Red Randall on Active Duty

by R. Sidney Bowen

  “MacArthur?” Red exclaimed. “You mean, General MacArthur who commands the American and Filipino troops on Bataan and Corregidor?”

  “Ah!” John Smith breathed fiercely. “I knew I had heard that name spoken before. The great General MacArthur, of course!”

  “What did they say about him?” Jimmy Joyce asked quickly. “Is he all right? Bataan hasn’t fallen, has it? Hey! They haven’t captured General MacArthur, have they? If...”

  Young Joyce could not go on. Words failed him at the thought of such a terrible possibility. John Smith smiled sadly and shook his bushy red head.

  “I do not know,” he said. “Just the name I heard them shouting. But they were very pleased and glad. So who can tell? Perhaps what you fear has happened. I do not know.”

  A feeling of deep depression came over Randall. The Americans must have lost the Philippines. The fact that the Japanese invaders had penetrated this far south in the Philippine Islands could mean only one thing. Bataan must have fallen. Siquijor Island, he knew from maps he had studied, was in the Mindanao Sea and close to the Island of Negros. And north of Negros was Panay where the American forces were supposed to have a flying field. And Mindoro Island, where another field was located, was north of Panay. Were those fields now in Japanese hands, too? Had they made a sweeping advance southward, and Vice-Admiral Janes had not yet been informed of it? And what about the other men who had taken off from the Comet? Were they down in the water? Had they become lost and flown way off their course like Jimmy and himself? And had the Japanese been waiting for those who did reach Davao? Of course Davao was far south, and perhaps the Japanese had not yet...

  Randall groaned under his breath and shook his head in a desperate effort to drive away the agonizing thoughts. John Smith and the other big black watched him out of wide, questioning eyes.

  “Is there any chance of my friend and myself getting to Iloilo, on Panay Island?” he asked John Smith. “You know of that place?”

  “I have been there,” the former native of the Solomons said with a grave nod. “But it would be impossible. Panay is many, many miles from here. There is no boat we could use. And as I have told you, the Japanese are everywhere. If they caught us we would all be killed at once. I am not afraid of the Japanese, but a man must not be a fool.”

  “Yeah, you’ve got something there,” Randall grunted, and frowned in his disappointment. “But, doggone it, we just can’t stay here and get captured. We’ve just got to reach some detachment of Yank forces here in the Philippines.”

  “It is impossible to leave this island and not die,” John Smith said quietly. “We would have done so if it were possible. The only thing for you...”

  John Smith stopped speaking as the black at his side suddenly stiffened and spoke sharply in his native tongue. John Smith looked back at Randall and Joyce with flashing eyes.

  “Follow me!” he said. “Do not talk. Do not make a sound. The Japanese! Perhaps they have seen your wrecked airplane from one of the hilltops! Follow me, quickly!”

  Chapter Eleven – Black Magic

  A WILD, VIOLENT urge to sneeze seized hold of Red Randall. He pressed the forefinger of one hand hard against his upper lip, and clamped the other hand over his mouth just in case the forefinger treatment did not work. The impulse to sneeze subsided, and he peered out through a tiny, opening in the heavy jungle growth that gave him a view of the strip of beach where he and Jimmy Joyce had stood talking with the two blacks just a few minutes ago.

  Right now all four were flat on their stomachs. There was no sound in the hot jungle. Glancing out of the corner of his eye at John Smith, Red silently marveled at how so much man could remain so still and motionless. Not even John Smith’s eyelids moved. His big black eyes were fixed rigidly on the strip of beach.

  Red knew that the black men had heard something and were on the alert. But he had no idea what it could be. In fact, he had not heard any unusual sounds, like Japanese cutting their way through the jungle growth, at any time since John Smith had whisked them all off the beach. Perhaps the two blacks were possessed of a sixth sense—the ability to “feel” things that could not be seen or heard.

