The White Ghost

by James R Benn

  We crossed the open waters of the Slot at full throttle, more than making up time for the brief, one-sided engagement. As the island of Choiseul showed up on the radar screen, Jack slowed the boat, lessening the phosphorescent wake and the chances of being spotted by a Jap lookout. We moved slowly, the sound of breaking waves increasing in volume. I could make out the whitecaps where the tide drove water against the coral reef, a rolling, crashing tumult that threatened to rip open the hull of any small craft that went against it. Or the feet of any man swimming over it, as Jack had done trying to signal a friendly vessel in Blackett Strait.

  As I was considering the chances a rubber raft had of riding those waves, I saw the opening. A river of calm water between the breakers. I looked at my watch, the luminous dial reading quarter of one.

  “Ready?” I said to Kaz. He nodded, and we both slung our rifles and went aft, where Chappy and Mauer were putting the raft over the side. The crate filled with food and two coils of rope were in place. Next was us.

  “Good luck,” Jack said. “As soon as you get onshore, the countdown starts. Don’t dawdle, fellas.”

  “Not planning on it,” I said, trying for a nonchalance I didn’t even remotely feel.

  “Speed is the essence of war,” Kaz said as he lowered himself into the raft. Jack gave a knowing nod and helped shove us off.

  “Is that a quotation?” I asked, a bit irked that Kaz could always come up with a pithy saying.

  “Sun Tzu, from The Art of War,” he said. “Jack seemed to know it.”

  “Of course,” I said, digging in with my paddle. “He’s a Harvard boy. Now row, before we’re swamped.” It took both of us at maximum effort to keep the small raft from drifting, the current pulling us away from the smooth, glassy water ahead. We finally made it past the breakers, and with a few easy strokes were up on the sand, dragging the raft into the bushes.

  We squatted beneath the overhanging palms. I checked my watch. Ten of one. If we weren’t back in the raft and close to the boat by ten after, we were out of luck. Stuck on Choiseul with a killer and several thousand Japs on high alert. What the hell had I been thinking?

  Blood was pounding in my head, masking all other noises. Or was that the surf? Kaz stuck his head out and glanced up and down the beach, shaking his head when he saw nothing. As we waited, I began to sense the sounds around me with increasing clarity. The wind through the trees, the breakers out on the reef, and the softer sounds of water lapping at the white-sand beach.

  Nothing else.

  Five more minutes passed. It was one o’clock on the dot.

  Nothing.

  We stuck our heads out from the undergrowth and scanned the beach in both directions. I didn’t see any movement, but suddenly a figure was standing on the beach, a few feet out from the arched palms. A pinpoint of light flicked on and off.

  I tapped Kaz on the arm. He nodded and took up the coils of rope. There was nothing to do but walk over, with no sudden moves. We had to be quiet enough not to alert the Japs and deliberate enough not to panic Porter and have him shoot first and ask questions later.

  Then the flashlight shined in our direction. The pinpoint of light hit me full in the eyes, and I shielded them with one hand, keeping the rifle at my side with the other. We stood and walked to the light.

  “Kari?” I said. “Porter? Turn that thing off.”

  “Sure boss,” the figure said, his cadence and accent pure Pijin. He was a native, bare-chested, wearing a tan lap-lap, a big machete on a cartridge belt around his waist, and a Lee-Enfield rifle slung over his shoulder. “Nem blo’ mi Ariel.”

  “Wea nao ples blong John Kari? Silas Porter?” Kaz asked, after he’d made introductions. I was pretty sure he asked where Porter and Kari were.

  “Warrior River,” Ariel said. “They scout for marines. Many marines lost. Too many Japan man.”

  “How far?” I asked, resisting the urge to make walking motions with my fingers.

  “One day, no Japan man. Two days, lotta Japan man. You bringim gans?”

  “No guns,” I said. “Guns tomorrow, food today.” I figured we might as well pass out the food and get back to the boat kwiktaem.

  “You bringim Silas and John here tomura?” Kaz asked.

