Red Randall on Active Duty

by R. Sidney Bowen

  “What sight?” he asked.

  Young Joyce motioned backwards with his head.

  “Look out that way, but keep your head down!” he said. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

  Randall squirmed around until he was looking in the direction indicated by Joyce’s gesture. He looked and made no effort to stifle the bitter groan that rose up in his throat. Not over thirty yards away, and in plain view, was the Japanese Mitsubishi two-seater fighter. To see it there so close, yet so far from his reach, filled Randall with another fit of helpless rage. He forgot the Japanese snipers for a second and unconsciously raised himself up for a better look. Instantly a rifle cracked, and a bullet ripped a hole in the cloth of his tunic at the left shoulder, and went speeding on its way. He dropped flat and mentally kicked himself hard.

  “That makes two times for each of us,” he heard Jimmy Joyce say. “Just remember, the third time never fails. But speaking of that Jap plane. It didn’t fly away yesterday, after all. It’s still here.”

  Randall grunted, nodded, and then suddenly realized that the sun was in the west and changing from gold to deep crimson.

  “Hey, this is tomorrow!” he exclaimed to Jimmy Joyce. “I mean, we both must have been out cold all night, and all day today!”

  “That’s right,” young Joyce said. Then with a sad grin, he added, “You don’t happen to have a cup of coffee and some ham and eggs on you, do you? Realize how long we’ve gone without chow? Nothing since the food that Tonga gave us yesterday. I could eat a horse right now!”

  “Shut up, and stop reminding my stomach!” Randall growled. Then squirming around so that he was close to Joyce again, he continued, “Look, Jimmy, we really are in a jam. What do you suppose those Japs are going to do? Keep us here forever? What really gets me is why they didn’t kill us in the first place? Why stick us in this nipa hut and keep missing us? Well, a couple of times apiece, anyway?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Joyce sighed. “Why not stick your head up and ask them? Maybe they’re waiting for something. It’s a sweet pickle we’re in, no matter how you look at it. That John Smith! What I could do to that big baboon right now if I had the chance!”

  “I don’t know, Jimmy,” Randall said slowly and frowned. “I don’t know just what to think about him. One minute it seems crazy to think he sold us down the river. And the next it seems certain that he must have done just that.”

  “Why bother thinking about it?” Jimmy Joyce grunted. “Let’s just think about us. About what we can do, if anything. Think we could roll off this nipa hut floor and make a break for that plane? There don’t seem to be any guards around it. And I think there’re some heavy bushes in back of here. The bushes, and the pigs under here, might make a pretty fair screen for us. Want to chance it, Red?”

  Randall was about to nod his head in agreement, when something inside of him, a small quiet voice of warning perhaps, curbed his desire. He glanced at Joyce and shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “Not right now, Jimmy. Maybe that’s what the Japs are waiting for—waiting for us to make a break for the plane. For all we know, maybe there’s one of them right under us with the pigs, listening to every word we say. And...”

  Randall stopped short, and clamped a hand to his mouth. Jimmy Joyce stared at him and frowned.

  “What now?” he demanded.

  Red squirmed closer until his lips were next to young Joyce’s right ear.

  “A thought,” he whispered. “Maybe John Smith skipped, knowing that to be caught wouldn’t make things any easier for us. And if there is a Jap under here listening, we’ve certainly spilled the beans for John Smith. Just a thought, but...”

  “Skip it!” Jimmy Joyce growled. “That big stiff skipped out to save his own hide. He wouldn’t dare come back now.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Jimmy,” Randall said with a little shake of his head. “I sort of got to like that big guy, and I’d bet my shirt he hates the Japs every bit as much as we do. It’s...well, it’s just that he’s got his own tribesmen to think of first. And you can’t blame him for that.”

  “No-o-o, I guess not,” Jimmy Joyce hesitated. “Still, he sure did lead us up a dead-end street, what I mean. And right smack into this mess, too. I...”

