The White Ghost (34 page)

I checked my ammo. Three more clips. I unloaded into the tiger grass again, just to be sure.

“All set, Porter?” I said, eyes still on the tiger grass.

“Boyle?” Porter said.

“Yeah?”

“Call me Peter, will you?” He smiled, the grime and sweat on his face glistening in the sun. He actually looked like he was enjoying himself, and I almost gave in. Then I thought of Deanna.

“No. Count yourself lucky I don't drag you back to a dark cell.” With that, I followed Kaz over the logs and down the slope. He might be the hero of the day here on Choiseul, but I knew him from Tulagi.

We ran low, taking cover where Trent and his men had been. It was about two hundred yards to the river bank, and I could hear
the landing-craft engines. I raised my M1, looking for Japs among the
trees. I spotted one, his hands and feet visible as he shinnied up a tree. A sniper, looking for a good angle on the machine-gun nest. Worse still, he'd see there was only one man left on the hill. I aimed at his hand—a tough shot, not because of the distance, but because it was a small target. I fired. Once, twice, and then he fell, his scream signaling a hit.

“Billy, how long are we going to stay here?” Kaz asked. The landing-craft engines were louder now, as if they were straining under a heavy load. Porter opened fire, short bursts into the trees.

“Okay, let's go,” I said. “Nothing else we can do here.”

We edged back, and I felt a gnawing sense of worry as we left our fate in the hands of a murderer.

At the river, it was chaos. One overloaded landing craft was hung up on the coral reef offshore. That was the revving engine we'd heard. A second LC was also crowded but pulling away, while the third was taking on the last of the men. The only good news was the two PT boats fast approaching. One of them was PT-59. Jack to the rescue.

“What's happening up there?” Trent asked.

“They're moving in again,” I said. “He can't last long.”

A shrill whistling sound came from overhead.

“Take cover!” Trent shouted. An explosion shook the trees on the riverbank. Then two more mortar rounds hit the water, sending up harmless geysers. Harmless until they found their range. The machine gun was firing steadily now, and I wondered if Porter was making his last stand.

More rounds hit closer to us, and a couple of men went down, wounded by shrapnel.

“Lieutenant, can you go back up there and see what's happening?” Trent asked. “I need to know if they're closing in. I'll send men up if we need to fight.”

“Sure,” I said, scrambling up the bank, Kaz next to me. We ran to a stack of coconut trees that had been cut down years ago, about a dozen of them rotting into the earth. It made for a good hiding place and gave us some elevation. The machine gun was still chattering, a constant stream of lead flying through the coconut grove.

The machine gun stopped abruptly, the silence strange and disconcerting.

“Did they get him?” Kaz asked.

“I'm not sure,” I said. I couldn't see the top of the hill from here, but I didn't hear any rifle fire from the Japs, only the mortar rounds heading to the river. Maybe the gun was jammed. Or maybe the Japs had rushed him from the side. I scanned the ground ahead with the binoculars, looking for an immediate threat. I leaned forward to get a better view of the rear of the hill.

Nothing.

Then I saw him. Shirtless.

“Son of a bitch,” I said. “Porter.”

“What?” Kaz said. “Where?”

“Hightailing it upriver, near the tiger grass,” I said. “I bet he used his shirt to tie down the trigger. Shot off all the ammo to cover his escape. Goddammit!” I raised my rifle in his direction, but he was too far gone into cover to get a bead on him. “Kaz, go tell Trent there's nothing between the Japs and the river but yours truly. If you hear me fire, send help. I'll stay five minutes and then head your way.”

“No more,” Kaz said.

“No wariwari.”

I kept watch through the binoculars, looking up every few seconds to avoid tunnel vision. Then I spotted a couple of Jap soldiers running toward the hill. I didn't fire, figuring that would draw them to the landing area once they realized it was just one guy. Pretty soon they were standing in the open, certain that they'd won the ground. Which they had. An officer appeared, his boots gleaming and his sword reflecting sunlight. He was barking orders, loud enough for me to hear, gesturing with his sword. I swung the binoculars in that direction.

Porter was being brought forward at bayonet point, his hands held above his head.

He hadn't escaped after all.

A crowd gathered, and I could see the officer laughing as one of his men smashed his rifle butt into Porter's ribs. They tied him to a tree, ropes around the wide trunk holding him secure. They screamed at him, the kind of curses you probably give to any machine gunner who's just mowed down a bunch of your pals. Good thing for us they were taking their time with him. Bad for Porter.

More mortar rounds sailed through the air and exploded behind me. Kaz ran back, crouched low. “The last LC is stuck on the riverbed. The tide is going out, and it was overloaded. One of the PT boats is rigging a line to pull it off. We need to go now.”

I handed him the binoculars. I didn't need them to make out what was about to happen. They were about two hundred yards away, maximum. I could see the officer waving his sword in front of Porter, taunting him with what he was about to do.

I heard Kaz gasp.

I stood, cupping my hands around my mouth, and shouted.

“PETER FRASER!”

I dropped, and could make out faces turning in my direction. I had a few seconds, no more.