  “No, too much fight, too many Japan man. We takim food, takim you to marines. Both with marines.” Ariel waved a hand and four more native scouts appeared around us. Two of them hoisted the rations and the others drew their machetes and quickly sliced the rubber raft into pieces.

  “Japan man no find, is gut, namba wan, yes Billy?”

  “Yeah, great, number one idea,” I said, my mouth gaping. I watched them use the paddles to scrape a depression in the sand and cover the remains of the raft. I looked out to sea, wondering how long Jack would wait. Five more minutes by my watch.

  “Well, we came to do a job,” Kaz said. I had to agree. Ariel and his pals were ready to take us to Porter, so why not? Well, I thought of a lot of reasons why not, but with no raft and Jack heading back to Rendova in a couple of minutes, it really didn’t matter.

  “Usim marine wailis,” Ariel said. “Send for more gans. We killim plenty Japan man.”

  “Wailis?” I said, falling in behind Kaz as the group filed into the bush, each man nearly invisible in the darkness and thick undergrowth.

  “Wireless,” Kaz said. “We can use the marine’s radio. As soon as we get there, we can contact Jack.”

  “If the Japs don’t mind,” I said.

  “Kwait, no ken mekim nois,” Ariel whispered harshly.

  “Wait a minute,” I said in a low voice. “One question. How did you know where we were? You shined the flashlight right at us.”

  “You smellim like waitman. Bad smell, but not bad as Japan man. Hariap.”

  Ariel took off, taking fast, sure steps, as if we were walking through an open field in daylight. We haried ap for the rest of the night, not stopping until the faint light of early dawn.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “I can’t believe you endangered these men, Lieutenant, and in the middle of an important operation, goddammit!”

  Colonel Victor Krulak paced in front of us, one hand wiping sweat off his crew cut, the other resting on his holstered .45 automatic. I hoped his arm was just tired. His lungs sure weren’t. This was about ten minutes into a full-dress tirade, and he wasn’t done yet.

  “These scouts and the Coastwatchers have been invaluable,” Krulak said. Ariel seemed to enjoy the spectacle, even if he might not understand most of it. I tried not to think about the nickname his men had given Krulak. Brute. “Now you want to arrest Porter in the middle of a battle, after Ariel walked through Jap lines to get you here? What the hell are they thinking back on Tulagi?”

  “Probably that three murders shouldn’t go unpunished, sir,” I said in my most respectful voice.

  “The man you know as Silas Porter may be unstable, Colonel,” Kaz said. “He is not to be trusted.”

  “We’ve been trusting him and the other Coastwatcher, Kari, with our lives,” Krulak said. “Not to mention Ariel and the other scouts. But I don’t want to harbor a murderer, even if he’s good in a fight.” He sighed, and grabbed his helmet from where he’d thrown it to the ground during the start of his lecture. “Johnston, get over here,” he yelled to a group of marines watching the proceedings.

  “Yes sir,” Johnston said, eyeing us as he approached, tommy gun slung over his shoulder.

  “Lieutenant Johnston is taking a platoon to the area in which Porter and Kari are operating,” Krulak said to Kaz and me. “Go with him. Don’t get in the way and don’t get anyone killed.”

  “Sam Johnston,” the officer said as we introduced ourselves. He was tall, lean, and filthy, sweat and mud caked on every part of his uniform. After only one night in the jungle, Kaz and I were cultivating much the same look. “I didn’t expect t
he army to tag along, especially the Polish Army.”

  “First to fight, as they say,” replied Kaz.

  “That’s what Krakowski was always saying. He wanted the marines to invade France and take on Hitler. He’d enjoy talking with you, but he’s dead.”

  “The first to fight often are,” Kaz said. “Now, what is the situation?”

  “I’ll explain as we walk,” Johnston said. “Damn, I wish Krakowski could’ve met you.”

  In short, the situation could have been better. The marines had been busy raiding up and down the island. They had four Higgins boats hidden on a small island off Voza, where the battalion had been put ashore. The boats carried detachments up and down the coast, hitting Jap installations, then disappearing, keeping the Japs guessing about the size of the force.

