Red Randall at Pearl Harbor

by R. Sidney Bowen

Then fate took a hand in the deadly race in the form of a hidden, loop-shaped tree root. Red hooked one foot in the loop, struggled wildly to maintain his balance, but he couldn’t stay upright. Down he crashed on his face as though somebody had made a diving tackle at him from the rear. And Jimmy Joyce came stumbling over the prostrate Randall and went sprawling in a heap beside him.

  The sudden, violent spill knocked the wind out of both boys. Right then they did not care whether they lived or died. Every ounce of their strength was spent. Jimmy was the first to find his voice.

  “Red, I’ve got to rest! I’m all in, Red. I’ve got to rest a minute!”

  Red rolled over on his side and tried to focus his eyes on Jimmy Joyce’s face which seemed to be weaving back and forth a few inches in front of him.

  “Me, too, Jimmy,” he heard his own lips whisper. “I couldn’t get up on my dogs now, without falling right flat on my face again. God, but I’m pooped. And...and I guess we’ve made a ways, anyway. We’d better rest, and get back some of our wind, or we might go barging right into them.”

  “And the way I feel,” Jimmy said, gulping in another lungful of air, “I couldn’t do anything about it. They’d just shoot me, that’s all. But, hell, Red, that was something, what you did. Talk about those British commandos! You were great, Red. And you killed that Jap who was holding me. Got him right in the neck. I saw him fall!”

  Red swallowed hard, and the aftermath of shock suddenly seized hold of his body and shook him like a leaf. He had killed a man! True, it was a Japanese he had killed, and maybe more than one, but for the first time in his life he had taken a human life! He suddenly wanted to be very sick, but he did not even have the strength to try. And then little by little the violent reaction to all that had happened so fast and so furiously wore off, and for the first time in his life, also, he experienced a little of that grim satisfaction that comes to a fighting soldier who has outwitted and destroyed his enemy.

  “Yes, I know I killed that one dirty devil,” he muttered. “And I only hope I got Harada, too. But it was all luck, Jimmy. I guess I was kind of crazy to grab for that gun in the first place. Honest, I don’t even know now what made me do it. But am I glad I did! And hitting that radio was a lucky break, I’ll say. I wonder why it exploded like that? It did, anyway, and if that smoke hadn’t filled the room, it...”

  Red choked on the rest and started to shake again. If it had not been for that spurting, swirling acrid smoke, the Japanese would have got them sure. Because he was on the floor, and Jimmy Joyce half on top of him, he couldn’t possibly have swung the machine gun around far enough to cover the entire room. And the rattle of shots must certainly have brought the rest of the Japanese outside on the run. Yes, hitting that radio and causing that strange explosion had been the luckiest break he...

  His thoughts stopped cold as Jimmy Joyce gripped his arm. But it wasn’t Jimmy’s warning grip, for he had heard it, too. He had heard the screams of rage break out afresh back in the direction of the clearing. And from their sound, and their nearness, he knew that the remaining Japanese had picked up the trail of their mad headlong dash through the island growth and were coming after them in quick pursuit!

  Chapter Sixteen – Jungle Jackals

  “THE JAPS, RED! That’s the Japs, and they’re coming this way. What’ll we do, Red?”

  Red nodded that he had heard, too, but for a moment he could do no more. An aching numbness seemed to paralyze his legs, and make any sort of movement impossible.

  “Red, for God’s sake! We can’t stay here. They’ll shoot us like...like dogs! Red! What’s the matter? Red! Do you hear me? We’ve got to get away from here!”

  Jimmy Joyce had gripped Randall’s arm with both hands and impulsively squeezed with every ounce of his strength. The flash of pain that shot through Randall seemed to snap him out of his trance and release his body for action. He looked at Jimmy, half nodded and swallowed hard.

  “Yeah, sure, Jimmy, sure!” he said. “But hold it! Don’t go off half-cocked, Jimmy. Let’s not make a trail a blind man could follow. Here, follow me. Maybe we can keep them guessing for a while.”

  Jimmy Joyce grabbed hold of Randall’s arm with an exclamation of alarm.

  “Red, are you crazy?” he cried. “You’re going right back toward them! They’ll...”

