James Benn: The White Ghost

Kaz was a quick study. I nodded, turning away in hopes the conversation was over.

“That tells me why the Boyles would not think much of Joseph Kennedy Senior,” Kaz said. “But it does not explain your antipathy towards Joe Junior and Jack.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I said, folding my arms across my chest and gazing out over the blue rippling ocean.

The big Sunderland took us to Australia in style. First a stop at Darwin, then on to Port Moresby in New Guinea. The flying boat landed on calm waters and motored up to a dock where we got off and stretched our legs. The sun was bright, the water blue, and Kaz wasn’t the least bit seasick. A good day so far.

We walked along the dock as men secured the Sunderland and a fuel barge motored alongside. A flurry of activity surrounded the small boats tied up along the waterfront, sailors and GIs hauling supplies and rolling drums of fuel over the splintered, sun-bleached wood. Farther out in the bay, a couple of destroyers stood at anchor.

“Lieutenant Boyle?” A figure emerged from the crowd, a lanky guy with naval aviator’s wings on his rumpled khaki shirt and a crush cap pushed back on his head. “Lieutenant White. I’ll be flying you to Guadalcanal.” Freckles dotted the skin beneath his teardrop sunglasses, and I resisted the urge to ask if his daddy had given him the keys to the plane. Instead I introduced Kaz as White led us to a jeep waiting on a hardpack road that fronted the harbor.

“We’re fueled and ready to go,” White said as he gunned the jeep up a winding hill, passing an array of European-style buildings with broad verandahs next to native thatched-roof houses and army pyramidal tents. The ascent became steeper as the road curved around an antiaircraft emplacement.

“We are not going by flying boat?” Kaz asked.

“Yeah, but we’re a PBY unit. We have retractable landing gear and can land on water or dry land. Not as comfortable as that flying hotel you came in on, but we’ll get you there. The airbase is just over this next hill.” He took another switchback and had to use first gear to inch up the steep incline. We had a clear view of the town and harbor, the rich greens and vivid shades of blue strange after the North African climate we’d grown used to. White braked and I thought he was about to play tour guide for us tourists from the European Theater of Operations.

“There,” White said. He grabbed a pair of binoculars and scanned the western sky. First I heard it, that familiar insect-like distant drone. Then I saw the spots in the distance coalesce into a formation.

“Ours?” Kaz asked.

“Japs,” White said, “headed our way. Betties.” He floored the jeep and we held on as he sped along the hill. We saw antiaircraft crew swiveling their gun in the direction of the incoming aircraft.

“Are they going for the airfield?” I asked, holding onto my hat as White shifted into high gear.

“No,” he said. “They’re coming in over the water, so they’re after the ships and docks. But if they have fighter escorts, the Zeroes don’t mind a strafing run on the airstrip to slow down pursuit.”

We crested the hill and saw that the bombers were closer. Antiaircraft fire rose up from the destroyers and emplacements along the harbor. One of the bombers blossomed into flame, its wings trailing fire and belching smoke as it fell, twisting and turning as if trying to shake off the grip of the red blaze. White barely slowed as we took a turn that nearly spilled us from our seats. The chatter of machine guns and the rhythmic thuds of larger antiaircraft shells filled the air with noise and explosions. Another Betty blew up, descending in a fireball to the sea.

Then they dropped their bombloads. I could see the bombs descend as the aircraft turned away, climbing from the barrage clawing at them from every point in Port Moresby. The bombs exploded in neat rows, ripping into the docks and small ships moored in the harbor. I saw the Sunderland lifted from the water, its back broken by a direct hit.

We were spared the sight of any further destruction as White took the jeep down the hill toward the airfield, where a flight of P-40 Warhawk fighters roared down the runway and took to the air in pursuit of the bombers. We raced past hangars until he slammed on the brakes near a Consolidated PBY, its two engines already warming up. It was painted a flat black, even the US Navy insignia done in a dull grey. There was no time for questions as we scrambled aboard, the crew and copilot already at their stations.

We began to taxi, then had to wait for another half dozen Warhawks to get in the air. When it was our turn, White lost no time leaving the ground behind. The waist gunners manned their thirty-caliber machine guns in the distinctive blisters that afforded a wide view of sky and sea. But no Japanese Zeroes challenged us, and as White gained altitude and headed south, the only thing we saw was smoke blackening the sky above Port Moresby.

“Keep your eyes peeled, boys,” White said over the intercom. “I’m headed for that cloud bank at nine o’clock.” He tossed the headset aside, told his copilot to take over, and leaned in our direction as we stood in the lower passageway leading to the cockpit. “We’ve got you guys to thank for saving us from those Betties.”

“How so?” I asked.

“We normally berth in the harbor,” White said. “But we needed some quick maintenance to make this run to Guadalcanal. So we flew up to the airstrip this morning. We would have been right under those bombs. We owe you.”

“I will take a smooth flight as thanks,” Kaz said. “Why do you call them Betty?”

“That’s our designation for the Mitsubishi G4M bomber,” he said. “They give Jap planes code names to make it easier to remember. I hear the Nips call them the Flying Cigar.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because they light up so easy,” White said with a grin. “The Japs don’t have self-sealing gas tanks on ’em, so even small-arms fire will turn a Betty to toast. You saw those two go up over the harbor, right?”

“Hard to miss,” I said. “You expect to run into any other enemy aircraft today?”

“You never know, but don’t worry. We’ll get you to Guadalcanal in one piece.”

“Will it be a water landing?” Kaz asked, eager as always to avoid choppy seas.

“No, we’ll put you right down at Henderson Field. What’s the Polish Army doing in the South Pacific anyway, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I do not mind at all,” Kaz said. “But neither can I say.”

“That’s okay,” White said. “I’ve seen all sorts out here. French, Dutch, not to mention the Brits, Aussies, Kiwis, and the Fuzzy Wuzzies, of course.”

“I know Kiwis are New Zealanders,” Kaz said. “But who are Fuzzy Wuzzies?”

“The natives,” White said. “They have those big haloes of curly hair, you know? So Fuzzy Wuzzy.”

“What do the natives think of that?” Kaz asked.

“Well, I don’t know. Back in New Guinea I guess they’re actually Papuans, but I don’t know what they’re called out in the Solomons. What I do know is that every Aussie soldier I talked to who fought on the Kokoda Trail said that they couldn’t have stopped the Japs without them. They fight, carry heavy loads through the jungle, and help evacuate the wounded. And they really hate the Japs.”

“Where’s the Kokoda Trail?” I asked.

“It’s the trail over the Owen Stanley Mountains that leads from the Jap-occupied east coast of New Guinea to Port Moresby on the west. If the Aussies and the Fuzzy Wuzzies hadn’t stopped the Japs there and pushed them back, we might be having this conversation in the Australian Outback while the Japs hunt us down.”