Up Periscope

by Robb White

  Occasionally a woman would get up and go into one of the houses. Sometimes she would come back, sometimes she would not.

  The men were dressed only in loincloths. Ken could see that these were made of ragged bits of cloth, much patched. A few of the women also wore short skirts of cloth but most of them wore only skirts which Ken finally figured out must have been made from the flimsy, cloth-like bark of the coconut palm.

  In the firelight their skins looked dark gold, their hair was long, straight, and black.

  Except for some of the women, they were all old people. There was not, he noticed, a single young man in the group-only old men, hunched and wrinkled.

  They sat on and on, doing nothing, saying very little. Some of them nodded as though sleepy; occasionally a woman would get up and put more wood on the fire.

  It seemed to Ken as he watched them that they were waiting. For what, he couldn’t tell. But they were waiting.

  It was now fifteen minutes to one. Why, he wondered, were these people sitting here this late at night—just sitting and nodding before the fire?

  He was, he knew, in little or no danger from these women and old men. Danger lay ahead of him; lay below the glow of fight on the Japanese end.

  He could go no farther without—at each step—increasing the danger.

  He had to make a decision—now.

  It was so simple. He could turn now and sneak away to tell a fie. Or—he could go ahead, risking his fife by doing it.

  Which way to go? If he went north his fife might come to an end tonight. If he went south he would five tonight and for years to come—five with this shame now on him like some nastiness.

  Ken, moving so slowly that he seemed not to move at all, left the place with its almost silent people.

  His shame—as though it were a cloak—dropped from his shoulders and he left it lying there on Midnight Island.

  He almost went past the tiny clearing without noticing it —only a murmur in the darkness caught his attention.

  There, lit only by starlight, was another group of natives. These were huddled close together in the darkness.

  They were all young men.

  Close to them was a palm with two broken, hanging fronds, wide ones, and coming almost to the ground.

  Watching the men always, Ken moved from shadow to shadow until he reached the fronds. Then he waited until a little breath of wind blew across the island and rustled the living fronds softly and dryly rattled the dead ones. While the sound made by the wind lasted, Ken slipped inside the shelter of the leaves.

  Through a slit in the dead stuff he could now clearly see the group of men.

  Their talk was as low as that of the other group but Ken, being so much closer, could hear the words and phrases distinctly. It was not a language that he knew.

  And then, quite clearly, one of the men said, “Speak in English so that they will not understand.”

  In the starlight Ken saw a glint of metal. One of the men had an old-fashioned watch tied by a string around his neck. The glint he had seen had come from the case as the man opened the watch and held it face up to the sky. “It is time,” he said.

  A man turned toward the Japanese end of the island and whistled. It was a low, sweet, soft sound—like the low song of night birds Ken had heard on Eugalin.

  From the Japanese end of the island the whistle was returned—once, twice—five times.

  Ken, hidden in the darkness, his back against the warm, rough trunk of the tree, wondered what this was all about. The answering whistles had come from five different distances and, from the varying strength of them, made him think that the men who had answered were posted at intervals all the way across the island.

  Were they sentries? Lookouts? If they were, then what were they looking for? What were they guarding?

  A man in the group got up and walked to the base of a tree. Ken could not see clearly what he was doing as he knelt down, his back to him.

  Soon the man came back carrying a grayish box in his arms. He put this carefully down and then knelt beside it.

  Ken waited for him to open the box, but he did not, nor did he move as he knelt there.

  Suddenly, low, but distinct, Ken heard a high-pitched whine which descended smoothly and then stopped.

  As he was trying to place the whine in his memory—it was a sound he had heard before—a woman’s voice, cheerful and intimate, said, “Radio Tokyo calling. Radio Tokyo now presents the American hour. I have some new records tonight, but before I play them for you, I want to tell you foolish Americans what is happening to you… ”

  The men had drawn close around the radio set and were absolutely silent as the woman’s voice went cheerfully on.

  “Oh, you Americans are so stupid. Didn’t you learn any lessons from your terrible defeat at Pearl Harbor? Why do you keep sending your ships and planes into the Pacific? The Imperial Japanese Navy is simply waiting to sink or shoot them down and to drown you foolish sailors. And, today, you have committed the greatest folly of all. You have stupidly attacked one of our great fortresses. You have sent your poor marines against our island of Tarawa. This morning the warmongers who rule America forced thousands of poor, innocent American boys to try to reach the beaches of Tarawa. Now, tonight, they lie dead in the sea, their bodies being devoured by crabs and fishes—thousands and thousands of young boys. Listen to me, you sailors and marines of America, don’t let those bloodthirsty old men in Washington do this to you. Don’t let them murder you. I will now play an appropriate record.”

  From the radio, softly, came the pretty music of Guy Lombardo playing “What Is This Thing Called Love?”

  It was six minutes to one.

  When the record ended the woman began again. “At Tarawa we have already sunk seven destroyers, three cruisers, and the aircraft carrier Liscombe Bay, which went down with one thousand men. On the beaches more than eight thousand Americans are dead and the rest are being pushed relentlessly back into the sea, where they must drown, for there is no longer an American fleet afloat to pick them up.”