  “Sure, I know what I’m doing!” Red replied and shook his arm free. “Back tracking. Like we used to do in the Boy Scouts. You double back on your trail and cut off in a different direction. When the come to the double trail they don’t know which one to take. If they take the wrong one, that’ll give us extra time. Now, shut up and follow me, Jimmy. Try to make as little noise as you can. Hell! I wish I had more bullets for this… Jimmy! Well for cat’s sake!”

  “I grabbed them up off the floor just before we started across the room,” Jimmy Joyce said, holding out three cartridge clips for the submachine gun. “I sure hope they’re for that gun!”

  “They are, Jimmy! They fit like a glove. Good man, old-timer! That was quick thinking. Now, come on!”

  Turning around Red Randall bent over almost double and started back along the way they had come. The sounds of the pursuing Japanese were growing louder with each passing moment. And with every one of those passing moments Red was tempted to abandon this mad stunt of back tracking and to go dashing back in the original direction. However, he forced himself to continue back along his own plainly marked trail.

  They kept on until it seemed that the yelling and screaming Japanese must be just in front of them. Then they came to a halt and looked carefully into the jungle on either side of the trail. Their decision made, they turned sharply to the right and plunged into the heavy undergrowth.

  In his head Red counted off approximately two hundred paces, then he stopped dead and, motioning to Jimmy to be silent, he cocked his ears in the direction of the clearing. He still could hear the sounds of pursuit, but they now were coming from the other direction and a little bit fainter. It really looked as though their trick had worked, and that the Japanese, too anxious for the kill, perhaps, had kept straight on the boys’ abandoned trail.

  “We’ve got them guessing, Jimmy!” Red whispered hoarsely to Joyce. “Come on! I can see smoke through the trees, and I think I know just about where we are. You all right, Jimmy?”

  “I’m just about dead!” Jimmy panted, but he was smiling. “But don’t mind me. Keep on going, Red. You’re the boss, and I’ll follow you.”

  As the smell of smoke became stronger and stronger Red gripped his submachine gun tighter, and hastened his rate of travel. Some two or three minutes later the hiss and crackle of leaping flames could be heard no more than a hundred yards off to the right. Both Americans glanced that way, and saw immediately that the entire cluster of thatch-roofed huts was going up in flames. Now the ground underfoot had begun to slope down and away from them. And that could mean only one thing. They were headed toward the shore.

  Toward the shore! That realization was like a new-found energy for the tired fugitives. Toward the shore, and toward the beach where they had landed the Ranger-powered Fairchild! Now as they continued shoving and clawing their way through the heavy growth, with the air all about heavy with the smoke of the burning huts, they forgot their weariness and their aching muscles. For the beach was just ahead. And beyond that—safety?

  The Fairchild two-seater! Their one link between danger and safety. True, Red had a submachine gun in his hands. And he had the extra clips that Jimmy had so thoughtfully scooped up inside that blazing radio hut. But the odds still were too heavy against them. The enemy’s’ murderous dealings in China had proved they were jungle jackals of the first order. Sure, maybe he would get one or two more of them, but the Japanese would win out in the end. No, it was the Fairchild—or nothing.

  “We’ll make that beach or bust,” Red breathed fiercely to himself. “And once we get to the plane they can have their darned jungle!”

  The sound of his own voice seemed to c
heer Red and to put additional strength into his driving legs. He speeded up his pace and twisted his head around to make sure again that Jimmy was still right there with him. Then he quickly glanced ahead again. And it was lucky he did, for abruptly the jungle came to an end. The darkness of the forest gave way to blinding sunshine. A scant few feet before him the ground fell away suddenly. A sheer, razor-edged coral cliff dropped straight down a good fifteen feet to the lip of a jagged ledge. And some ten feet below the lip of the ledge was a washed out pocket of sandy beach, and beyond that was the endless blue of the Pacific.

  In the nick of time Red came to a halt. He flung out a protecting arm to save Jimmy Joyce from pitching headlong over the edge of the coral cliff.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” young Joyce yelled as he blinked his eyes in the strong sunlight. “Why did you put on the brakes so suddenly?”

  “That’s why,” Red replied, and pointed. “Lucky I saw it in time, too, or you and I sure might have busted our necks. And look down there, Jimmy! Do you see what I see?”

