James Benn: The White Ghost

“Sure,” I said, scrambling up the bank, Kaz next to me. We ran to a stack of coconut trees that had been cut down years ago, about a dozen of them rotting into the earth. It made for a good hiding place and gave us some elevation. The machine gun was still chattering, a constant stream of lead flying through the coconut grove.

The machine gun stopped abruptly, the silence strange and disconcerting.

“Did they get him?” Kaz asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said. I couldn’t see the top of the hill from here, but I didn’t hear any rifle fire from the Japs, only the mortar rounds heading to the river. Maybe the gun was jammed. Or maybe the Japs had rushed him from the side. I scanned the ground ahead with the binoculars, looking for an immediate threat. I leaned forward to get a better view of the rear of the hill.

Nothing.

Then I saw him. Shirtless.

“Son of a bitch,” I said. “Porter.”

“What?” Kaz said. “Where?”

“Hightailing it upriver, near the tiger grass,” I said. “I bet he used his shirt to tie down the trigger. Shot off all the ammo to cover his escape. Goddammit!” I raised my rifle in his direction, but he was too far gone into cover to get a bead on him. “Kaz, go tell Trent there’s nothing between the Japs and the river but yours truly. If you hear me fire, send help. I’ll stay five minutes and then head your way.”

“No more,” Kaz said.

“No wariwari.”

I kept watch through the binoculars, looking up every few seconds to avoid tunnel vision. Then I spotted a couple of Jap soldiers running toward the hill. I didn’t fire, figuring that would draw them to the landing area once they realized it was just one guy. Pretty soon they were standing in the open, certain that they’d won the ground. Which they had. An officer appeared, his boots gleaming and his sword reflecting sunlight. He was barking orders, loud enough for me to hear, gesturing with his sword. I swung the binoculars in that direction.

Porter was being brought forward at bayonet point, his hands held above his head.

He hadn’t escaped after all.

A crowd gathered, and I could see the officer laughing as one of his men smashed his rifle butt into Porter’s ribs. They tied him to a tree, ropes around the wide trunk holding him secure. They screamed at him, the kind of curses you probably give to any machine gunner who’s just mowed down a bunch of your pals. Good thing for us they were taking their time with him. Bad for Porter.

More mortar rounds sailed through the air and exploded behind me. Kaz ran back, crouched low. “The last LC is stuck on the riverbed. The tide is going out, and it was overloaded. One of the PT boats is rigging a line to pull it off. We need to go now.”

I handed him the binoculars. I didn’t need them to make out what was about to happen. They were about two hundred yards away, maximum. I could see the officer waving his sword in front of Porter, taunting him with what he was about to do.

I heard Kaz gasp.

I stood, cupping my hands around my mouth, and shouted.

“PETER FRASER!”

I dropped, and could make out faces turning in my direction. I had a few seconds, no more.

I filled the sight with Peter Fraser’s torso. I let my breathing steady, put a slight pressure on the trigger, and exhaled.

I pulled the trigger. A good hit. A second shot, to be sure. His body slumped, held by the ropes.

We sprinted to the river, leapt off the bank, and ran onto the ramp of the last landing craft, Trent signaling us to hurry. The PT boat surged ahead, the steel cable connecting it to the LC going taut as we scraped bottom, engines revved high. Kaz leaned close, whispering.

“It was a clean shot, Billy.”

We came off the bottom with a jolt, and men grinned and laughed as we made our way out of the river mouth. I joined in, not wanting to think about what I had done. Being judge, jury, and executioner didn’t sit well with me. The cable was cast off, and the PT boat moved away, on watch for any enemy movement on shore. The second boat was Jack’s PT-59, and he edged closer to us, putting his boat between us and the riverbed. He spotted me and waved, and I did my best to respond. I should have been happy; everyone around me was delirious with joy. But I was empty, gutted.

Gunfire rippled from the shore. Jack’s boat answered, machine guns and cannon fire chopping up the ground and jungle, taking down small trees and sending the few Japs who weren’t hit scurrying away. A ragged cheer went up from the marines. Then a more immediate concern demanded our attention.

We were sinking. Water was rising in the LC, probably from damage on the rocky river bottom.

I waved to Jack, not fifty yards away. He waved back, smiling, as did his crew. For a minute, they thought we were congratulating them. But it didn’t take long for the list to become noticeable, and Jack drew PT-59 alongside the landing craft.

The navy crewman on the LC kept her steady while the men packed in the landing craft clambered up the side and were pulled on board the PT. The crewman came last, and Jack throttled forward, heading slowly out to sea.

“Chappy, put a few rounds in at the waterline and sink her,” Jack commanded. Chappy, in the gunner’s seat on the forward forty-millimeter, complied. Four shells blew her side in, and the LC was gone in seconds.

“We’ll get you all back,” Jack said to the marines crowding his deck. “But we’ve got to take it slow. We’re low on fuel.”

“Sir, we have one badly wounded man,” Trent said. “Do you have a bunk we could get him in?”

“Put him below in my cabin,” Jack said. “Mauer, show them where, and break out whatever medical supplies they need. Kowal, get those cans of peaches and pass them around.”

The peaches were a hit. Trent opened a can with his Ka-Bar and offered it to me. I wasn’t hungry. Kaz took it and tried to get me to eat, but I told him later. I slung my rifle and went below deck to look for Jack. I found him standing outside his captain’s quarters, which contained one bunk and a tiny desk. Luxurious for a PT boat. In it, a corpsman was removing the wounded man’s field bandage, dirty and caked with blood. It looked like shrapnel wounds to the chest, probably in that last barrage. He was a kid. Not even twenty years old, by my best guess. They all looked younger stripped of their helmet, web belt, and gear. A kid with freckles and a dirty face.

His breathing was ragged, a small pink bubble forming on his lips with each breath. His eyes opened, and he tried to speak. His mouth would form a word, but nothing came out. Then a sudden gasp, a gurgle, and he was gone, his lips holding that last word hostage forever.

Jack smacked the bulkhead with his palm and went up on deck, cursing under his breath. He checked in with his executive officer on the bridge and walked among the marines lying everywhere, accepting their thanks, asking how they were doing. He clapped Kaz on the shoulder, gracing him with that grand smile. Even though that kid’s death got to him, it wasn’t something he could show the world. It wasn’t so much that his smile was a lie. It was a mask.

I wandered along, not wanting to talk. Finally, we both ended up on the bow, wind snapping at our faces. Jack was silent. I knew the death of the boy in his bunk would haunt him much as the death of his crewmen had. There was nothing more he could have done, but it seemed to add to the burden of responsibility he felt so keenly.

“I thought you were done for when you didn’t come back to the boat,” he finally said. “Glad to see you’re both okay.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“What happened? With Porter, I mean.”

What happened? How to explain it? That he’d been a hero, a fraud, a cold-blooded killer, a liar, a con man, and that I shot him?