The White Ghost (33 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

The late-afternoon sun
cast shadows through the coconut grove, long slivers of darkness lengthening between the rows. We were on lookout, searching the ground in every direction, watching for an enemy expert at infiltration. Everyone except Porter, who sat slumped against a log, passive amidst the activity around him.

“There!” Trent focused his binoculars. “Hold your fire! It's Ariel.”

He was alone, and he didn't look good. His weapon was gone. Blood flowed from his shoulder, and he grimaced as he ran, his one good arm waving back and forth. Trent sent two men to help him up the hill and into the perimeter.

“What happened?” Trent said as a corpsman handed Ariel a canteen and began cleaning his wound. It looked like a through and through in his upper shoulder. Not bad, if you were near an aid station. Out here, it wasn't good news.

“Hem dae,” Ariel gasped, then took another drink.

“Who? Johnston?” Trent demanded.

“No, other marine. Jap takim Johnston. We cross stream, see no denja. Japs jump us, shoot marine, shoot me, grabim Johnston. Hitim, drag away. I come kwiktaem.
” His eyelids fluttered, and he collapsed.

“He's lost a lot of blood,” the corpsman said. “But he's alive.” He and another marine carried Ariel to rest under the shade of a shelter half rigged up to a coconut tree.

“Now what?” Trent said, looking to the two officers present, even though we weren't marines. “G Company still has no idea we're here or the boats are coming.”

“Send your most expendable man,” Porter said. “We all know who that is.”

Trent looked to me. “He's got a point. And he knows the way.”

“What if he skedaddles?” I said.

“Boyle, where the bloody hell am I going to go?” Porter demanded. “You know who I am; there's nowhere I can hide. If I fail, well then justice has been served. If not, then those men have a fighting chance and we're back to where we started.”

“Why?” I asked. “Why volunteer?”

“Two reasons,” he said. “First, think about my reputation as a Coastwatcher. Has anyone ever said anything about a lack of dedication?”

“No,” I said. “Sexton seems to hold you in high regard.”

“Right. This is part of my job. It's what we do.”

“And the second reason?” Kaz asked.

“To start balancing the books. There's a lot of lives need saving up there, John Kari included. Just because I'm a right bastard doesn't mean I want them on my conscience, too.”

“Okay, but I go with you,” I said. “And you go unarmed.”

“Wait, Billy,” Kaz said. “You don't know your way around the jungle.”

“But he does, and I'm not letting him out of my sight,” I said. “Sergeant Trent, you okay with this?”

“Yeah, I think it's our best chance,” he said, giving Porter a hard stare. “You mean all that?”

“I do, mate.”

“Okay, here's what we do.”

Trent gave me a flare gun with two red flares. Once we reached G Company, we were to send them both up, Porter assuring us they could be seen from our position. That would tell him to expect Bigger and his men by morning, as planned. A fire team of four marines would accompany us to the edge of the plantation, ready to move in if we ran into trouble. But only for the first thirty minutes. After that, we were on our own. Kaz, of course, was coming along with the fire team, promising four tough marines he'd pull his weight. They chuckled, not knowing how deadly he really was.

It was dusk as we walked through the coconut grove, nearing darkness as we came to the end of the cultivated rows. Porter explained to the corporal in charge where we'd be entering the bush
and the route we'd be taking. Passwords were given: the call “little” and
the response “Lulu” because of the difficulty the Japanese had pronouncing the letter L.

“Good luck, Billy,” Kaz said. “Keep an eye on him.”

“He'll be in front of me the whole time,” I said. I was about to tell Kaz I'd see him in the morning, but it seemed like bad luck to repeat what Johnston had said not too long ago. So we shook hands, and I turned to follow Porter into the black jungle.

Once we were under the canopy, my eyes adjusted and I began to make things out. There was a partial moon and the reflected light filtered through the dense overgrowth, casting shades of black and grey everywhere, as if I were watching a motion picture.

