The Commodore Read online

  With that she turned her face away. Sluff realized there was no more talking to be done. Either she’d help him get across Ironbottom Sound to the big island, or she wouldn’t. He also understood that some of her anger was really directed at Jack for defying orders, getting back on the air, and thereby beaconing an attack. Stupid she was not.

  He lay back down on his stretcher and observed the natives’ faces. They were all still fascinated by that fire, except when they shot furtive looks at one another, and then at Jennifer. But not at him.

  Oh, boy, he thought, and then the day’s exertions overcame him and he slept.

  The following morning he awoke to an empty camp. The fire was long out and the brook was making the only sound. He sat up in the stretcher, carefully, so as not to annoy his battered head bone. There was a small canvas bag on the ground. It contained a pound or so of rice stuffed into an antique army mess cup, a gourd canteen, a small knife, a small metal cylinder, which he hoped contained some matches, and that last bandage that David had shown Jennifer. He thought he saw something under the bag and pulled it aside. It was a large revolver, and it looked familiar. Then he remembered: Jack had been wearing it in a holster the last time Sluff had spoken to him. Jennifer must have retrieved it. He bent over the edge of the stretcher and picked it up. It was pretty heavy, but he could see six brass rims in the cylinder.

  He lifted his upper body into the stretcher and lay still until his head stopped swimming. He had his answer: She and whatever remained of her “boys” had gone long bush, as she termed it—into the deep backcountry on this island. He, alien bringer of nogut kas, was on his own.

  Fair enough, he thought. There’d be more battle survivors, seamen as well as airmen, who would turn up on the beaches. She, on the other hand, would have to survive for many months here, maybe even years, until the Japs were driven out. For that she depended on the boys. He was a Jonah in their eyes, and he remembered what happened when the crews of sailing ships of old decided someone was a Jonah: They put him into a boat with some water and food and cast him away.

  Okay, Jonah, he thought: Time to get under way, RFS or not. He got out of the stretcher, steadied himself, and then filled the gourd with water. He drank it all and then refilled it. He put everything back into the bag except the gun, which he put into his waistband, which in turn made his khaki trousers slide right off his hips. One way to lose weight, he decided: get stranded on a hostile island. He used the knife to poke holes in his canvas web uniform belt, re-cinched the belt, and then tried again with the heavy gun. This time everything held up, literally. He picked up the bag and started walking down the canyon toward the open meadow beyond. As he approached the opening he thought he felt something.

  He stopped and listened. There was a vibration, a thrumming that seemed familiar, something powerful pummeling the tropic air.

  Kawanishi, he thought.

  He backed into the shadow of the canyon entrance and put the bag down. He still couldn’t hear the engines, but he could definitely feel them. Approaching, too. He looked up. Even though he was in the shadow of the canyon entrance, narrow as it was, he realized that from the air they might be able to see a white man standing there. He knelt down and then went prone, putting that canvas bag over his neck so that there was no white skin showing, and pushed himself up against the canyon wall. Then he waited.

  Finally he could hear the actual engines as the seaplane came up the slopes of the valley and then over the ridge containing the canyon. He lay perfectly still and watched a patch of sunlight that was ten feet from where he lay. The engines got louder and louder and then the plane roared overhead and was going away, its line of motion confirmed by the black shadow that flitted briefly across that patch of sunlight. He waited for the shrill sound of an approaching bomb, but there was nothing. The sounds of the engines diminished until they were gone, somewhere out toward the western shores of the island.

  He waited some more to make sure the plane wasn’t going to reappear, and then got up, gathered his small pack, and stepped out into the sunlight. Before him lay an expanse of jungle in every direction. Looking out over the descending ridgelines, he could see Ironbottom Sound, with the green cone of Savo Island to his right. Beyond that in the far distance was the gray-green eight-thousand-foot-high central massif of Guadalcanal itself. He tried to remember the charts: ten, maybe twelve miles across the sound? All he needed was one of those sea canoes. After that? Piece of cake.

