When John Frum Came

by Bill Schroeder

  John Bartlett did not know either. He had learned quickly that it was not a good idea to let anybody get used to your name. Whenever they had something miserable that needed to be done you didn’t want yours to be the first name they called out.

  Boznik marched him to the headquarters section, and gave him a quick review of how to stand at attention, and respond to meeting the commanding officer. He was told to sit on a bench in the outer office until the yeoman told him he should go in.

  After two hours, he finally got the nod, and entered the office of a Lieutenant who looked like he should have retired after the last war. “Seaman Recruit John Bartlett reporting as ordered, sir!” he said.

  “At ease, Bartlett.” He looked over the young man in front of him and smiled. “I think we have a mix-up here, sailor. I have a set of orders here promoting one Seaman Recruit John Bartlett to Apprentice Seaman. Then it goes on to order the immediate transfer of the man to the Navy Base at San Francisco as part of a special group being formed under Rear Admiral Francis X. Bartlett, III.

  “I’ve got a suspicion that Washington has fu... — fouled up here,” the aging Lieutenant said. “I’ll bet this was supposed to send some relative of the Admiral.“ He looked down at the orders again,” I’ve never heard of him — to some cushy job out in the California sunshine.”

  John said nothing.

  The officer started laughing to himself, and built up in volume. “I’d love to see their faces when they get some nigger boy instead. What do you say to that, Apprentice Seaman Bartlett?”

  John took it as a direct question. “I think the Admiral might be my cousin, sir.”

  The answer sent the Lieutenant into such a spasm of laughing that he almost couldn’t get his breath. He finally managed to get out one word: “Dismissed!”

  Chapter 28

  McDuff had been making daily trips to the top of the volcano during the past few weeks. He walked along the footpath, always looking north to see if his range of view could be improved. Some points on the lip of the crater were higher than others. If he remembered his physics and math, the higher up he got, the farther away the ocean’s horizon would be.

  He loved the relative silence of the place. It was different when he came here without Yani, who talked constantly. It was truly the quietest place on the island that he had seen, but somewhat frightening in its aspect. There were no birds or insects chattering and buzzing. Vegetation was sparse and selective. Every once in a while, he would smell the distinct rotten eggs stench of sulfur compounds that pervades all high school chemistry labs. He also remembered that Professor Kraus, his chemistry teacher, gave an hour-long lecture about the toxicity of well-intentioned chemical jokes. McDuff made it a point to take a deep breath of clean air each time he sniffed the foul odor.

  As he reached the summit of the highest pumice hill, he saw not only the Japanese ships he had been reporting, but others that were coming in from other angles. Good Lord, he thought, I wonder if the Admiralty knows how big this fleet is getting. The whole blasted Japanese Navy must be there.

  As he looked behind him, he got a new perspective of the interior of the volcano. It’s like an abstract painting by one of those outlandish European painters from that new school of art — whatever they call it, he observed. Through his binoculars, he could see that the lake on the floor of the volcano was not made of water, but thick, boiling mud. It bubbled and popped like a neglected pot of butterscotch pudding about to burn on Grandma’s stove. From cracks in the side of the sheer walls of the cone, fumaroles emitted clouds of yellowish steam.

  No wonder no one ever comes back from their visits to the other side of the volcano, he concluded. They’re not being held captive by love-starved women, they’ve been cooked into that primordial soup down there.

  Looking back at the portion of the Pacific Ocean called the Coral Sea, he did his best to count the ships he saw, but could not distinguish the types at this distance. With the size of that Armada, he told himself, I don’t think it makes any difference what kind they are.

  An hour later when Dr. McDuff reached his camp, he was surprised to find that Yani had left with all the men. He wondered where he might have gone, since he needed his generator man to send his new observations to Port Moresby.