“Stay with me,” whispered Porter.

“Right behind you,” I said. When I'd asked Porter why he didn't balk at not having a weapon, he'd said it wouldn't matter. If we stumbled onto the Japs, they'd have us in no time. Our only weapon was stealth, he said. Still, the feel of the M1 in my grip was damned reassuring.

We made our way through the bush, the sound of a stream off to our left, the distance never varying by much. I figured that was how Porter was navigating, but I wasn't going to ask any questions. We walked carefully, Porter sometimes halting to point out a root or slippery stone. We were both wearing the new rubber-soled canvas boots, and it made for quieter going. My eyes had become accustomed to the dark, and as long as I kept focused on Porter's back, I could make out where we were headed.

Stepping over a rotting log, Porter snapped a twig as he came down. We froze, the noise deafening even with the usual jungle sounds around us. There were no shouts, no sudden rustling of branches that signaled a Japanese patrol heading our way.

Porter looked at me and exhaled. I smiled, nodding, relieved that the misstep hadn't drawn the enemy to us. Then I remembered: this man was the enemy. Out here, alone in the darkness, it was easy to see him as an ally. I needed to guard against thinking of him that way. A temporary ally, perhaps, but not one to count on.

We neared the stream, Porter looking up and down the waterway, listening for signs of movement.

“Is this where Johnston crossed?” I whispered. He nodded yes, his finger to his lips, his eyes fixed on rocks jutting out from the stream. I tried to focus, but I didn't get it.

“Boots,” he whispered. Then I saw what I had thought were rocks. We moved silently, going stone to stone to avoid the splashing sound of water. Porter leaned down and lifted the torso up to remove his dog tag. “Not Johnston,” he said as he dropped the disc into my palm. It was the marine who'd had the Australian stiletto.

I followed him up the opposite bank, senses on alert, fear tingling in my gut.

The landscape opened up as we walked over limestone rocks, climbing higher every minute. The bush was less dense, the trees farther apart, the grasses thicker underfoot. A few feet ahead of me, Porter stopped. He hadn't stumbled or held up his hand to signal a halt; he stood there, staring into the darkness. I walked closer, moving toward whatever he was looking at.

Some sort of large plant? A tree trunk? My eyes couldn't put together a shape that made any sense. Then I saw.

It was Johnston. His hands tied with vines stretched between trees. His legs bound with more vines. He was still. Thank God.

Long slashes had left his skin in ribbons, from his chest to his thighs. His face was half cut away, his jawbone obscenely on display in the moonlight.

“Swords,” Porter said. “This was done by officers. Their sport for the evening.”

“My God,” was all I could say. I wanted to remove his dog tag, but as my hand neared the bloody mess that was his neck, it shook like a leaf.

“Sorry, Boyle,” I heard Porter say, and I thought how odd it was that he was giving me condolences over the tortured death of Lieutenant Johnston.

Until the lights went out.

I awoke on my back, hidden in the tall grass. The M1 was by my side, and a bloody dog tag was pressed into my palm. The flare gun was gone, and so was Porter.

Pain raced through my skull as I got up. Porter knew a thing or two about lethal force, and he had held back on me, but my head still hurt like the blazes. I stuffed Johnston's dog tag into my pocket along with the other and drew my knife, about to cut him down. I stopped, realizing that if the Japs came by this way again, they'd notice someone had moved their handiwork.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” I whispered. “You've got one more job to do.”

I headed back, having no idea which way G Company was, barely certain of the way to the coconut plantation.

At the stream, I gathered water in my cap and doused my head, washing away the drying, sticky blood, wondering what Porter was up to. He could have slit my throat and taken my weapons, but he hadn't. Maybe Bigger and his men had a chance after all.

After an hour and a couple of wrong turns, I heard the password.

“Little.”

“Lulu,” I answered, as loudly as I dared.

