To Slip the Surly Bonds

by Chris Kennedy

  “Gotta be it,” Frazee decided.

  “Surf looks pretty rough,” Mike worried aloud as Big Boobs rumbled across a little spit of land and started over a bay about five miles across on the southwest side of the island. “Could be a little smoother in that northern corner over there,” he added without much assurance. He glanced anxiously at Wheeler.

  “You’re fine,” the pilot assured. “Take her down a little lower, but keep your speed up around ninety knots. Nothing fancy, hey? Just take her straight in. Sanford, are you listening?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you still in Garza’s seat?”

  “Yeah,” Sanford replied resentfully.

  “Good. Right in front of you, to the left, is a lever in a little box with a knob on the end. It says ‘up,’ ‘off,’ and ‘down,’ got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Wheeler coughed wetly and to Mike’s alarm, a little blood flecked his lips. “Move the lever down for three or four seconds, then shift it back to ‘off.’ Do it now.”

  “Okay. Hey! There’s these two socket-looking things spinning in front of me!” Sanford accused.

  Mike sighed with relief and a glance out to starboard confirmed the float was coming down. Lt. Wheeler couldn’t have been looking forward to talking the whiny Sanford through the process of manually lowering the floats. Mike had been half afraid they’d have to.

  “That’s fine, Sanford,” Wheeler said. “They’re supposed to do that. Means you did it right. Now look out your windows to either side. Can you confirm both floats are down and locked?”

  “They’re down,” Sanford responded. “Don’t know how to tell if they’re locked.”

  “Take her down, Mike,” Wheeler gasped. The port engine gasped as well, and chose that moment to die.

  “Shit!” Mike hissed, reaching for the throttle control box and mashing the button that would feather the flailing prop. Without thinking, he then wrenched the throttle lever to the closed position and flipped the ignition OFF. He might not be the most proficient PBY pilot in the world, but he was a pilot. Pushing the nose down, he started to advance the throttle on the starboard engine, but Wheeler said “Wait. Look at those swells down there. You’re going to have to stall her anyway.”

  Mike looked at him in near panic.

  “It’s okay. I’ve done it a hundred times. Just ease her down to about twenty or thirty feet and around seventy knots, then inch the column back until she stalls. I know, sounds crazy, but it works.”

  With the jungle and white-sand beach quickly approaching beyond the marching surf, Mike nervously did as he was told. Nose down to maintain the speed Lt. Wheeler recommended, Mike waited until he thought the crests of the rollers might actually touch the keel, then pulled back on the column. Big Boobs hit the water with a deafening, bone-shaking boom, pancaking down in the trough between the rollers.

  “Now give her the gas,” Wheeler cried. “I’ll help you with the rudder!”

  Pushing the throttle to the stop, they both stepped on the rudder pedals to counteract the thrust and keep them heading for the beach instead of broaching-to in the marching waves. Lt. Wheeler might’ve done this before—Mike doubted he’d really done it often—but Mike never had, and the thought of one of their floats going under, pulling the wing around and taking a wave across it…

  If we ever reach the beach, it’ll be in pieces.

  By some miracle, it didn’t happen like that, and Big Boobs practically surfed into the relatively mild waves washing up in the shallows. Mike started to retard the throttle but Lt. Wheeler stopped him.

  “Just run her right up on the beach.” Mike could only nod, doing his best to hold his bucking controls and make the rudder keep them straight. Moments later, the big flying boat bumped the sand for the first time, but her inertia, thrust, and the following waves carried her on, bumping and mushing across the slick white sand. The last big wave finally left her half on shore, it seemed, but she wasn’t going any farther.

  “Couldn’t’ve done better myself,” Lt. Wheeler said, leaning back in his seat, closing his eyes. “Get our people out.”

  Shutting down the starboard engine, Mike unstrapped and reached up to unlatch the panels on each side of the cockpit roof and slide them back. Spray spritzed him as another wave surged around the plane, shifting it alarmingly.

  “Hey!” Sanford called, voice high, “we’re sinking!”

