“What do you think a Japanese soldier will tell us? How he massacred the natives at Porter’s plantation?”
“I don’t expect a confession,” I said, as we descended from the hills and took the road along the coast. I inhaled the fresh salt air, hoping it might wash away the images burned into my mind. Very interesting. “But I’d like to know more about how it got started. We heard someone killed a Jap first. If there is a living witness, I think he’d readily tell us about that.”
“And then relate his own version of what followed,” Kaz said.
“Right. But I don’t care about that. I care about who started things.”
“Porter-I mean Fraser-are you saying he fired the first shot? Intentionally?”
“Convenient, wasn’t it, that everyone on the plantation who could identify him was killed? I think maybe things happened much like he said, except it was the real Porter who stayed behind to gather people together while Fraser hid the boat from the Japs.”
“So everyone is in one place, and as the Japanese approach the plantation, Fraser fires on the soldiers,” Kaz said, pulling his brim low over his eyes as we drove into the fierce afternoon sun.
“Who react in rage at the nearest natives and Porter. Fraser makes his escape, and becomes Silas Porter. Out here, no one would question him. Porter is well-known as a hermit, and his story of survival is readily accepted, especially since he volunteers with the Coastwatchers.” No one questions a hero.
“Which is dangerous, but also an endeavor that keeps him hidden. The entire Coastwatcher operation is shrouded in secrecy.”
“Right,” I said. “A risky venture, but with a big payoff. After the war, he returns to reclaim his plantation on Pavau.”
“He’s killed three people to keep his secret,” Kaz said. “And believes Josh Coburn to be dead. He must be feeling rather secure by now.”
“We’ll have to use that against him,” I said, with as much confidence as I could muster, having no idea how to actually make that work.
We arrived at the dock in time for the air-raid sirens to wail. We made for a slit trench crowded with sailors and natives who’d been loading supplies. The ground was so wet, we were ankle-deep in mud, but no one minded when the bombs began to fall. The earth shook and geysers rose up from hits in the water, but there was no serious damage. It was over in minutes, a nuisance raid. We stuck our heads above ground and watched the Betties fly over Lumbari, about a mile away. Antiaircraft fire pocketed the sky with dark puffs of explosions and bright white tracers, but the bombers stayed on course, dropping what looked like small specks in wavering, wobbly lines that found their way to the PT base, sending distant, faint crumps into the thick afternoon air.
Silence descended like dust. The bombers made for the horizon and the guns stood mute. We clambered out of the trench, smiling. That idiotic grin at the joy of living after a brush with death plastered on our faces, Fuzzy Wuzzies and crew cuts alike. Everyone likes being alive, and even though most won’t admit it, more so when others are freshly dead.
We waited while a crew of natives pulled the launch from the water, where it had been swamped by the bombs that had struck off shore. An hour later, we were back on Lumbari, walking through thick smoke from the fires still crackling in the heat. A supply dump had taken a direct hit, thick, oily smoke rising from the shattered fuel drums. A jeep filled with wounded sailors drove past us, heading for the hospital tent. Nearing the beach, we saw a PT shredded by a bomb, luckily not Cotter’s PT-169.
We made for the communications center in Garfield’s bunker, and waited for things to settle down so I could have two messages sent out. The first was to Captain Ritchie, asking him to contact the Sydney police for a description of Peter Fraser, who’d once worked at the Lever soap factory. The second was to Hugh Sexton, inquiring if the man he knew as Silas Porter had come to the Coastwatchers with a hunting rifle back in 1942. I was betting the answer would be yes.
We ate in the mess tent. Greasy meat stew for Kaz and me, and powdered eggs and reconstituted potatoes for Cotter and the crew of PT-169. It was getting dark. In theory, they’d slept during the day to rest up for their night patrol, but between the stifling heat and the bombing Betties, they looked beat; listless and hollow-eyed. Still, they shoveled in what passed for breakfast and guzzled coffee, readying themselves for another rendezvous with the Tokyo Express.
“I think I prefer Algiers to these islands,” Kaz said, exploring his stew and picking out an unappetizing clot of gristle. “Let’s get this killer and go home.”
Home. Funny how the North African desert and mountains felt like home, now that we were away from it. For me, Diana Seaton was what made it special. I hoped she was still there, not off on another SOE assignment. I imagined her in the Hotel Saint George, in the very room where I’d left her. It was a pleasant daydream, but it didn’t last long.
“Yes,” I said. “Tomorrow we’ll see if Sakato has any POWs for us to talk to. Then check on those radio messages. If things add up, all we’ll need is a ride to Choiseul.”
“Simple,” Kaz said, pushing away his unfinished stew.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The answer from Sexton came quickly the next morning. Yes, Porter had brought his own weapon with him. A Mark II Ross, a Canadian rifle. It was still at Sexton’s headquarters. He ended the message with a single word. Why?
I knew the Ross. It was highly accurate, a sniper’s rifle. But it had little tolerance for dirt and dampness. It tended to malfunction if not kept completely clean. Long and heavy, it certainly wasn’t suited for jungle warfare. My dad told me he’d met Canadian troops in France during the last war who got rid of them as soon as they could pick up a Lee-Enfield from the British dead. Except for the snipers. They loved the Ross.
“Are you going to answer him?” Kaz asked as we motored across the bay.
“No, not yet,” I said. “I don’t think Sexton would want Fraser to get away scot-free, but I could see him wanting to keep a valuable Coastwatcher in place for now.”
“There is logic to that. We could simply wait until he is withdrawn from Choiseul,” Kaz said.
“Well, we’re not waiting around for that,” I said. “And Fraser is smart. He might decide to pull another disappearing act if he senses anything is up. The last thing he’d expect would be for us to apprehend him behind enemy lines.”
“There is some logic to that as well,” Kaz said with a sly grin.
“Besides, I don’t think either of us wants to hang around the Solomons any longer than we have to,” I said, hoisting myself out of the launch and heading for our jeep, still in one piece after yesterday’s raid. Heavy grey clouds blew in from the east, winds moving the hot, humid air without providing one bit of relief. Our khakis were soaked with sweat, and it was still early morning. When the rains came, sheets of warm water washed us clean for a moment, and then stopped abruptly, leaving us wet, steamy, and smelling slightly of mold.
At the POW enclosure three trucks were being loaded up with prisoners. We watched the small convoy depart, jeeps with GIs cradling Thompson submachine guns following each of the transports. The prisoners looked worried, perhaps wondering if the propaganda had been right and they were being taken off to be executed.
“Don’t worry,” Sakato said, approaching us from the Quonset hut. “None of those are of interest to you. I found four men who were on Pavau. You can see them whenever you want.”
“Great,” I said. “Where are those prisoners headed? They looked pretty glum.”
“New Zealand,” Sakato said. “Some guys have all the luck. They’re frightened of going to a larger camp. More chance of running into hard-core types.”