  Early yesterday, two of the landing craft had dropped off a company north of the Warrior River, under the command of Major Bigger. The Higgins boats were to return to the mouth of the river this morning and extract the marines, after they’d raided an enemy base near Choiseul Bay. The marines didn’t make the rendezvous at oh-six-hundred. Worse yet, there’d been no radio contact, and Major Bigger should have checked in by now.

  “Your man Porter is with them,” Johnston said. “Along with the other guy, Kari. Our job was to make contact. They were supposed to have left a radio team and a security detachment at the river mouth, but there was no sign of them either.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” I said. “What is one platoon supposed to do about it?”

  “One marine platoon, you mean. With the Polish Army contingent, of course. Not to mention the US Army’s contribution, Lieutenant Boyle. You know how to use that thing?” He thumbed in the direction of my M1.

  “I had some practice in North Africa,” I said. “Although I prefer a Thompson like yours. They were out at the armory, or the navy didn’t want to let one go.”

  “They’re good for jungle work,” Johnston said, holding up a hand for the column to halt. Ariel came in from the front at a trot, his head low. I took a hint and went down on one knee. Kaz did the same as Johnston waved his men off the track and they moved several yards into the bush, poised to face any potential threat.

  I heard Johnston curse under his breath as he listened to Ariel, who spoke slowly, using as much English as he could muster. He ended by shaking his head slowly. “Mi sori.”

  “We’re getting close to the river,” he whispered to us and a sergeant who gathered around, along with the radioman. “There’s a dead white man tied to a tree about a hundred yards up.”

  “A marine?” asked the sergeant.

  “Ariel can’t tell. He’s naked. In bad shape. Real bad.”

  “Are you going to march the entire platoon right by him?” I asked. I knew these guys were no strangers to corpses, but this sounded worse than the standard-issue battle carnage.

  “Damn right I’m going to,” Johnston said, the bitterness so sharp in his voice I wasn’t surprised when he spat. “Sergeant Trent, get his dog tags if he’s one of ours. Either way, cut him down. After the men have a chance to see what kind of enemy we have here.”

  “It’s Gallaher,” the radioman said as soon as we came to the body. I don’t know how he recognized him.

  “Corporal Gallaher was in charge of the company radio,” Johnston said. “Now we know why we haven’t heard anything.” He stood next to the bloody tree, staring at the body as his men marched by. Most looked. None for too long.

  Gallaher was stripped naked and bound with rough rope, his hands pulled back around the tree. There was a rope cinched tight in his mouth, and around his legs, immobilizing him against the wide coconut trunk. He must have had a hundred wounds. Bayonets had struck him everywhere. Arms, legs, shoulders; some of those wounds wouldn’t have killed him at first, but the blood loss would have done it sooner or later. His abdomen was peppered with bayonet slashes, his intestines protruding, blackening in the broiling heat.

  His genitals were gone.

  “It wasn’t quick,” I said.

  “No,” was all Johnston said, his eyes fixed on the flies feasting on what had been Gallaher’s eyes. I joined the column, still wanting Porter, but letting thoughts of revenge elbow their way forward and take their rightful place.

  We came to the river. Johnston signaled his men to take cover, and they faded into the bush, working their way along the riverbank on either side of us. “That must be where the landing craft went in,” Johnston said. The opposite side of the wide river mouth was a gravelly stretch of even ground leading gently up into a stand of coconut trees. Some were fallen, or snapped off at the top—from age or artillery, it was hard to say. They were planted in even rows, part of an old plantation, most likely. On our side, the banks were steep, loose stones and gnarled roots sticking out where the curving flow of water cut away at the ground.

  “What now?” I whispered as we edged back into the bush.

  “I’d bet the Japs have that area covered,” Johnston said as he scanned the opposite bank through his binoculars. “It’s the only place the LCs can get to. Too risky to cross here.”

  “Not to mention how deep the river looks,” Kaz said, displaying his standard unease with any water deeper than a bathtub.

  “Yeah,” Johnston said. “We’ll find a crossing farther upriver.”

