When John Frum Came

by Bill Schroeder

  The Ensign, Captain Nagama, and the two Lieutenants sat in a small circle with Ooma, Yani and several elders. Ishikawa wanted to go through the traditional small talk that such a meeting required, but Nagama said, “Ask them where the white man is.”

  Using some discretion, Ishikawa started out saying, “The Japanese man is the friend of the Blackfella. The White man is his enemy. He only wants the Blackfella to be his slave.”

  The natives looked to Yani for an answer. McDuff was his wizard. He had brought him to the island with promises of what he could do for them. Now they had all these foreigners with guns here, looking for him.

  “We welcome the Japfella as a friend. But we do not have war with the Witman, either. Some Witmen are bad. Not all bad,” Yani answered.

  “We know a Witman crashed his plane on the top of the volcano. One of our pilots saw it and shot it.”

  Yani smiled. “That was not a plane. It was a duck. We have duck on top of mountain ... no Witman plane.”

  “Well, what does he say, Ensign. You are doing an awful lot of talking, and I am waiting for an answer. Where is the white man?” Nagama said.

  “He says there was no plane on the volcano. It was a duck.”

  “You may think it is amusing, Ensign, but I do not. You sit there and let this black idiot make a fool of us.”

  He turned to Yani again. “The Captain is very angry. He does not believe in ducks. He wants to know where the white pilot of the plane is.”

  “There is no pilot. Blackfellas built the duck on the top of the mountain to catch girl-fella duck. Japfella come set fire to duck. Volcano people now have it.”

  Ishikawa’s efforts to translate what Yani said, only infuriated Nagama more. He jumped to his feet. “Pick him up,” he yelled at the two Lieutenants. “I’ll get some answers out of him.”

  The movements of Shakaru took Yani by surprise. With a few deft motions he had twisted both his arms up behind him and Nagama kneed him in the groin. The solders who had been on guard only a few feet away kept the rest of the elders seated by threatening them with their bayonets.

  Yani’s body slumped. “Where is the white man?” the Captain shouted, and nodded to Ishikawa to translate.

  An angry but stubborn Yani refused to answer. Nagama punched him in the face, and the young man lapsed into unconsciousness. “Tie him up. He will talk or wish he never saw a white man.”

  Ooma defied the bayonets and struggled to bring his old, overweight body to a standing position. In the process, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. His first thought was that he had been stabbed, but the pain extended to his left arm, up his neck and to his left temple. He crashed to the ground, and the other elders crawled to his side. His breathing stopped almost at once. When they saw he had no wound, they pointed to Captain Nagama and almost as a chorus they yelled. “Bis, bis!”

  They ignored the armed soldiers and scrambled toward the jungle. The other natives quickly picked up the shout, dropped what they were eating, and backed away from the infantry officer’s little circle. Soon it seemed everyone was yelling: ”Bis, bis, bis.”

  Ishikawa examined the old man, and said “Ooma has had a heart attack. He is dead.”

  “What are all the natives yelling? What is it that they are saying?” Lieutenant Shakaru asked.

  “Whenever someone dies of natural causes, they believe he is killed by a sorcerer, or wizard. They call these people ‘bis’ — They won’t come near them. That’s why they are running home. They fear Ooma’s spirit and Captain Nagama’s power.”

  Nagama liked that. “Good. A little fear is good for the soul. It’s about time they found out who is in charge here. Let the old man lay there. They can claim him in the morning.”

  Ishikawa tried to warn him, that tomorrow morning would also bring retribution. In the night, it was easy for ghosts and spirits to walk abroad. The sun and the daylight would change that.

  As Nagama’s soldiers dragged Yani to their camp, no one noticed Ensign Ishikawa quietly launch one of the lifeboats and row out toward the anchored torpedo patrol boat.

  ***

  As darkness settled on Chase Island, Moses McDuff settled into a clump of bushes, where he could look down on the trail. During his training back at Port Moresby, he recalled the officer told them that when the situation had reached what was now its present condition, he was supposed “to melt into the jungle like the natives do. Don’t let the Japs know you exist, much less where you are hiding.”