I filled the sight with Peter Fraser's torso. I let my breathing steady, put a slight pressure on the trigger, and exhaled.

I pulled the trigger. A good hit. A second shot, to be sure. His body slumped, held by the ropes.

We sprinted to the river, leapt off the bank, and ran onto the ramp of the last landing craft, Trent signaling us to hurry. The PT boat surged ahead, the steel cable connecting it to the LC going taut as we scraped bottom, engines revved high. Kaz leaned close, whispering.

“It was a clean shot, Billy.”

We came off the bottom with a jolt, and men grinned and laughed as we made our way out of the river mouth. I joined in, not wanting to think about what I had done. Being judge, jury, and executioner didn't sit well with me. The cable was cast off, and the PT boat moved away, on watch for any enemy movement on shore. The second boat was Jack's PT-59, and he edged closer to us, putting his boat between us and the riverbed. He spotted me and waved, and I did my best to respond. I should have been happy; everyone around me was delirious with joy. But I was empty, gutted.

Gunfire rippled from the shore. Jack's boat answered, machine guns and cannon fire chopping up the ground and jungle, taking down small trees and sending the few Japs who weren't hit scurrying away. A ragged cheer went up from the marines. Then a more immediate concern demanded our attention.

We were sinking. Water was rising in the LC, probably from damage on the rocky river bottom.

I waved to Jack, not fifty yards away. He waved back, smiling, as did his crew. For a minute, they thought we were congratulating them. But it didn't take long for the list to become noticeable, and Jack drew PT-59 alongside the landing craft.

The navy crewman on the LC kept her steady while the men packed in the landing craft clambered up the side and were pulled on board the PT. The crewman came last, and Jack throttled forward, heading slowly out to sea.

“Chappy, put a few rounds in at the waterline and sink her,” Jack commanded. Chappy, in the gunner's seat on the forward forty-millimeter, complied. Four shells blew her side in, and the LC was gone in seconds.

“We'll get you all back,” Jack said to the marines crowding his deck. “But we've got to take it slow. We're low on fuel.”

“Sir, we have one badly wounded man,” Trent said. “Do you have a bunk we could get him in?”

“Put him below in my cabin,” Jack said. “Mauer, show them where, and break out whatever medical supplies they need. Kowal, get those cans of peaches and pass them around.”

The peaches were a hit. Trent opened a can with his Ka-Bar and offered it to me. I wasn't hungry. Kaz took it and tried to get me to eat, but I told him later. I slung my rifle and went below deck to look for Jack. I found him standing outside his captain's quarters, which contained one bunk and a tiny desk. Luxurious for a PT boat. In it, a corpsman was removing the wounded man's field bandage, dirty and caked with blood. It looked like shrapnel wounds to the chest, probably in that last barrage. He was a kid. Not even twenty years old, by my best guess. They all looked younger stripped of their helmet, web belt, and gear. A kid with freckles and a dirty face.

His breathing was ragged, a small pink bubble forming on his lips with each breath. His eyes opened, and he tried to speak. His mouth would form a word, but nothing came out. Then a sudden gasp, a gurgle, and he was gone, his lips holding that last word hostage forever.

Jack smacked the bulkhead with his palm and went up on deck, cursing under his breath. He checked in with his executive officer on the bridge and walked among the marines lying everywhere, accepting their thanks, asking how they were doing. He clapped Kaz on the shoulder, gracing him with that grand smile. Even though that kid's death got to him, it wasn't something he could show the world. It wasn't so much that his smile was a lie. It was a mask.

I wandered along, not wanting to talk. Finally, we both ended up on the bow, wind snapping at our faces. Jack was silent. I knew the death of the boy in his bunk would haunt him much as the death of his crewmen had. There was nothing more he could have done, but it seemed to add to the burden of responsibility he felt so keenly.

“I thought you were done for when you didn't come back to the boat,” he finally said. “Glad to see you're both okay.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“What happened? With Porter, I mean.”

What happened? How to explain it? That he'd been a hero, a fraud, a cold-blooded killer, a liar, a con man, and that I shot him?

“The Japs got him,” I finally said. True enough.

“Killed him, or got ahold of him? I heard some of the marines talking about men being tortured. Trent said you found his lieutenant.”

“Yeah,” I managed. “The Japs got hold of him, Jack. But the end was quick, that's all I can say. All I want to say.”

“Christ,” Jack said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “It's a hell of a goddamn war we have out here. I never imagined it would be anything like this.”

“Me neither,” I said, our eyes meeting. Whatever beef I'd had with Jack and his family, this war had put it all in perspective, burned away the pettiness, eliminating any need for forgiveness or recriminations. Nothing mattered but what we'd shared out here; nothing in our past could compare with what the Solomon Islands had done to us. Death, terror, beauty, joy, and sorrow were daily offerings from the gods of the South Pacific. It was a new beginning, or the perfect ending. Either way was fine with me.