  She played another record.

  It was two minutes to one.

  The woman began to speak again. “And here is a warning to all American submarines. Stay home. Stay out of the Pacific. Units of the Imperial Japanese Navy are sinking your submarines whenever they are foolish enough to come beyond the Hawaiian Islands. We have just sunk two American submarines. One of these was the Wahoo, commanded by Dudley Morton. This foolish Mr. Morton had the audacity to bring his submarine with its crew of unfortunate men into the Sea of Japan. Of course they are all dead now. The other was the Shark, commanded by Paul Stevenson. The Shark was sunk with all hands by our gallant aviators. This is Radio Tokyo signing off the American hour.”

  It was one o’clock.

  The regenerative whine from the radio sounded again as the kneeling man tuned it. He missed the station identification but the voice now announcing was unmistakably American.

  “This is a communique from the Headquarters of the Commander-in-Chief, Pacific Ocean Areas.

  “Today, forces of the United States Navy, Marine Corps, and Army attacked the Japanese-held Gilbert Islands in the Central Pacific area. Units of the Army made a successful landing on Makin Island and found almost no opposition there, the Japanese force being estimated at around five hundred men.

  “Units of the United States Marine Corps are attacking the islands of Tarawa, which are the central bastion of Japanese strength in this area and are heavily fortified. The Japanese force defending the islands is estimated to be about ten thousand men.

  “Since H-hour at oh nine hundred this morning we have gained a foothold on the islands in spite of extremely high casualties. However, the issue of the battle is still in doubt.”

  The kneeling man turned the radio off, picked it up, and went back to the tree with it. When he returned to the group one of them gave the low, birdlike whistle. Again it was answered five times.

  In a little whil
e Ken saw two men approaching from the Japanese end of the island. Then, one by one, three more. The five joined the group and Ken heard one ask, “What was the news?”

  “Bad,” a man answered. “The Americans have attacked the Gilbert Islands. Tokyo says that they have been repelled with heavy losses. The Americans admitted many casualties and that the battle has not been decided.”

  “How can they win if the Japanese sink all their ships?”

  “The Americans are never coming,” a man said quietly, his voice full of despair. “We will starve to death here under the Japanese before the Americans will come. Every man and woman and child will be destroyed by the Japanese.”

  “Wait,” a man said. “The Americans haven’t been defeated at Tarawa yet. They might win. We will listen again tomorrow night.”

  The man who had operated the radio shook his head. “We mustn’t listen again so soon. The battery is almost finished.”

  “Why listen at all?” the first man asked. “The Americans will never come.”

  Ken hesitated only a second. There was no doubt in his mind about whose side these natives were on. If they would help him it would make his whole job easier.

  He pushed the fronds gently aside and stepped toward the group. In a low voice he said, “I am an American and I am here.”

  He was surprised at the reaction of the men. For a long moment not one of them moved, not even to turn his head. The silence was absolute.

  Then, slowly, fear clear in his voice, one of the men said, “Speak again.”

  Ken said quietly, “I am an officer in the United States Navy. I need your help.”

  The men murmured in their own language and, slowly, one by one, turned their heads toward him.

  Ken took another step forward. “Believe me,” he said.

  “We cannot see you,” a man said. “Will you come closer?”

  “If you intend to harm me I will not.”

  The man with the watch said in a deep, honest voice, “We intend no harm.”

  Ken moved closer to them. Then, taking off his dog tag, he said, “I swear to you that I am an American. Here.” He threw the dog tag on the ground near them.

  The man with the watch picked it up and held it face to the sky. “‘Kenneth Malcolm Braden, USNR,” he read out loud. “ ‘Oh two seven six five six three.” He held it out and Ken strung it back around his neck.

  “How did you come here?” the man asked.

  “That isn’t important now,” Ken told him. “I need your help.”

  Another man said, “We can’t help you. We can’t even help ourselves, for we are dying here.” He came close to Ken. “Three days ago my son, my little son, picked up one coconut —just one small coconut—and started to run home with it. He stumbled and fell against the fence and it killed him. Just a little boy.”

  “I’m sorry for you and your wife,” Ken said. “What is this fence?”

  “The Japanese have made a fence of wire which goes completely around their place. If you touch it you cannot turn it loose before it kills you.”

  “It is electrified,” the man with the radio said.

  “Are their buildings inside this fence?”

  “Yes, all of them.”

  The man who had lost his son said, “We can’t help you. Go away the way you came before you cause great trouble for us all.”

  “What help do you need?” the man with the watch asked.

  “I want to get into the building where the Japanese radio is.”

  “That cannot be done. Not only is there the fence, but there is also a guard at that building both day and night.”

  A man asked, “How many are with you?”

  “I’m alone,” Ken told him.

  “Alone? Then you can do nothing.”

  The man with the watch said, “Come with us, for we have been here too long.”

  Ken followed the group as it moved silently through the jungle.

