James Benn - The White Ghost

We stood. The top of the pilot’s head was gone, the sea around him stained red.

“Nice shooting, Chappy,” Cluster said, tossing a life ring overboard for the crewman still in the water.

“Everyone okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, he put some holes in my boat but no one got hit,” Cluster said. “And for the record, that bulwark isn’t metal, it’s plywood. If he shot at you through that, you’d get wood shards as well as a bullet.” Kaz rapped on the low wall and got the hollow sound of three-quarter-inch wood.

“Is there anywhere safe on this boat?” I asked.

“Hell no,” Chappy, the gunner’s mate, said. “We’re a plywood boat sitting on three thousand gallons of high-octane aviation fuel. That’s why we like to go real fast.”

Recovering the gaff and the overboard sailor, Cluster had the pilot’s body pulled in to search for documents. There were a couple of maps in his flight suit and a picture of a young girl in a kimono in his shirt pocket. Cluster kept the maps. The body was tossed overboard, the photo flipped into the sea as an afterthought. The engines roared into life as the PT boat made for Tulagi and a safe harbor. Kaz and I stood on the bridge, the cool breeze and calm coastal waters a relief after the blood and terror of crossing Ironbottom Sound.

“I should have seen that coming,” Cluster said as the island loomed closer. “It’s never over with the Japs. The warrior code of Bushido and all that. They consider surrender a dishonorable disgrace to the soldier and his family.”

“It’s hardly surrender when you’re shot down during aerial combat,” I said.

“Death in battle, especially if many enemies are killed in the process, is the most honorable fate for a Japanese soldier,” Kaz said. “To that poor fellow, there was no difference between the machine guns in his fighter and the pistol in his hand. It is what he was taught.”

“I have a hard time thinking of him as a poor fellow,” Cluster said. “A classmate of mine, a marine officer, was on Guadalcanal in the early days. After a failed banzai charge at the Tenaru River, marines went out to help the Japanese wounded. The Japs set off grenades. Blew themselves and the marines who were helping them all to hell. That was the last time he let any of his men go to help Jap wounded.”

“It’s a different war out here,” I said.

“The Germans can often be barbarians,” Kaz said. “Very occasionally, honorable. You never can tell. At least out here you know what to expect. No quarter, no surrender.”

“That’s what our boys learned real quick,” Cluster said. “If you give up to the Japs, they’ll probably torture or kill you, so you might as well go on fighting. Shoulda seen it coming.” He shook his head the way people do when they can’t believe how gullible they’ve been. I shook my own head, trying to rid it of the vision of the pretty girl in a kimono.

Cluster skirted westward of Tulagi, coming into the harbor at the PT boat base at Sesapi. Across from the larger Florida Island, the Sesapi anchorage provided secluded and calm waters for the small craft and seaplanes tied up at the docks. Cluster eased his boat into his mooring and we clambered off, Kaz especially glad to be on dry land.

“The base commander radioed that he arranged a jeep for you,” Cluster said. “You should report in. The driver will take you.” A vehicle was parked along the wharf, a sailor waiting at the wheel.

“What about you?” I asked.

“We’re based here, but I’m headed up to Rendova to check on one of my squadrons. Ask around if you need me, it’s a small town.” Cluster grinned as he stretched his arm out to encompass the shacks, Quonset huts, machine shops, and thatched-roof huts which lined the wharf. It had the air of a fishing village on hard times with a surplus of oil, men, and not much in the way of women, soap, or fresh laundry.

“Charming,” Kaz said. “Are we to stay here in Sesapi?”

“No,” Cluster said. “I hear Captain Ritchie set you up in the old assistant district commissioner’s house at the east end of the island. That’s near the hospital.”

“Who’s in the district commissioner’s house?” I asked.

“Captain Ritchie, of course,” Cluster said. “Good luck.”

Without telling us if he meant with Ritchie, the investigation, or the Japanese, Cluster set about assessing the damage to his boat as his men secured the vessel. We walked up to the jeep and a smart-looking swabbie jumped out, snapping a salute. He was dressed in clean dungarees, blue shirt, gleaming white cap, and shined shoes. Amidst the greasy tumult of Sesapi harbor, he looked like he’d stepped out of a recruiting poster.

“Yeoman Howe, at your service,” he said, taking our bags. “I’m to take you to Captain Ritchie and show you to your quarters, sir. And sir.” The second sir was for Kaz. Seaman Howe was well trained.

“Take us to the base hospital first,” I said.

“Sorry sir, Captain’s orders. He wants to see you right away. And it’s nearly time for supper. The captain gets upset if he’s late for supper.”

“Then by all means, let’s not keep the good captain waiting.”

“Excellent idea, sir.” Well trained. I doubt Yeoman Howe ever ran into an officer with a bad idea.

We drove along a ridgeline, cresting it after about a mile. On our left, a jumble of huts and small buildings crowded the beach. “That’s the Chinese village,” Howe told us. “There’s a lot of them on the island-merchants and that sort of thing. Tulagi’s only about three miles long, so you get to know it pretty well.”

As we descended along the rocky spine of the island, we were rewarded with a view across the sound with Guadalcanal in the distance. The sun was nearing the horizon, golden rays gleaming on the placid water. It was so peaceful you could easily forget about all the bones and steel lying on the seafloor.

“There’s the captain’s quarters,” Howe said. “And yours next to it.” A row of European-style houses lined the road, built high off the ground with large wraparound verandahs.

“Were these all for the British colonial administrators?” I asked.

“Not all, sir. The Lever Brothers managers lived there, too. You know, the soap company?”

“Soap? How’d they make soap out here?”

“Something to do with coconuts, sir, I really don’t know. There’s a group of Australian Coastwatchers staying in the Lever houses. Some sort of big confab going on.”

“The Lever guys haven’t come back?” I asked.

“No,” Howe said. “They need a lot of native labor for whatever they do. The Japs control most of the Solomon Islands, and in the rest the coconut plantations haven’t recovered from the fighting yet.”

“There must be a demand for native labor,” Kaz said.

“Yeah,” Howe said. “One of the Coastwatchers told me the Japs use them as slave labor, so a lot of them hide in the jungle or make their way down here. They get paid and treated pretty fair, from what I can tell. It’s gonna be hard to keep ’em down on the farm after a few US Navy paydays.”

“You hear anything about the native who was killed recently?” I asked.

“Sure,” Howe said. “But I’ll let the captain tell you about that.” He slowed for a switchback and downshifted as we made the hairpin turn. “Base headquarters is ahead at the east end of the island, right by the hospital. The land thins out here, and there’s always a nice breeze off the water from one side or the other.”

“Just the right place for headquarters,” I said.

“I meant for the patients, sir. But the captain doesn’t mind either.”

“How about you?”

“I like what my commanding officer likes,” Howe said. “Do they run things differently out in North Africa? Sir?”