James Benn - The White Ghost

“Your man Porter is with them,” Johnston said. “Along with the other guy, Kari. Our job was to make contact. They were supposed to have left a radio team and a security detachment at the river mouth, but there was no sign of them either.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” I said. “What is one platoon supposed to do about it?”

“One marine platoon, you mean. With the Polish Army contingent, of course. Not to mention the US Army’s contribution, Lieutenant Boyle. You know how to use that thing?” He thumbed in the direction of my M1.

“I had some practice in North Africa,” I said. “Although I prefer a Thompson like yours. They were out at the armory, or the navy didn’t want to let one go.”

“They’re good for jungle work,” Johnston said, holding up a hand for the column to halt. Ariel came in from the front at a trot, his head low. I took a hint and went down on one knee. Kaz did the same as Johnston waved his men off the track and they moved several yards into the bush, poised to face any potential threat.

I heard Johnston curse under his breath as he listened to Ariel, who spoke slowly, using as much English as he could muster. He ended by shaking his head slowly. “Mi sori.”

“We’re getting close to the river,” he whispered to us and a sergeant who gathered around, along with the radioman. “There’s a dead white man tied to a tree about a hundred yards up.”

“A marine?” asked the sergeant.

“Ariel can’t tell. He’s naked. In bad shape. Real bad.”

“Are you going to march the entire platoon right by him?” I asked. I knew these guys were no strangers to corpses, but this sounded worse than the standard-issue battle carnage.

“Damn right I’m going to,” Johnston said, the bitterness so sharp in his voice I wasn’t surprised when he spat. “Sergeant Trent, get his dog tags if he’s one of ours. Either way, cut him down. After the men have a chance to see what kind of enemy we have here.”

“It’s Gallaher,” the radioman said as soon as we came to the body. I don’t know how he recognized him.

“Corporal Gallaher was in charge of the company radio,” Johnston said. “Now we know why we haven’t heard anything.” He stood next to the bloody tree, staring at the body as his men marched by. Most looked. None for too long.

Gallaher was stripped naked and bound with rough rope, his hands pulled back around the tree. There was a rope cinched tight in his mouth, and around his legs, immobilizing him against the wide coconut trunk. He must have had a hundred wounds. Bayonets had struck him everywhere. Arms, legs, shoulders; some of those wounds wouldn’t have killed him at first, but the blood loss would have done it sooner or later. His abdomen was peppered with bayonet slashes, his intestines protruding, blackening in the broiling heat.

His genitals were gone.

“It wasn’t quick,” I said.

“No,” was all Johnston said, his eyes fixed on the flies feasting on what had been Gallaher’s eyes. I joined the column, still wanting Porter, but letting thoughts of revenge elbow their way forward and take their rightful place.

We came to the river. Johnston signaled his men to take cover, and they faded into the bush, working their way along the riverbank on either side of us. “That must be where the landing craft went in,” Johnston said. The opposite side of the wide river mouth was a gravelly stretch of even ground leading gently up into a stand of coconut trees. Some were fallen, or snapped off at the top-from age or artillery, it was hard to say. They were planted in even rows, part of an old plantation, most likely. On our side, the banks were steep, loose stones and gnarled roots sticking out where the curving flow of water cut away at the ground.

“What now?” I whispered as we edged back into the bush.

“I’d bet the Japs have that area covered,” Johnston said as he scanned the opposite bank through his binoculars. “It’s the only place the LCs can get to. Too risky to cross here.”

“Not to mention how deep the river looks,” Kaz said, displaying his standard unease with any water deeper than a bathtub.

“Yeah,” Johnston said. “We’ll find a crossing farther upriver.”

We crept back from the river’s edge and began the slow process of hoofing it through the dense bush. There was a narrow, overgrown footpath along the river, but that was an invitation to an ambush. Or maybe booby traps set up to warn the enemy of our approach. Machetes would have helped, but slashing at the choking greenery is damn noisy, especially when there are thirty or so guys having at it.

So we pushed past fronds as big as elephant’s ears, stumbled over giant roots snaking out from tree trunks covered in vines; orchids in pale yellows and greens dazzled the eye while black ooze threatened to pull the boots from our feet with each step.

Ahead of us, Ariel raised a hand, signaling halt. The other he cupped around his ear.

Voices. The sound of footsteps on hard-packed ground.

People were on the path and they weren’t speaking English. A small group, chatting. Probably no officers or noncoms around to enforce silence. They were complacent. Happens when you think no one’s around except the guy you just butchered and left tied to a tree.

Johnston handed me his Thompson and put a finger to his lips for silence. He drew his Ka-Bar combat knife and tapped several men on the shoulder, Sergeant Trent among them, as he passed silently through the hidden platoon. Along with Ariel armed with his machete, they moved in crouched steps toward the path. In seconds they were gone, swallowed by the dense growth.

The sounds from the path drew closer. I figured five or six men, from the tromp of feet, the creak of leather, the faint sounds of packs, canteens, and other gear bouncing against bodies in motion. I guessed their rifles were slung. Maybe their intelligence was faulty, maybe they were cocky, or simply thought they could deal with outnumbered Americans.

The rhythmic sounds of movement stopped, replaced by a sudden rustle of leaves, grunts, thrashing, one high-pitched cry cut off before it could carry above the jungle canopy, and finally, the gurgling sound of a man choking on his own blood.

Trent pushed through the bush, signaling with one bloody hand, and we came forward, each end of the column spreading out on the trail, watching for other Japs.

There had been six. All were dead, except for one man who would be in seconds. He clutched his throat, blood bubbling out between his fingers, rivulets of red flowing between clenched teeth. The others were strewn about the trail, most with their big Arisaka rifles across their shoulders. Slit throats had sent streams of blood pumping out, spraying the green leaves chrysanthemum red.

Ariel and Johnston were busy cleaning their Ka-Bars. A sergeant stood over the dying Jap, watching as he cleaned his knife on the man’s service cap.

“Is that a stiletto?” I asked, as the Jap tried to speak, forming nothing but bubbles of blood that popped pink, as if he were chewing bubble gum.

“Yeah,” the sergeant said, offering it to me by the hilt, his eyes riveted on the man at his feet. “Traded with an Aussie commando for it. Think this is one of the guys who did that to Gallaher?”

“Hard to say for sure,” I said. “But I’d guess so. There were only bayonet wounds on his body. No sword slashes. Which suggests no officers present, same as with these poor bastards.”

“I heard you were a detective,” he said. “Pretty smart for an army man.” He rolled the Jap facedown with his boot, then kicked his arm away from where he held the wound. An arterial gush of blood dampened the jungle floor, and then silence.

“This isn’t the same as those marine stilettos,” I said, motioning for Kaz to join us. “It has a hard wood pommel, bigger than the metal one on the marine version.”