James Benn: The White Ghost

“You’re lucky,” Nixon said. “Tulagi is a tropical paradise compared to Guadalcanal. That’s why the British made it their district headquarters for the Solomons. Is one of our guys involved?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” I said. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know a pal of mine from Boston, would you? PT skipper named Jack Kennedy? He had his boat sunk recently.” I made it sound casual, to see if any scuttlebutt had reached across the bay about Jack being involved with the killing.

“Kennedy?” Nixon said, tapping his finger against the dark stubble on his cheek. “No, never heard of him. PT boats get sunk all the time. Wouldn’t exactly be big news. Sorry. Good luck, fellas.” Nixon waved to Cluster and we headed over to him. We did the salutes and introductions. Cluster was good-looking, tanned and blond. A walking advertisement for PT boats.

“Have a seat,” he said. “I understand you boys have come a long way.”

“How’d you hear that, Commander?” I said in my most polite voice. As far as I knew, a commander in the navy was close to a colonel in the army, so until we knew how things worked out here, it paid to observe the niceties of military rank. He also wore an Annapolis ring, so I figured he’d be a stickler for that stuff.

“Between the pilots coming through here and the navy base on Tulagi, you can pick up a lot of gossip. I heard about two hotshots sent out here all the way from Europe to investigate us,” Cluster said, eyeing me as he sipped coffee from a chipped mug. “Figured I’d better check you out myself.”

“Must be two other guys,” I said. “We came from North Africa. To look into the murder of a native, not to investigate the navy.”

“Sounds like you might be ready to make an arrest,” Cluster said. “I heard you mention one of my men to Nix.”

“Jack Kennedy is one of yours?”

“I have two Motor Torpedo Squadrons up at Rendova. Jack is one of my best skippers, and he’s been through a lot.”

“We heard about his boat being sunk,” I said. “And I know Jack from Boston. That’s why I was asking about him.”

“You’re a friend of his?” Cluster asked.

“We’re acquainted,” I said. “It’s been a while. But we have no plans to arrest anyone. We’ve simply been sent here to look into things.” Cluster looked at Kaz, then back to me. He set his cup on the table and leaned back, taking our measure.

“You know Jack, but you avoid calling him a friend,” he said. “You’re both from Boston, but your accent doesn’t sound as Harvard as his.”

“South Boston,” I said. “I was a cop before the war.”

Cluster nodded, his face grim. “So either Jack’s father sent you, or someone who is an enemy of the old man,” he said. “Or this is the biggest coincidence of the war.”

“No coincidence,” I said. “We were picked for the job, you’re right. But it won’t be a whitewash. Or a witch hunt. You have my word.”

“Okay,” Cluster said. “And if that’s true, I don’t envy you the assignment.”

“Tell me about it, Commander. I could use some of that coffee. Is it any good?”

“Best in the Solomons,” he said, signaling for two more to a sailor at the grill. “Nix takes care of his pilots. Like I take care of my PT crews.”

With that subtle warning in mind, we ate hamburgers and drank coffee. The chow wasn’t bad, and the hot joe was welcome even in the sticky, humid air. An occasional breeze blew the heat around, but it wasn’t long before our khakis were drenched with sweat. Many of the guys were shirtless or wearing grimy T-shirts.

“Proper uniforms do not seem to be the order of the day here,” Kaz said.

“Not on Guadalcanal,” Cluster said. “The rot is in the air. You can smell the decay. Those leather shoes of yours would be mildewed by morning and falling off your feet by nightfall. The humidity eats at everything. If there wasn’t flat ground for an airstrip, no one would want this place.” He shook his head as if in disgust at the very notion of the island.

“Nixon said Tulagi was better,” I said.

“A lot better,” Cluster said. “Which is why the hospital and naval headquarters are there. I’ll bring you over on my boat.”

“Boat?” Kaz asked. “Is it a long journey?”

“Less than thirty miles,” Cluster said. “An easy run. Unless the Japs make a daylight raid, but the action has mostly moved to the northwest, up to Rendova and New Georgia. They’re more likely to come at night. We still have a few hours before dusk, but we might as well get started.”

“Why at night?” Kaz asked as we left the thatched-roof grill and blinked our eyes against the blinding sun.

“A raid in force could come at any time. But after dark our propellers churn up the phosphorescence in the water when we’re under way. So the Kawanishis like to fly low and slow looking for phosphorescent wakes. They patrol the Slot-the main channel running through the Solomons-nearly every night. The wake is like a big arrow pointing right at us. We can’t see the Jap planes but they can see us. Not a good combination.”

“We already had a run-in with a Kawanishi,” I said. “Our PBY almost collided with one in a cloud bank.”

“Don’t worry,” Cluster said. “It won’t be your last.”

We walked along the runway, heading for a line of vehicles. A burned-out bulldozer and a wrecked aircraft-Japanese and American, respectively-sat rusting in the sun. Weeds and vines grew through gaps in the shredded steel and aluminum, testament to the jungle pressing in on us.

“Even metal doesn’t last long on Guadalcanal,” Cluster said, waving his hand over the pile of battle debris. “Rust, rot, and the jungle will swallow all this up. I wonder if people will remember this place when it’s all over. Seven thousand soldiers, sailors, and marines dead. The brass guess about thirty thousand Japs dead, all told. Out there in the channel, there’s so many sunken ships they call it Ironbottom Sound. Except for the occasional bombing, it’s basically a backwater, a stopover on the way to the real war.”

“How long have you been out here, Commander?” Kaz asked.

Cluster stopped, staring at the wreckage. He didn’t answer. Which was an answer. Too long.

“Come on,” he finally said. “Let’s get you two outfitted for the Solomons.”

“Whatever you say, Commander,” I said. We got in his jeep, tossing in our haversacks. I got the sense that we’d passed some sort of test. He’d warmed up, or maybe simply figured out that I was a pawn in someone else’s game. No threat to his men, at least not compared to the Japanese.

The army sergeant waved away our orders as I began to unfold them.

“No need,” he said. “If you’re with the commander, you’re okay by me.” We were in a large tent with the sides rolled up, surrounded by K rations, Spam, artillery shells, grenades, medical supplies, and all the other tools of assault and sustenance.

“Ditch them shoes,” the sergeant said. “They won’t last unless you’re going to sit at a desk over on Tulagi. And then not for long anyways.”

“You have those new jungle boots?” Cluster asked. The sergeant nodded and eyed our feet, then reached into a crate to grab a couple pairs.

“Try these on,” he said. “They don’t last long either, but they’re rubber soled and made of canvas. Water drains right out, and you can count on getting soaked plenty around here.”

“So what good are they?” I asked as I slipped one on.

“Leather combat boots mildew and rot,” he said. “Plus they keep water in when you get wet, so you end up with all sorts of fungi. The canvas boots don’t hold up over the long haul, but they’re a damn sight better than the old clodhoppers.”