“This is Blackett Strait,” Jack said, his voice grim. He slowed the engines and turned to one of the crewmen who’d come from PT-109. “Mauer, get the boys up here.”
The four other veterans of PT-109 stood with Jack on the bridge as he raised his arm to the port side, out into the inky-black night. “Right about there.”
They stood quietly for a minute, hands on shoulders, crowded together on the tiny bridge, holding each other close, as they must have done that night in the water while flames licked the waves and every other PT boat left them alone and adrift-nothing between them and the Japanese but sharks, sharp coral reefs, and guts.
Then they broke up wordlessly, hustling back to their duty stations, scanning the sky and the horizon. We turned north, picking up speed as we moved along the perimeter of Kolombangara, the almost perfectly round island off New Georgia.
“Radar contact,” said the radio operator. “Bearing one-four-nine.”
“Changing course to one-four-nine,” Jack said. “Distance?”
“Two miles out, heading west by northwest.”
“Jack?” I said. He didn’t respond. Kaz and I stepped back, grabbing hold of the radio mast as the boat accelerated and Jack went for the targets ahead. So much for caution.
Less than a minute later, I made out two dark hulks churning through the water ahead. Japanese Daihatsu barges, each about sixty feet long, crammed with soldiers, and armed with machine guns mounted at fore and aft.
They were no match for Jack’s gunboat. He kept straight on course for the second barge, the forward forty-millimeter firing away, joined by the twin fifties in the turrets on either side of the bridge. A burst of bright orange leapt from the barge, an explosive burst of fuel catapulting men into the water and scorching those who remained on board, their uniforms catching fire as they scrambled through the flames and over the side where machine-gun rounds stitched the ocean into geysers of blood and fire.
Jack slowed and turned, coming at the first barge with a full broadside. It didn’t catch fire, but splintered and broke apart under the heavy machine-gun and cannon fire, bodies broken and shattered, dancing under the staccato light of tracers as the impact of multiple rounds sent them careening against each other. Ending in death’s calm embrace only when Jack signaled cease fire.
He did a circuit of the barges. Screams-whether in agony or anger, it was impossible to tell-echoed out over the water. Jack ordered full speed ahead, leaving the carnage behind, a satisfied grin on his face, delight showing in his eyes as they met mine.
“I had a crewman when I first came out here. He was wounded on patrol, and transferred to another PT boat after he recovered,” Jack began, in answer to the question I hadn’t asked. “A few weeks later, they sank a barge, like that one, and pulled four survivors out of the drink. He had them covered with a tommy gun. One of them begged for water, and being a nice kid, he leaned forward to give him his canteen. The Jap grabbed the Thompson and killed him with it. That’s what comes of doing the decent thing out here.”
“Decency and war seldom go together,” Kaz said as Jack turned away, fiery eyes forward. “But here, they seem not even to have a nodding acquaintance.” That was something coming from Kaz, who’d lost his family as well as his nation to the Nazis.
“Jack,” I said, stepping up on the bridge. “If we’re making good time, I wouldn’t mind going ashore before oh-one-hundred.”
“So you can get a drop on him?” Jack asked. I nodded yes. “But we’re still only waiting twenty minutes, there’s no way around that. We’ll put you in the rubber raft about quarter of. The twenty-minute clock starts ticking once you hit the beach. Clobber him over the head and paddle back as fast as you can.”
We crossed the open waters of the Slot at full throttle, more than making up time for the brief, one-sided engagement. As the island of Choiseul showed up on the radar screen, Jack slowed the boat, lessening the phosphorescent wake and the chances of being spotted by a Jap lookout. We moved slowly, the sound of breaking waves increasing in volume. I could make out the whitecaps where the tide drove water against the coral reef, a rolling, crashing tumult that threatened to rip open the hull of any small craft that went against it. Or the feet of any man swimming over it, as Jack had done trying to signal a friendly vessel in Blackett Strait.
As I was considering the chances a rubber raft had of riding those waves, I saw the opening. A river of calm water between the breakers. I looked at my watch, the luminous dial reading quarter of one.
“Ready?” I said to Kaz. He nodded, and we both slung our rifles and went aft, where Chappy and Mauer were putting the raft over the side. The crate filled with food and two coils of rope were in place. Next was us.
“Good luck,” Jack said. “As soon as you get onshore, the countdown starts. Don’t dawdle, fellas.”
“Not planning on it,” I said, trying for a nonchalance I didn’t even remotely feel.
“Speed is the essence of war,” Kaz said as he lowered himself into the raft. Jack gave a knowing nod and helped shove us off.
“Is that a quotation?” I asked, a bit irked that Kaz could always come up with a pithy saying.
“Sun Tzu, from The Art of War,” he said. “Jack seemed to know it.”
“Of course,” I said, digging in with my paddle. “He’s a Harvard boy. Now row, before we’re swamped.” It took both of us at maximum effort to keep the small raft from drifting, the current pulling us away from the smooth, glassy water ahead. We finally made it past the breakers, and with a few easy strokes were up on the sand, dragging the raft into the bushes.
We squatted beneath the overhanging palms. I checked my watch. Ten of one. If we weren’t back in the raft and close to the boat by ten after, we were out of luck. Stuck on Choiseul with a killer and several thousand Japs on high alert. What the hell had I been thinking?
Blood was pounding in my head, masking all other noises. Or was that the surf? Kaz stuck his head out and glanced up and down the beach, shaking his head when he saw nothing. As we waited, I began to sense the sounds around me with increasing clarity. The wind through the trees, the breakers out on the reef, and the softer sounds of water lapping at the white-sand beach.
Nothing else.
Five more minutes passed. It was one o’clock on the dot.
Nothing.
We stuck our heads out from the undergrowth and scanned the beach in both directions. I didn’t see any movement, but suddenly a figure was standing on the beach, a few feet out from the arched palms. A pinpoint of light flicked on and off.
I tapped Kaz on the arm. He nodded and took up the coils of rope. There was nothing to do but walk over, with no sudden moves. We had to be quiet enough not to alert the Japs and deliberate enough not to panic Porter and have him shoot first and ask questions later.
Then the flashlight shined in our direction. The pinpoint of light hit me full in the eyes, and I shielded them with one hand, keeping the rifle at my side with the other. We stood and walked to the light.
“Kari?” I said. “Porter? Turn that thing off.”
“Sure boss,” the figure said, his cadence and accent pure Pijin. He was a native, bare-chested, wearing a tan lap-lap, a big machete on a cartridge belt around his waist, and a Lee-Enfield rifle slung over his shoulder. “Nem blo’ mi Ariel.”
“Wea nao ples blong John Kari? Silas Porter?” Kaz asked, after he’d made introductions. I was pretty sure he asked where Porter and Kari were.
“Warrior River,” Ariel said. “They scout for marines. Many marines lost. Too many Japan man.”
“How far?” I asked, resisting the urge to make walking motions with my fingers.
“One day, no Japan man. Two days, lotta Japan man. You bringim gans?”
“No guns,” I said. “Guns tomorrow, food today.” I figured we might as well pass out the food and get back to the boat kwiktaem.