I looked away, not trusting my emotions. I stood at the rail, feet braced against the heavy roll of the PT crashing through the waves. The rifle hanging from my shoulder grew heavy as the strap dug into my flesh. I took it off, holding it with both hands, feeling the weight of the thing, its heft and perfect balance, the beauty and solidity of this lethal tool, wood and steel smelling of oil and gunpowder. I swung my arms, threw it overboard, and watched it disappear into the seething and sullen sea.

Author's Note

The history of
the Australian Coastwatchers operation is truly fascinating, full of colorful characters, amazing courage, lonely death, and final triumph. In all my research, I came across no such villain as the Coastwatcher character in this book. He sprang purely from my imagination, a creation at odds with those who served in those hidden outposts.

Writing about a hero from my youth—I was thirteen when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated—was quite a challenge after researching his early life and upbringing within the close-knit Kennedy clan. While young Jack was often charming and generous with his friends, he did have a darker, self-centered side. The story behind his and Billy's estrangement—the incident with the car, as described in Chapter 23—actually happened, but to Lem Billings, a close friend of Jack's. That he found it convenient, or necessary, to lay the blame for his accident and subsequent actions on someone else demonstrates a sense of entitlement and selfishness I found disturbing and disappointing.

Jack Kennedy was recovering in the navy hospital on Tulagi in August of 1943 after the sinking of PT-109. At the same time, Richard Nixon was working as an Air Transport officer across Ironbottom Sound at Henderson Field on Guadlcancal. If I had any basis to think that their paths would have crossed, I would have taken literary advantage of that opportunity. But I did not. Future presidents Gerald Ford and George H. W. Bush also served in the South Pacific, well after events in this novel.

As mentioned in the narrative, Jack Kennedy should never have been in the navy. If he had undergone a routine medical examination, he would not have been accepted, much less instantly commissioned as an officer. His special treatment was due not only to his father's political connections, but also to his own competitive nature. His older brother Joe Junior was a bomber pilot, and even though it was Joe who was being groomed for future political office, Jack had no desire to sit out the war without a combat record. By all reports, Joe was not pleased by Jack's status as a hero in 1943, and felt himself eclipsed by his younger, sickly brother.

Some of the historical events in this book have been altered slightly to fit the requirements of the narrative. Kennedy did take command of PT-59, the first converted PT gunboat, but it was in October 1943, not August. On November 2, he did participate in the rescue of marines from the 2nd Parachute Battalion, who had been trapped on the island of Choiseul after a lengthy raid, which I also moved to August for purposes of the plot. The capture and torture of Corporal Gallaher and Lieutenant Johnston did happen during that raid in circumstances very close to those described in this book. The story of the two marine scouts and the diary of the Japanese medical orderly also is true. That incident occurred during the earlier Guadalcanal campaign.

Jacob Vouza was a real-life character, a retired sergeant major in the Solomon Islands Protectorate Armed Constabulary at the time of the Japanese invasion of Guadalcanal. He was captured and tortured and then escaped as described i
n these pages, in time to warn the marines of a major Japanese attack. The Battle of the Tenaru River was a major victory for the marines, and might have turned out quite differently but for the courage of Jacob Vouza. He was awarded the Silver Star for bravery and was made an honorary sergeant major of the Marine Corps. He also received significant honors from the British government.

Over the years, many readers have asked about the possibility of Billy being sent to the Pacific for one of his investigations. I hope fans do not mind this step backward in time for Billy and his good friend Kaz. When I saw the gap in his timeline between the second and third books, I thought it would be interesting to pair him up with Jack Kennedy, who was ultimately sent back to the States in January 1944, suffering from a variety of medical conditions, including his back injury. By the end of that year, he was medically discharged from the service.

Two characters in this book were named as part of a fundraiser for the Waterford Country School in Connecticut, a facility designed to meet the special needs of children and families at risk.

Gunner's Mate “Chappy” Ellis was named for Chapman Manufacturing, which manufactures American-made precision hand tools in Durham, Connecticut. Chappy used Chapman tools, as many members of the US military still do today. Chapman Manufacturing is a keen supporter of the Waterford Country School.

The character of Deanna Pendleton was so named as the result of an auction held at the Waterford Country School fundraiser. Her father won the bid for a character naming and passed the privilege on to his daughter. This character also has a basis in reality. Merle Farland, a New Zealander, was a Methodist nurse on Vella Lavella. She was evacuated to Guadalcanal in December 1942, where a rumor spread that she was Amelia Earhart. Farland had shown courage in staying behind on Vella Lavella after the initial Japanese invasion, working with Coastwatchers and providing medical assistance to downed American aircrew, at great personal risk, until her evacuation was deemed necessary. Merle Farland continued to serve as a nurse and survived the war.

I am indebted
to Ted Cummings, of Manchester, Connecticut, for the time he graciously spent describing his experiences as a Browning Automatic Rifle (BAR) man with the 1st Marine Division on Tulagi and Guadalcanal. The story of the piano on Tulagi came from Ted, who witnessed a marine playing “I'll String Along With You” as they marched into battle. The details Ted shared about the terrible conditions on those islands helped to inform the narrative and provide a more accurate picture of what our soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines endured in the Solomon Islands Campaign.