James Benn - The White Ghost

Vouza fired.

We opened up on the soldiers to our front. Three, then four dropped quickly, the others shooting wildly, not certain where we were. The rapid semiautomatic fire from Deanna’s carbine behind me and the louder, slower Lee-Enfield single shots rang in my ear. I steadied my automatic with both hands and aimed two shots at the closest Jap and saw him crumple, blood staining the smooth rock beneath him.

More shots came in our direction as the remaining soldiers spotted us and fired, but they were in a panic, their shots high, zipping through the foliage like angry bees. The noise was deafening as everyone seemed to fire at the same moment. Porter came charging out of the undergrowth, firing and leaping behind a boulder, giving him a better angle on the enemy rear.

An explosion behind me left my ears ringing as I fell forward, tensing against the expected flow of blood or feel of red-hot grenade shrapnel. I was unhurt, as was Deanna, who winked as she raised her carbine.

Vouza dropped a soldier at the edge of the group protecting the pilot. Then the officer pointed with his sword to the opposite bank, obviously telling his men to retreat. Kari got another one and that hurried them on.

Right into the trap.

The natives opened fire from the bank and more Japs went down, the rest huddled in confusion, firing at the new threat and looking to their officer for orders. A bullet took him in the throat and he fell, his hand clutching his neck as spurts of blood escaped through his fingers. His other hand clutched the sword, now swung in our direction. He tried to get up but fell as his men got the message and charged our position. There were five of them left, plus the pilot, who staggered after them. He must have felt invincible with all the lead leaving him unscathed. Or did he know his bounty price?

Vouza stepped forward, firing at the men on either side of the pilot. I followed, but Kaz was even faster, jumping into the water and firing his Webley revolver, taking out the Jap right in front of the pilot. The last two men charged with their bayonets, their faces a snarl of anger, fear, and resignation. Shots from the far side of the river sent them sprawling, the water washing their blood from the rocks.

The pilot stood alone and forlorn, bodies all around. He gaped as Kaz and Porter checked him for weapons.

“Good shooting for such a little guy,” Porter said, slapping Kaz on the back. “Didn’t even nick this fella once!” He turned the pilot roughly and pushed him back across the river with his rifle barrel.

Vouza went to the officer, who was still holding his throat, blood bubbling out across his hands. He picked up the sword from the side of the dying man and leaned on it as he studied him.

“You seeim these scars?” Vouza said, touching each of the knotted scars on his chest and throat. “Japan man give me these. But I no dae. You dae.” With that, he swung the sword, separating the body from the head, severed hand still grasping the wound as the head rolled into the water to be taken away by the current.

Fortunately the Japanese patrol hadn’t discovered our boat. We boarded with our reluctant passenger, who was at turns surly and morose. Getting shot down, wounded, then rescued is one thing. But to watch your rescuers massacred before your eyes must have been a real shocker. Then to see the motley force responsible, well, that would be enough to drive any sane man over the edge. We tied him up and thankfully left Malaita, heading into the setting sun.

“You all did well,” Vouza said. “No one even scratched and a pilot to bring back.” He sat on a crate and lifted his face to the cooling sea breeze.

“What happened?” I asked Vouza as we lounged on the deck. “The scars, I mean.”

“Last year, on Guadalcanal,” he said. “Mi lukim Jap positions. I go as native wanting work. They grab me and search me. I had hidden a small American flag marines gave me, folded in lap-lap. They found it and beat me. Tied me to tree, ask where marines are. I tell them nothing. They hit me with rifle butts, and still I say nothing. The officer tells his men to use bayonet, not to waste bullets.”

“You received those wounds all at once?” Kaz asked.

“Yes,” Vouza said, caressing each of the rough scars. “Here, here, and here. Jap officer stab my throat with his sword, cut off part of my tongue. Thought he killed me.”

“How did you get away?” I asked.

“They leave me for dead. I see many Japs headed for the marines. Two, three hundred. A big attack. So I chew through the ropes to get loose and crawl back to marines. I tell them attack coming. They had time to get ready. Kill many Japs.”

“That’s the Battle of the Tenaru he’s talking about,” Kari said. “The big attack on Henderson Field. Almost the whole Jap force was wiped out, seven hundred at least.”

“All because Jap officer didn’t want to waste one bullet on me,” Vouza said, and gave out a throaty laugh that got us all going. Except for the pilot, who hung his head and studied the deck.

We docked at Tulagi and turned the Japanese pilot over to navy intelligence. As soon as news of our encounter got around, Hugh Sexton organized a party to celebrate. There was beer and booze, mangoes, sweet potatoes, rice, and fish cooked on an outdoor grill. And more booze. I decided Coastwatchers survived months in the jungle by thoroughly pickling themselves.

Deanna had freshened up and looked like she’d been at a hair salon all day instead of providing medical aid and covering fire. A couple of striking Chinese women made up the rest of the female contingent. Clad in bright silk, they added color and cheer to the khaki and brown assembly. Kaz and I cleaned up as best we could, threw on clean shirts, and went out looking forward to the evening and the company.

Until Jack showed up. I should have known his radar for the fair sex would have picked up on a party with three beautiful women, especially on the male-dominated island of Tulagi.

“Well, do you have my cane?” Jack asked, his nonchalance masking any real worries he may have had about our investigation.

“We do,” I answered. “But we need to hang on to it a while longer. It fits the hole in Daniel Tamana’s skull far too well.”

“Really?” Jack said. “You found his body?”

“On Malaita,” Kaz said. “They have the most interesting burial customs there. Let me tell you.” Kaz steered Jack into a corner of Sexton’s spacious verandah. I watched as they talked, the genuine interest evident in Jack’s posture and gestures. He was an expert at soaking up information in which he was interested, and at discounting anything he didn’t want to think about. Or need to think about. He had the rich kid’s belief that any problem life threw at him could be fixed.

Not that I still hold a grudge after all these years. Six and a half, to be precise.

“Billy, come meet Fred Archer,” Deanna said, sliding her hand through my arm.

“Don’t you want to spend time with Jack?” I said. They hadn’t spoken but a few words since he arrived.

“He gave me the cold shoulder. He was polite enough, but a girl can tell. He’s zeroed in on one of those Chinese women.”

“Jack can be moody,” I said. But I knew what the deal was. Jack was all about the pursuit, and my guess was that he had already landed in the sack with Deanna and was now bored with her company. But that wasn’t anything I’d say to a nice kid like her.

She introduced me to Fred Archer, a tall, rangy planter who was in from his Coastwatching station on Ranongga. His accent was English, but he had the same weathered look as his fellow islanders.

“I came out with a small group of sailors from the Helena ,” he said. “One of your light cruisers that went down in Kula Gulf. Most of the men were picked up by destroyers, but these eleven made it to Ranongga on a life raft.”