  Young Joyce stopped whispering and looked at Randall out of wide eyes as the floor beneath them started to shake. A moment later a moving shadow fell across their faces. And a moment after that they found themselves staring up into the muzzle of a Japanese-made Luger automatic, and at the cruel-faced Jap staff major behind the gun. For a full second the major squinted down at them and then he viciously kicked each of them in the ribs.

  “Stand up, American dogs!” he hissed. “An Imperial officer speaks to you!”

  There did not seem to be a breath of air in Randall’s lungs as he struggled up onto his feet, and then leaned over to give Jimmy Joyce a hand. Joyce’s face was white with pain, and his breath was coming in short gasps. However, a fierce light burned in his eyes, and for a fearful moment Randall thought his friend was going to be crazy enough to throw himself at the Japanese officer. However, Joyce stood perfectly still and Randall released his hold on his arm. The two of them faced the enemy and waited.

  “I will ask you a question!” the major suddenly spat at them. “And you will give me the answer at once. It will be better for you not to hesitate or lie. Now! Where and when did you leave your aircraft carrier?”

  A single question, but in itself it was the answer to another question that had bothered both men. In short, why had the Japanese not killed them long before this? The answer seemed obvious. They probably had gone out and inspected the Vultee under water, guessed that it had come from a carrier, but wanted definite information from their prisoners. Either that, or...

  “Two days ago,” Randall answered truthfully in the middle of his thought. “A few hundred miles offshore. I don’t know where it is now.”

  The Japanese grunted and looked at Jimmy Joyce. What he saw in young Joyce’s face appeared to make him believe that Randall had spoken the truth. He grunted again, and returned his beady-eyed gaze to Red’s face again.

  “How many took off from the carrier?” he demanded.

  “Seventy-five,” Randall replied instantly. “We got lost, and we...”

  He did not finish. The Japanese reached out and gun-whipped him across the face. Randall staggered back a step, caught himself, and stood there, his lips twitching and his left cheek on fire with pain.

  “You lie!” the major screamed, and leveled his gun at Red Randall’s heart. “You American dogs have not seventy-five planes to spare for your precious lost Philippines. Ten only have we accounted for. Four two-seaters and six single-seaters. And those who flew them are either dead or our prisoners. Ah! Then there were no more than ten planes, eh?”

  The Japanese fairly shrilled the last in wild triumph because of the utter dismay that Randall could not keep from revealing on his face. It was a blow that seemed to tear the heart right out of him. Ten planes, yes. That was all. Six P-40’s and four Vultees. Fourteen Yank pilots in all. And not one of them had gotten through to Davao? Not one, if this Japanese was speaking the truth. And he must have spoken the truth because he knew the exact number of single-seaters and two-seaters that had taken off from the Comet’s flight deck on a daring mission that probably had been doomed from the very start. No air help for Bataan, this time. Fourteen of them had tried, but had all fourteen failed?

  One brief instant of complete despair, complete surrender, and then he was fixing the Japanese officer with a defiant eye.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Ten planes from our carrier, but I don’t know how many took off from the other carrier! And if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you!”

  So startled was the Japanese by what Randall had first said that he let the last sentence pass unnoticed. His eyes widened, and he sucked in his breath in a sharp hiss. Red Randall was not sure, but he thought he saw a flicker of worry pass over
the man’s eyes. The Japanese officer stood perfectly motionless for a full minute, and then slowly his lips formed what might have been a sneer. He jabbered something in his native tongue under his breath, and then suddenly broke into English.

  “Another carrier, yes?” he hissed softly. “You dog fools! Nothing can save your stupid MacArthur now. Not even the planes from a hundred carriers, if you had them. He will be our prisoner by tomorrow’s sun! Either our prisoner or a drowned man. We know he left Bataan last night. We almost caught his boat, but we will not fail the next time. Right now he probably hides, but we will find him. We will hunt him out. We will drive him into the little net we have waiting for him. The great and brave General MacArthur, who runs away from his troops. We will capture your MacArthur, and tell the whole world all about him. The great man who runs!”