  Just then Randall saw some jungle growth move about fifty yards down the beach, and a party of ten Japanese step out onto the hard-packed sand. They halted in a group and chattered at one another, as they cast darting glances in all directions and fingered the deadly submachine guns they carried in their hands. A Japanese junior officer was in charge of the party, and it was he who first spotted the tail of the wrecked Vultee sticking up out of the water offshore. He spoke something in a high-pitched voice, and flung up a pointing brown hand. The others instantly looked in that direction, and then as one man they all raced down to the water’s edge. There they stood staring out at the plane’s tail and jabbered excitedly.

  Just to see them standing there filled Randall with a loathing hatred for all that they were and stood for. In that moment he would gladly have given ten years of his life for a machine gun and plenty of ammunition. As if the black chief must have known what emotions were seething through his mind, he quietly reached over a big paw and gave Red’s nearest arm a cautioning squeeze.

  Five, ten, fifteen minutes dragged by, and still the party of Japs continued to stare out at the tail of the wrecked plane and jabber and chatter excitedly to each other. So far as Randall could figure out, some sort of an argument was in progress. Just what it was all about, though, he had not the slightest idea. Maybe they were deciding whether or not they should swim out for a better look. Or maybe they were arguing what kind of plane that tail belonged to, and if it was one of their own.

  One of the Japs suddenly let out a yell, and began pointing at the sand on the beach. Footprints, of course. Hard-packed as the sand was, there must have been footprints there, and one sharp-eyed Japanese had spotted them. Interest in the Vultee’s tail sticking up out of the water was forgotten instantly. The Japanese seemed to grip their guns tighter, and then started scurrying about over the beach like so many dogs looking for hidden bones...

  Red and Jimmy glanced at John Smith, fully expecting the big black to signal that they take it on the run, and fast. Not once did John Smith look at them, however. The native remained absolutely motionless, large black eyes fixed unwaveringly on the busy Japanese. Wild temptation to suggest they get out fast gripped Randall, but something about the way John Smith remained rigid refused to let the words come off his tongue. And when he looked out along the beach the next time, he saw the reason why. There were footprints there, yes, but they obviously were so confusing that the Japanese could not make head nor tail of them.

  And then without warning every Japanese stopped dead in his tracks, and whirled about and stared up at the sky. And now a familiar sound penetrated down through the thick jungle growth to Randall’s ears. The sound of an airplane engine! He strained his ears, and his heart began to jump around in his chest. He could be wrong, of course, but he was willing to bet anything that the throbbing beat he heard was not from any American-made engine. A Japanese plane was up there out of sight!

  Trembling inwardly with mounting excitement, the fliers listened to the plane draw closer and closer. Suddenly its mighty roar was directly over their heads and their staring eyes saw the party of Japanese wave their hands and guns and dance around on the beach. As the shadow raced across the sand, Red was able to peer up and catch a flash glimpse of the plane. It was traveling low and at terrific speed. He spotted the Rising Sun insignia on the wings, and knew for certain that it was a Jap Mitsubishi “Karigane” fighter.

  That fleeting glimpse of the Japanese two-seater fighter was all the boys caught before it shot away out of sight beyond the jungle trees at the far end of the little strip of beach. They could still hear its engine, though, and a moment later when the throbbing roar died off abruptly, they could tell that the pilot had throttled well back, and they recalled instantly the landing space that the Japanese had forced John Smith and his nat
ives to clear. Almost with one whisper they said:

  “He is going to land on that space over by their camp!”

  “Look,” John Smith whispered, pointing to the beach. Randall peered out, and was just in time to see the last of the party of Japanese plunging into the jungle and disappearing from view. He waited a few seconds and then touched John Smith on the arm to get his attention. The big black immediately turned his head and looked at him.

  “Could you lead us to a spot close to that landing field?” Red whispered. “Maybe we could see something or find out something.”

  John Smith thought a moment and then shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “That would be too dangerous right now. They know that someone from your plane was on the beach out there. So they know he must still be on the island. They will probably report to their superior officer, and the island may be searched.”

  “If I only hadn’t lost my gun!” Randall groaned. “If I could only get hold of a gun. I’d...I’d get as many of them as I could.”

