“You know Jack, but you avoid calling him a friend,” he said. “You’re both from Boston, but your accent doesn’t sound as Harvard as his.”
“South Boston,” I said. “I was a cop before the war.”
Cluster nodded, his face grim. “So either Jack’s father sent you, or someone who is an enemy of the old man,” he said. “Or this is the biggest coincidence of the war.”
“No coincidence,” I said. “We were picked for the job, you’re right. But it won’t be a whitewash. Or a witch hunt. You have my word.”
“Okay,” Cluster said. “And if that’s true, I don’t envy you the assignment.”
“Tell me about it, Commander. I could use some of that coffee. Is it any good?”
“Best in the Solomons,” he said, signaling for two more to a sailor at the grill. “Nix takes care of his pilots. Like I take care of my PT crews.”
With that subtle warning in mind, we ate hamburgers and drank coffee. The chow wasn’t bad, and the hot joe was welcome even in the sticky, humid air. An occasional breeze blew the heat around, but it wasn’t long before our khakis were drenched with sweat. Many of the guys were shirtless or wearing grimy T-shirts.
“Proper uniforms do not seem to be the order of the day here,” Kaz said.
“Not on Guadalcanal,” Cluster said. “The rot is in the air. You can smell the decay. Those leather shoes of yours would be mildewed by morning and falling off your feet by nightfall. The humidity eats at everything. If there wasn’t flat ground for an airstrip, no one would want this place.” He shook his head as if in disgust at the very notion of the island.
“Nixon said Tulagi was better,” I said.
“A lot better,” Cluster said. “Which is why the hospital and naval headquarters are there. I’ll bring you over on my boat.”
“Boat?” Kaz asked. “Is it a long journey?”
“Less than thirty miles,” Cluster said. “An easy run. Unless the Japs make a daylight raid, but the action has mostly moved to the northwest, up to Rendova and New Georgia. They’re more likely to come at night. We still have a few hours before dusk, but we might as well get started.”
“Why at night?” Kaz asked as we left the thatched-roof grill and blinked our eyes against the blinding sun.
“A raid in force could come at any time. But after dark our propellers churn up the phosphorescence in the water when we’re under way. So the Kawanishis like to fly low and slow looking for phosphorescent wakes. They patrol the Slot-the main channel running through the Solomons-nearly every night. The wake is like a big arrow pointing right at us. We can’t see the Jap planes but they can see us. Not a good combination.”
“We already had a run-in with a Kawanishi,” I said. “Our PBY almost collided with one in a cloud bank.”
“Don’t worry,” Cluster said. “It won’t be your last.”
We walked along the runway, heading for a line of vehicles. A burned-out bulldozer and a wrecked aircraft-Japanese and American, respectively-sat rusting in the sun. Weeds and vines grew through gaps in the shredded steel and aluminum, testament to the jungle pressing in on us.
“Even metal doesn’t last long on Guadalcanal,” Cluster said, waving his hand over the pile of battle debris. “Rust, rot, and the jungle will swallow all this up. I wonder if people will remember this place when it’s all over. Seven thousand soldiers, sailors, and marines dead. The brass guess about thirty thousand Japs dead, all told. Out there in the channel, there’s so many sunken ships they call it Ironbottom Sound. Except for the occasional bombing, it’s basically a backwater, a stopover on the way to the real war.”
“How long have you been out here, Commander?” Kaz asked.
Cluster stopped, staring at the wreckage. He didn’t answer. Which was an answer. Too long.
“Come on,” he finally said. “Let’s get you two outfitted for the Solomons.”
“Whatever you say, Commander,” I said. We got in his jeep, tossing in our haversacks. I got the sense that we’d passed some sort of test. He’d warmed up, or maybe simply figured out that I was a pawn in someone else’s game. No threat to his men, at least not compared to the Japanese.
Chapter Eight
The army sergeant waved away our orders as I began to unfold them.
“No need,” he said. “If you’re with the commander, you’re okay by me.” We were in a large tent with the sides rolled up, surrounded by K rations, Spam, artillery shells, grenades, medical supplies, and all the other tools of assault and sustenance.
“Ditch them shoes,” the sergeant said. “They won’t last unless you’re going to sit at a desk over on Tulagi. And then not for long anyways.”
“You have those new jungle boots?” Cluster asked. The sergeant nodded and eyed our feet, then reached into a crate to grab a couple pairs.
“Try these on,” he said. “They don’t last long either, but they’re rubber soled and made of canvas. Water drains right out, and you can count on getting soaked plenty around here.”
“So what good are they?” I asked as I slipped one on.
“Leather combat boots mildew and rot,” he said. “Plus they keep water in when you get wet, so you end up with all sorts of fungi. The canvas boots don’t hold up over the long haul, but they’re a damn sight better than the old clodhoppers.”
“Comfortable,” I said, lacing up the boots. It was like wearing tennis shoes. “Anything else we should have?”
“You might want to get rid of that wool cap, Lieutenant,” the sergeant said to Kaz, who wore his British Army service cap.
“I shall keep the hat,” Kaz said. “Otherwise I may be mistaken for an American.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” I said, to which Kaz raised a languid eyebrow.
I swapped my garrison cap for a billed cap, or M41 HBT Field Utility Cap, Sage Green Herringbone Twill, as the army insisted on describing it. Shading my eyes from the glare of the sun would be important out here. I took a canvas holster to replace my leather one, figuring it would be hard enough to keep my.45 automatic clean without worrying about the holster decomposing around it. Kaz already had a tan canvas holster for his Webley revolver, which he had chosen because it matched the color of his web belt. Always the clotheshorse. Once the sergeant gave us an extra set of cotton khaki shirts and trousers, we were all set to win the battle against mildew and jungle rot.
I hoped that was as much fighting as we’d need to do.
Cluster drove to the docks at Lunga Point where his PT boat was docked. As he braked the jeep to a halt, a low wail rose in the air, a familiar sound from London and North Africa. Air-raid sirens. Seconds later came the snarling engines of Navy Wildcat fighters, the sound growing louder as the planes rose in the sky and flew overhead, due north.
“Let’s move!” Cluster yelled as he leapt from the jeep and made for the docks. We scrambled after him, haversacks in hand. The PT boat engines were rumbling; sailors held lines, ready to cast off. We raced up the gangplank as Cluster barked orders to the crew. Other PT boats were already underway, opening up their supercharged Packard engines as soon as they cleared the docks. Within seconds we joined them, sailors manning the two twin fifty-caliber machine guns swiveling their weapons skyward, searching for the enemy.
“What’s happening?” I asked above the sound of the engines. Kaz and I hung onto the rail behind the bridge as the boat thumped against the waves in the open water.
“Jap air raid,” Cluster shouted over his shoulder. “When we scramble fighters in a rush it means one of the Coastwatchers radioed in a warning.”
“I thought you said the Japs hardly ever came over in daylight,” Kaz said, wincing as the boat plowed through a swell that nearly knocked us off our feet.
“They must have known you were coming,” Cluster said with a grin as he spun the wheel to starboard, putting distance between our boat and the others scattering into Ironbottom Sound. After that all eyes were on the sky, searching for enemy aircraft.