by Judy Nunn
The men who had been unsuccessfully attempting to fight the fires were backing away now, scrambling for safety. Then one of them saw the chaplain through the smoke.
‘Hey, Marty,’ he yelled. ‘Get away! Keep clear!’ He was waving frantically. ‘Over here! This way!’
Martin recognised Ted Foreman, one of the men who had sought private consultation with him. A frightened man, a man who doubted himself.
At that moment, Ted Foreman had neither fears nor doubts. When he realised that Martin was struggling with the wounded young officer, he started instinctively to race to their aid. But the others held him back.
‘It’s too late, Ted!’ Martin heard a man scream. ‘It’s too late!’
Huck’s arm firmly linked over his shoulder, Martin saw the other men drag Ted Foreman to safety before, seconds later, a wall of flame blocked them from view.
The ship was listing to starboard, and oil and gasoline released from the tanks were spewing out to ignite and burn on the water’s surface. Martin realised that they were trapped, the fires had encircled them. Flames and smoke belched from the open bulkheads on the starboard side. He dragged Huck as far away from the intensity of the heat as he could, and sat him down with his back against the portside bulkhead. Then he sat beside him. And they waited.
Both men could smell the aviation fuel. All about them gasoline tanks were leaking, and the flames were out of control. They were in a tinder box.
‘This is it, isn’t it?’ Huck said.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m scared, Marty.’
‘Don’t be.’ Martin was amazed at his own sense of calm. It would be quick, he thought, the whole place would ignite any second, well before they could be burned to death. There would be no pain. He was so glad he’d written that letter to Jane. What a pity he wouldn’t be around to watch Ronnie growing up …
He took the young man’s hand in his. ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want …’ And Huck joined in. ‘He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul …’
A moment later, the explosion. It was only one of many aboard the USS Wasp as she lay dying, a mere dot on the surface of the boundless South Pacific.
At 15:20 hours on Tuesday 15 September, Captain Forrest Sherman gave the order to abandon ship. He had no alternative. Water mains had proved useless, broken by the force of the explosions, and fire-fighting was ineffectual. The survivors needed to evacuate the vessel as quickly as possible.
Badly injured men were lowered into rubber boats, and most of the able had to abandon from aft, the forward fires were burning with such intensity. But the departure was orderly. There was no panic. And forty minutes later, at 16:00 hours, satisfied that no living crew member remained on board, Captain Sherman swung over the lifeline on the fantail and slid into the sea.
The crew of the Wasp had numbered 2,247. The destroyers, persistent in their rescue missions, despite the inherent danger, picked up all 2,054 survivors, whilst the abandoned ship drifted with her dead.
Further violent explosions erupted on the Wasp as night started to fall, and the USS Lansdowne, allotted the duty of destruction, fired five torpedoes into the carrier’s fire-gutted hull. Floating in a burning pool of gasoline and oil, the Wasp finally sank by the bow at 21:00 hours.
The shocking news was received on Espiritu Santo early the following morning. Word spread like wildfire about the base. The Wasp had gone down, and, it was rumoured, the dead and wounded were numbered in the hundreds. Wolf Baker went straight to command headquarters.
The official estimate and details were not yet being released, he was informed, operations were currently underway to identify all casualties. But Wolf was persistent. He appealed directly to the Commander who finally agreed to radio through an enquiry regarding Dr Martin Thackeray.
The Commander found it difficult to refuse Baker’s passionate request. The man had, after all, performed far beyond the call of duty – he’d no doubt receive a citation – and, hell, it seemed only fair to grant him a favour.
The facts were readily available: Martin Thackeray was already listed. He had been killed instantly whilst assisting a wounded officer. The deaths of both men had been witnessed. Details would not be officially released, however, until all casualties were accounted for, probably some time tomorrow, the Commander said.
Wolf immediately requested permission to return to his unit at Havannah Harbour. John Stubbs was to be repatriated that very afternoon, he told the Commander, and so his services on Espiritu Santo were no longer required.