  Mike looked behind to see water fountaining up through many more bullet wounds than he’d ever suspected the plane had suffered. “Get the ration and medical kits. And weapons,” he cried. All the men had pistols, a mix of 1911 .45s and whatever they might personally prefer. Wheeler carried a Colt Army Special .32-20 in a shoulder holster, for example, favoring revolvers, as well as the fact he could carry fifty rounds for the thing in his pockets. There was also a 1903 Springfield and two Thompson SMGs aboard. Pike had gathered them all while Frazee listened to the radio a few minutes more before shutting down the generators and all the electrical switches in his quickly flooding compartment. The plane was resting firmer on the sand, but only because it was filling with water. Pike sloshed forward, pushing Sanford in front of him. They had to wait—Sanford impatiently—while Mike and Frazee helped Wheeler out of the plane, then they clambered out the top of the cockpit and onto the sea-scoured sand. Still helping Wheeler—practically dragging him now—Mike shouted for Sanford to pull the anchor cable out of the access hatch in the bow of the plane and follow them to the trees.

  “What for?” grumbled the red-headed sailor.

  “So it doesn’t wash away, you idiot,” Pike snapped, still loaded down with weapons. “Who knows how long we’ll be here and we might need it, or stuff in it. The radio, for one.”

  “We ought to burn the damn thing before the Japs spot it,” Sanford retorted.

  “And they won’t see the smoke?” Frazee shot back. Even the young radioman was getting sick of Sanford’s attitude. It might be more than that, though. He’d seemed particularly distracted since his last moments with the radio. Then again, they’d just made a forced landing on a strange island in the path of the Japanese juggernaut. It would be weird if they weren’t all a little tense, under the circumstances.

  Sanford glumly trudged back to the plane through sand-sifting surf and popped the hatch on the left side of the nose, under the turret. Fishing the anchor out, he tossed away the buoys and unrolled the cable back toward the shade of the trees where Mike and Frazee had laid Wheeler down. Frazee had opened a medical kit and was using scissors to cut Wheeler’s shirt while Mike examined the damage revealed, gently sopping blood from torn flesh. Pike had leaned a Thompson and the Springfield against another tree, wrapping a web belt with canteen, knife, holster, and magazine pouches around his waist. He’d extracted one of the longer twenty-round magazines and was loading a Thompson for himself. “Secure that cable to one of these bigger trees,” Pike instructed Sanford. He shrugged. “Might as well arm yourself, too.”

  Like Mike and Frazee, Sanford wore a 1911 Colt in a holster at his side, but looked askance at the Springfield and SMG. “Those things are heavy,” he complained, “and I’m no good with a rifle.”

  Mike sent him a frown, suspecting Sanford objected more to the burden of responsibility to the rest of them that carrying one implied, than he did to the actual weight. “Fine. I’ll take the rifle. Frazee, you take the Tommy gun.” He looked at the young radioman, sprinkling a packet of sulfa on Wheeler’s wounds. “Did you get anything on the horn, there at the last?”

  Frazee wiped sweat from his brow and nervously cleared his throat. “Yeah, from Santa Catalina…and that was it,” he added significantly. “No other traffic at all.”

  “Really? What did she say?”

  Frazee shook his head. “Didn’t make any sense. The Japs beat her up pretty bad, like we figured, before that squall crawled over her.” He looked at Mike. “Weird as it was for us, her radioman made it sound even worse on the water. Really shook the guy up. A
nyway, he was screaming his head off for help, scared they’d never make Tjilatjap before they sank, and talking crazy about fish—he said fish—eating men in the ship who were trying to stop the flooding.”

  Frazee shook his head again, clearly unnerved by what he’d heard and obviously sorry for anyone who could lose it that bad, but worried about something else as well.

  “What got me was, there was nothing—absolutely nothing else—out there making a peep,” Frazee said. “Before we went through that creepy storm, every frequency was jammed with distress calls; tramp freighters begging for reports on where the Japs were, Dutch fishing boats—or cruisers, for all I know—babbling away, probably asking for the same dope.”

  The radioman paused, looking out at the water.

  “But after it passed, there was nothing but Santa Catalina and us. It just isn’t possible. If I could still hear her, I should hear the rest, but they were all just…gone. And either I couldn’t transmit or Santa Catalina couldn’t receive, so I couldn’t even tell her we were out here.”