  John Smith smiled, and there was a glint of admiration in the eyes he fixed on Randall.

  “Americans are brave men,” he said. “I learned that on Luzon. But you can be brave fools, too. And that is wrong. No, it would be foolish for me to lead you to their camp. Their officer may be looking for me. Now that a plane has arrived he may have work for us. It is not safe for me to remain out of sight. The Japanese are devils. They might fly into a rage and shoot down some of my men if they do not find me. No, I must return to their camp at once. But do not worry. Tonga will hide you where you will be safe until I can return and talk. Tonga does not speak much English, but he is a good man. Follow him where he leads you. I will tell him what I wish him to do. And do not be alarmed. He would throw himself from the highest cliff into the sea, if I ordered him. He will do what I tell him. He will get you food, too, and water. You must need both. I will tell Tonga what to do, and then I will go. Do not be alarmed. I will return. John Smith has said so.”

  With a nod, and a brief flashing smile, John Smith turned his head toward the big black he had called Tonga, and spoke low and rapidly in their native language. Tonga listened, his big face expressionless, and when John Smith was finished, he simply grunted and nodded his head of bushy red hair. A moment later John Smith was out of sight. Not a single sound followed after him, and Randall impulsively touched the spot where he had lain, as though the black man was there still but simply invisible.

  “That ol’ black magic!” the Yank whispered to himself, and looked over at Jimmy Joyce with what he hoped was a cheerful grin on his lips.

  Young Joyce made an effort to return the grin, and then both youths gave their attention to Tonga, who had grunted and was making “follow me” signs with his huge hands.

  Chapter Twelve – A Desperate Situation

  JIMMY JOYCE TOUCHED Randall on the arm, and then licked his lips before he spoke.

  “Pinch me, will you, Red?’ he said. “I’m wondering if I’m just having a crazy, cockeyed nightmare.”

  “No, you pinch me, kid,” Randall replied with a shake of his head. “Because I’m wondering the same thing. Not only wondering, but worrying, too. It’s a good five hours, now, since John Smith pulled his lightning fade-out. Five hours in this darn cave, and Tonga sitting over there like an ebony image. And I can’t get him to say more than...”

  “I know, I heard him!” Joyce sighed. “‘You no talk along me. White man talk along boss boy.’ I wonder why he won’t talk some of his pidgin English with us?”

  “Maybe because he couldn’t understand us any better than we could understand him,” Randall replied with a shrug. “But I guess it’s because they’ve got some kind of a custom out here where the boss does all the talking. Gives the orders and stuff. And the hired help do all their talking through him.”

  “Probably,” Joyce grunted. “Jeepers! I sure wish John Smith would show up. Tonga gives me the creeps just sitting there with his spear. Did you get a look at that thing, Red? The point’s as sharp as a needle. And I bet that lad can heave it, too. I’ll bet the Japs don’t know they tote those pointers!”

  “I’m going to stick my head out of this place for a look around,” said Red. “It’s driving me nuts being able to hear those Japs yapping at each other, and not being able to take a look at them to see what they’re doing. And I can’t stop thinking about that plane, either. Just think what you and I could do with that plane, Jimmy!”

  “I’m trying not to!” young Joyce groaned. “Just thinking about it makes me feel worse. Here, have another swig of coconut milk?”

  “No, thanks, filled way up to here,” Randall mumbled. “Have it yourself, kid.”

  But Jimmy Joyce just said, “Uh-uh!” and shook his head, and the two of them lapsed into brooding silence. Randall chewed absently on his lower lip, stared at the thick growth that blocked off the cave entrance, and tried not to think of too many unpleasant things. But no matter what he thought, or did not think, the cold hard fact remained that Jimmy and he might just as well have remained at the Darwin base for all the good they were doing the United Nations’ cause. A perfectly good Vultee had been entrusted to their care for delivery at Davao and subsequent action against the Jap forces in the Philippines. And where was that Vultee now? A hopeless wreck on the floor of the Mindanao Sea, with only its tail showing above water. And what about Jimmy Joyce and himself? A couple of unarmed, helpless guys, waiting hour after hour in a dark; gloomy cave where a black man called Tonga had led them. And waiting for what? For John Smith’s return. And when, and if, John Smith returned, what then?