“Billy, what happened?” Kaz asked, rushing forward to help me, marines at his side.

I told him and repeated the whole thing for Trent back on the hill.

“They butchered Johnston,” I said, draining what little there was in the canteen I'd been handed. I winced as the corpsman put iodine on my wound, telling me it was a little scratch.

“Look, Sarge!” a marine said, his face raised to the darkness.

There, in the distance, two tiny red dots rose into the night sky. Porter had made it.

Chapter Thirty-Four

I was exhausted,
but sleep would not come. My eyes felt like they were coated in grit, my head hurt, my muscles ached, and
my throat was parched. I took a careful, small sip of water, shaking my
canteen to take a measure of what was left. One good gulp. A couple of guys volunteered to take canteens to the river and fill them, but Trent vetoed the idea.

“No one else is getting taken by the Japs,” he said. Case closed.

“How's Ariel?” I asked Kaz as he joined me in the trench.

“Stoic,” Kaz said. “He refused water, saying if he couldn't fight he wouldn't drink. How are you?”

“Fine,” I said. “Just can't sleep.” Mainly because I kept seeing Johnston's mutilated body whenever I closed my eyes. But I was fine. Really.

“Do you think he'll come back with Bigger?” Kaz asked.

“If he's Porter the Coastwatcher, then yes,” I said. “He has to guide them here. And I think he means what he says about doing his job. But if he's more Fraser the murderer, then all bets are off.”

“A strange man,” Kaz said. “He has talked himself into thinking he's acted rationally. It makes sense to him, each act leading to the next in a logical sequence, even if the end result is one he now regrets.”

“Mainly because he was caught,” I said. “Regret usually comes after an arrest.” I was feeling bitter, but I had to admit Porter might be feeling genuine regret. Hard to tell. Perhaps he was his own white ghost, haunted by what he'd done and how close he'd come to getting away with it.

“We have radio confirmation the landing craft are on their way,” Trent said as he knelt by our trench. “It'll be daylight soon. If G Company makes it, you'll have to secure your man and get him to the landing site pronto. We're not waiting around a second longer than we need to, Lieutenant.”

“Got it,” I said. “You're staying up here until they're clear?”

“Yeah. Once Bigger's men get to the river, I'll send squads down one by one. The machine-gun team last, in case we need covering fire.” As soon as he said the words, gunfire erupted beyond the coconut grove, the sounds echoing along the hills.

“Over there,” Trent said, looking to our right. Small sparkles of light dotted a distant hillside like a swarm of angry fireflies.

“Can't tell how far away,” I said. “No way to know if that's all of them or one small group.”

“Porter said coming out in small groups would be best,” Trent said. “I hope that's a rearguard action, and they're not having to fight their way through the Japs.”

“Should we go to their assistance?” Kaz asked.

“Negative,” Trent said. “If we split our forces and get lost out there, we might not be able to stop the Japs from getting to the river. We need to stay put. And it looks like we might need suppressive fire at the landing site.” He called for the radioman to request PT boat assistance at the Warrior River.

After that, we waited, watching a running firefight draw closer and closer, the drumbeat of shots growing louder as faint lines of rosy light appeared in the eastern sky. Finally, figures appeared on the fringes of the coconut grove, moving between the neatly spaced rows. Every man in the platoon aimed his weapon, jittery after the night of waiting and watching.

“Hold your fire,” Trent said calmly, his binoculars to his eyes. “They're ours.” A wary marine led the way, waving to Trent who had stood up, his helmet held high. More riflemen followed, guarding a group of wounded marines, their filthy bandages stained with dried blood. These were the walking wounded, followed by two stretcher cases. I could only wonder at how difficult the trek had been for them and their bearers. Gunfire sounded behind them, moving closer as the rear guard gave ground.

“Sarge,” hollered a marine who jogged up the rear slope. “LCs have been sighted, still a ways out.”

