by James R Benn
“But you don’t know if it was Kennedy,” Kaz said, his tea gone cold.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Funny thing is, that guy from the governor’s office—Joseph Timilty—got himself appointed police commissioner back in 1936. He’s known to be in the back pocket of Joe Kennedy, and he’s as corrupt as they come. A few months ago he was indicted on charges of corruption. He didn’t even lose his job. The indictment was quashed by a friendly judge, and Timilty is still running the Boston police.”
“By friendly you mean a friend of Ambassador Kennedy’s,” Kaz said.
I nodded. He caught on fast.
“Your father became a detective, though.”
“He did. Not long after we got a new governor and one of his pet projects was a police academy. Dad helped him with that, and pretty soon he was back in plainclothes, working homicide.”
“Did Commissioner Timilty make things difficult for him later?”
“No need,” I said. “The point had been made. Everyone knew the story. Remember, these people don’t like attention if there’s even a whiff of impropriety. It was easier to move on and leave Dad alone to do his job. There’s an invisible world out there, run by money and power. The rules are unwritten, even unspoken, but anyone who comes into contact with it comes to understand them damn quick. Secrecy and order are what it’s about. Everything needs to run as normal to complete the illusion that all is right and proper with the world. Dad threatened all that when he drew attention to a possible link between Kennedy and the smugglers. He got away easy with a slap on the wrist.”
“Attention,” Kaz said. “That is why we have this assignment, is it not? To make sure the younger son does not receive unwarranted attention.”
Kaz was a quick study. I nodded, turning away in hopes the conversation was over.
“That tells me why the Boyles would not think much of Joseph Kennedy Senior,” Kaz said. “But it does not explain your antipathy towards Joe Junior and Jack.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I said, folding my arms across my chest and gazing out over the blue rippling ocean.
Chapter Six
The big Sunderland took us to Australia in style. First a stop at Darwin, then on to Port Moresby in New Guinea. The flying boat landed on calm waters and motored up to a dock where we got off and stretched our legs. The sun was bright, the water blue, and Kaz wasn’t the least bit seasick. A good day so far.
We walked along the dock as men secured the Sunderland and a fuel barge motored alongside. A flurry of activity surrounded the small boats tied up along the waterfront, sailors and GIs hauling supplies and rolling drums of fuel over the splintered, sun-bleached wood. Farther out in the bay, a couple of destroyers stood at anchor.
“Lieutenant Boyle?” A figure emerged from the crowd, a lanky guy with naval aviator’s wings on his rumpled khaki shirt and a crush cap pushed back on his head. “Lieutenant White. I’ll be flying you to Guadalcanal.” Freckles dotted the skin beneath his teardrop sunglasses, and I resisted the urge to ask if his daddy had given him the keys to the plane. Instead I introduced Kaz as White led us to a jeep waiting on a hardpack road that fronted the harbor.
“We’re fueled and ready to go,” White said as he gunned the jeep up a winding hill, passing an array of European-style buildings with broad verandahs next to native thatched-roof houses and army pyramidal tents. The ascent became steeper as the road curved around an antiaircraft emplacement.
“We are not going by flying boat?” Kaz asked.
“Yeah, but we’re a PBY unit. We have retractable landing gear and can land on water or dry land. Not as comfortable as that flying hotel you came in on, but we’ll get you there. The airbase is just over this next hill.” He took another switchback and had to use first gear to inch up the steep incline. We had a clear view of the town and harbor, the rich greens and vivid shades of blue strange after the North African climate we’d grown used to. White braked and I thought he was about to play tour guide for us tourists from the European Theater of Operations.
“There,” White said. He grabbed a pair of binoculars and scanned the western sky. First I heard it, that familiar insect-like distant drone. Then I saw the spots in the distance coalesce into a formation.
“Ours?” Kaz asked.
“Japs,” White said, “headed our way. Betties.” He floored the jeep and we held on as he sped along the hill. We saw antiaircraft crew swiveling their gun in the direction of the incoming aircraft.
