Clifford Simak - A Death in the House - And Other Stories

That was the last straw. It was not enough that the man should suggest his gunner might want to jump to save his own neck. He had to take every opportunity to show his rank, to meet every suggestion with an insult.

“I’ll stick with the ship,” Jackson said. “Not with you, but the ship.”

“You have made that distinction plain,” said Hart. “You do not approve of me, Jackson?”

“How did you ever guess it?” Jackson asked.

Hart said nothing. Jackson settled down, fuming. Looking back, he saw that three of the Avengers were following them. The others were landing in the water. On the carrier, the fire crews seemed to be getting control of the blaze.

The sea, which had been blue before, was now an angry gray. The first drop of rain splashed against the shattered plexiglass.

The Avenger drove east, the Wright Cyclone howling a challenge to the wind. The raindrops came faster and thicker. Jackson pulled the hood forward, but water dripped through the holes the Jap bullets had punched.

Now they were flying in a world of storm, a world of streaming water. There was no sign of the other three Avengers, although Jackson knew they must be close behind.

The hours dragged on toward evening and the storm grew less. The overcast thinned, and the rain stopped. Scudding clouds parted to let the sinking sun paint a blood-red streak across the sea behind them.

The other Avengers were not in sight. Apparently they had taken another course in the storm.

Sky and sea were empty except for a small island off to the right. Sprawling like a huge horseshoe, it stood astride the sun’s bloody path, with the surf painting a white fringe around it.

Hart’s voice broke the silence.

“We’re sitting down, Jackson. Gas is running short. Probably a break in the feed line.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jackson.

“A bullet might have nicked it,” Hart declared.

“We took no bullets forward, sir,” said Jackson smugly.

He had Hart dead to rights. The pilot had overestimated their fuel supply. That one about the fuel line was nothing but a feeble excuse.

The Avenger was gliding for the island which was larger than it had first appeared, and was heavily wooded. The lagoon on the inside of the horseshoe was well-sheltered, and on the outside rim ran a narrow beach which broke abruptly into wooded heights.

Hart was heading for the beach. Jackson crossed mental fingers, envisioning holes or boulders that might crack them up. But the plane came down smoothly on a beach almost as smooth as a floor. Hart cut the engine, and the silence was deafening. Slowly Jackson became accustomed to the sound of the surf, the chatter of birds in the woods.

Leaning against the plane, Jackson lighted a cigarette. He found Hart staring at him with angry eyes.

“Why don’t you go ahead and say it?” the pilot demanded.

“Say what?” asked Jackson.

“Tell me what a mess I’ve got us in.”

“Robinson Crusoe made out, sir. So can we. The war’ll be over some day. Somebody’ll find us then.”

“I ought to take a swing at you for a crack like that,” Hart declared.

“If you want to fight, mister,” announced Jackson, “I’m your man. But you got to hit me first. Regulations, you know.”

Hart looked bewildered.

“You’re the first man I’ve ever wanted to lick,” he said. “I never wanted to fight anyone before.”

“Yeah, I know. Not even the Japs.”

“That’s a lie, Jackson!”

“No, it isn’t. You’ve shot at the Japs, sure, and bombed them. But you really haven’t fought them. You’ve fought this war the way a man plays golf. You been fighting par, not the enemy.”

“Jackson,” asked Hart, “do you want me to take that swing at you?”

“Forget it,” said Jackson. “Let’s see what the lay-out is. Maybe we’ll have to squat here a long time.”

A twig snapped with a loud report in the jungle opposite the plane, and they stiffened to the alert. Something was moving through the jungle toward them.

It was a man, a white man. His ragged beard was white, and unkempt gray hair hung almost to his shoulders. He wore no shirt, and his trousers were held up by a piece of frayed rope.

He stopped at the edge of the jungle and blinked at them.

“Americans?” he asked.

Hart nodded.

“I saw you come in,” the old man said, stumbling over his words, as if English were unfamiliar. “You must go away. The Japs are here.”

“The Japs?”

“Over on the other side. Using the lagoon for a seaplane base. The natives are building a ramp for them.”

Hart shook his head.

“I don’t understand, I’m afraid. Tell me who you are.”

“I’m Smith. At least you can call me that. Half beachcomber, half trader. Ran a little station here. Natives friendly, what there are of them. Only about fifty or so. When the Japs came, they didn’t kill me because I could make the natives work, or—” Smith ran his thumb across his throat.

“Perhaps the Japs didn’t see us land,” suggested Hart.

“Fat chance,” said Jackson.

“I’m afraid they did,” said Smith. “You must go.”

“We have no gas,” Hart explained.

“How many Japs?” asked Jackson.

“Only a dozen or so here regularly,” said Smith. “Ground crew and engineers. Otherwise they come and go. Sometimes there are as many as twenty planes. Other times, none at all. There are none here now. Once in a while a supply boat comes.”

“How far is Saipan?” asked Hart.

“Two hundred fifty miles,” said Smith. “If we could manage to hide you until night, I could get enough gas to you. The natives would help me. They hate the Japs.”

“You say there are no planes here now?” asked Jackson.

“Not now,” Smith told him. “They left yesterday. There was a battle.”

“We know about that,” said Jackson.

“It’ll be easy, then,” declared Hart calmly. “So long as there are no planes, we can keep out of their way. You get the gas down here—”

“Why bother with hide and seek business?” protested Jackson. “Let’s just drop in on the camp and take the gas away from them.”

The jungle rustled and Smith was gone—just as if he had stepped behind a bush and vanished.

“Now where did he go?” demanded Jackson.

The jungle rustled again and a squeaky, high-pitched voice sang at them:

“Put up the hands!”

A Jap officer stepped out of the undergrowth with a pistol in his fist. The bushes waved and three soldiers came out on the beach, rifles held at ready.

Jackson spat in the sand.

“Japs!” he said.

“Keep still,” the Jap yelled at him. “Put up your hands!”

Hart had his hands up.

“Get them up,” he snapped at Jackson. “There’s no sense in getting shot.”

Jackson raised his hands reluctantly.

“So sensible,” hissed the Jap officer. “And a nice plane, too. We shall be so interested in it.”

He squared off in front of the Americans, looked at them and laughed.

“Let me introduce myself. I am Matoka. Formerly of San Diego, in your own delightful country. After this war is over, I shall go back there to live. I like Americans. You are so ready to listen to reason.”

“I’m sorry now I didn’t go for my gun,” Jackson snarled. “I could of got two or three of them.”

“Perhaps you could have,” Hart agreed. “Then what?”

“Then we would have shot you,” Matoka said. He jabbed the muzzle of the pistol playfully at the pit of Jackson’s stomach.

“I have a hunch, Joe,” Jackson told the Jap, “that before this is over I’m going to have to kick your teeth right down your yellow throat. …”

The morning sun slanted through the broken windows of Smith’s old trading shack. From outside came the sound of hammering and sawing as the islanders labored, under a half-dozen Jap guards, at the half-finished seaplane ramp.