James Benn: The White Ghost

“The Japs got him,” I finally said. True enough.

“Killed him, or got ahold of him? I heard some of the marines talking about men being tortured. Trent said you found his lieutenant.”

“Yeah,” I managed. “The Japs got hold of him, Jack. But the end was quick, that’s all I can say. All I want to say.”

“Christ,” Jack said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “It’s a hell of a goddamn war we have out here. I never imagined it would be anything like this.”

“Me neither,” I said, our eyes meeting. Whatever beef I’d had with Jack and his family, this war had put it all in perspective, burned away the pettiness, eliminating any need for forgiveness or recriminations. Nothing mattered but what we’d shared out here; nothing in our past could compare with what the Solomon Islands had done to us. Death, terror, beauty, joy, and sorrow were daily offerings from the gods of the South Pacific. It was a new beginning, or the perfect ending. Either way was fine with me.

I looked away, not trusting my emotions. I stood at the rail, feet braced against the heavy roll of the PT crashing through the waves. The rifle hanging from my shoulder grew heavy as the strap dug into my flesh. I took it off, holding it with both hands, feeling the weight of the thing, its heft and perfect balance, the beauty and solidity of this lethal tool, wood and steel smelling of oil and gunpowder. I swung my arms, threw it overboard, and watched it disappear into the seething and sullen sea.