“Are they going for the airfield?” I asked, holding onto my hat as White shifted into high gear.
“No,” he said. “They’re coming in over the water, so they’re after the ships and docks. But if they have fighter escorts, the Zeroes don’t mind a strafing run on the airstrip to slow down pursuit.”
We crested the hill and saw that the bombers were closer. Antiaircraft fire rose up from the destroyers and emplacements along the harbor. One of the bombers blossomed into flame, its wings trailing fire and belching smoke as it fell, twisting and turning as if trying to shake off the grip of the red blaze. White barely slowed as we took a turn that nearly spilled us from our seats. The chatter of machine guns and the rhythmic thuds of larger antiaircraft shells filled the air with noise and explosions. Another Betty blew up, descending in a fireball to the sea.
Then they dropped their bombloads. I could see the bombs descend as the aircraft turned away, climbing from the barrage clawing at them from every point in Port Moresby. The bombs exploded in neat rows, ripping into the docks and small ships moored in the harbor. I saw the Sunderland lifted from the water, its back broken by a direct hit.
We were spared the sight of any further destruction as White took the jeep down the hill toward the airfield, where a flight of P-40 Warhawk fighters roared down the runway and took to the air in pursuit of the bombers. We raced past hangars until he slammed on the brakes near a Consolidated PBY, its two engines already warming up. It was painted a flat black, even the US Navy insignia done in a dull grey. There was no time for questions as we scrambled aboard, the crew and copilot already at their stations.
We began to taxi, then had to wait for another half dozen Warhawks to get in the air. When it was our turn, White lost no time leaving the ground behind. The waist gunners manned their thirty-caliber machine guns in the distinctive blisters that afforded a wide view of sky and sea. But no Japanese Zeroes challenged us, and as White gained altitude and headed south, the only thing we saw was smoke blackening the sky above Port Moresby.
“Keep your eyes peeled, boys,” White said over the intercom. “I’m headed for that cloud bank at nine o’clock.” He tossed the headset aside, told his copilot to take over, and leaned in our direction as we stood in the lower passageway leading to the cockpit. “We’ve got you guys to thank for saving us from those Betties.”
“How so?” I asked.
“We normally berth in the harbor,” White said. “But we needed some quick maintenance to make this run to Guadalcanal. So we flew up to the airstrip this morning. We would have been right under those bombs. We owe you.”
“I will take a smooth flight as thanks,” Kaz said. “Why do you call them Betty?”
“That’s our designation for the Mitsubishi G4M bomber,” he said. “They give Jap planes code names to make it easier to remember. I hear the Nips call them the Flying Cigar.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because they light up so easy,” White said with a grin. “The Japs don’t have self-sealing gas tanks on ’em, so even small-arms fire will turn a Betty to toast. You saw those two go up over the harbor, right?”
“Hard to miss,” I said. “You expect to run into any other enemy aircraft today?”
“You never know, but don’t worry. We’ll get you to Guadalcanal in one piece.”
“Will it be a water landing?” Kaz asked, eager as always to avoid choppy seas.
“I do not mind at all,” Kaz said. “But neither can I say.”
“That’s okay,” White said. “I’ve seen all sorts out here. French, Dutch, not to mention the Brits, Aussies, Kiwis, and the Fuzzy Wuzzies, of course.”
“I know Kiwis are New Zealanders,” Kaz said. “But who are Fuzzy Wuzzies?”
“The natives,” White said. “They have those big haloes of curly hair, you know? So Fuzzy Wuzzy.”
“What do the natives think of that?” Kaz asked.
“Well, I don’t know. Back in New Guinea I guess they’re actually Papuans, but I don’t know what they’re called out in the Solomons. What I do know is that every Aussie soldier I talked to who fought on the Kokoda Trail said that they couldn’t have stopped the Japs without them. They fight, carry heavy loads through the jungle, and help evacuate the wounded. And they really hate the Japs.”
“Where’s the Kokoda Trail?” I asked.