  His question was soon answered. As he began to descend the incline toward the village, he met a large number of men and boys coming up from the lowlands. They had obviously been down to the lake since everyone was carrying bamboo poles, vines, or reeds that they had cut there. Everyone was in a happy mood and he wished he could appreciate the jokes that were being bandied about among the men during their steady climb toward the top.

  Finally, Yani appeared. He was carrying some of their steel tools with help from beaming pre-teenagers. They had saws, hatchets, knives and tin snips (the latter having been found perfect for cutting tough reeds and vines).

  “What on earth is going on, Yani?” he asked.

  Yani grinned brightly. “John Frum, he come! We help.”

  That was all the explanation he got as Yani pushed past him with his entourage. They laughed and talked their way to the top of the volcano from which he had just come.

  McDuff caught one of the straggling boys, about 10 years of age, and motioned to him to come with him into the camp. He had nicknamed the boy Pee-wee when he first started to hang around the camp. He showed him how to turn the generator, and waved a small can of fruit salad at him. Pee-wee understood, and with no hesitation he began to spin the wheel while Moses McDuff transmitted his additional information across the airwaves.

  For the rest of the day Dr. McDuff stayed near his wireless equipment since the base at Port Moresby called him almost every half hour to see if there were any changes. At 4:17 p.m., to the Coast Watcher’s amazement, a Japanese destroyer passed Chase Island, coming from the south — a direction in which he had not been looking. The ship was so close that he could see the sailors along the rail and the white-uniformed officers on the bridge. The reality of the situation hit home. McDuff had to admit to himself that he was scared... Suppose they opened fire on the island? Innocent people would die.

  Only minutes later, Yani came down the path from the top of the volcano, thoroughly excited. “John Frum, he come!” he shouted. “You see, Big Man Duff? John Frum, he come!” Yani was pointing at the Japanese destroyer and jumping up in down, as though he were running in place.

  The other natives followed Yani into the camp. They were yelling something similar to “John Frum, he come! John Frum, he come!” but had only matched the rhythm not the words.

  Yani was ready to lead everyone down to the lagoon to greet the ship, until he realized that it was passing them by. He stopped jumping and became silent. His disappointment was evident. The others gradually recognized the change and the chanting stopped.

  “Why did John Frum not come to Chase Island?” Yani asked his American wizard.

  McDuff reached out with both hands and grasped the young man’s shoulders, looking into his eyes. “That wasn’t John Frum, Yani,” he said. “That was a warship that belongs to the Japfella. It’s just like all those ships we saw out to sea. This one just happened to be close by. I think he is on his way to join the other ships.”

  Yani was crestfallen. McDuff could not understand the words, but the tone of what his friend said to the other men had a melancholy note to it that could not be mistaken.

  They left the camp and headed down the mountain toward the village without much discussion. Yani took the place of the ten-year-old at the generator while McDuff transmitted his latest observation.

  ***

  All the other sailors had a pretty good idea of what kind of jobs they would have once they processed through San Diego. John Bartlett’s future was as much of a mystery to him as it was to everyone else. They had all received some kind of school training in addition to basic at Boot Camp. He hadn’t even been to Boot Camp.

  When he reported to the personnel section in San Franci
sco, they sent him to one of the big office buildings marked Allied Liaison Command. No matter where he went, heads turned. Navy people were not yet accustomed to seeing sailors with very dark skin wearing dress white uniforms. There were Filipino mess stewards galore, but no American Negro sailors had yet found their way onto major Navy bases.

  As usual, he was told to wait in an anteroom until someone could see him. So, he sat down with his seabag and a large manila envelope that contained his papers and his most recent orders. As he watched the steady stream of officers of all ranks, he suddenly spotted a familiar face coming toward him, talking with a yeoman with an armload of official looking papers.

  Without thinking, he jumped up and called out, “Frankie! Frankie! Hey, man, over here.” He waved his right arm above his head, so he could be seen in the crowd.

  The man he was calling looked up, and focused on him. For a long minute, he seemed frozen to the spot. There was a look of disbelief on his face. He pushed his way through the crowd of sailors in the waiting room, made eye contact and said, “Are you speaking to me, sailor?”

