to join a merchant marine cargo ship.”

  Hank had six hours to pack and store his civilian life. Within a day he was in the air. The assignment was still a mystery.

  Chapter Nineteen

  July 1942

  Son of Neptune

  “Loose lips might sink ships!” ~ Poster

  Pan Am clippers flew daily from New York to England. Beyond that they avoided any territories patrolled by German or Italian units. From New York the men had flown to Southampton, then been whisked to Cairo, and were now on the approach to Timbuktu. The Congo was still a Belgian colony and the new Boeing 314 could travel 2,000 miles on a single fueling. The flying elephant of a plane bounced every which way and, after the first few hours, flight was no longer a novelty.

  This advance group of operatives would be in the Pacific in less than two weeks, moving ahead of the troop ships that took five weeks or more. Hank sat in the dark. He had signed up to serve, but he didn’t understand his directive. Incomprehensible plans linked the fates of these men. They all spoke more than one language. All had signed documents to keep secrets, but no one knew any. There was no bravado. These men were not boasting about fistfights they had won.

  Playing cards and pennies appeared on a tray. Josh, a soldier from the Midwest, pulled the bill of his cap over so it shaded his face.

  “What is that, your green eyeshade? You a CPA?” A second player kept a stony silence throughout the game as men tried to mislead each other on the odds.

  Josh smiled. “Yep. MBA, University of Michigan.”

  A lawyer from Minnesota took his glasses off – apparently he was afraid someone could see the reflection of his cards.

  Hank didn’t know poker, so he sat to the side, learning how to evaluate the hands. “Come on buddy, let’s deal you in.”

  He stalled. “I’m not really good at games of chance. I don’t want to make mistakes.”

  The lawyer commented, “You know, I’ve made my entire living off of people’s mistakes. It happens. Are you afraid of mistakes, or of taking risks?” He put his glasses back on, and turned toward Hank.

  An abrupt response, “I’m not afraid. I volunteered.”

  “You better be scared. We’ve got an entire planeload of guys who aren’t a unit. I don’t think anyone here knows what he’s supposed to be doing. The risk is already there, so the question is, did anyone make a mistake planning this caper? That’s a fatal combination.”

  The engines droned through that extended night, darkness of the sky concealing an even darker land. Men shifted positions on the benches, their fatigued bodies fighting for sleep that did not come. As the sky reddened with a morning sun the plane landed at Durban, South Africa. The passengers were in plain khaki shirts, stripped of all insignia. There were no ranks and no units. They had new identities, and they were walking into a nest of layered U.S. and British Army and Navy commanders. Their job was to ferret out bits of information and feed them to the hawks that were making the plans.

  Hank pulled out his penknife and opened his envelope of instructions. A well- worn Dutch passport fell out of the envelope, bent, grimy and filled with pages full of foreign stamps. His photo and the name of Hans Steen appeared on the first pages. He examined the next paper.

  “AR 380-115, pertaining to handling of secret documents will be complied with in the handling of this manual.” He was to proceed to the harbor in Durban and board a Dutch merchant marine ship, commanded by a Captain Schoonover. No other person on the ship would know that he was working for the United States. At last he was part of the war, resolutely moving toward a theater of combat. He was simultaneously being propelled backward. He had spent three years erasing his lifetime as a Dutchman. Now he had to reconstitute a Dutch identity in short order, and he hadn’t even seen a Dutch newspaper since leaving Amsterdam. He hailed a taxi, and asked for a ride to the merchant marine docks.

  The VNS Westerveldt was an immaculate small ship. Some twenty or more cranes were perched and chained on the deck. Thousands of meters of massive ropes and cables were wound into spools. A 50mm machine gun perched over the wheelhouse, its belt of ammunition ready to roll. Clearly this boat was not going to be carrying tea and chocolate.

  Hank, once again Hans, picked up his duffel bag and walked up the gangplank, asking for the Captain. “Are you a seaman?”

  “Something like that. He’s expecting me.”

  A navy blue jacket with gold stripes came into view. Schoonover was a classic Dutchman, sturdy, somewhere in his early forties with a little grizzle around the ears and hairline. Permanent sunburn creased his face. Deep crows’ feet lined blue eyes that had squinted into horizons throughout much of his life.

  The Westerveldt was headed out to sea, a loaded ship tightly secured into its placement within a large convoy. There was no open view of the ocean, and not much of an unobstructed view of the sky. One boat was positioned behind the other with little room to move except forward within the entire formation. Destroyers and mine sweepers escorted the entire fleet, prepared to attack any intruders. Most of the boats were Merchant marine cargo, like the Westerveldt. The miles long fleet could be outmaneuvered by every living creature in the sea, let alone airplanes or submarines. Schoonover’s job was to keep the boat moving, not get shot, and not bump into anyone else.