Permission was granted, and it was mid-morning when Wolf’s Corsair touched down at Quoin Hill. But he didn’t report to the base at Havannah Harbour. He commandeered a jeep instead, and headed straight for Vila.
Jane was not at Mamma Tack’s. She was at the house, Mary told him.
‘The Missus worry, Masta Wolf,’ she said. Everyone in Vila had heard about the Wasp, and Mary too was worried for the Masta. ‘The Missus wait at home to hear what happen.’
The cottage door opened the moment he tapped on it.
‘Wolf!’
Her eyes met his, and for a split second he wasn’t sure what to make of her reaction. Then she flung her arms around him.
‘I was so happy to hear that you were alive. Chuck brought me the news. The poor man, he’d been sure you were dead. Everyone had thought you were dead. Everyone except Marty, that is.’
She seemed unnaturally bright, he thought as, clasping his hand, she led him through the lounge room.
‘I had a letter from him just yesterday,’ she said, leading the way out onto the verandah where Ronnie was sitting on a rug playing with his building blocks. ‘He said he had a premonition you were alive.’
‘Wolf kambak!’
Wolf knelt on the wooden decking as Ronnie charged at him. The collision jarred his bruised ribs a little, but he picked the child up and placed him on his lap as he sat in the wicker chair opposite Jane.
‘He said he was so sure!’ she continued. ‘He didn’t know why. He didn’t know whether it was his admiration for your resourcefulness or whether God was telling him something.’ Her laugh was brittle, strained. ‘But then, that’s Marty, such a wonderful mixture of practicality and faith.’
‘Wolf, where you bin? Where you bin, Wolf?’
Ronnie, more robust than ever, was playfully kicking and punching, and Jane noticed Wolf wince every now and then.
‘You’re hurt,’ she said.
‘Just bruising, it’s nothing.’
‘Come along, Ronnie.’ She took the child from his lap and put him back on the rug. ‘You play on your own for a while, darling.’ And Ronnie was soon absorbed once again with his building blocks.
‘You’ve heard the news of course.’ Jane returned to her chair. ‘About the Wasp?’
‘Yes.’
‘They won’t tell me anything. Not yet. They said “as soon as they know”. So here I am waiting. It’s been driving me insane.’
Now was the moment. He steeled himself. But she didn’t give him the chance. Before he could draw breath, she chatted on, as if she couldn’t bear a moment’s silence.
‘It’s so good to see you, Wolf. You know, until Chuck told me, I had no idea you’d flown Marty to the Wasp.’ She knew she was talking too much, but she couldn’t stop. ‘Chuck said you’d volunteered to replace him. The poor fellow, he felt so guilty when you were reported missing.’
Why wasn’t she asking him if he’d heard anything? he thought. It would make it a lot easier if she did. But then why should she presume he had inside information? She was simply pleased to see him, he was a distraction. How was he to tell her?
‘I was worried that Marty might be feeling guilty too. Well, not guilty, but in some way responsible. And then his letter arrived, saying that he’d always believed you were alive.’ She smiled. ‘It was such a wonderful letter, Wolf.’
Her eyes welled with tears, and there was a
quiver in her voice. The woman was at breaking point. He had to tell her.
‘He was fulfilled aboard the Wasp. He said he felt honoured to have been chosen. That he was serving God’s purpose.’ She was no longer talking merely to fill in the silence, and she made no attempt to control the tears that now spilled down her cheeks. ‘He said he’d never felt closer to God. I was happy for him.’
Her eyes locked onto his. It was the first time she’d looked directly at him since she’d opened the cottage door, and the realisation suddenly hit Wolf: she knows.
And, as if she’d read his mind, she said, ‘He’s not coming back, Wolf. I don’t need them to tell me, I know it.’
‘How?’
‘Something in his letter. So beautiful, but so final, perhaps Marty knew it himself. Just like he knew you were alive. And then when I opened the door and you were standing there …’ She stared at him, hardly daring to ask. ‘You know it too, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
In the pause that followed, Jane mustered the last of her strength.