  “That damn squall wasn’t right,” Pike confirmed, gazing up and down the beach, looking for threats. He poked the muzzle of his Thompson up at some colorful, flitting shapes overhead. “And neither is this island. I’m no bird expert, but I guess I’ve seen most of the screwy sea birds they got around here. Not these. They look more like flying lizards than any damn bird!”

  Mike glanced up to see the gunner was right, but was even less an ornithologist than Pike. Wheeler seemed interested, but now that he was otherwise comfortable, his pain was drawing most of his attention. A dose of morphine distracted him from everything while Mike and Frazee bound him up.

  The morning passed into afternoon while they quietly discussed their options, increasingly relieved—if somewhat surprised—not to see or hear any aircraft snooping about. Weird birds aside, anything in the air at this point was certain to be Japanese. Just as surprising, even though they had a pretty good view of the main body of the strait through a gap in the jungle on the other finger of land forming the northern barrier of the bay, they saw no smoke of passing ships. Any ships.

  “So what now?” Pike asked quietly so as not to disturb Wheeler’s rest, finally drawing closer to sit in the sand beside all but Sanford. Even now, the gangly malcontent kept himself apart. Mike was flattered but concerned that Pike was so willing to defer to him. He was an officer, of course, but the other man was older and a lot more experienced. He cleared his throat. “Obviously, if the Japs spot the plane, we have to get away from it. Otherwise, we’ll stay close to it for the night. Hopefully, Mr. Wheeler will feel better tomorrow and have some ideas.”

  Pike glanced skeptically at the wounded man, but nodded. “What about Nev Garza?” The two had been friends. “We have to bury him.”

  Mike nodded, ashamed he hadn’t already thought of that. “Right.” He glanced at Sanford, but mentally shook his head. “Frazee, you stay with Mr. Wheeler. The rest of us will get Garza out of the plane and give him a decent grave. It’ll likely be dark by then, and we’ll get some rest. Start fresh in the morning.”

  “Do you have any ideas?” Pike pressed.

  Uncomfortable, Mike glanced at Wheeler.

  “Well…we’ll need water,” he said. “And food, eventually. We can’t stay here long, that’s sure.”

  Mike looked down the shore.

  “I guess we should follow the shoreline and look for natives. Anybody know if there are natives here?”

  Nobody answered, the crew all giving each other sideways glances.

  “Well, if there are, we’ll try to get a boat and sneak out from under the Japs.” He shrugged, somewhat helplessly. “That’s all I have, fellas.”

  Pike took a deep breath and stood. “Good enough, and about all there is. Let’s get Nev.”

  Advancing on the beached and flooded plane, now barely shifting as the surf washed around it, Pike stopped a moment. The others did too.

  “I liked that plane,” Pike murmured. “Me and Nev were in her almost a year. Longer even that Lieutenant Wheeler.”

  “Why did you call her ‘Big Boobs?” Mike asked.

  “That’s easy enough to figure,” Sanford grouched as if lecturing an idiot. “Those two big engines sticking out, right up front.”

  Pike sneered at Sanford, but then nodded at Mike. “Yeah. Never painted the name on her, though. Nev was going to, whether Admiral Hart liked it or not, but always figured there’d be time later. Then there wasn’t any.”

  Mike nodded. “Yeah. Sorry. Let’s get this over with. Snag anything you see that we might use while we’re in there.”

  They dug Nev Garza’s grave a short distance into the trees, unsure how high the tides ran. The digging was easy, but they were constantly kicking strange, aggressive little lizards away from the mangled, parachute-shrouded body. Frazee, not far away, reported he was having the same problem with lizards around Lieutenant Wheeler. And there were equally aggressive crabs with large, lumpy-looking claws and tails like lobsters. Sometimes they got preoccupied with the lizards and the men accepted the grim humor of the predators fighting each other to take possession of them. The growing number of attackers made it clear they’d have to keep a guard all night, however. Not just to protect their wounded pilot, but themselves as well. It was decided that a small fire was a necessity and a negligible risk. It wouldn’t illuminate the plane, and natives would build fires at night regardless of the Japanese.