  That’s easy for him to say. He probably grew up on one of these miserable little islands. I never even belonged to the Boy Scouts. I have no more idea how to melt into the jungle than lead the Boston Symphony Orchestra. And frankly, right now I would rather try the latter.

  He was wearing shorts and mosquitoes were tasting his bare legs. Insect repellent was not one of the things he remembered to stuff into the emergency pack. He leaned forward to get a better view of the trail. He was almost at the lip of the volcano, and had avoided going that far in daylight. He did remember to stay off the ridgelines, so his training wasn’t a complete loss.

  He felt the ground shimmer under him as the volcano belched. Like Yani, he had become accustomed to the frequent movements of the ground. He wondered if Yani’s “volcano people” were really the more savage natives he believed lived in the thick brush of the mountains of the inner island.

  He stilled his own breathing for a few seconds to listen for noises that might indicate a Japanese patrol coming up the slope to look for him. He wondered where Yani was and if he was all right. I hope the Japs don’t do him any harm. They might torture him into revealing my hiding place. They’ll find the base camp easily enough. All they have to do is climb the hill. He thought of Percy and his betrayal. Yani would never do something like that, he assured himself.

  He listened some more, concentrating on sounds to determine if they were natural or man-made.

  ***

  Ensign Ishikawa climbed aboard the torpedo boat. Lieutenant Mitsumo greeted him with, “I was just wondering how to get in touch with you in a hurry.”

  “Why, sir? What is happening?” He had already noticed that the patrol boat’s engines were idling and the sailors had weighed the forward anchor. “Are we going somewhere?”

  “Yes, Guadalcanal. I have orders to maintain radio silence and leave this area as quickly as possible. There is an enemy task force headed this way — It’s believed to be American,” Mitsumo said, with a worried note in his voice. “If we stay where we are, we will be directly in its path.”

  “What about the soldiers on the island?” Ishikawa said. “Are we going to try to get them off?”

  “That, Ensign, is the Army’s problem. They can send a boat back for them at a better time. Besides, I certainly have no room for a company of Infantry on my ship. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Ishikawa looked toward the island, as the engines roared to life. “They will all be dead men in the morning, anyway,” he said sadly.

  ***

  In spite of his fear, McDuff dozed briefly. He was having a frightening nightmare of trolls coming out of the depths of the volcano when a sound woke him up. The nearly full moon had come up, and disoriented from his dream, he looked around slowly. He jumped when he saw two glowing eyes staring at him from a stand of gnarled trees. He froze. Uh, oh, he thought. I don’t like this. Is this one of the volcano people? He didn’t move. The eyes stayed fixed on him as he felt his skin rise in goose bumps and the hair on his neck stand up.

  Features started to form around the eyes as he stared back. It could be a human face with a lot of war paint on it, he thought. No. It looks more like a monkey face ... maybe a little more pointed. Wait! It’s got ears — I think. Suddenly it moved and came toward him. As it entered the moonlit clearing, words burst from his mouth involuntarily, “My God, it’s a troll!”

  Without thinking, he pointed his rifle and pulled the trigger. The sharp report of the weapon startled him back to reality, as the l
ittle creature fell dead on the ground. He took out his flashlight, which he had been reluctant to use for fear of being seen. He shined it on the furry body. His troll turned out to be a cuscus — a jungle marsupial the size of a small dog.

  But the real damage was done. He had fired his rifle in the middle of the night. He knew the Japanese must have heard it.

  ***

  At the base of the mountain, two Japanese soldiers were smoking and talking as they stood guard on the outer fringes of the beach. They were nervous since the aborted feast earlier in the evening. Every click and swish of a branch filled them with visions of wild black men pouncing from the darkness.

  To keep up their courage they discussed their macho fantasies. “I don’t care if you are from Kure,” said one young man, “that’s a Navy town. All the women are worn out from constant use. In Osaka we still have a few virgins.” They both laughed.