  Right. He gathered up his meager belongings and started down the hill toward the sea.

  Seven hours later, he realized that he was done for the day and started to look for a place to hole up. A walk through the jungle forest of Kalai Island was not like a walk through the forests of Minnesota. Between the intense heat, bugs, an occasional snake, the vines, mud, and razor-edged bushes, downhill hadn’t always been obvious until he finally came to a fast-moving stream. By then he’d been more than ready to just sit down in the water and submerge up to his neck. Since his compass rule was to keep going downhill, no matter what, he’d decided to just follow the stream on the assumption that all streams would lead to the South Pacific Ocean. He’d cut two bamboo walking sticks, used a vine to tie his supply bag to his chest, and begun picking his way down the streambed. Even though his navigation problem had been solved, the footing had been interesting. The best part was that his water problem had also been solved.

  The good news was that he was physically able to make his way down the slopes of the island. His skull was still damaged, but the lightning bolts he’d experienced when he’d first been wounded had mostly gone away. He’d elected not to change the bandage, as there didn’t seem to be any indications of infection, not that there would have been anything he could do about that. He worried about malaria from the mosquitoes and dysentery from drinking water of unknown quality. Aboard ship everyone had been taking antimalaria pills, but right now there was nothing he could do about that, either.

  Finally he came upon a small sandbar along the stream where it threaded its way around an enormous boulder and decided to make camp. The rock was at least twenty feet high and twice that around. He wondered if it had come down off one of the top cliffs, like the building-sized one that had wiped out the coast-watcher station along with all of his chances for rescue. He sat down with his back to the rock and wiggled his legs into the warm sand while his sandals began drying off on the bamboo poles he’d stuck into the sand. The sun was getting lower and starting to bend long shafts of sunlight through the tops of the trees. He’d been surprised to hear none of the jungle sounds one heard in the Tarzan movies. The jungle was as silent as a tomb, and he wondered if that was because of his presence. Or perhaps someone else? He strained to hear any animal sounds at all, and then he fell asleep.

  When he woke up, he found four Japanese soldiers squatting in a semicircle right in front of him, staring at him. One of them laughed when he saw the horrified expression come over Sluff’s face.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  They were so young, he thought, as he stared back at the soldiers. Thin, almost emaciated, dressed in khaki shirts and shorts, each holding what looked like a small-caliber rifle that appeared to be as long as they were tall. One of them had Jack’s .45 pistol, which looked enormous in the man’s tiny hands. They were looking at him as if trying to decide what he was. He was still wearing his Navy khaki uniform, with the silver eagles on his shirt collars. His officer’s cap was long gone, and those eagles and his brass belt buckle were now green with tarnish. It’s my face, he realized. They’d never seen an American Indian, just like the Melanesians who’d dragged him up the beach. He made as if to stand up, which resulted in four rifles being pointed at him.

  One of the soldiers gave an order, and the rifles were lowered, but not by much. He then said something in Japanese to Sluff, who could not understand a word of Japanese. He put out his hands and then shrugged to indicate that fact. The soldier gestured for him to stand up, raise his arms and hands, and
then turn around. As soon as he did two of them were standing behind him, one pressing his rifle barrel into Sluff’s back while the other pulled Sluff’s arms behind him and then wrapped some wire around his wrists. They then pushed him down into a seated position on the banks of the stream. One of them fingered his collar devices while another one searched his pockets and took his wristwatch. They inspected his bandage and then went through his supply bag, exclaiming when they found the matches and the rice, and set about making a camp for themselves. One soldier stood behind him while the other three built a fire, gathered fuel and water, and then began boiling rice. His guard smelled in equal parts of fish and fuel oil.

  Once they’d eaten, they released his right arm and then gave him his metal canteen cup filled with a handful of uncooked rice and some water. He drank the water and tried to chew the brittle bits of rice, which the soldiers found really amusing. Finally he swallowed the whole mess down and hoped it wouldn’t blow up in his stomach later. Once he did that they rewired his right arm behind his back and pushed him over onto his side. They wired his feet together, put a blindfold over his eyes, and left him alone, gabbling in Japanese to one another the whole time. One of them tapped the bandage on the side of his head with something hard, hissed, and walked away.