“PTs?” Trent asked. He shook his head no. “Okay, head down and lead the wounded to the river. They go first. Lieutenant, you two can look for Porter if you want. But don't stray far.”

“No wariwari,” Kaz said, and we both clambered over the logs and descended into the grove.

“Have you seen Porter?” I asked the first G Company man I saw. “The Aussie?”

“He went back to help the rear guard,” he said, “soon as we got to the edge of the plantation.”

We hustled to the edge of the jungle, passing more marines walking numbly out of the bush, sunken eyes ringed with fatigue, blinking in the dawning light. John Kari stumbled by, supported by a native scout, a bloody bandage wrapped around his head and covering one eye.

“Keep going boys, almost there,” I said, as dozens more filed by.

“Are you Boyle?” The voice belonged to an officer sporting a major's oak leaf insignia.

“Yes. Major Bigger?”

He nodded. “Porter told me to look for you, said you'd likely be waiting. What's the situation?”

“Landing craft are within sight. We've asked for PT boats to provide cover, but they haven't been sighted yet.” More gunfire sounded, followed by the
boom
of grenades. Close enough that I flinched. “Where's Porter?”

“With the rear guard. I've got to get the rest of the men to the river. Porter and the squad he's with are going to hold them up for ten more minutes, then hightail to that hill. Johnston's platoon still there?”

“Yes sir. Sergeant Trent is going to send men down to the river by squads, as soon as you're all clear.”

“It's going to be close,” he said. “There's beaucoup Japs on our tail.” With that he was off, shepherding his company through the grove,
leaving Kaz and me alone, waiting for the last of our men, not to mention the enemy. The firing reached a crescendo a few minutes later amidst another round of grenade explosions. The first man to appear nearly fell out of the jungle path, clutching his leg, blood oozing from his thigh. Two more marines followed, scooping him up as they passed us.

“Porter?” I yelled.

“Back there,” was all one said, not wanting to hang around and chew the fat. The firing was close enough now to make out each weapon. Two M1s and a Thompson, against a whole lot of Arisakas.

Finally, two marines burst from the bush, a tommy gun firing away behind them.

“Is that Porter?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said a corporal. “He's laying down covering fire. Get ready to run, mac.”

“I am quite ready,” Kaz said as they darted into the trees. “Do we really want to wait for this man?”

“Hell yeah,” I said, trying to sound like John Wayne in
Flying Tigers
.

Porter came into view, backing into the open field, firing his Thompson until it was empty and tossing it to the ground. He pulled a pin on a grenade and flung it into the bush, turning and pushing off into a sprint. He spotted us, barely hesitating.

“Run!” We didn't need prompting. Hard on his heels, we were breaking speed records when the grenade went off. We had a few second's grace but the Japs soon opened fire, bullets zinging overhead, slamming into tree trunks, and kicking up dust ahead of us.

Porter's arms were pumping, Kaz close behind him. My M1 felt like it weighed a ton, my legs were weak and wobbly, but a whole lot of Japanese guys trying to kill me was a great motivator. I followed the two of them as they zigged and zagged between trees, once turning around and thinking of squeezing off a few rounds to slow our pursuers down.

I didn't have enough bullets.

They were pouring out of the jungle, forty or fifty of them, I guessed. With the rear guard gone and an open field ahead of them, all the pent-up energy of the slow night's fighting had been unleashed. They were screaming, a couple of samurai swords held high, Arisakas with fixed bayonets an undulating sea of steel in the morning light.

Good.

The hill came into view. I waved and signaled the Japs were behind us as we raced around it, but Trent and his men needed no prompting. They waited a few seconds for the full mass of men to come into view. The attacking Japs slowed, someone obviously on his toes, noticing the fortified position ahead.

The machine gun opened up. Lead ripped into the front line, dropping half a dozen of them. Then everyone else fired, M1 rounds dispatching even more. The machine gun chattered away as the Japs faltered and began to retreat, using the trees as cover, much as we had.

