James Benn: The White Ghost

“Comfortable,” I said, lacing up the boots. It was like wearing tennis shoes. “Anything else we should have?”

“You might want to get rid of that wool cap, Lieutenant,” the sergeant said to Kaz, who wore his British Army service cap.

“I shall keep the hat,” Kaz said. “Otherwise I may be mistaken for an American.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” I said, to which Kaz raised a languid eyebrow.

I swapped my garrison cap for a billed cap, or M41 HBT Field Utility Cap, Sage Green Herringbone Twill, as the army insisted on describing it. Shading my eyes from the glare of the sun would be important out here. I took a canvas holster to replace my leather one, figuring it would be hard enough to keep my.45 automatic clean without worrying about the holster decomposing around it. Kaz already had a tan canvas holster for his Webley revolver, which he had chosen because it matched the color of his web belt. Always the clotheshorse. Once the sergeant gave us an extra set of cotton khaki shirts and trousers, we were all set to win the battle against mildew and jungle rot.

I hoped that was as much fighting as we’d need to do.

Cluster drove to the docks at Lunga Point where his PT boat was docked. As he braked the jeep to a halt, a low wail rose in the air, a familiar sound from London and North Africa. Air-raid sirens. Seconds later came the snarling engines of Navy Wildcat fighters, the sound growing louder as the planes rose in the sky and flew overhead, due north.

“Let’s move!” Cluster yelled as he leapt from the jeep and made for the docks. We scrambled after him, haversacks in hand. The PT boat engines were rumbling; sailors held lines, ready to cast off. We raced up the gangplank as Cluster barked orders to the crew. Other PT boats were already underway, opening up their supercharged Packard engines as soon as they cleared the docks. Within seconds we joined them, sailors manning the two twin fifty-caliber machine guns swiveling their weapons skyward, searching for the enemy.

“What’s happening?” I asked above the sound of the engines. Kaz and I hung onto the rail behind the bridge as the boat thumped against the waves in the open water.

“Jap air raid,” Cluster shouted over his shoulder. “When we scramble fighters in a rush it means one of the Coastwatchers radioed in a warning.”

“I thought you said the Japs hardly ever came over in daylight,” Kaz said, wincing as the boat plowed through a swell that nearly knocked us off our feet.

“They must have known you were coming,” Cluster said with a grin as he spun the wheel to starboard, putting distance between our boat and the others scattering into Ironbottom Sound. After that all eyes were on the sky, searching for enemy aircraft.

But our first sighting was a formation of four Wildcats. They climbed away from us, probably worried about itchy trigger fingers. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

Then we saw what the Wildcats were after. A large formation, twin-engine bombers. Betties, they looked like, heading for Henderson Field. From above the Betties, Japanese fighter planes dove into the Wildcats, trying to intercept them before they had a chance to turn a Betty into a fireball. Cluster shouted an order to the engine room and the PT boat picked up speed, headed away from the dogfight and the oncoming bombers. The wind whipped against us, salt spray coating our faces. I glanced at Kaz, who had a landlubber’s pale look to his face. Me, I’d grown up going out into Massachusetts Bay with my dad’s fisherman buddies, so I enjoyed a ride across the wave tops. It was the men in aircraft trying to kill us I could do without.

I saw one plane go down in flames, but it was hard to tell what it was. The sky was a confusion of contrails, smoke, flame, and the distant chatter of machine guns. A few minutes later, Cluster eased up on the engines.

“What gives?” I asked.

“We’re getting close to Tulagi,” he said as an island came into view. “We don’t run the engines at full bore for long. Wears them out. We’ve put enough water between us and the Jap planes. They’re probably going to hit Guadalcanal in any case.”

That was a reasonable guess, but in short order we were watching two fighters circle, dive, and climb in a fight for advantage. As they dueled for position, they drew closer to us and farther from the other aircraft to our rear.

“Looks like a Wildcat,” I said. “What’s the Jap fighter? A Zero?”

“Nah, we don’t see many Zekes down this way,” the gunner next to me said. “They’re carrier-based. These are Jap Army planes from their bases on Bougainville, probably.”

“It’s a Tony,” the other gunner yelled. “He’s headed for us!”

The Wildcat dove to the deck, trailing smoke and heading for home. The Tony-I guessed fighters were boys and bombers girls-swung around to come at us from the port side. Kaz and I ducked behind the low bulwark behind the bridge and peeked out to watch the Tony’s approach. Cluster zigged and zagged, making for Tulagi and the protection of the antiaircraft batteries there.

The Jap fighter was too fast for us. We were still a mile or so out when he opened up, his machine guns sending up spouts of water in our wake. Our machine guns and the twenty-millimeter cannon on the aft deck returned fire, sending the fighter into a climb to escape the tracers seeking him out. He made a giant arc across the sky and came at our starboard side. I saw a thin wisp of white smoke coming from his engine. Had we scored a hit?

Then the Tony did. Rounds chewed into the bow of the PT boat, narrowly missing the bridge. Our guns followed the fighter as he roared overhead, staying with him this time. The trailing smoke grew as black and orange flames spread across the fuselage. A cheer went up from the crew, just in time to see the pilot bail out. The plane went into a spin and crashed into the ocean as his parachute opened, stark white against the blue sky.

“Let’s go get ourselves a prisoner, boys,” Cluster announced as he steered the boat toward the downed flyer.

As we neared the pilot, I leaned over the bulwark and watched him release his parachute and fumble with his life jacket. A crewman with a gaff stood at the bow, ready to pull him in. Jap prisoners were rare; I’d read about their last-ditch banzai charges and how they’d commit suicide with grenades rather than be captured. But this guy waved his arms as if he couldn’t wait to be hoisted aboard.

Cluster shouted an order to the engine room and the PT boat slowed as we came within reach. The sailor extended the gaff to the pilot who took hold of it, jerking on it suddenly and pulling the crewman into the water. He reached into his life jacket and came up with a pistol. He fired two shots at the bridge as he screamed, his face now contorted with hate and fury. Paddling with his free hand for a better angle, he squeezed off two more rounds, aiming at Cluster and his executive officer. He was so close, the machine gunners couldn’t depress their guns to fire a burst at him. More shots rang out as the crew ducked for cover and the sailor in the drink swam for it.

Kaz and I drew our weapons. Kaz crouched behind the bulwark and fired over the top, hoping to distract him. Our first shots went wide, and I saw the pilot load a new clip into his automatic, all the while yelling what may have been curses at us or prayers to the emperor. I heard Cluster order the engine to be reversed as we popped up again and fired, only to duck as rounds whizzed by our heads.

“Stay down,” a voice said from behind, followed by the welcome sound of a Thompson submachine gun wielded by a gunner’s mate. He fired two quick bursts, hot ejected shell casings showering our shoulders. “Now you can get up, lieutenants. Welcome to the Solomons.”