  Jimmy looked in the direction of Red’s pointing finger and caught his breath.

  “The plane, Red! There she is, right down there! I can see her left wing, Red! Do you think we can? Hell, but it would be wonderful! And that Harada said he’d had the tank filled, too!”

  “Yes,” Randall replied, “that’s the Fairchild, and darned if they haven’t got it pointed into the wind. We’re going to lick ’em, Jimmy. We’re going to get that Fairchild and get away from this place pronto! Here we go!”

  Turning right and in the direction of the Fairchild parked on the strip of hard-packed beach some two hundred yards away, Red and Jimmy picked their way gingerly along the rocky top of the coral cliff until they came to a cleft that slanted downward to beach level. The break was at a point where weather and time had proved too much for the coral and had eroded it into a fairly gentle slope. They went down it more or less on the seats of their pants, slowing their precipitous descent by clutching at rocks and roots with their hands. The heavy gun was by no means a help to Red, but he managed not to lose his footing and Jimmy came clattering down after him amid a shower of broken coral.

  Once they had reached the hard-packed sand they started to make their way along the edge of the shore. It was tough going because there was really no beach at all, save that single wave-washed pocket of sand on which they had dropped. It was strenuous work clambering over the sharp ridges of coral and through the spiny growth which in places came right down to water level. But slowly they worked their way toward the Fairchild, now in plain sight on the beach beyond.

  That Ranger-powered Fairchild was their goal, and they forgot their bruises and their fatigue as they came ever nearer to those silver wings which meant safety and home.

  And so inch by inch, and foot by foot, Red and Jimmy clawed and scrambled their way along the shoreline. They tripped and stumbled countless times, and twice Red fell so heavily that the submachine gun almost flew from his grasp to go sailing out and down into the Pacific. He clung to it each time, however, choked back the dry sobs that rose up in his throat, and went scrambling and crawling onward.

  Then, when they finally reached the near end of the strip of sandy beach Fate laughed in their faces. There, right within a short stone’s throw, was the Fairchild. But, standing straddle-legged in front of the motionless propeller, and with both hands gripping his machine gun, was a Japanese. No, not Kato Harada, but one of the others. As Red stopped dead, and sank to his knees, frantically motioning Jimmy Joyce to do the same, the Japanese guard turned slowly around and seemed to look straight at them.

  For one crazy, mad moment, Red Randall wanted to laugh, to scream, to cry, and to shout at the top of his lungs. Automatically he started to ease the barrel of his machine gun up and draw a bead on the peering Japanese. But in that same instant he realized that the Japanese guard did not see them, and he froze stiff for fear that the slightest movement of raising his gun would catch the man’s eye.

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” he heard Jimmy Joyce’s faint whisper behind him. “I knew it was too good to be true. Of course they’d have a guard on the plane!”

  Red Randall did not make any reply. He kept his gaze fixed on the Japanese guard, who had stopped looking in their direction and was now staring out to sea. Bitterly he berated the fates that had flung up this unexpected barrier. Yet he had to admit that it wasn’t exactly unexpected. Like Jimmy he should have realized that Harada would leave a guard with the Fairchild. But he hadn’t thought of that possibility, and to see it as a reality was like a smashing blow in the face.

  Yes, he could throw the submachine gun up to his shoulder and shoot the head off that Japanese guard. However, two things might result, and both might easily spell complete disaster. If he fired he might hit the Ranger engine, because the Japanese guard was standing just in front of the nose. Also, the yammer of his gun might attract the attention of other Japanese lurking near. Even with the guard out of the way, for Jimmy and himself to dash the remaining twenty-five yards, leap into the pits and kick the engine into life, would take time. True, only a matter of a couple of minutes at the most, but if there were other Japanese close by, the Fairchild plane taking off would be as easy a target as a clay pigeon.

  “Don’t shoot, Red!” whispered Jimmy. “It will bring the rest of them down on us. Besides, you’d be bound to hit the plane!”

  Red nodded, and held the barrel of the machine gun pointed toward the ground.

  “But what the hell are we going to do?” he whispered back to Joyce who had crawled up beside him. “We can’t get the plane unless we get rid of that Jap. And he’s got a gun, too!”