Trent signaled the machine gunner to cease fire.

“Think there's more?” Trent asked Porter, who was lying on his back, gasping for air.

“Plenty more,” Porter said. “They tried to encircle us. There's at least a company moving through the bush on each flank. And I'd bet some heavy weapons aren't far behind on the trail. They hit us with mortars a few times.”

“LCs?” I asked Trent.

“Should be approaching the river now. But it's going to take some time to get everyone on board, especially the wounded. We've got two PT boats on the way as well.”

“Listen,” Porter said, sitting up and accepting a canteen from Trent. “You should all head to the river. Leave me here with the machine gun.”

“No,” I said.

“What's the matter with you, Boyle?” Porter said. “I'm sorry to cheat the hangman, but I'll do more good dying here than in some bloody prison in a few months. Who will that help?”

“It'll take more than one man to hold them off,” Trent said. I didn't like that he hadn't put the kibosh on Porter's suggestion entirely.

“Position your men below, so they can hit the Japs as well. Then pull out fast after the next attack and get to the river. What have you got to lose?” Porter looked to each of us. I could see the idea had some appeal.

“Can we trust you?” I asked.

“Christ,” he said, “you must be crackers. I saved your life last night, giving you that whack on the head. You were making so much noise, a deaf Jap would have heard us in Tokyo. Sorry about that, but I didn't think you'd agree with my suggestion. You must admit, it all worked out.”

“He's got a point,” Kaz said.

“You too?” I knew when I was beat. “Okay. But I'm staying up here, until the last minute. Sarge, when you pull out, I'll come down the rear slope and join you quick as I can.”

“As will I,” Kaz said.

No one had a chance to comment. Another wave of Japs had come out of the jungle, but this time they'd moved stealthily, and were well into the trees before we spotted them. We poured fire into them, but they returned it as well. We'd been lucky the first time, catching them unawares. That wasn't going to happen twice. Bullets hit the coconut logs and split the air above us. Then a marine went down, hit by fire coming from our right flank.

“That's the other company!” Porter yelled. They were working their way through the tiger grass, creating waves of movement targeting their position. The machine gunner swiveled and fired bursts into the grass, forcing the survivors back.

“There's not much time,” Porter said, stating the obvious. “Once they get machine guns and mortars close enough, they'll hit us from two sides and they won't stop.”

“Okay,” Trent said, ordering his men to fall back and block the path to the river. “Porter, whatever it is you've done, I appreciate what you're doing for us.” He stuck out his hand and they shook.

“You two,” Trent said, “watch our position. When we pull out you better be damn close behind us. You'll need these.” He handed me the binoculars and followed his men down the back slope and into the grove, taking up positions behind the tall trees. I could see him sending a runner down to the river, probably to check on the landing craft.

“You know how to operate that thing?” I asked Porter, as he took over at the machine gun.

“Yes,” he said. “They trained us on Jap and Yank weapons. I guess I'll be an expert in short order.” He pulled an ammo box closer, checking the belt, readying himself behind the gun, and settling in with a smile. He was a strange one, all right.

“You seem to be in a cheerful mood,” Kaz said.

“Why not? I'm outside, with the breeze on my face and the sea at my back, doing heroic things under an open sky. A lot better than being imprisoned in a dark hole for months before they hang me. You blokes are doing me a favor.”

“Delighted,” Kaz said. “Look there.” The Japs to our front were making another push, moving man by man, taking cover behind the trees, in the three rows to our left. Then I spotted movement in the tiger grass and fired my M1, getting rifle fire in return.

Porter squeezed off bursts at the figures behind the trees, but they had good cover. Trent and his men had a better angle and peppered them with shots, pushing them back. I fired another clip into the tiger grass, and heard a scream. It was the ones who didn't scream that worried me.

Kaz crawled over to check on Trent. “They're pulling out,” he said. “Time to go.”