  “It’s me, Frankie ... Johnny Boy. I’m in the Navy,” John Bartlett said.

  “Come to attention, sailor,” the Marine officer said.

  “But, Frankie...” John tried to say.

  “Do you know what attention means, sailor? It means your eyes are straight ahead, your body is straight and rigid, your hands are at your sides, and your mouth is shut. Do you understand?”

  John had played this game often enough at Great Lakes to know he was in trouble. He hit a brace worthy of a cadet and looked straight ahead. The Marine officer stood directly in front of him.

  “Do you see the insignia on my collar, sailor?” he shouted in John’s face from only inches away.

  “Yes, sir!” he shouted back.

  “Do you know what rank I hold in the United States Marine Corps, sailor?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “And what is that rank?”

  “Second Lieutenant, sir.”

  “What is your name and rank, sailor?”

  “Apprentice Seaman John Bartlett, sir.”

  “I am Second Lieutenant Francis X. Bartlett, the Fourth. In the future, you will address me as Lieutenant Bartlett, sir. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now go into my office and wait for me until I return.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  By this time, they had the attention of the entire office. A hush had fallen over the previously noisy scene. All eyes were on Lieutenant Bartlett as he left the office area and proceeded down the hallway.

  Apprentice Seaman John Bartlett continued to look straight ahead and went into the office marked, Operations.

  ___

  Fifteen minutes later, Second Lieutenant Bartlett returned to his office, visibly more agitated, and closed the door as he entered. John jumped to attention, but was silent.

  Frankie sat down at his desk and said, “Sit down, Johnny.”

  John did so, and looked at the man who had been his boyhood friend ... the buddy with whom he had smoked his first cigarette in the basement ... the informal classmate whom he coached to pass a stuffy tutor’s history quiz. They were in the same room, but separated by worlds of custom, power and wealth.

  Lieutenant Bartlett broke the tense silence. “What happened out there a little while ago,” he said nodding toward the larger office, “was bound to happen some time.”

  “Request the Lieutenant’s permission to speak, sir,” the Apprentice Seaman said.

  “Johnny, I’m going to forget the military formalities just for this meeting. Anything you want to say, you better get it out now. Once you leave this office, we will be strictly military from then on. You are an enlisted man, and I am an officer. There’s no use pretending that I’m not the boss’s son. Dad is a Rear Admiral and he is responsible for the relations between the United States Navy and the British and Australian Forces in the Pacific, in case you didn’t know.”

  “My mother told me in a letter,” John said.

  “That’s the other thing. The only reason you are here is because your mother prevailed upon Dad to do something about your case. I understand they weren’t training you to do anything at Great Lakes except mop the head.”

  John nodded.

  “Even in civilian life I would have gone to work in my father’s office. It’s a given that someday I’ll take over the company. You would have probably taken over your father’s job.” He hastened to add, “You still can after the war.”

  “I guess I could become the faithful old family retainer,” he said sarcastically.

  Frankie ignored the tone. He leaned back in his swivel chair. “I just came from my father’s office. He told me he was afraid something like this would happen. Dad is not very happy about this whole thing.”

  Francis X. Bartlett IV lit a cigarette, without offering one to John. He blew the smoke out in a long stream. “I’m not too happy, either. I am an Annapolis graduate and expected to set the example for the rest of the officers — especially the 90-Day Wonders. That ‘Frankie’ shit you pulled out there today didn’t do me any good as far as prestige is concerned.”

  “I’m sorry,” John said. “I was so glad to see you, I just forgot myself.”

  “Well, don’t forget yourself in the future. And when you see my father, don’t even let on that you know him in the presence of others — officers or enlisted men.”

  He let the swivel chair snap into the forward, upright position. “Now, we have to find something for you to do. As far as the Navy is concerned, you are a deck ape ... an anchor clanker. You have no skills. I thought of putting you in the Admiral’s galley, but the Filipinos and Samoans have that part of the Navy pretty well sewed up.”