  We crept back from the river’s edge and began the slow process of hoofing it through the dense bush. There was a narrow, overgrown footpath along the river, but that was an invitation to an ambush. Or maybe booby traps set up to warn the enemy of our approach. Machetes would have helped, but slashing at the choking greenery is damn noisy, especially when there are thirty or so guys having at it.

  So we pushed past fronds as big as elephant’s ears, stumbled over giant roots snaking out from tree trunks covered in vines; orchids in pale yellows and greens dazzled the eye while black ooze threatened to pull the boots from our feet with each step.

  Ahead of us, Ariel raised a hand, signaling halt. The other he cupped around his ear.

  Voices. The sound of footsteps on hard-packed ground.

  People were on the path and they weren’t speaking English. A small group, chatting. Probably no officers or noncoms around to enforce silence. They were complacent. Happens when you think no one’s around except the guy you just butchered and left tied to a tree.

  Johnston handed me his Thompson and put a finger to his lips for silence. He drew his Ka-Bar combat knife and tapped several men on the shoulder, Sergeant Trent among them, as he passed silently through the hidden platoon. Along with Ariel armed with his machete, they moved in crouched steps toward the path. In seconds they were gone, swallowed by the dense growth.

  The sounds from the path drew closer. I figured five or six men, from the tromp of feet, the creak of leather, the faint sounds of packs, canteens, and other gear bouncing against bodies in motion. I guessed their rifles were slung. Maybe their intelligence was faulty, maybe they were cocky, or simply thought they could deal with outnumbered Americans.

  The rhythmic sounds of movement stopped, replaced by a sudden rustle of leaves, grunts, thrashing, one high-pitched cry cut off before it could carry above the jungle canopy, and finally, the gurgling sound of a man choking on his own blood.

  Trent pushed through the bush, signaling with one bloody hand, and we came forward, each end of the column spreading out on the trail, watching for other Japs.

  There had been six. All were dead, except for one man who would be in seconds. He clutched his throat, blood bubbling out between his fingers, rivulets of red flowing between clenched teeth. The others were strewn about the trail, most with their big Arisaka rifles across their shoulders. Slit throats had sent streams of blood pumping out, spraying the green leaves chrysanthemum red.

  Ariel and Johnston were busy cleaning their Ka-Bars. A sergeant stood over the dying Jap, watchin
g as he cleaned his knife on the man’s service cap.

  “Is that a stiletto?” I asked, as the Jap tried to speak, forming nothing but bubbles of blood that popped pink, as if he were chewing bubble gum.

  “Yeah,” the sergeant said, offering it to me by the hilt, his eyes riveted on the man at his feet. “Traded with an Aussie commando for it. Think this is one of the guys who did that to Gallaher?”

  “Hard to say for sure,” I said. “But I’d guess so. There were only bayonet wounds on his body. No sword slashes. Which suggests no officers present, same as with these poor bastards.”

  “I heard you were a detective,” he said. “Pretty smart for an army man.” He rolled the Jap facedown with his boot, then kicked his arm away from where he held the wound. An arterial gush of blood dampened the jungle floor, and then silence.

  “This isn’t the same as those marine stilettos,” I said, motioning for Kaz to join us. “It has a hard wood pommel, bigger than the metal one on the marine version.”

  “That is the same size as the wound in Daniel’s skull,” Kaz said as he studied the weapon. “Porter said he had owned an Australian commando knife, but lost it.”

  “I bet I know exactly when and where he lost it,” I said, handing the weapon back to the sergeant. “In that small inlet off the beach where he killed Daniel. If we have the bottom searched as far out as a man could throw one of these, we’ll have the murder weapon.”

  The bodies were dragged off the path, their weapons tossed into the river. We continued on, sweat soaking our clothes, the air so thick and hot it felt like walking through a steam bath filled with snakes, lizards, and spiders. I took a swig from my canteen, the water hot and tasteless.

  A distant pop pop pop sounded, echoing from the hills above. More gunfire, and soon the rapid hammering of a machine gun joined in. We strained to determine the direction, sure only that it wasn’t behind us. It seemed to be everywhere else.