“The base commander radioed that he arranged a jeep for you,” Cluster said. “You should report in. The driver will take you.” A vehicle was parked along the wharf, a sailor waiting at the wheel.
“What about you?” I asked.
“We’re based here, but I’m headed up to Rendova to check on one of my squadrons. Ask around if you need me, it’s a small town.” Cluster grinned as he stretched his arm out to encompass the shacks, Quonset huts, machine shops, and thatched-roof huts which lined the wharf. It had the air of a fishing village on hard times with a surplus of oil, men, and not much in the way of women, soap, or fresh laundry.
“Charming,” Kaz said. “Are we to stay here in Sesapi?”
“No,” Cluster said. “I hear Captain Ritchie set you up in the old assistant district commissioner’s house at the east end of the island. That’s near the hospital.”
“Who’s in the district commissioner’s house?” I asked.
“Captain Ritchie, of course,” Cluster said. “Good luck.”
Without telling us if he meant with Ritchie, the investigation, or the Japanese, Cluster set about assessing the damage to his boat as his men secured the vessel. We walked up to the jeep and a smart-looking swabbie jumped out, snapping a salute. He was dressed in clean dungarees, blue shirt, gleaming white cap, and shined shoes. Amidst the greasy tumult of Sesapi harbor, he looked like he’d stepped out of a recruiting poster.
“Yeoman Howe, at your service,” he said, taking our bags. “I’m to take you to Captain Ritchie and show you to your quarters, sir. And sir.” The second sir was for Kaz. Seaman Howe was well trained.
“Take us to the base hospital first,” I said.
“Sorry sir, Captain’s orders. He wants to see you right away. And it’s nearly time for supper. The captain gets upset if he’s late for supper.”
“Then by all means, let’s not keep the good captain waiting.”
“Excellent idea, sir.” Well trained. I doubt Yeoman Howe ever ran into an officer with a bad idea.
We drove along a ridgeline, cresting it after about a mile. On our left, a jumble of huts and small buildings crowded the beach. “That’s the Chinese village,” Howe told us. “There’s a lot of them on the island-merchants and that sort of thing. Tulagi’s only about three miles long, so you get to know it pretty well.”
As we descended along the rocky spine of the island, we were rewarded with a view across the sound with Guadalcanal in the distance. The sun was nearing the horizon, golden rays gleaming on the placid water. It was so peaceful you could easily forget about all the bones and steel lying on the seafloor.
“There’s the captain’s quarters,” Howe said. “And yours next to it.” A row of European-style houses lined the road, built high off the ground with large wraparound verandahs.
“Were these all for the British colonial administrators?” I asked.
“Not all, sir. The Lever Brothers managers lived there, too. You know, the soap company?”
“Soap? How’d they make soap out here?”
“Something to do with coconuts, sir, I really don’t know. There’s a group of Australian Coastwatchers staying in the Lever houses. Some sort of big confab going on.”
“The Lever guys haven’t come back?” I asked.
“No,” Howe said. “They need a lot of native labor for whatever they do. The Japs control most of the Solomon Islands, and in the rest the coconut plantations haven’t recovered from the fighting yet.”
“There must be a demand for native labor,” Kaz said.
“Yeah,” Howe said. “One of the Coastwatchers told me the Japs use them as slave labor, so a lot of them hide in the jungle or make their way down here. They get paid and treated pretty fair, from what I can tell. It’s gonna be hard to keep ’em down on the farm after a few US Navy paydays.”
“You hear anything about the native who was killed recently?” I asked.
“Sure,” Howe said. “But I’ll let the captain tell you about that.” He slowed for a switchback and downshifted as we made the hairpin turn. “Base headquarters is ahead at the east end of the island, right by the hospital. The land thins out here, and there’s always a nice breeze off the water from one side or the other.”
“Just the right place for headquarters,” I said.
“I meant for the patients, sir. But the captain doesn’t mind either.”
“How about you?”
“I like what my commanding officer likes,” Howe said. “Do they run things differently out in North Africa? Sir?”
“Please excuse Lieutenant Boyle,” Kaz said, placing his hand on Howe’s shoulder from the backseat. “He has the police detective’s habit of asking questions even when there is no need.”
“No problem, sir, glad to help.” Without actually having helped, Howe parked the jeep near a Quonset hut and a couple of weathered clapboard buildings that once perhaps reminded a European of home, but were now ready to decay into the ground. They all had wide verandahs, which I figured was standard because of the heat. It had to be stifling indoors at midday, even with the breeze wafting in from twenty different directions.
Howe offered to wait and drive us to our quarters. I figured he was going to report our every move to Ritchie, so I told him to knock off for the day. On an island as small as Tulagi, we couldn’t get lost for long. He looked dejected as we turned away and took the rickety steps up to the base commander’s office. A sailor on duty showed us into Ritchie’s office, where we found the captain reading from a file. There were two chairs in front of his desk, on which we were not invited to sit. As a matter of fact, Ritchie didn’t react at all. He kept reading, turning each page over carefully as if his superior officer might give him points for neatness.
Howe had been right. The open windows on each wall let in a cool seaside breeze. The view wasn’t bad either, with Guadalcanal in the distance and the lush green of Florida Island on either side. A ceiling fan revolved slowly overhead. A sheet of paper moved about a half inch as the air wafted in. Ritchie put it back, aligning it with the others. I caught a few upside-down words, Boyle and Kazimierz among them. Uncooperative was there, too. No US Navy letterhead either, only flimsy paper that looked like it came out of a teletype.
Salutes weren’t done indoors except when reporting to a superior officer, and I wondered if Ritchie was waiting for his due. We weren’t under his command, but perhaps he liked that sort of stuff.
I glanced at Kaz, who had his British service cap tucked under his arm. I stiffened my posture into a semblance of attention and he caught on quick, snapping his heels and doing one of those Brit palm-out salutes, his arm practically vibrating above his eyebrow. I did the best I could, but I didn’t have the panache for it.
“Lieutenants Boyle and Kazimierz reporting, sir!” I intoned.
“Glad to see the army taught you basic military discipline,” Captain Ritchie said. He had about ten years and twenty pounds on us. His wavy brown hair was in retreat and his voice was a combination of sarcasm and weariness with a thin layer of disdain as a chaser. I could see we were going to be great pals.
“Our orders, sir,” I said, holding out the crumpled sheets I’d been carrying halfway around the world.
“I know all about your orders, Lieutenant Boyle,” Ritchie said, looking me in the eye and ignoring the proffered papers. “I’m the one who contacted ONI and asked for an investigator to be sent in.”
“Yes sir,” I said.
“Are you clear on what you are here to do?” Ritchie asked. I had about half a dozen theories on the subject, but figured I’d better stick to the official version.
“Yes sir. To find out who killed Daniel Tamana and bring him to justice.”
“The native, yes, of course,” Ritchie said. “It is vital that we treat his killing seriously.”