  There was really no mistaking the echo of the rifle shot up the trail. If they were to investigate, it would mean going into the jungle. Both were city boys who missed their quiet, peaceful streets. Silence hung heavily between them, as they looked at each other. The private from Kure said, “It is strangely quiet tonight. I have not heard any unusual sounds all evening.”

  “I agree,” said the other.

  Chapter 32

  After shooting the cuscus, McDuff was certain that the jungle would be swarming with Japanese soldiers. At first light, he crept up the path to the top of the volcano, and moved as quickly as he could toward the opposite side. He wondered which would be worse, being captured by the Japanese or by the unknown savages. The original plan called for Yani to go with him into the jungle to deal with the kanakas who lived there. He fancied Ooma’s people virtual pussycats by comparison with what he unconsciously termed the “volcano people.”

  Once he was about one quarter the way around the rim, he stopped and looked across the huge crater at where he had started. No sign of soldiers or natives could be seen. He decided that this was as good as anywhere to stop for now, perhaps even to make a stand. Down below him the floor of the crater bubbled like a witch’s cauldron. He could see huge methane bubbles form in the thick mud, occasionally even bursting into flame. If ever there was a preview of Hell, this is it, he thought to himself. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to see Satan’s imps dancing along that ... that Stygian lake.

  As though in reply, there was a violent shaking of the cone of the volcano. Although he was lying flat, he could feel himself leave the ground like a flapjack being carelessly tossed in a frying pan. He traveled a good ten or twelve inches into the air, knocking the wind out of him when he landed. There was a bright flash inside the crater followed by a peal of earthbound thunder. He covered his ears and head with his hands, and felt a series of stings on the back of arms and legs. His first thought was that he was being attacked by some kind of fire ants, but when he swatted the bites, he found hot little cinders searing his skin.

  “Lapilli!” he said in his best Harvard accent, examining the hot spots. He had taken a semester in Natural History and Science, during which there had been some lectures on volcanoes. Lapilli was Latin for “little stones” which is what he was frantically brushing off his clothing before they could ignite his cotton shirt.

  The crater glowed much brighter than it had before, but the light was suffused by the steam forced from the fast-baking mud. The cinders had been blown hundreds of feet in the air but were still hot as they came down.

  Keeping his sense of humor in the face of disaster, he said out loud, “I guess the volcano people are angry.”

  ***

  Yani had spent the night hog-tied to a post driven into the ground at the center of camp. There were four guards watching him and the dark beyond the campfire. No one made any heroic attempts to rescue him.

  He looked up to see Captain Nagama approaching. He looked very angry. “You black pig,” the officer yelled at him in Japanese. “You think a few dozen savages will intimidate the Japanese Army. My men are ready to die for their Emperor and their country. You will tell us where the white man is.”

  Naturally, Yani did not understand a single word, but he had no trouble understanding the rage in the man’s voice. He wondered what became of the pleasant young man who spoke his language. Without his help, there would be no communication with this outraged beast of a man.

  Yani could see that Ooma’s body still lay on the beach where he had fallen. These ignorant people had not even made any preparation to build a funeral pyre.

  Two soldiers dragged Yani to his feet, and he was afraid the Captain would give him another knee to the groin. He did not. Instead, they tied his hands together in front of him, cut the ropes around his ankles, and put two nooses around his neck. There were two strong men holding the ends of the ropes, and it became clear that he was going to be led or dragged somewhere.

  “You will take us to the white man,” Nagama stated bluntly. And in the universal manner of making black natives understand a foreign language, the Captain enunciated the Japanese words and said them very loudly. Yani guessed what they wanted him to do, and decided that his best chance of escape was to lead them up the slope through the jungle. Even an uninitiated child would realize that the path to the top of the volcano was the best place for an ambush. He led them willingly.

  ***

  Lost among the convoy of U.S. Navy ships steaming toward their destiny at Guadalcanal was a freighter named The Great Snitkin. In the wardroom, Rear Admiral F.X. Bartlett III, talked privately with his son in his capacity of Operations Officer.

  Looking at the orders, he said, “Well, Frankie, I trust you’ve made the arrangements for moving into our new home. I just got the confirmation orders. That island out there doesn’t look very large, but it’s ours.”

