James Benn - The White Ghost

“Don’t worry, Piotr,” Deanna said, patting his arm. “It’s only sixteen miles.”

“Round-trip?” Kaz said hopefully. Deanna laughed at what she thought was a joke. She’d returned to Sexton’s place as we were leaving, and asked to come along to provide what medical care she could to the natives. She’d arrived on board with a knapsack and musette bag full of medical supplies, a machete, and an M1 carbine.

“It’s been a while since they’ve seen a lik-lik doctor on Malaita,” she said. “That means little bit, by the way. It’s what they call nurses and the medical orderlies the government used to send out. Little bit doctor, that’s me.”

“Lik-lik GI,” I said. “Where’d you get the carbine?”

“A gift from a marine lieutenant,” Deanna said with a smile. “You haven’t heard the story?”

“No,” Kaz said. “Do tell and take my mind off this impending journey.”

“When Hugh first had me brought out from Vella Lavella, someone started a rumor that Amelia Earhart had been found. When we docked at Tulagi, there were about a hundred cheering men there to meet us. I had to disappoint them all. But one lieutenant was very gallant and gave me the carbine in case I ever found myself back on a Japanese-held island.”

“Jack and that marine probably weren’t too disappointed,” I said.

“A damsel in distress in the Solomon Islands will have no shortage of admirers,” Kaz said, as suavely as he could manage while holding on to the cane and the quarterdeck for dear life. “Even if she is not Amelia Earhart.”

“That’s sweet, Piotr,” Deanna cooed. “Ah, here’s Jacob with our brave crew.”

“Silas Porter’s the name,” the first man to board said in a thick Australian accent. “Glad ta meet’cha.” He wore a slouch hat and wrinkled khakis of undetermined nationality. He was tall, six feet at least, wiry with a fringe of long brown hair showing from under his headgear. Heavy boots, a big knife, a holstered revolver, and a Lee-Enfield rifle slung over a shoulder completed the picture. “We made it back from the briefing first, so Hugh told us to take you out. Nice day for a cruise, ain’t it?”

Next on board was a native, wearing a calico lap-lap with a web belt, bare-chested but otherwise similarly armed.

“Nem blong mi Billy,” I said slowly, showing off my linguistic skills before Kaz could beat me to the punch. I spoke slowly, so the native would be sure to understand.

“Pleased to meet you, Billy. I’m John Kari,” he said, speaking English that would pass muster in Parliament. I pretended not to hear Deanna giggle as Kaz introduced himself. In plain English, of course.

“John Kari speak English pretty damn good, eh?” Jacob Vouza said, grinning as he came aboard, well-armed himself. This got another round of laughter.

“Now don’t you two worry about the looks of this ship,” Porter said as Kari went below to start the engine. “It’s a bonzer vessel, and that’s the dinkum oil.”

“Silas not speak English so good, eh?” Vouza said, laughing and slapping the Aussie on the back as they crowded into the small bridge. Engine noises rumbled up from below deck as Kari popped up from the engine room hatch.

“It’s a fine ship, and that’s the straight truth,” Kari translated. “Silas lays on the Australian pretty thick when he first meets an American. All in good fun. He’s really a bastard.” He disappeared with a smirk on his face as Deanna cast off the lines and we headed out.

“Does anyone here speak plain old American English?” I asked.

“Sorry, mate, we’re having a bit of fun with ya,” Silas said as he leaned back. “We call a good friend a bastard. Meaning he’s a good egg.”

“But not the Englishmen,” Jacob said as the boat picked up speed.

“No, never,” Silas grinned. “Then he’s a Pommie bastard, and that’s a real bastard!” They both laughed, and I wondered at the wisdom of an ocean-going voyage with these madmen.

We left Tulagi and circled around Florida Island, getting our first view of Malaita in the distance. Smoke belched from the stack as the engine chugged and wheezed, but the boat moved at a decent clip. Bonzer enough for this short crossing.

“I understand Jacob is taking you to see Daniel,” Deanna said, the wind nearly whipping her words away.

“Perhaps not all of him,” I said. “Do you know what he’s talking about? Are there headhunters on Malaita?”

“No,” Deanna said. “They’re in New Guinea. It’s better that you see for yourself. Keep in mind this has much religious significance for Jacob and his people. While many Malaitians have taken to Christianity, they still revere their ancestors. And Daniel is with the ancestors now.”

“Well, I’ve been to a few Irish wakes, so I’m familiar with strange burial customs. Tell me, are you expecting trouble over there? You’re all loaded for bear.”

“Bear?” Kari said, poking his head above deck.

“Ready for anything,” Kaz explained. I was glad we had some jargon of our own to throw back at him.

“Ah, yes,” Kari said. “You must always be ready in the Solomons. Even though there has not been much fighting on Malatia, the Japanese have landed there a number of times. They had an observation post at the north end of the island, working much as we do to warn of attacks.”

“What happened to it?” Kaz asked.

“Marines raided it,” Kari said. “There were about thirty Japs. Most were killed or captured. A few escaped into the bush but the Malaitamen caught up with them.” He drew a finger across his throat.

“They still land troops and patrol the island looking for Coastwatchers and radioing back intelligence,” Deanna said. “But they don’t stay long. They get no help from the natives and soon they’re out of food and ready to leave Malaita behind.”

“Do we know if there are any Japs there now?” I asked.

“You never know, mate,” Porter said from the bridge. “Always assume the enemy is right around the bend.”

The wind and waves picked up, and Kaz went below to the small cabin to be miserable. I stayed topside, staring at the horizon the way my dad had taught me, to minimize the pitching sensation. Soon we drew close to Malaita, the shore now visible and the water calmer. I clambered up to the bridge to get a better view.

“Is that where we’re headed?” I asked, as a cluster of huts at the water’s edge came into view.

“Wouldn’t go in there,” Porter said. “That’s Laulasi. Back when you Yanks landed at Guadalcanal, seven of your planes bombed Laulasi, thinking it was the Jap observation post up at Afufu. Killed twenty-eight people, mostly kids. So we don’t go to Laulasi much, and never with a Yank in tow.”

I watched the village as we motored by, wondering what it must have been like for people who lived such a primitive life to watch bombs dropped on their children. Not that dropping bombs was all that civilized to begin with.

Fifteen minutes later, Porter eased the boat toward a small bay, steering between coral reefs and letting the waves usher the boat into calm waters. Ahead, a river emptied into the bay, and Porter guided the craft to the cover of sheltering palms.

“That’s that,” he said. “Japs shouldn’t spot us from the air, at least.”

We debarked, Kaz wasting no time getting onto dry land. Vouza led the way into the bush, with Porter at the rear. We stayed on a trail along the riverbank for about a half mile, then went into the bush. The hot air was thick with humidity and the sunlight faded as we pressed on under the dense canopy and through the thick undergrowth. All around us vines wound around tree trunks and hung from branches, snaking up from black muck like parasites, choking the trees. There was nothing of the pleasant sea breeze that wafted over Tulagi here. The cloying odor of rotting leaves and wood rising from the mud assaulted our nostrils, and I was already soaked in sweat.