“It’s the trail over the Owen Stanley Mountains that leads from the Jap-occupied east coast of New Guinea to Port Moresby on the west. If the Aussies and the Fuzzy Wuzzies hadn’t stopped the Japs there and pushed them back, we might be having this conversation in the Australian Outback while the Japs hunt us down.”
“Never heard of it,” I said. “All I read about in the Stars and Stripes is how MacArthur is winning the war out here.”
“Well, if he is, he’s doing it from Lennon’s Hotel in Brisbane,” White said. “Why don’t you two give the waist gunners a hand and stand lookout in the blisters? We’ll be in the clouds soon, but extra eyes are always welcome.”
We headed back. The gunners watched the sky while we scanned the ocean below. The clear acrylic blisters bowed out from the fuselage, giving a spectacular view in all directions. I looked at Kaz and grinned, the bombing and destruction almost forgotten in the thrill of the ride. The waist gunners craned their necks, checking every quadrant. The PBY had a decent defensive armament, but getting jumped by a Zero would definitely be bad news.
The sea and sky were empty as we headed into the cloud bank. Mist enveloped the aircraft, muffling the noise of the twin engines as it created an eerie sense of vulnerability. We were hidden, yet it was impossible to know what awaited us beyond the thin veil of fog. I thought I’d relax, but I grew tenser by the moment, straining to see anything in the greyness. It sort of summed up the whole war. An occasional false sense of security between bouts of boredom and sudden death.
“Gets to you, huh?” the waist gunner said. I nodded and felt a little better knowing he sensed it, too. But not much.
I tried to stay alert, but the monotony of the droning engines and the zero visibility made it a challenge. After ten minutes or so, I thought I heard a variation in the engine sound, but then it faded.
Then it returned.
“Something wrong with the engines?” I asked the waist gunner. He cocked his head to listen and shrugged. The sound was gone again.
I peered out of the blister, pressing my face against the cool acrylic, trying to pick up any change in vibration or sound. I swore I heard it again, the engines going louder and suddenly softer. The waist gunner cupped his ear, finally picking it up himself.
“Holy Christ,” I said in a whisper, backing away instinctively from the waist blister. “It’s another PBY!” The sound I’d heard was their engines as the aircraft drifted closer and then away, both of us unaware of how close we were.
“Where?” The waist gunner leaned in next to me. It had vanished again.
“Right there,” I said. “Slightly above us. I saw a waist blister and the high wings. Look!” It had drifted close again, a large fuselage that looked about to drop on top of us. Then I saw it. That big red ball that made it clear it was not one of our floatplanes.
“Kawanishi!” Yelled the waist gunner. “Port side.”
He opened up with his machine gun as the PBY banked to starboard. The narrow interior was filled with screaming voices, thunderous bursts of fire, and the metallic clatter of ejected shells bouncing on the deck. Terrified, I grabbed the edge of the blister and caught a brief glimpse of a face staring openmouthed from the waist position in the Jap plane, like some macabre mirror image. His machine gun spat fire, but his shots were as wild as ours—an instinctual reaction on both sides to put hot lead and distance between the planes and the possibility of collision.
But was the Jap plane heading for home? Were that gunner and his pals as scared as I was? Or were they circling around, hunting us in the clouds? I kept watch for a while, nothing but mist and murk as far as the eye could see, which was no farther than the acrylic bubble.
“That was close,” White said when I went forward. “The Kawanishi is larger than us, a four-engine job. He might have survived a collision, but he would have crushed us.” He put the PBY into a slight dive until he found the bottom of the clouds and evened out, staying right below the unending fluff, not a yard from cover if needed.
“Kawanishi? No code name?” I asked. “Patty or Maxene maybe?”
“Mavis,” he said. “But everyone in the Solomons knows the Kawanishi. It’s the Jap version of the PBY. Long range, and not bad at night either. I guarantee that won’t be the last one you see.”
“I just hope the next one isn’t that close,” I said.
“I hope it is in flames, like the Flying Cigar,” Kaz said.