  As twilight fell, so did the command to darken ship. No one knew what monsters lay beneath the waves, but curtains were drawn so that no glimmer of light would show. A few silvery ghosts appeared on the horizon, blending in
with the night.

  A couple of sailors kept watch, and the company came to life when the dinner bell rang.

  The Officers’ Mess was the only part of the ship that looked remotely Dutch to Hans, and the few passengers were invited to join the group. Hans Steen sat down at the officers’ table and greeted the captain in Dutch. Schoonover presided over dinner. Oak chairs were upholstered in leather, and the heavy wooden tables were bolted to the floor in case of rough seas. Each meal was served on thick porcelain plates, the kind that wouldn’t shatter if they slid off of a table. Cook had put together fragrant dishes from preserved foods, and served them in hotel silver. Today the crew had set a trawl, and they had a delicious meal of fresh tuna, served up with pickled vegetables and rice. Candied ginger was laid out in small dishes to aid digestion. Heerlijk! Heavenly.

  Hans looked around the dining room space, empty of men except him and the captain. He was dressed in his tweeds, but Schoonover was still in his Navy Blue woolen suit with bars, ribbons, and stripes.

  “So, you are with us as a tourist? What would make someone want to tour these days?” The captain opened a wooden box, pulled out a bottle of cognac and two small snifters. He poured some of the amber liquid into one. He would not be on deck again until eight the next morning. “Hans, would you care for a little snort? Lekker – it’s delicious.”

  “I’m not sure; I don’t really drink.”

  Schoonover poured a couple ounces into the bottom of a second snifter and handed it across the table.

  “Yes, I’ll try it. Bedankt – Thank you.” The glass glowed against the lamps in the dining room.

  Hans’s eyes shifted toward the liquid in the glass. His prepared story now seemed phony, but he went ahead. “I need to stop by and look at some land. We haven’t heard from my aunt and uncle in some time. I hear that the Japanese are all over the colonies like bees.” He waited for Schoonover to complete the idea.

  Instead, Schoonover pulled out two short pieces of rope from his pockets, and began tying them into knots. His fingers whipped through the line, forming a large loop, and then securing it. He studied the figure 8 that he had formed, then pulled it apart and started over, commenting.

  “Ah, the Japanese have an idea that the natives will be better off under Japanese Pan-Asian rule.” Hans nodded in agreement, but he actually didn’t quite understand. This comment did not fit with the distinctive cultures he had seen as a teenager. He began to run his finger around the edge of the snifter. An inquiring look led the captain to continue. “Never mind that most of the natives are mixed races and nobody fits the description of the master race.” Schoonover swallowed about half of his cognac and set the glass down. His steady gaze never left Hans’s face. “Where do your people live?”

  Hans twirled the glass in his hands, looking at the room through the rounded bowl. He didn’t want to talk about the islands any more. “I am from Amsterdam.”

  Schoonover handed Hans a piece of rope. “Here.”

  Hans looked at the rope, puzzled.

  “Young man, you are far too nervous, and I don’t see calm days ahead. You need to busy those hands.” The captain picked up his rope and lifted an end. “Do you like to tie knots?”

  Hans watched intently and followed the captain’s movements as they tied slipknots. Of course. Sailors used ropes for everything. While he was concentrating on the rope, Schoonover asked, “Have you heard from them recently?”

  Hans spoke immediately, still not quite paying attention to the captain. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t. I wrote a letter to my mother some months ago.” He observed Schoonover, then tied a loop in the piece of rope.

  “Things are terrible in Holland.” Schoonover tied a second loop, and slipped the two lines together. “Fisherman’s knot – strongest way to splice two ropes together. Won’t slip.” He yanked the ends, the ropes slid out to their full length, but wouldn’t go beyond the knots. Two opposing forces balanced each other and acted as one.

  “Even the letters from my wife are censored, but I gather that Holland has agreed to Nazi rule.”

  Hans dropped his rope and looked intently at the captain. “What do you think that’s like?”

  “Most of the food has been shipped from Dutch farms into Germany. There is very little in Holland. And, of course, the Germans now have lots of Dutch labor. Dutch police are gathering up the Jews and they are going off to work in the East.” Schoonover pulled the next line tight, into a snare.

  The captain’s guest went completely pale, then took the snifter and finished his drink. His strength needed to be reserved for fighting, not worrying. He couldn’t imagine his mother or his sister working, and Max was too young.

  Schoonover’s voice broke into his nervous vision of Esther in a work camp. “So I gather you will be leaving us in Noumea? I will be dropping some cargo there as well.”