  My sentiments exactly, he thought, as he fought back tears of pain. He forced his body to relax into the warm sand. He’d read all about the Japanese attitude toward prisoners of war: bayonet them and move on with the mission. So far that hadn’t happened. Maybe those silver eagles were of interest. He feared to think of what might be in store for him if their superiors recognized that he was a senior officer in the American navy. The bayonet might be preferable.

  He found himself breathing fast and shallow and forced himself to slow it all down. Nothing you can do about it, so relax, sleep, see what happens tomorrow. After all, what could go wrong? He dreamed of being taken aboard a Japanese heavy cruiser in chains, locked into a compartment well belowdecks, and then hearing the sound of dive-bombers.

  It all did go wrong at about two the next morning, but for the Japanese soldiers, not him. He awoke to a fusillade of gunfire and the sound of bullets whipping over his head. He tried to burrow deeper into the wet sand. There were several screams, more gunfire, and then a smoky silence. He heard someone crunching across the sand toward him. Bayonet time? Soft hands undid the blindfold, and there was Jennifer. There was a big moon so he could see some of her boys, poking the inert forms of the soldiers with their rifles. Others were already stripping the bodies of weapons and ammo. She undid the wires, sat him upright, and then sat back on her haunches.

  “My conscience got the better of me,” she said. “Now we’re going to get you, and possibly me, to Guadalcanal.”

  “I’m very glad to see you,” he said. “May I have some water? And can you tell me what happens when you eat uncooked rice?”

  He got the answer to that after the first half hour of walking, suddenly bending double with extreme stomach cramps and nausea. They gave him a lot more water and then one of the boys supported him as he used his bamboo poles to lurch down the slope alongside the stream, making the occasional contribution to said stream. During the trek down the hillside he heard what sounded like distant thunder, except that it was a series of punching blasts, not the rolling sound of real thunder. Another night fight out on the sound? He wondered who was the commodore now.

  After a few hours he was hungry again. One of the boys gave him a fistful of sticky rice, of course, he thought, but cooked this time and washed down with a really squishy banana. He felt a lot better until he sensed and then confirmed that his head wound was bleeding again.

  They stopped at dawn and took shelter in a grove of trees he didn’t recognize, but which turned out to be rubber trees. Jennifer changed his bandage from a medic kit she’d produced, seemingly out of nowhere. She, like David, smelled the wound carefully, and then went to get some yellow powder to put on it. She fired off a blast of pidgin to one of the boys, who disappeared into the bush. He came back two hours later with a gourd of some sticky substance that turned out to be honey. She lifted the bandage, smeared the honey all over the wound site, and reapplied the bandage.

  “No germs can live in honey,” she said. “God’s magic goo, it is.”

  He wanted to ask for food, but then remembered the results of the uncooked rice. She saw his look. “The boys are hunting,” she said. “We’ll have food soon, but we have to be careful. There are japan patrols all over the island now.” She pointed with her chin. “The beach is just there.”

  She stood up, stretched, and then shivered, a strange sight in the growing heat.

  “I’m sorry for what happened to your husband,” he offered.

  “Brought it on himself, didn’t he,” she said, distractedly. “Wouldn’t turn off that damned teleradio. Meant well, and all that, but … now we’re for it, and that’s certain.”

  “Can you still find a sea canoe?”

  She smiled. “One-track mind, eh, there, Captain?” she said. “I don’t know is the answer, but I’m going to try. Right now we have to make sure there aren’t any japan patrols on our trail. Then we can see what’s what. You rest now. We have to wait for darkness.”