“You got the right attitude for the Solomons, Lieutenant,” White said to Kaz. “Welcome to our South Pacific paradise.”
Chapter Seven
The PBY put us down on Henderson Field on the north side of Guadalcanal. It had been less than six months since ground combat had ended on the island with the last of the Japanese troops vanquished. The airstrip was alive with fighters, transports, and bombers, all in various stages of readiness as crews swarmed over them, fueling, rearming, and unloading supplies. Seabees smoothed out the runway with bulldozers shoving crushed coral into bomb craters.
“I guess the girls paid a visit,” I said. “Betty and her friends.”
“Let us hope they’ve grown tired of this island. I already am. What do we do now?” Kaz asked, eyeing the repair work as we stood in the hot sun. Lieutenant White had already taxied down the runway for his return leg. We walked to the nearest hangar, haversacks slung over our shoulders. The heat was thick and humid, nothing like the breezy warmth of Port Moresby. The place had a smell about it: oil and gasoline mixed with stale sweat and fetid decay.
“Boyle and Kazimierz?” A navy lieutenant in bleached-out khakis called out to us as he emerged from a Quonset hut. His shirt was soaked with perspiration and rivulets of sweat ran from his black wavy hair.
“That’s us,” I said, mopping my forehead. “You got a heat wave going on here?”
“Funny,” he said. “This is actually the nicest day we’ve had in a week. Welcome to Henderson Field. I’m Dick Nixon, Air Transport Officer.”
“Billy Boyle, and this is Kaz,” I said as we shook hands.
“Commander Cluster is waiting for you,” Nixon said, leading us to an open pavilion with a palm-frond roof. A crudely painted sign read: Nick’s Hamburger Stand.
“That you?” I asked as we followed Nixon.
“Yeah, we organized that for pilots coming through. We grill burgers and try to put out whatever food we can scrounge. A lot of the guys bring stuff from Australia when they can. Even cold beer once in a while.”
“All the comforts of home,” I said.
“That’s the idea. There’s Commander Cluster,” Nixon said, waving to an officer drinking coffee at the end of a long wooden table that had been cobbled together from packing crates. “I’ll have some chow sent over for you fellows. We don’t see too many Poles out here, Lieutenant Kazim
ierz. Is the Polish Army in Exile sending troops to fight the Japs?”
“We Poles have enough war in Europe,” Kaz said. “Between the Germans and the Russians, we have our fill of enemies. The Polish government did declare war on Japan following Pearl Harbor; however, the Japanese rejected the declaration.” We walked into the shade of the open-air hamburger joint, thankful for the slight coolness and the familiar aroma from the grill.
“Rejected a declaration of war?” Nixon said. “That’s a new one. Why’d they do it?”
“Prime Minister Tojo said Poland had been pressured into it by Great Britain, since we were dependent upon their support. Tojo probably rejected it purely for propaganda purposes, since we obviously pose no threat to them in the Pacific.”
“Well, don’t try telling that to the first Jap you see,” Nixon said. “The finer points of diplomacy are lost on them. So what exactly are you two doing here?”
“Long story,” I said. “We’re looking into a possible murder. One of the natives who works with the Coastwatchers got himself killed over on Tulagi.”
“You’re lucky,” Nixon said. “Tulagi is a tropical paradise compared to Guadalcanal. That’s why the British made it their district headquarters for the Solomons. Is one of our guys involved?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” I said. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know a pal of mine from Boston, would you? PT skipper named Jack Kennedy? He had his boat sunk recently.” I made it sound casual, to see if any scuttlebutt had reached across the bay about Jack being involved with the killing.
“Kennedy?” Nixon said, tapping his finger against the dark stubble on his cheek. “No, never heard of him. PT boats get sunk all the time. Wouldn’t exactly be big news. Sorry. Good luck, fellas.” Nixon waved to Cluster and we headed over to him. We did the salutes and introductions. Cluster was good-looking, tanned and blond. A walking advertisement for PT boats.