  “Do you know New Caledonia?”

  “Lots of French planters. And a big nickel mine.” Schoonover looked at him and watched the reflection in his eyes. There was no indication that Hans understood that nickel and steel could be combined into tough stainless steel that would not corrode.

  Hans looked up. “So Holland is once again in the business of international freight?”

  Schoonover put down his glass. The captain smiled. “There are all kinds of freight. If it fits in the hold we will carry it.”

  He didn’t disclose that the entire hold was now full of rusty iron bars and old barbed wire and had been dodging fights on its way to meet up with the convoy in the Indian Ocean. The Dutch fleet had sailed from England and the Westerveldt, along with many others, was loaded with scrap metal from South Africa. Iron and steel could make guns and bullets. Combined with nickel, the steel would not rust or lose its edge. Old scrap would fuel the Allied crucible.

  “My friend, it’s already near midnight, and I have to be on watch again in the early morning. Good night.” Schoonover replaced his cognac in the cushioned box, protecting it from a rolling sea.

  Chapter Twenty

  July 1942

  Indian Ocean

  Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!

  U.S. Admiral D. Farragut

  Mickey, the ship’s cat, ran by with a kitten in her mouth and placed it under the bar before running back outside to grab another. Hans was spreading marmalade on his roll when sirens in the dining room shrieked so loudly that he dropped the butter knife. He clapped his hands over his ears, stunned by the noise. Men shoved their chairs under tables and ran for positions. Completely paralyzed, Hans froze not knowing what to do except that he wasn’t supposed to finish his breakfast. Plates and cups rattled as he jumped up from the table and ran, following the others.

  Almost immediately he stumbled over the maze of various hatch covers as a swell rolled under the ship. Hochtverdommung! Goddammit! Picking himself up, he bumped into one of the Aussie crew. “What’s happened?”

  A pockmarked and unshaven face appeared at his side. “It’s sure not a fish fart.” The sailor looked into Hans’s pale face. “Torpedoes, mate. We got Jap visitors.”

  “Are we hit?”

  “Not yet, but someone is. They’re gonna be after the rest of us. Sons of bitches. The Japs kill their wounded and chop ‘em up for dinner.”

  The VNS Westerveldt #41 was now locked into a convoy of battleships, destroyers and merchant ships that stretched out for miles through unknown waters. The fleet was not near enemy territories but the Japanese submarines roamed where they wished, devouring ships like some monstrous leviathan. Then they would disappear, waiting for their next meal. Through the loudspeaker static came the voice of the first mate addressing the crew in English, French and Dutch. A confirmed strike on Ship #81, Visser.

  Hans clung to the halyard, trying to maintain his balance. Curiosity overtook any sense of terror. “What are we supposed to do?”

  The Aussie
looked at Hans, white knuckles clasping the cable, and shoved past him. “You better start praying.” The man began to unlash one of the big spools of rope. Hans ran to his side. “Here mate, you can help me feed this astern.” The hemp cable unwound, snaking its way across the deck and Hans fed it to another seaman.

  Invisible pathways joined the fleet together to move as a single unit, an imposing force too large to destroy. Each captain worked within his piece of the puzzle, making progress without getting hit by the enemy or colliding with another ship. The Visser #81 was a couple miles behind the Westerveldt #41, but once the submarines located a convoy all the ships were vulnerable. When a ship was hit, the entire convoy was forced to halt.

  The loudspeaker sounded. “All in place for rescue operations.”

  Hans’s training as a combat photographer had not prepared him for how people would react in the face of danger. The deck was a frenzy of activity. Life-rafts were inspected for leaks and supplies. Benches opened up to reveal neatly packed life preservers and inflatable canvas belts. Ropes were readied in case any of the Visser survivors ended up near the Westerveldt. That was unlikely, but it was more than likely that another ship would be hit. Once the subs found a convoy, they picked off ships until they reached open waters. They might be moving from the Visser toward the back of the fleet, or they might move forward into the center, throwing everything into confusion.

  As soon as Hans finished assisting the Australian sailor, he climbed the ladder above the wheelhouse and looked back into the convoy. He was a photojournalist, and his job was to photograph action. In the distance he spotted the black plume of smoke rising into the air from the crippled ship. His lens could not capture the chaos around it.

  A searing white sun hung over the Indian Ocean, but even in clear waters the submarine could not be spotted. Hans had never been fond of fishing, playing with things he could not see. The unseen enemy dominated the quiet hours between explosions. Japanese torpedoes flew through the waters. British destroyers sent down depth charges and struck nothing. The men kept watch, and Hans stood rooted into his lookout position for hours.