  John leaned forward and said, “I wanted to be a gunner. I requested gunnery school, but I was ignored.”

  “Forget it, Johnny. You aren’t going to be a part of any gun crew. My father insists that you stay with us. He’s going to have quite an entourage. His appearance is always to be above reproach. Because of his Flag Rank, he is authorized to have a couple Personal Aides. Admirals don’t press their own uniforms, and do their own laundry as you might have guessed.

  “Dad also doesn’t like strangers too close to him in his personal quarters, as you may well remember.” Lieutenant Bartlett smiled. “You would be perfect for the job.”

  “You mean as your old man’s valet?” John said, disbelieving. “Did I join the Navy so I could follow him around like my father did back in Marblehead?”

  With some impatience, Frankie said, “You will be a Personal Aide to a Rear Admiral, Apprentice Seaman Bartlett. If that does not suit your fancy, we can have you mopping up puke at the base hospital for the duration. What is it, Johnny? Get it out in the open now — or forever hold your piece.”

  “When you see your father, ask him why we have the same last names — Sir!”

  “Can that shit, sailor. Get out of my office and report to the Admiral’s living quarters,” he snarled. “We’re shipping out in the morning for the South Pacific.”

  Johnny picked up his gear and moved out smartly.

  Lieutenant Bartlett wrung his hands in anger and frustration. His father had told him about the name business for the first time less than a half hour before. The weight of the knowledge was nearly unbearable. Suppose Johnny went around telling that story to other people.

  ***

  During the next few days, Dr. McDuff became aware that something was going on, and he didn’t know what. Yani slept at the camp, but when McDuff woke up in the morning he was alone. Yani would be back at the site in time for the morning radio transmission, but had no comment or explanation as to where he had been.

  He always came up from the direction of the beach, and it could have been assumed that he had a secret ladyfriend or he was simply taking his daily community bath. But Yani had stopped wearing the local, sticky insect repellent that needed to be washed off
. They slept above the bug line. The white man decided he would follow Yani when he heard him leave the next morning.

  At first light, Yani got up from his pallet and made his way down the path. Moses forced himself awake, and slipped down the mountain at a safe distance behind him without being detected. He saw Yani go to the water’s edge and kneel with his back to the rising sun. The American positioned himself behind a clump of bushes and watched.

  The young Chase Islander folded his hands in the manner the missionary had taught him so many months ago, when he was an apprentice Churchboy. In a loud, clear voice complete with the pauses and pronunciations taught at The True Church of God Seminary he heard Yani call out:

  “Our father who art in Heaven,

  Hallow-ed be thy name.

  Thy kingdom come.

  Thy will be done on earth, as it is in Heaven...”

  ___

  The failed missionary felt tears well up in his eyes. He was overcome by emotion. He was not a failure. This is what all the questions were about while they were on the Wombat. Here was a convert who was a private Christian — even a secret Christian. His conversion had been so deep that he saw it as a personal relationship between him and God that did not need public celebration. He apparently felt so strongly about it that he did not even share his passion with the very man who brought him to Christ. Here, every morning, he had been coming down alone at the break of day to kneel beside the sea and recite the Lord’s Prayer in a forceful manner.

  Once more, he felt like Reverend McDuff, and wanted to jump out of his hiding place, run to Yani and embrace him. It took all of his willpower not to do so. He realized that if he were to disclose his furtive behavior, he might upset a delicate balance. Instead, he crept backward on his hands and knees, keeping the covering bush between him and Yani. When he reached the edge of the denser growth, he stood up and hurriedly made his way back to the camp. Yani would never know he had been followed.

  However, had Moses McDuff stayed at the beach a little longer, he would have heard Yani recite a backup prayer in Pidgin, which he had also taught him: “Big name watchem Sheepy-sheep; watchem black fella. No more belly cry fella hab....”