‘Officially?’ Her voice was breathless.
He nodded. ‘Officially.’
‘Oh.’ She froze, like a bird poised to take flight.
‘They’ll inform you tomorrow, when all casualties have been accounted for.’ The statement was harsh, brutal in its irrevocability, but Wolf wanted no confusion. Nothing that she could cling to with the last vestige of hope, when there was none.
Jane’s final defences crumbled and she sank her head into her hands. ‘Oh Marty. Oh Marty, Marty, Marty.’
Her anguish was painful, her body wracked with sobs, and Wolf wanted to hold her, to cradle and comfort her, but he knew it would be wrong to intrude upon her grief. What would Marty do? he wondered. Marty would be practical.
He didn’t have a handkerchief, so he went into the kitchen and fetched a clean tea towel from one of the drawers. Returning to the verandah, he squatted beside her chair as she fought to regain control, her sobs quickly becoming silent gulps for air. Then, when she’d taken the tea towel from him, he told her what she needed to hear.
‘He died instantly, Jane.’
She looked at him, the tea towel held tight against her mouth as if to stifle her anguish, her eyes desperate with the desire to believe him.
‘That’s official too. His death was witnessed. The report said that he was assisting a wounded officer, and that he died instantly. Both men did. Marty wouldn’t have felt any pain.’
Wolf hoped he was right. Was instant death painless? Who could tell? It was a presumption they all clung to. But the details of the report were factual, and he could see that she knew he was telling the truth.
‘Thank you.’ She mopped at her face, still gasping a little to regain her breath. Then she clasped his hand. ‘Thank you, Wolf, I’m so grateful.’
Ronnie was by their side. He was whimpering for attention, upset by his mother’s tears, and Wolf picked him up. He sat in the wicker chair, bouncing the child on his knee and Ronnie, always good-natured, was quickly pacified.
‘Would you like me to go?’ he asked.
‘Oh no. Stay. Please. Stay.’
‘Okay. Shall I make us a cup of tea?’
‘You hate tea.’
‘Any of that bourbon left?’
‘Of course. You’re the only person who drinks it.’
‘Tea for you, bourbon for me.’
He returned Ronnie to his playing blocks, and when he came back with the drinks, Jane had recovered her composure. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she gave a wan smile and gestured at the tea towel.
‘Thank you for the handkerchief,’ she said.
‘Well, at least I picked a clean one.’ He put the drinks on the coffee table between them and sat.
‘So tell me about your adventures, Wolf. You’re a hero, Chuck tells me.’
‘Not really.’
‘He said you shot down three planes and you’ll probably get a medal.’
‘I was just protecting my back,’ he shrugged, ‘it was them or me.’ She was making conversation, bottling up her emotions and it was wrong, he thought. He remembered the night when Marty had encouraged him to get it out of his system. That’s what Jane needed to do. She needed to let it all pour out.
‘But you saved a man’s life, Chuck said.’ She sipped automatically at her tea, as if it was an afternoon on the verandah, just like any other. ‘That certainly sounds like a hero to me.’
‘I’m not a hero, Jane. Marty was a hero. Marty saved men’s souls.’ Wolf was out of his depth when it came to religion, but Martin Thackeray had had a profound effect upon him, and he needed to tell her so. For her own sake. ‘Well, maybe he saved their sanity, like he saved mine. Or maybe their belief that there was still something decent left. I guess it all depends on your perspective.’
He’d hit home. He could see that she’d dropped the pretence of polite conversation and was hanging on his every word.
‘Marty was the true hero,’ Wolf said. ‘He was aware of the dangers out there, and he didn’t have to volunteer. Christ, if anyone had served his time, Marty had. He didn’t need to prove himself.’
‘I know he didn’t.’ The tears were welling again. ‘It was God’s will, he said.’
‘I don’t know much about God’s will, but I know Marty’s. And I know the effect he would have had on those men. Just like he had on me. Marty was the best man I ever knew.’