  “Yes, sir. There’s an LSM pulling alongside as we speak. It will be assigned to us permanently after it finishes its chores.”

  “Officially, it’s Island Number 321. I think it might be a nice gesture if we named it Bartlett’s Island. Maybe the name will stick after the war — sort of our own personal signature on the success of the war.”

  Lieutenant Bartlett looked at the map. “I like that,” he said. “I’ll make sure that we get all our communications equipment ashore. Uncle Bill’s promise to make sure we would have what we need has been taken care of. The stuff he sent to Port Moresby is already on the island. We will not be lacking for creature comforts, sir. I also supervised the loading of our goods back in San Francisco. Don’t worry about anything. It’s all under control.”

  “Good.” The senior Bartlett ran a few things through his mind and then said, “What’s the latest on Johnny?”

  “I’ve tried to get him transferred to this ship as his duty station when we get off. But they claim they have no place to quarter a single Negro sailor, short of giving him a private room. Meanwhile, I put him in charge of off-loading our personal possessions to make sure they find their way to where they belong. I had a detail of men get everything up on deck in a staging area.”

  Chapter 33

  At daybreak, ill-tempered from his lack of sleep due to his injured arm, Sergeant Ubo formed up the soldiers. He selected the guards who would relieve those who had spent the night on the perimeter of the encampment. After a quick breakfast of rice left over from the feast, ten men marched out of the camp in a column of twos. When they reached the beginning of the trail that led up the volcano, the privates from Kure and Osaka should have been waiting. They were not.

  Sgt. Ubo swore out loud at the missing men, and dressed down the replacements as though it were their fault. He left two men and proceeded to the next guard post further down the beach. Again, there were no guards, and no sign of where they might have gone. He began to worry, and looked more carefully at the sand. It showed signs of two bodies having been dragged into the bush. Everyone figured out the obvious at the same time.

  He gave each of the guards two extra packets of ammunition, and told them
to stand at the water’s edge with their backs to the ocean. It was unlikely that the natives would swim up from behind. If the guards saw anyone in the jungle, they were to shoot him without a challenge.

  The story was the same at the remaining three posts, and Ubo returned to the camp alone.

  When he reported the situation to the officers, who were just shaving, they were alarmed. “We need that idiot, Lieutenant Mitsumo, to rake the whole village with machine gun fire. It is time to show these savages that the Imperial Japanese Army is not to be trifled with,” Captain Nagama blustered.

  His Lieutenant tried to raise the torpedo boat on the radio with no luck. They strained their eyes looking out to sea and could not spot its silhouette. Captain Nagama also noticed that the lifeboat was gone, as was Ensign Ishikawa.

  ***

  A large, amphibious landing craft had been drawn up alongside the Great Snitkin. John could never keep straight the difference between an LCM, LCVP, and a LCT. All he was certain of was that this was a fairly big one, and had a small crew who lived on it. At the moment, that entire crew was on a scrounging mission. Every time they unloaded a larger freighter, they bought and traded all kinds of luxuries: movies, books, magazines and liquor primarily. Some was for re-sale and some for their personal use.

  The greatest commodity they had to trade was rapid service. None of the freighters liked to sit still where they were targets for submarines and air attacks. Twenty-five pounds of frozen beef could set records in unloading a cargo. So far, however, the green crew of the Snitkin had only offered a 100-pound sack of potatoes and three cases of beer — Hardly a big enough tip “To Insure Promptness.”

  John Bartlett watched the other sailors hauling things up from below deck. Every time he saw a red tag on an item, he told them to put it in the LSM’s crew’s quarters, with “The Old Man’s stuff.” Admiral Bartlett liked being called The Old Man. It sounded like he had been a Navy man for a long time, instead of less than a year. When all the official cargo was secured on the landing craft, John made sure the red-tagged items were safe. He could only guess what Frankie might have brought along for Daddy’s comfort. In any event, he climbed down to the LCM by the cargo net hanging over the side. He jumped from one massive stack of equipment to another. Much of it was C-Rations. From the looks of things, they expected to stay there for a long time.