  When they reached the village the man with the watch, who, Ken guessed, was the leader, ordered the fire to be put out.

  The women, glancing at Ken over their shoulders, hurried, pouring sand from their hands on the fire.

  Darkness settled over the dark people and the dark houses.

  A man touched Ken lightly on the arm and said, “Come.”

  Ken knew now that he had gone too far with this thing ever to turn back. If he had misjudged the honesty and the feelings of these people he was lost, for there was no alley of escape.

  They led him to the largest of all the houses. It was raised up from the ground two or three feet, and as Ken went into it, he felt the woven mats of coconut leaves under his feet.

  The thin leaf walls let in only the faintest light from the stars—just light enough for him to make out the upright posts which supported the thatched roof and some low benches along the walls and down the center of the single large room.

  He could hear, behind him, the bare feet of many people moving as the man with the watch led him down the length of the room. “Sit here, please,” the man said.

  Ken sat down on the low bench in the center. Shadowy people sat along the walls, but only one man sat on the bench beside him.

  The man with the watch said slowly, “This is why we cannot help you, sir. When the Japanese came here they divided our island into two parts. One is theirs, one is ours. They can come whenever they wish into our part, but we cannot go at all into their part.”

  A voice from the darkness said, “Nor can we fish, even in the lagoon, from our boats. Nor even gather the coconuts and breadfruit which grow on their end.”

  The man beside Ken went on, “The Japanese have already killed a great many of us. They don’t care whether they kill men, women, or children. If we break the smallest of their many laws we die. To help you attack them could only end in the death of all of us.”

  “I intend no attack,” Ken told him. “All I want to do is to get into the radio building—alone—for a few minutes. All I need from you is information. Is the fence guarded with sentries?”

  “No. That fence needs nothing more than the death in its wires.”

  “How many men are in the radio house at night?”

  “One. Sometimes two, but usually one.”

  “Does he sleep during the night?”

  “No. He listens. Someone listens there all the time.”

  “Then different men come during the night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would it be possible to get this man out of the house for a few minutes?”

  “I do not think so.”

  Another man said, “It cannot be done.”

  But the man with the watch said, “When the supply ship comes many of the Japanese get drunk. Perhaps then the American could get into the house?”

  “Perhaps,” a man agreed.

  “When does the supply ship come?” Ken asked.

  “About once a month. It should be back here in a fortnight or less.”

  “Do the men in the radio house get drunk then?”

  “Some do, some don’t.”

  The man who had lost his son said from the darkness, “That is the worst time for us. They come into our village and beat or kill us if we try to stop them.”

  Ken stood up. “I would like to ask for only this much help. Please don’t let the Japanese know that I have been here. If you think that any of your people would tell the Japanese about me, ask them not to do it. Tell them that I am trying to do something which will bring the American Navy and Marines to this island much sooner—if I succeed. If I fail because someone tells the Japanese, we will be delayed in saving you for months, perhaps years.”

  “No one will talk about you,” the man with the watch said. “No one.”

  “Thank you.”

  A voice asked, “Tell us, are the Americans losing the war against Japan?”

  “No,” Ken said. “We’re winning it. We have stopped their advance in the South Pacific and we are now moving against them in the Centr
al Pacific. Were moving toward you island by island. This is the truth, no matter what the Japanese tell you. We are coming.”

  “We will try to five until you reach us,” the man beside him said. “But already the old ones and the children are dying for lack of food. We cannot fish for we have no hooks, no lines, and the Japanese have ruined our boats and nets.”

  Ken stood up in the darkness. “I will come back tomorrow night with hooks and lines. Will some of you—just a few— meet me on the south end of the island at midnight?”

  “I will come,” the man with the watch said.

  “And now,” Ken said, “I ask that you do not follow me. I ask this only because if you don’t know how I got here the Japanese will not be able to torture you until you tell them.”

  “We will not follow. God go with you, sir.”

  Chapter 4

  For seventeen of the longest days in Ken’s life the Shark patrolled the entrance to the lagoon. All day long it lay motionless, a hundred feet below the water, the motors stopped, while it listened—in vain—for the sound of the supply ship. At night it lay surfaced in the entrance, the radar antenna always turning and searching.

  During this time Ken went back to the island and the starving natives several times. On his first trip he took them all the fishhooks and fines he could find in the Shark’s emergency kits and from the crew’s tackle. On another trip he took them as much condensed milk as the submarine could spare, warning them not to let the Japanese see the empty cans. He took them dried eggs and evaporated potatoes and a little meat. Shelton, the radioman, let him have some emergency batteries for their radio.

  He also took them the news that, after the bitterest and bloodiest fight in the history of the Marine Corps, they had taken Tarawa and the Gilbert Islands.

  Ken had also, in the fight of the now making moon, seen the Japanese installation on the northern end of the island. There was a long, wooden building which was apparently where the soldiers slept. There was another, smaller building which, because naked men came in and out of it, Ken decided, was a bath. The generator for the transmitter was in a low shed, open to leeward. There were two gasoline motor generators mounted side by side in it.