She was crying again now, but gently. It was healthy. She needed to cry. ‘He was the best man I ever knew too, Wolf.’
They sat for two hours talking about Marty, laughing and crying and telling anecdotes, until Wolf suddenly registered the time.
‘I came straight from Quoin Hill,’ he said, ‘I have to report to base for a debriefing. Will you be okay?’
‘Oh.’ She’d been immersed in their conversation and she was caught out, confused. ‘Yes. Yes of course. I’m sorry. I’ve kept you far too long. I’m terribly sorry. I completely lost track of …’
She looked so lost, so vulnerable.
‘I can come back if you like. If you don’t want to be alone.’
She didn’t want to be alone. Marty had been with them as they’d spoken of him. She couldn’t bear the thought of being alone.
‘Yes. Yes, I’d like that.’
After he left, she didn’t fall apart. She did things instead. There were rituals to be observed. It was Wednesday, and she always did the washing on Wednesdays, usually during a lunch break from the clinic. She preferred to address her domestic chores midweek, somehow managing to squeeze them into her busy schedule. It left her time with Marty on Saturdays when he was free from his hospital duties, and of course she always attended his Sunday church services. The weekends were very special to them both.
She washed the bed linen and hung it on the line. Far to the south, angry clouds were gathering, but it would be some time before the storm broke, and in the light breeze and without the severe humidity of the monsoon season, the bedding was dry within an hour. She ironed the sheets and pillowcases, remade the bed and Ronnie’s cot, and then she cleaned the house, which didn’t need cleaning, and tended the herb garden, which didn’t need tending. She did everything she could to keep herself mindlessly active. And it worked. Her brain seemed somehow mercifully blank. And then, in the late afternoon, Mary returned, having closed Mamma Tack’s. She wanted to cook dinner for the Missus, but Jane told her to go home.
‘You okay?’
‘I’m all right, Mary, yes. Thank you. You go home now.’
But Mary was worried. The Missus didn’t look well. And why should she? Not knowing whether the Masta was alive or dead. Mary didn’t want to go home. She wanted to look after the Missus.
‘I stay, Missus. I cook you dinner. I make sure you okay.’
‘Please, Mary, go home.’ Jane couldn’t bring herself to tell Mary the news. The good-hearted woman had loved the Masta and she would probably wail her grief. She would wish to share it w
ith Jane. And Jane could share her grief with no-one. No-one but Wolf.
Mary reluctantly left, and Jane fed Ronnie. They played together for a while, hide and seek, dodging amongst the furniture. And then, when the child was tired and ready for bed, she tucked him into his cot in the main bedroom and sang him to sleep, as she always did. And then there was nothing left to do. The emptiness started to creep in around her.
By the time Wolf arrived in the early evening, she was agitated. Everywhere she looked Marty was there. And yet he wasn’t. And he never would be. How could she keep going? What would she do? The merciful veil of blankness that had enveloped her during the afternoon was disintegrating.
‘Wolf!’
She once again embraced him as soon as she opened the front door, but this time there was no pretence. No attempt at social discourse. By now she was approaching a state of panic.
‘Thank God you came back!’ She clung to him desperately, and he could feel her shaking. ‘I don’t know what to do, I think I’m going mad.’
‘No you’re not.’ His arms around her were comforting, but his tone was practical. ‘You’re suffering delayed shock. You know that.’
‘Yes.’ Commonsense prevailed. Of course, he was right. ‘Yes.’ She backed away. ‘I’m sorry.’ She smiled shakily and ushered him inside. ‘I didn’t mean to pounce on you like that.’
‘Pounce away, whenever you like, it’s what I’m here for. I think you could go a stiff drink. Do you have any brandy?’
‘No. There’s dry sherry.’
‘No good. It’ll have to be bourbon.’ He sat her down and poured them both a healthy slug from the bottle on the dresser. Then, joining her on the sofa, he clinked his glass against hers. ‘Marty always told me it was “filthy stuff”, but it’ll do the trick. Come on, drink up.’