  Red Randall groaned softly as a new and equally unpleasant thought flashed across his brain. What about that John Smith, anyway? Yes, just what about the more or less self-taught native of the Solomon Islands! Did he really hate the Japanese as much as he professed? And, supposing he did hate them that much, might he not use Jimmy Joyce and Randall to barter with the Japanese for permission to leave the island with his men? Wouldn’t the enemy just love to get their hands on a couple of American airmen? Wouldn’t they be willing to let John Smith’s men go in return for two Americans?

  It was a thought, a very tormenting thought. And Red Randall caught himself weighing the chances of knocking Tonga cold, and of Jimmy and himself slipping away to fend for themselves as best they could. After all, that Japanese two-seater was still on the ground. They had not heard its engine again. And...

  At that very moment the huge figure of John Smith came gliding into the cave without a sound. In the bad light Red stared up into the broad face, saw John Smith’s lips part in a warm friendly smile, and instantly hated himself for the crazy thoughts he had allowed himself to think. If any man within three thousand miles of that spot was their friend, John Smith was that man.

  The big black dropped silently to the floor of the cave, picked up a coconut, punctured it, and drained off its cool milk in a single gulp. Then he wiped his lips on the back of his hand and looked at Randall and Jimmy Joyce.

  “I have been lucky,” he said. “I bring news. It is about your great General MacArthur. He is leaving the Philippines. He is going to try to escape to Australia!”

  For a moment the boys found it hard to comprehend what the black man had said.

  “You’re crazy, John Smith!” Red gasped. “You’re nuts. General MacArthur would never do a thing like that. Skip out of Bataan and leave the others behind? You’re...you’re crazy!”

  John Smith remained silent for a moment. Then he spoke:

  “A man has his thoughts, and he speaks those thoughts aloud,” the big black said gravely. “If I bring you lies, then the Japanese have spoken lies to each other. There were two high officers in the plane that landed. They met with the high officer in charge here. I heard them speak. I did not understand all, but I understood some. I was almost as close as I am to you. The officers who flew in the plane told the others the news. They had learned this from spies on the place called Bataan.
The great General MacArthur has been ordered to Australia by your President. When, the Japanese do not seem to know. But they believe it to be soon.”

  “But how...why...?” Jimmy Joyce choked out, and was unable to continue. Then after a deep breath, “MacArthur leaving Bataan? I can’t believe it!”

  “If the President ordered him to leave,” Randall said slowly, “there isn’t anything he can do but obey. I bet it breaks his heart, too. That man is all soldier. The best darn soldier we’ve got out here. But maybe it is a wise order, Jimmy. If he can get to Australia, he’s just the man to take complete charge of all forces in the Southwest Pacific and start the ball rolling to get back all that we’ve lost to the Japs. You didn’t hear them say when or how he was going to make the escape, John Smith?”

  “Not when,” the big black replied. “I only heard them say it was to be soon. And how? The Japanese officers were not sure. They spoke of motorboats and submarines. They did not speak of airplanes.

  “Motorboats!” Randall said softly. “That must mean Lieutenant John Bulkeley’s patrol torpedo boats that have been knocking the tar out of Jap shipping up around Subic Bay. We heard plenty about Bulkeley and his boys in Australia. If anybody can get the General out, Lieutenant Bulkeley’s bunch can do it. And, if that’s straight, they probably are meeting a submarine. So MacArthur is leaving the Philippines? Then...then that must mean that the Philippines are completely lost!”

  “Until we get them back!” Jimmy Joyce said grimly. “And we will! And how we will! Just wait until old Uncle Sam starts throwing his Sunday punches.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Randall grunted. “But right now I’m thinking about us. No, about MacArthur. God help us if the Japs catch him. He’s the best general we’ve got.”

  “The Japs won’t catch him,” Jimmy Joyce said with a determined shake of his head.