  “Wait a minute, I’ve got an idea!” Jimmy whispered. “I read it in a detective story. Or maybe it was a Wild West yarn. Look, Red, let’s crawl up as close as we can. For cat’s sake, take it easy, and don’t let that bird know we’re here. We’ll... Hey! You hear that, Red?”

  The last question was but a waste of breath. Red also had heard the sudden outcry far behind them. The tricked Japanese had realized that they had followed the wrong trail, the dead-end one, and had back-tracked themselves, and were racing along the new trail. Red listened to their shouts for a brief moment, and then started to raise the barrel of his machine gun.

  “I’ve got to chance it, Jimmy!” he whispered hoarsely. “The rest of them are close behind, and...”

  “No, hold it!” Jimmy Joyce gasped, and reached out a hand and pushed down the barrel of Red’s machine gun. “You’d hit the plane, Red, sure. Crawl closer. I’ve got an idea. I think maybe it’ll work. Darn it, Red, it’s got to!”

  Randall wanted to ask questions but Jimmy put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him forward.

  “Go on, Red!” he muttered. “Let’s get closer. Then I’ll try it.”

  Red hesitated, and then reluctantly began to worm his way forward, his gaze ever riveted on the Japanese guard in fear lest he might turn around and look their way again. The guard, however, continued to stare out over the water, and presently only a single clump of bushes separated the boys from the clear stretch of hard-packed beach which the plane stood. As a matter of fact, they were so close to the Fairchild that they almost felt as though they could reach out their hands and touch the elevators at the tail. Red squirmed around and stared questioningly at Jimmy Joyce.

  Young Joyce met his gaze, nodded, and put a finger to his lips. Then he groped along the ground with one hand until he found a fair-sized stone. He held it up for Red to see and nodded toward the Japanese guard.

  “Going to throw this into the bushes away to his right,” he breathed, his lips hardly moving. “I bet he’ll dash over that way, and then we can make a run for the plane. My ankles still hurt like the dickens, so you’d better fly it for us. As soon as I heave this stone give me that gun. I’ll stop him from trying to get back to us, or from trying to shoot at us, I hope. Okay?”

  Red Randall took a deep breath, grinned, and
then nodded.

  “Okay, Jimmy,” be whispered. “Here’s hoping it works!”

  Chapter Seventeen – Courage Will Never Die

  JIMMY JOYCE WHISPERED something softly that Red did not catch, and then drew back his hand holding the stone. It seemed to Randall that Jimmy held his hand in the air for years and years. But, suddenly, he snapped his arm forward, and the stone flew from his fingers.

  “Ready, Red!” he whispered. “Here, give me that gun!”

  Randall handed over the gun without taking his eyes off the Japanese guard, and then there was a rustling sound, and a clump, as the stone crashed down into the bushes far over to the right. The guard started violently, snapped his head in that direction, and then started running on his short stocky legs, with his machine gun held well out in front of him.

  “Now!” Jimmy Joyce breathed fiercely, and gave Randall a push.

  The push was unnecessary, however, for Red had already leaped onto his feet and was darting forward. In just eight running steps he reached the pit step in the fuselage of the Fairchild, and just about one split second later he was in the cockpit, snapping on the safety belt, and reaching for the throttle and ignition switch. Before his fingers touched either, however, he was completely deafened by the chattering roar of Jimmy Joyce’s gun. Red gave a startled look up the beach. And he did so just in time to see the Japanese guard make one last frantic effort to lift up the barrel of his gun. But it slipped from his fingers and fell down onto the sand. His dead body toppled down on top of it.

  “You got him!” Red cried.

  “I had to!” came Jimmy Joyce’s choking reply. “He was turning around and going to shoot us. Get going, Red! Start the engine and get going. Red! Hurry up!”

  Above Jimmy Joyce’s half-screamed words Red Randall heard the shrill cries of the Japanese, and he knew that they were not far away. His hand trembled violently as he snapped up the ignition switch and pushed open the throttle. All thumbs, he missed completely in his first two efforts to jab the starter button. He succeeded on the third attempt however, and the starter gears made grinding and whining sounds as though in protest. The propeller made two complete jerky revolutions, and then spun over as the Ranger roared into its full-throated power.