James Benn: The White Ghost

“Never heard of it,” I said. “All I read about in the Stars and Stripes is how MacArthur is winning the war out here.”

“Well, if he is, he’s doing it from Lennon’s Hotel in Brisbane,” White said. “Why don’t you two give the waist gunners a hand and stand lookout in the blisters? We’ll be in the clouds soon, but extra eyes are always welcome.”

We headed back. The gunners watched the sky while we scanned the ocean below. The clear acrylic blisters bowed out from the fuselage, giving a spectacular view in all directions. I looked at Kaz and grinned, the bombing and destruction almost forgotten in the thrill of the ride. The waist gunners craned their necks, checking every quadrant. The PBY had a decent defensive armament, but getting jumped by a Zero would definitely be bad news.

The sea and sky were empty as we headed into the cloud bank. Mist enveloped the aircraft, muffling the noise of the twin engines as it created an eerie sense of vulnerability. We were hidden, yet it was impossible to know what awaited us beyond the thin veil of fog. I thought I’d relax, but I grew tenser by the moment, straining to see anything in the greyness. It sort of summed up the whole war. An occasional false sense of security between bouts of boredom and sudden death.

“Gets to you, huh?” the waist gunner said. I nodded and felt a little better knowing he sensed it, too. But not much.

I tried to stay alert, but the monotony of the droning engines and the zero visibility made it a challenge. After ten minutes or so, I thought I heard a variation in the engine sound, but then it faded.

Then it returned.

“Something wrong with the engines?” I asked the waist gunner. He cocked his head to listen and shrugged. The sound was gone again.

I peered out of the blister, pressing my face against the cool acrylic, trying to pick up any change in vibration or sound. I swore I heard it again, the engines going louder and suddenly softer. The waist gunner cupped his ear, finally picking it up himself.

“Holy Christ,” I said in a whisper, backing away instinctively from the waist blister. “It’s another PBY!” The sound I’d heard was their engines as the aircraft drifted closer and then away, both of us unaware of how close we were.

“Where?” The waist gunner leaned in next to me. It had vanished again.

“Right there,” I said. “Slightly above us. I saw a waist blister and the high wings. Look!” It had drifted close again, a large fuselage that looked about to drop on top of us. Then I saw it. That big red ball that made it clear it was not one of our floatplanes.

“Kawanishi!” Yelled the waist gunner. “Port side.”

He opened up with his machine gun as the PBY banked to starboard. The narrow interior was filled with screaming voices, thunderous bursts of fire, and the metallic clatter of ejected shells bouncing on the deck. Terrified, I grabbed the edge of the blister and caught a brief glimpse of a face staring openmouthed from the waist position in the Jap plane, like some macabre mirror image. His machine gun spat fire, but his shots were as wild as ours-an instinctual reaction on both sides to put hot lead and distance between the planes and the possibility of collision.

But was the Jap plane heading for home? Were that gunner and his pals as scared as I was? Or were they circling around, hunting us in the clouds? I kept watch for a while, nothing but mist and murk as far as the eye could see, which was no farther than the acrylic bubble.

“That was close,” White said when I went forward. “The Kawanishi is larger than us, a four-engine job. He might have survived a collision, but he would have crushed us.” He put the PBY into a slight dive until he found the bottom of the clouds and evened out, staying right below the unending fluff, not a yard from cover if needed.

“Kawanishi? No code name?” I asked. “Patty or Maxene maybe?”

“Mavis,” he said. “But everyone in the Solomons knows the Kawanishi. It’s the Jap version of the PBY. Long range, and not bad at night either. I guarantee that won’t be the last one you see.”

“I just hope the next one isn’t that close,” I said.

“I hope it is in flames, like the Flying Cigar,” Kaz said.

“You got the right attitude for the Solomons, Lieutenant,” White said to Kaz. “Welcome to our South Pacific paradise.”

The PBY put us down on Henderson Field on the north side of Guadalcanal. It had been less than six months since ground combat had ended on the island with the last of the Japanese troops vanquished. The airstrip was alive with fighters, transports, and bombers, all in various stages of readiness as crews swarmed over them, fueling, rearming, and unloading supplies. Seabees smoothed out the runway with bulldozers shoving crushed coral into bomb craters.

“I guess the girls paid a visit,” I said. “Betty and her friends.”

“Let us hope they’ve grown tired of this island. I already am. What do we do now?” Kaz asked, eyeing the repair work as we stood in the hot sun. Lieutenant White had already taxied down the runway for his return leg. We walked to the nearest hangar, haversacks slung over our shoulders. The heat was thick and humid, nothing like the breezy warmth of Port Moresby. The place had a smell about it: oil and gasoline mixed with stale sweat and fetid decay.

“Boyle and Kazimierz?” A navy lieutenant in bleached-out khakis called out to us as he emerged from a Quonset hut. His shirt was soaked with perspiration and rivulets of sweat ran from his black wavy hair.

“That’s us,” I said, mopping my forehead. “You got a heat wave going on here?”

“Funny,” he said. “This is actually the nicest day we’ve had in a week. Welcome to Henderson Field. I’m Dick Nixon, Air Transport Officer.”

“Billy Boyle, and this is Kaz,” I said as we shook hands.

“Commander Cluster is waiting for you,” Nixon said, leading us to an open pavilion with a palm-frond roof. A crudely painted sign read: Nick’s Hamburger Stand.

“That you?” I asked as we followed Nixon.

“Yeah, we organized that for pilots coming through. We grill burgers and try to put out whatever food we can scrounge. A lot of the guys bring stuff from Australia when they can. Even cold beer once in a while.”

“All the comforts of home,” I said.

“That’s the idea. There’s Commander Cluster,” Nixon said, waving to an officer drinking coffee at the end of a long wooden table that had been cobbled together from packing crates. “I’ll have some chow sent over for you fellows. We don’t see too many Poles out here, Lieutenant Kazimierz. Is the Polish Army in Exile sending troops to fight the Japs?”

“We Poles have enough war in Europe,” Kaz said. “Between the Germans and the Russians, we have our fill of enemies. The Polish government did declare war on Japan following Pearl Harbor; however, the Japanese rejected the declaration.” We walked into the shade of the open-air hamburger joint, thankful for the slight coolness and the familiar aroma from the grill.

“Rejected a declaration of war?” Nixon said. “That’s a new one. Why’d they do it?”

“Prime Minister Tojo said Poland had been pressured into it by Great Britain, since we were dependent upon their support. Tojo probably rejected it purely for propaganda purposes, since we obviously pose no threat to them in the Pacific.”

“Well, don’t try telling that to the first Jap you see,” Nixon said. “The finer points of diplomacy are lost on them. So what exactly are you two doing here?”

“Long story,” I said. “We’re looking into a possible murder. One of the natives who works with the Coastwatchers got himself killed over on Tulagi.”