  He awoke at sunset, disoriented but feeling better. He longed for the stretcher rig, but that was long gone. He was sitting with his back to a coconut tree, his head cushioned by a bundle of rags. He touched the right side of his neck. He felt the sticky blood clot that ran from his head wound down to his collarbone, but it was hard now, not actually bleeding. Progress, he thought, and then wondered if he’d ever get out of here alive. He was so tired that it was beginning not to matter so much. Then he heard the muted rumble of what sounded like airplane engines, except that it was coming from the sea. He recognized that sound: Packard engines, three of them, and that meant PT boats. American PT boats.

  He called for Jennifer. Nothing happened. He yelled again. This time two of the boys came running.

  “Get me to the beach, right now. Those are American PT boats.”

  They stared at him, uncomprehending. He swore and got himself up and almost fell down. They grabbed him, steadied him, and then he remembered some pidgin.

  “Bigfella was-was,” he said. Then he made a sound, which he hoped would sound like waves crashing. One of them got it. “Nambis,” he exclaimed. “Nambis!”

  They then frog-marched him through the trees and down onto the black-sand beach, where they obviously expected him to take care of daily functions. Instead he scanned the waters offshore, looking hard for the PT boats.

  Nothing. He could still hear them, but he couldn’t see them. It sounded like they were nearby, maybe just around that point to his left, but those huge airplane engines made such a rumble that he couldn’t tell exactly where. His escorts were getting nervous, and they were saying altogether and japans a lot. He felt a moment of fear: Did the Japs have MTBs down here?

  No, those were Packard engines. He’d heard them while working up in Pearl, where they’d run some night exercises with the PT boat forces. The problem was that it was getting really dark.

  Finally one of the boats came creeping around the point, maybe four hundred yards offshore, its low, black silhouette looking ominous against the fading light over the water. Then a second one, and then a third hove into view, hugging the coast of Kalai Island, looking for trouble.

  Sluff walked out onto the narrow beach and began waving his arms to catch someone’s attention. It didn’t seem to be working. Then Jennifer hurried out of the tree line to join him. The boats kept going, moving slowly but inexorably past them. Sluff swore and started shouting.

  From behind him came three loud gunshots. He turned around to find Jennifer holding Jack’s enormous Webley .45 straight up into the air. Staring out at the boats, which hadn’t stopped, she fired three more shots, this time at the boats, or in front of them. She aimed high, but Sluff couldn’t see any splashes out there. The boat crews, how
ever, did, and the lead boat turned in toward the beach, training out all sorts of automatic weapons. Sluff didn’t know whether to hit the deck or just stand there. If the boats opened fire, they’d all be dead. All except the boys, who’d vanished when the shooting started.

  The lead boat then lit up a searchlight, pinning Sluff and Jennifer in its steely white light. The other two boats came to a stop as the lead boat inched its way inshore, wary of reefs. It stopped about a hundred yards offshore and swung sideways to the beach, and doused the light. Sluff walked down to the water, discarded his bamboo poles, and waded right in. He looked back at Jennifer, who was still standing there, that big .45 down along her right hip. She waved once, and then turned back into the jungle. Sluff got out into chest-deep water and started swimming.

  Dog-paddling was more like it, and he quickly tired. Someone on the PT boat saw that he was struggling and dove into the water. Moments later strong arms enveloped him from behind and a gruff voice said: I gotcha. Sluff relaxed and let the sailor tow him backward out to the boat, where three men hauled him in like a dead fish. They were all wearing full battle gear, and a baby-faced lieutenant junior grade, catching sight of those silver eagles, blurted out a “Holy shit.”

  “That’s ‘holy shit, sir,’” Sluff said with an exhausted grin. “Now: Please take me to your base if you can. I need to contact Nouméa.”

  The three boats took off in an echelon formation, headed for Tulagi. Someone opened a can of beans and franks from a C ration, set it down on one of the engine manifolds for a minute, and then handed it over to Sluff, who gobbled it down in five seconds. The boats were cruising along at a sedate twenty-five knots over a flat-calm sea, for which Sluff and his broken skull were duly grateful. The JG came back after a few minutes.

  “We’re headed back to base,” he said. “We’re under radio-silence orders, so I can’t tell them you’re coming. But, for the record…?”