“Boots,” he whispered. Then I saw what I had thought were rocks. We moved silently, going stone to stone to avoid the splashing sound of water. Porter leaned down and lifted the torso up to remove his dog tag. “Not Johnston,” he said as he dropped the disc into my palm. It was the marine who’d had the Australian stiletto.
I followed him up the opposite bank, senses on alert, fear tingling in my gut.
The landscape opened up as we walked over limestone rocks, climbing higher every minute. The bush was less dense, the trees farther apart, the grasses thicker underfoot. A few feet ahead of me, Porter stopped. He hadn’t stumbled or held up his hand to signal a halt; he stood there, staring into the darkness. I walked closer, moving toward whatever he was looking at.
Some sort of large plant? A tree trunk? My eyes couldn’t put together a shape that made any sense. Then I saw.
It was Johnston. His hands tied with vines stretched between trees. His legs bound with more vines. He was still. Thank God.
Long slashes had left his skin in ribbons, from his chest to his thighs. His face was half cut away, his jawbone obscenely on display in the moonlight.
“Swords,” Porter said. “This was done by officers. Their sport for the evening.”
“My God,” was all I could say. I wanted to remove his dog tag, but as my hand neared the bloody mess that was his neck, it shook like a leaf.
“Sorry, Boyle,” I heard Porter say, and I thought how odd it was that he was giving me condolences over the tortured death of Lieutenant Johnston.
Until the lights went out.
I awoke on my back, hidden in the tall grass. The M1 was by my side, and a bloody dog tag was pressed into my palm. The flare gun was gone, and so was Porter.
Pain raced through my skull as I got up. Porter knew a thing or two about lethal force, and he had held back on me, but my head still hurt like the blazes. I stuffed Johnston’s dog tag into my pocket along with the other and drew my knife, about to cut him down. I stopped, realizing that if the Japs came by this way again, they’d notice someone had moved their handiwork.
“Sorry, Lieutenant,” I whispered. “You’ve got one more job to do.”
I headed back, having no idea which way G Company was, barely certain of the way to the coconut plantation.
At the stream, I gathered water in my cap and doused my head, washing away the drying, sticky blood, wondering what Porter was up to. He could have slit my throat and taken my weapons, but he hadn’t. Maybe Bigger and his men had a chance after all.
After an hour and a couple of wrong turns, I heard the password.
“Little.”
“Lulu,” I answered, as loudly as I dared.
“Billy, what happened?” Kaz asked, rushing forward to help me, marines at his side.
I told him and repeated the whole thing for Trent back on the hill.
“They butchered Johnston,” I said, draining what little there was in the canteen I’d been handed. I winced as the corpsman put iodine on my wound, telling me it was a little scratch.
“Look, Sarge!” a marine said, his face raised to the darkness.
There, in the distance, two tiny red dots rose into the night sky. Porter had made it.
Chapter Thirty-Four
I was exhausted, but sleep would not come. My eyes felt like they were coated in grit, my head hurt, my muscles ached, and my throat was parched. I took a careful, small sip of water, shaking my canteen to take a measure of what was left. One good gulp. A couple of guys volunteered to take canteens to the river and fill them, but Trent vetoed the idea.
“No one else is getting taken by the Japs,” he said. Case closed.
“How’s Ariel?” I asked Kaz as he joined me in the trench.
“Stoic,” Kaz said. “He refused water, saying if he couldn’t fight he wouldn’t drink. How are you?”
“Fine,” I said. “Just can’t sleep.” Mainly because I kept seeing Johnston’s mutilated body whenever I closed my eyes. But I was fine. Really.
“Do you think he’ll come back with Bigger?” Kaz asked.
“If he’s Porter the Coastwatcher, then yes,” I said. “He has to guide them here. And I think he means what he says about doing his job. But if he’s more Fraser the murderer, then all bets are off.”
“A strange man,” Kaz said. “He has talked himself into thinking he’s acted rationally. It makes sense to him, each act leading to the next in a logical sequence, even if the end result is one he now regrets.”
“Mainly because he was caught,” I said. “Regret usually comes after an arrest.” I was feeling bitter, but I had to admit Porter might be feeling genuine regret. Hard to tell. Perhaps he was his own white ghost, haunted by what he’d done and how close he’d come to getting away with it.
“We have radio confirmation the landing craft are on their way,” Trent said as he knelt by our trench. “It’ll be daylight soon. If G Company makes it, you’ll have to secure your man and get him to the landing site pronto. We’re not waiting around a second longer than we need to, Lieutenant.”
“Got it,” I said. “You’re staying up here until they’re clear?”
“Yeah. Once Bigger’s men get to the river, I’ll send squads down one by one. The machine-gun team last, in case we need covering fire.” As soon as he said the words, gunfire erupted beyond the coconut grove, the sounds echoing along the hills.
“Over there,” Trent said, looking to our right. Small sparkles of light dotted a distant hillside like a swarm of angry fireflies.
“Can’t tell how far away,” I said. “No way to know if that’s all of them or one small group.”
“Porter said coming out in small groups would be best,” Trent said. “I hope that’s a rearguard action, and they’re not having to fight their way through the Japs.”
“Should we go to their assistance?” Kaz asked.
“Negative,” Trent said. “If we split our forces and get lost out there, we might not be able to stop the Japs from getting to the river. We need to stay put. And it looks like we might need suppressive fire at the landing site.” He called for the radioman to request PT boat assistance at the Warrior River.
After that, we waited, watching a running firefight draw closer and closer, the drumbeat of shots growing louder as faint lines of rosy light appeared in the eastern sky. Finally, figures appeared on the fringes of the coconut grove, moving between the neatly spaced rows. Every man in the platoon aimed his weapon, jittery after the night of waiting and watching.
“Hold your fire,” Trent said calmly, his binoculars to his eyes. “They’re ours.” A wary marine led the way, waving to Trent who had stood up, his helmet held high. More riflemen followed, guarding a group of wounded marines, their filthy bandages stained with dried blood. These were the walking wounded, followed by two stretcher cases. I could only wonder at how difficult the trek had been for them and their bearers. Gunfire sounded behind them, moving closer as the rear guard gave ground.
“Sarge,” hollered a marine who jogged up the rear slope. “LCs have been sighted, still a ways out.”
“PTs?” Trent asked. He shook his head no. “Okay, head down and lead the wounded to the river. They go first. Lieutenant, you two can look for Porter if you want. But don’t stray far.”
“No wariwari,” Kaz said, and we both clambered over the logs and descended into the grove.
“Have you seen Porter?” I asked the first G Company man I saw. “The Aussie?”
“He went back to help the rear guard,” he said, “soon as we got to the edge of the plantation.”
We hustled to the edge of the jungle, passing more marines walking numbly out of the bush, sunken eyes ringed with fatigue, blinking in the dawning light. John Kari stumbled by, supported by a native scout, a bloody bandage wrapped around his head and covering one eye.
“Keep going boys, almost there,” I said, as dozens more filed by.
“Are you Boyle?” The voice belonged to an officer sporting a major’s oak leaf insignia.
“Yes. Major Bigger?”