James Benn: The White Ghost

“Send your most expendable man,” Porter said. “We all know who that is.”

Trent looked to me. “He’s got a point. And he knows the way.”

“What if he skedaddles?” I said.

“Boyle, where the bloody hell am I going to go?” Porter demanded. “You know who I am; there’s nowhere I can hide. If I fail, well then justice has been served. If not, then those men have a fighting chance and we’re back to where we started.”

“Why?” I asked. “Why volunteer?”

“Two reasons,” he said. “First, think about my reputation as a Coastwatcher. Has anyone ever said anything about a lack of dedication?”

“No,” I said. “Sexton seems to hold you in high regard.”

“Right. This is part of my job. It’s what we do.”

“And the second reason?” Kaz asked.

“To start balancing the books. There’s a lot of lives need saving up there, John Kari included. Just because I’m a right bastard doesn’t mean I want them on my conscience, too.”

“Okay, but I go with you,” I said. “And you go unarmed.”

“Wait, Billy,” Kaz said. “You don’t know your way around the jungle.”

“But he does, and I’m not letting him out of my sight,” I said. “Sergeant Trent, you okay with this?”

“Yeah, I think it’s our best chance,” he said, giving Porter a hard stare. “You mean all that?”

“I do, mate.”

“Okay, here’s what we do.”

Trent gave me a flare gun with two red flares. Once we reached G Company, we were to send them both up, Porter assuring us they could be seen from our position. That would tell him to expect Bigger and his men by morning, as planned. A fire team of four marines would accompany us to the edge of the plantation, ready to move in if we ran into trouble. But only for the first thirty minutes. After that, we were on our own. Kaz, of course, was coming along with the fire team, promising four tough marines he’d pull his weight. They chuckled, not knowing how deadly he really was.

It was dusk as we walked through the coconut grove, nearing darkness as we came to the end of the cultivated rows. Porter explained to the corporal in charge where we’d be entering the bush and the route we’d be taking. Passwords were given: the call “little” and the response “Lulu” because of the difficulty the Japanese had pronouncing the letter L.

“Good luck, Billy,” Kaz said. “Keep an eye on him.”

“He’ll be in front of me the whole time,” I said. I was about to tell Kaz I’d see him in the morning, but it seemed like bad luck to repeat what Johnston had said not too long ago. So we shook hands, and I turned to follow Porter into the black jungle.

Once we were under the canopy, my eyes adjusted and I began to make things out. There was a partial moon and the reflected light filtered through the dense overgrowth, casting shades of black and grey everywhere, as if I were watching a motion picture.

“Stay with me,” whispered Porter.

“Right behind you,” I said. When I’d asked Porter why he didn’t balk at not having a weapon, he’d said it wouldn’t matter. If we stumbled onto the Japs, they’d have us in no time. Our only weapon was stealth, he said. Still, the feel of the M1 in my grip was damned reassuring.

We made our way through the bush, the sound of a stream off to our left, the distance never varying by much. I figured that was how Porter was navigating, but I wasn’t going to ask any questions. We walked carefully, Porter sometimes halting to point out a root or slippery stone. We were both wearing the new rubber-soled canvas boots, and it made for quieter going. My eyes had become accustomed to the dark, and as long as I kept focused on Porter’s back, I could make out where we were headed.

Stepping over a rotting log, Porter snapped a twig as he came down. We froze, the noise deafening even with the usual jungle sounds around us. There were no shouts, no sudden rustling of branches that signaled a Japanese patrol heading our way.

Porter looked at me and exhaled. I smiled, nodding, relieved that the misstep hadn’t drawn the enemy to us. Then I remembered: this man was the enemy. Out here, alone in the darkness, it was easy to see him as an ally. I needed to guard against thinking of him that way. A temporary ally, perhaps, but not one to count on.

We neared the stream, Porter looking up and down the waterway, listening for signs of movement.

“Is this where Johnston crossed?” I whispered. He nodded yes, his finger to his lips, his eyes fixed on rocks jutting out from the stream. I tried to focus, but I didn’t get it.

“Boots,” he whispered. Then I saw what I had thought were rocks. We moved silently, going stone to stone to avoid the splashing sound of water. Porter leaned down and lifted the torso up to remove his dog tag. “Not Johnston,” he said as he dropped the disc into my palm. It was the marine who’d had the Australian stiletto.

I followed him up the opposite bank, senses on alert, fear tingling in my gut.

The landscape opened up as we walked over limestone rocks, climbing higher every minute. The bush was less dense, the trees farther apart, the grasses thicker underfoot. A few feet ahead of me, Porter stopped. He hadn’t stumbled or held up his hand to signal a halt; he stood there, staring into the darkness. I walked closer, moving toward whatever he was looking at.

Some sort of large plant? A tree trunk? My eyes couldn’t put together a shape that made any sense. Then I saw.

It was Johnston. His hands tied with vines stretched between trees. His legs bound with more vines. He was still. Thank God.

Long slashes had left his skin in ribbons, from his chest to his thighs. His face was half cut away, his jawbone obscenely on display in the moonlight.

“Swords,” Porter said. “This was done by officers. Their sport for the evening.”

“My God,” was all I could say. I wanted to remove his dog tag, but as my hand neared the bloody mess that was his neck, it shook like a leaf.

“Sorry, Boyle,” I heard Porter say, and I thought how odd it was that he was giving me condolences over the tortured death of Lieutenant Johnston.

Until the lights went out.

I awoke on my back, hidden in the tall grass. The M1 was by my side, and a bloody dog tag was pressed into my palm. The flare gun was gone, and so was Porter.

Pain raced through my skull as I got up. Porter knew a thing or two about lethal force, and he had held back on me, but my head still hurt like the blazes. I stuffed Johnston’s dog tag into my pocket along with the other and drew my knife, about to cut him down. I stopped, realizing that if the Japs came by this way again, they’d notice someone had moved their handiwork.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” I whispered. “You’ve got one more job to do.”

I headed back, having no idea which way G Company was, barely certain of the way to the coconut plantation.

At the stream, I gathered water in my cap and doused my head, washing away the drying, sticky blood, wondering what Porter was up to. He could have slit my throat and taken my weapons, but he hadn’t. Maybe Bigger and his men had a chance after all.

After an hour and a couple of wrong turns, I heard the password.

“Little.”

“Lulu,” I answered, as loudly as I dared.

“Billy, what happened?” Kaz asked, rushing forward to help me, marines at his side.

I told him and repeated the whole thing for Trent back on the hill.

“They butchered Johnston,” I said, draining what little there was in the canteen I’d been handed. I winced as the corpsman put iodine on my wound, telling me it was a little scratch.

“Look, Sarge!” a marine said, his face raised to the darkness.

There, in the distance, two tiny red dots rose into the night sky. Porter had made it.