James Benn: The White Ghost

I was exhausted, but sleep would not come. My eyes felt like they were coated in grit, my head hurt, my muscles ached, and my throat was parched. I took a careful, small sip of water, shaking my canteen to take a measure of what was left. One good gulp. A couple of guys volunteered to take canteens to the river and fill them, but Trent vetoed the idea.

“No one else is getting taken by the Japs,” he said. Case closed.

“How’s Ariel?” I asked Kaz as he joined me in the trench.

“Stoic,” Kaz said. “He refused water, saying if he couldn’t fight he wouldn’t drink. How are you?”

“Fine,” I said. “Just can’t sleep.” Mainly because I kept seeing Johnston’s mutilated body whenever I closed my eyes. But I was fine. Really.

“Do you think he’ll come back with Bigger?” Kaz asked.

“If he’s Porter the Coastwatcher, then yes,” I said. “He has to guide them here. And I think he means what he says about doing his job. But if he’s more Fraser the murderer, then all bets are off.”

“A strange man,” Kaz said. “He has talked himself into thinking he’s acted rationally. It makes sense to him, each act leading to the next in a logical sequence, even if the end result is one he now regrets.”

“Mainly because he was caught,” I said. “Regret usually comes after an arrest.” I was feeling bitter, but I had to admit Porter might be feeling genuine regret. Hard to tell. Perhaps he was his own white ghost, haunted by what he’d done and how close he’d come to getting away with it.

“We have radio confirmation the landing craft are on their way,” Trent said as he knelt by our trench. “It’ll be daylight soon. If G Company makes it, you’ll have to secure your man and get him to the landing site pronto. We’re not waiting around a second longer than we need to, Lieutenant.”

“Got it,” I said. “You’re staying up here until they’re clear?”

“Yeah. Once Bigger’s men get to the river, I’ll send squads down one by one. The machine-gun team last, in case we need covering fire.” As soon as he said the words, gunfire erupted beyond the coconut grove, the sounds echoing along the hills.

“Over there,” Trent said, looking to our right. Small sparkles of light dotted a distant hillside like a swarm of angry fireflies.

“Can’t tell how far away,” I said. “No way to know if that’s all of them or one small group.”

“Porter said coming out in small groups would be best,” Trent said. “I hope that’s a rearguard action, and they’re not having to fight their way through the Japs.”

“Should we go to their assistance?” Kaz asked.

“Negative,” Trent said. “If we split our forces and get lost out there, we might not be able to stop the Japs from getting to the river. We need to stay put. And it looks like we might need suppressive fire at the landing site.” He called for the radioman to request PT boat assistance at the Warrior River.

After that, we waited, watching a running firefight draw closer and closer, the drumbeat of shots growing louder as faint lines of rosy light appeared in the eastern sky. Finally, figures appeared on the fringes of the coconut grove, moving between the neatly spaced rows. Every man in the platoon aimed his weapon, jittery after the night of waiting and watching.

“Hold your fire,” Trent said calmly, his binoculars to his eyes. “They’re ours.” A wary marine led the way, waving to Trent who had stood up, his helmet held high. More riflemen followed, guarding a group of wounded marines, their filthy bandages stained with dried blood. These were the walking wounded, followed by two stretcher cases. I could only wonder at how difficult the trek had been for them and their bearers. Gunfire sounded behind them, moving closer as the rear guard gave ground.

“Sarge,” hollered a marine who jogged up the rear slope. “LCs have been sighted, still a ways out.”

“PTs?” Trent asked. He shook his head no. “Okay, head down and lead the wounded to the river. They go first. Lieutenant, you two can look for Porter if you want. But don’t stray far.”

“No wariwari,” Kaz said, and we both clambered over the logs and descended into the grove.

“Have you seen Porter?” I asked the first G Company man I saw. “The Aussie?”

“He went back to help the rear guard,” he said, “soon as we got to the edge of the plantation.”

We hustled to the edge of the jungle, passing more marines walking numbly out of the bush, sunken eyes ringed with fatigue, blinking in the dawning light. John Kari stumbled by, supported by a native scout, a bloody bandage wrapped around his head and covering one eye.

“Keep going boys, almost there,” I said, as dozens more filed by.

“Are you Boyle?” The voice belonged to an officer sporting a major’s oak leaf insignia.

“Yes. Major Bigger?”

He nodded. “Porter told me to look for you, said you’d likely be waiting. What’s the situation?”

“Landing craft are within sight. We’ve asked for PT boats to provide cover, but they haven’t been sighted yet.” More gunfire sounded, followed by the boom of grenades. Close enough that I flinched. “Where’s Porter?”

“With the rear guard. I’ve got to get the rest of the men to the river. Porter and the squad he’s with are going to hold them up for ten more minutes, then hightail to that hill. Johnston’s platoon still there?”

“Yes sir. Sergeant Trent is going to send men down to the river by squads, as soon as you’re all clear.”

“It’s going to be close,” he said. “There’s beaucoup Japs on our tail.” With that he was off, shepherding his company through the grove, leaving Kaz and me alone, waiting for the last of our men, not to mention the enemy. The firing reached a crescendo a few minutes later amidst another round of grenade explosions. The first man to appear nearly fell out of the jungle path, clutching his leg, blood oozing from his thigh. Two more marines followed, scooping him up as they passed us.

“Porter?” I yelled.

“Back there,” was all one said, not wanting to hang around and chew the fat. The firing was close enough now to make out each weapon. Two M1s and a Thompson, against a whole lot of Arisakas.

Finally, two marines burst from the bush, a tommy gun firing away behind them.

“Is that Porter?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said a corporal. “He’s laying down covering fire. Get ready to run, mac.”

“I am quite ready,” Kaz said as they darted into the trees. “Do we really want to wait for this man?”

“Hell yeah,” I said, trying to sound like John Wayne in Flying Tigers .

Porter came into view, backing into the open field, firing his Thompson until it was empty and tossing it to the ground. He pulled a pin on a grenade and flung it into the bush, turning and pushing off into a sprint. He spotted us, barely hesitating.

“Run!” We didn’t need prompting. Hard on his heels, we were breaking speed records when the grenade went off. We had a few second’s grace but the Japs soon opened fire, bullets zinging overhead, slamming into tree trunks, and kicking up dust ahead of us.

Porter’s arms were pumping, Kaz close behind him. My M1 felt like it weighed a ton, my legs were weak and wobbly, but a whole lot of Japanese guys trying to kill me was a great motivator. I followed the two of them as they zigged and zagged between trees, once turning around and thinking of squeezing off a few rounds to slow our pursuers down.

I didn’t have enough bullets.

They were pouring out of the jungle, forty or fifty of them, I guessed. With the rear guard gone and an open field ahead of them, all the pent-up energy of the slow night’s fighting had been unleashed. They were screaming, a couple of samurai swords held high, Arisakas with fixed bayonets an undulating sea of steel in the morning light.