  The Japanese was shouting, frothing at the mouth, and waving one hand around like a mad man. He stopped short, however, when another voice screamed at him in Japanese. Quick as a cat he leaped back a couple of steps, kept his eyes on the two Yank pilots, and half turned his head in the direction of the other voice. He shouted back at it, waited for a reply, and when it came he frowned, took a couple of running steps, and leaped off the nipa hut floor onto the ground. No sooner had he disappeared than both Randall and Joyce threw themselves flat on the floor. It was well they did so, too. A couple of rifles cracked, and as two bullets whined by low over their heads, they heard the bursts of cackling laughter.

  “You...you believe him, Red?” Jimmy Joyce finally said, his face pressed close to the matting.

  “Yes,” Randall replied quietly. “The rotten devils seem to know all the answers. Yes, I believe him. General MacArthur has started his escape to Australia, and the Japs...”

  He stumbled to a stop. He could not finish. The words just would not come. It was several minutes before he got a grip on himself again. Then he shouted fiercely through his tears:

  “Not in a thousand years! We’ll fight them. And we’ll keep on fighting them until there’s not a man, woman, or child of us alive!”

  Randall blinked and stared hard at Jimmy Joyce. And it was a couple of seconds before he realized that he, and not Jimmy, had shouted those words.

  Chapter Fifteen – Black Fury

  “DO YOU THINK he’ll come back, Red?” Jimmy Joyce asked quietly. Randall gave a little vigorous shake of his head, as though to clear out the confused thoughts in his brain. “And, if so, do you think we should wait for him? Frankly, the little major kicks too hard for my liking.”

  “I don’t know, Jimmy,” Randall frowned, and absently pressed a hand to his sore ribs “You’re talking about making a break for that plane, aren’t you?”

  “Either that, or to lose ourselves in the jungle until we can think up something better,” young Joyce replied grimly. “It’s a cinch that just sticking here won’t get us a thing. Night will be here soon, and I’ve got a hunch they’re not going to just let us stay here after it’s dark. That would be the same as begging us to try to escape.”

  Red Randall did not answer. Out back of the nipa hut was the cleared landing strip and the Japanese two-seater which looked very tempting indeed. On two sides of the hut there was nothing but thick, intertwined jungle growth that would swallow them both up if they once succeeded in diving into it. In front of the hut was the Japanese camp. Because he was forced to lie flat on his stomach, unless he wanted to get shot at, he could see very little of the latter. In fact, he could not see it at all, because the ground sloped away from the hut. But he could hear the jabbering Japanese and all the other sounds of activity. Three little bits of experience had told him that somewhere out front some Japanese riflemen were keeping their eyes on the hut for any signs of suspicious movement.

  True, Jimmy and he might be able to worm and crawl unseen by those watching Japanese riflemen, reach the rear edge and drop off the floor into the bushes at the back, and then make a dash for the Japanese plane. The trouble with that, though, was there were too many ifs. If the enemy did not see them first. If there were thick enough bushes in back. If there were no guards on the plane. And if they could get the thing going and into the air before the Japanese caught up with them. Too many ifs, and yet...

  Supposing they aimed at the same goal but by a different route? In short, would their chances be better if they rolled off the side of the nipa hut floor, plunged into the jungle, and eventually circled around to the plane?

  “I wonder!” Randall muttered aloud. “Something about this set-up smells, and it isn’t the pigs underneath us, either. I...”

  “What do you mean by that?” Jimmy Joyce interrupted quickly. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Our chances of getting out of this tight spot,” Randall told him. “Frankly, I’m all for making a break for the plane, one way or another, except...well, it looks too cinchy, Jimmy, if you want to know what I think. I can’t help but feel the Japs are just waiting for us to try it. If we could only get a good look at things, we might get an idea what kind of a game they’re playing. But having to stay flat like this rules that out. By the way, did you get a look around when that Jap major had us stand up? I was too busy looking at him, I guess.”

  “The same with me,” young Joyce replied with a heavy sigh. “And speaking of him, I wonder why he left in such a hurry? Gosh! This is about the hundredth time I’d give a million bucks to be able to understand Japanese.”