  Mike kindled the blaze—he’d always been good at that—while Pike and Frazee fashioned thin, wooden spears. They didn’t want to waste ammunition or draw unwanted attention by shooting the vicious little scavengers, but they could stab them and fling them away. After a while of this, most of the creatures left them alone, apparently to eat the victims. Mike later suspected many also went to hide from things that hunted them in the dark. He took the first watch himself while the other tired men went to sleep at once. Pike and Sanford both snored, Pike very loudly, but Frazee and—mercifully—Lieutenant Wheeler seemed to sleep as peacefully as ever. Walking slowly around the camp at the edge of the firelight, Mike spent his time adding wood to their small blaze and spearing the occasional intruder. Larger…things sometimes crashed in the brush out of sight in the jungle, and bizarre screeches and moans erupted from time to time. Scary as they sounded, they didn’t bother him much. He was used to the thunderous roar of frogs and toads back home and doubted really dangerous predators would announce their presence so robustly. Sometimes he stopped and stared at the plane, forlorn and awash, glowing dully in the light of the gibbous moon, or gazed at the marching surf or up at the familiar stars. Yet everything about his situation was unfamiliar, from the way Big Boobs rested helpless in the shallows, to the utterly isolated and frightening surroundings and odd little monsters scurrying on shore.

  Most unfamiliar and intimidating of all, perhaps, was the necessity for him to step up and lead. He prayed Lt. Wheeler would be better when he woke, but even if he was, they’d have to take care of him for now and not the other way around. Yawning and glancing at the gently glowing hands and numbers on his watch, he finally went and woke Frazee. Without a word, the youngster picked up his Thompson and assumed his duties while Mike lay down on the folded parachute Frazee left behind. In minutes, he was asleep.

  At first, Mike thought he was dreaming the screams that didn’t quite wake him, but six rapid pistol shots punctuated the screams and that finished the job. Springing to his feet, he was already fumbling his pistol out of its holster as consciousness returned. He noticed at once that the sky was noticeably brighter so it must be almost dawn, but it was still dark enough that the fire might’ve aided visibility—if it hadn’t been long dead. More screams—and vicious snarls—came from where Lieutenant Wheeler had been sleeping, and Mike staggered that way through the shoe-clutching sand. He barely caught a glimpse of what had Lieutenant Wheeler—long, narrow jaws clamped around the man’s throat—but that was enough to confirm to him that it and it
s several companions couldn’t belong on this island…or anywhere else.

  Pike’s Thompson roared beside him, fire spitting from the muzzle, bullets shredding foliage over the heads of the things, but Mike started shooting directly at them. “Don’t!” Pike yelled. “You’ll hit the skipper!”

  “He’s dead,” Mike shouted back, still shooting. One of the things squealed in pain, and they all thrashed away, pulling the limp man with them. “Frazee! Sanford! C’mon!” Mike called, starting in pursuit.

  Pike caught his arm. “How do you know he’s dead?”

  Mike whirled on him. “Because one of those—whatever it was—had torn his throat out,” he snapped. “We’re wasting time.”

  “What the hell?” Frazee demanded, voice high-pitched. He had his own Thompson again, and handed the ‘03 Springfield to Mike. “What’s happening? Is it Japs?”

  “Not Japs,” Mike ground out. “Some kind of lizards, maybe, like the little ones we killed all night, but as big as a man…” He paused. “And it looked like they go on their hind legs!”

  “Did you see that?” Frazee asked Pike.

  It was swiftly growing lighter, as it did at that latitude, and the big man shook his head. “Not that, not really. I didn’t see much at all,” he confessed. “But something…not men…got the skipper.”

  “And he’s dead?” Frazee demanded.

  Pike looked at Mike. “Mr. Hayes says so. Sounded like he hit one of the bastards that took him, too.” He looked around, finally seeing the faint wisp of smoke rising from the dead fire. “Where’s Sanford? He had the last watch!”

  “Why am I not surprised,” Mike growled furiously. “Who cares where he is? We have to get after those things.”

  “Just hold on,” Pike suggested. “You say Lieutenant Wheeler’s dead? Okay. It won’t hurt him any if we take a few minutes to get our shit in the sock.”