  “You and me both!” Randall groaned with emphasis. “Yes, I wonder, too, why he lit out like that. It certainly sounded urgent, anyway. But we can hash things over until we’re blue in the face, and still get nowhere. So, let’s make a break for the jungle. By trying that we may get the chance to see if the Japs have fixed up any kind of a trap with that plane as bait. Well, what about it? Shall we go?”

  “I say let’s try it,” young Joyce replied. “The way I feel now I’d rather get shot and have it over with than stay here on my face going nuts and maybe starving to death. One thing is certain, the devils mean to kill us sooner or later, and...well, doggone it, I’d much rather go out trying for my life.”

  Randall smiled, reached out a hand and squeezed Jimmy Joyce’s arm.

  “You’re one swell guy, Jimmy,” he said softly. “If anything happens to us, my biggest regret will be that we didn’t meet each other sooner. I want you to know that, Jimmy, because I mean it. Straight from the heart, kid.”

  “Aw, lay off the soft-soap stuff, will you?” Jimmy Joyce growled, but there was a deep, warm glow in his eyes. “We’re both swell guys, and nothing is going to happen to us that we won’t like. And...”

  Joyce suddenly stopped talking. Red Randall also stiffened, and they both stared at each other in puzzled bewilderment as there came a soft thumping on the underside of the bamboo and matting floor upon which thy lay. And then came the faintly whispered words:

  “Americans! Americans! Can you hear me?”

  “That’s John Smith!” gasped Red. Then he bent his head and pressed his face against the matting. “We hear you, John Smith!” he said, and it was all he could do not to yell out the words. “Where have you been? How did you get down there? Can’t the Japs see you? They’re watching us from some place in their camp. We can’t stand up because they’re taking pot shots at us. You hear me, John Smith?”

  “I hear you,” came the faint reply. “Please do not ask questions. Simply listen to me, as I cannot stay here long. These pigs and shadows hide me. The Japanese cannot see me. But please listen. I have learned more news. The Japanese have sighted your General MacArthur’s boats. They...”

  “What?” Randall gagged. “Did they...?”

  “Please listen!” John Smith cut him off in a hissing whisper. “I cannot stay here long. I have just heard the Japanese talking. The information came over their radio. General MacArthur’s boats were sighted in the Cagayan Islands in the Sulu Sea. Those islands are about a hundred miles from the Mindanao Strait. The Japanese could not get close as the water
is too shallow, and there are many coves where the American boats can hide until darkness comes. But the Japanese believe that the American boats will attempt to reach the Mindanao Strait tonight and slip through and reach some spot on the north coast of Mindanao Island itself. There are no Japanese on Mindanao Island yet, I heard them say. They say that if General MacArthur reaches Mindanao, an American plane could fly him to Australia. That is what they want to prevent. They are very happy about the news. They tell each other that they will capture the General when he tries to slip through the Mindanao Strait tonight.

  “I heard them say that three destroyers will block off the Strait entrance. They are on their way there now. And the two high-ranking officers will fly the Mitsubishi. They are to carry bombs. They speak of dropping flares when the American boats are in the Strait, so that the destroyers can see them. They may have other plans, too. I did not understand all that I heard them speak. But it is going to be very bad for your great General MacArthur.”

  Randall groaned, and clenched his hands into white knuckled fists in helplessness and bitterness and rage. “If there was only something we could do to stop them. They mustn’t capture MacArthur! The dirty devils mustn’t! If only...wait a minute, John Smith! The Mindanao Strait is twenty to twenty-five miles across. How are the Japs going to know when the boats are in the Strait? Did you hear them say anything about that?”

  There followed a long moment of silence, and a wild fear came to Randall that the big black had slipped away and was gone. Suddenly, though, he spoke again, slow and haltingly, as though he was still struggling with the problem.

  “I do not know for sure,” he replied. “They spoke of things I do not understand. They said the guarding destroyers would pick up the boats’ propellers on...I do not know the word they use, or what the destroyers will do. But they also said the destroyers would point their searchlight beams in the direction of the boats, and then the plane would know where to drop its flares. And the darkness would be turned into the light of day. Perhaps you understand what they plan to do? Is it possible for destroyers to see small boats in the darkness? But why signal to a plane to make light, if they can already see them?”