I checked my ammo. Three more clips. I unloaded into the tiger grass again, just to be sure.
“All set, Porter?” I said, eyes still on the tiger grass.
“Boyle?” Porter said.
“Yeah?”
“Call me Peter, will you?” He smiled, the grime and sweat on his face glistening in the sun. He actually looked like he was enjoying himself, and I almost gave in. Then I thought of Deanna.
“No. Count yourself lucky I don’t drag you back to a dark cell.” With that, I followed Kaz over the logs and down the slope. He might be the hero of the day here on Choiseul, but I knew him from Tulagi.
We ran low, taking cover where Trent and his men had been. It was about two hundred yards to the river bank, and I could hear the landing-craft engines. I raised my M1, looking for Japs among the trees. I spotted one, his hands and feet visible as he shinnied up a tree. A sniper, looking for a good angle on the machine-gun nest. Worse still, he’d see there was only one man left on the hill. I aimed at his hand-a tough shot, not because of the distance, but because it was a small target. I fired. Once, twice, and then he fell, his scream signaling a hit.
“Billy, how long are we going to stay here?” Kaz asked. The landing-craft engines were louder now, as if they were straining under a heavy load. Porter opened fire, short bursts into the trees.
“Okay, let’s go,” I said. “Nothing else we can do here.”
We edged back, and I felt a gnawing sense of worry as we left our fate in the hands of a murderer.
At the river, it was chaos. One overloaded landing craft was hung up on the coral reef offshore. That was the revving engine we’d heard. A second LC was also crowded but pulling away, while the third was taking on the last of the men. The only good news was the two PT boats fast approaching. One of them was PT-59. Jack to the rescue.
“What’s happening up there?” Trent asked.
“They’re moving in again,” I said. “He can’t last long.”
A shrill whistling sound came from overhead.
“Take cover!” Trent shouted. An explosion shook the trees on the riverbank. Then two more mortar rounds hit the water, sending up harmless geysers. Harmless until they found their range. The machine gun was firing steadily now, and I wondered if Porter was making his last stand.
More rounds hit closer to us, and a couple of men went down, wounded by shrapnel.
“Lieutenant, can you go back up there and see what’s happening?” Trent asked. “I need to know if they’re closing in. I’ll send men up if we need to fight.”
“Sure,” I said, scrambling up the bank, Kaz next to me. We ran to a stack of coconut trees that had been cut down years ago, about a dozen of them rotting into the earth. It made for a good hiding place and gave us some elevation. The machine gun was still chattering, a constant stream of lead flying through the coconut grove.
The machine gun stopped abruptly, the silence strange and disconcerting.
“Did they get him?” Kaz asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said. I couldn’t see the top of the hill from here, but I didn’t hear any rifle fire from the Japs, only the mortar rounds heading to the river. Maybe the gun was jammed. Or maybe the Japs had rushed him from the side. I scanned the ground ahead with the binoculars, looking for an immediate threat. I leaned forward to get a better view of the rear of the hill.
Nothing.
Then I saw him. Shirtless.
“Son of a bitch,” I said. “Porter.”
“What?” Kaz said. “Where?”
“Hightailing it upriver, near the tiger grass,” I said. “I bet he used his shirt to tie down the trigger. Shot off all the ammo to cover his escape. Goddammit!” I raised my rifle in his direction, but he was too far gone into cover to get a bead on him. “Kaz, go tell Trent there’s nothing between the Japs and the river but yours truly. If you hear me fire, send help. I’ll stay five minutes and then head your way.”
“No more,” Kaz said.
“No wariwari.”
I kept watch through the binoculars, looking up every few seconds to avoid tunnel vision. Then I spotted a couple of Jap soldiers running toward the hill. I didn’t fire, figuring that would draw them to the landing area once they realized it was just one guy. Pretty soon they were standing in the open, certain that they’d won the ground. Which they had. An officer appeared, his boots gleaming and his sword reflecting sunlight. He was barking orders, loud enough for me to hear, gesturing with his sword. I swung the binoculars in that direction.
Porter was being brought forward at bayonet point, his hands held above his head.
He hadn’t escaped after all.
A crowd gathered, and I could see the officer laughing as one of his men smashed his rifle butt into Porter’s ribs. They tied him to a tree, ropes around the wide trunk holding him secure. They screamed at him, the kind of curses you probably give to any machine gunner who’s just mowed down a bunch of your pals. Good thing for us they were taking their time with him. Bad for Porter.
More mortar rounds sailed through the air and exploded behind me. Kaz ran back, crouched low. “The last LC is stuck on the riverbed. The tide is going out, and it was overloaded. One of the PT boats is rigging a line to pull it off. We need to go now.”
I handed him the binoculars. I didn’t need them to make out what was about to happen. They were about two hundred yards away, maximum. I could see the officer waving his sword in front of Porter, taunting him with what he was about to do.
I heard Kaz gasp.
I stood, cupping my hands around my mouth, and shouted.
“PETER FRASER!”
I dropped, and could make out faces turning in my direction. I had a few seconds, no more.
I filled the sight with Peter Fraser’s torso. I let my breathing steady, put a slight pressure on the trigger, and exhaled.
I pulled the trigger. A good hit. A second shot, to be sure. His body slumped, held by the ropes.
We sprinted to the river, leapt off the bank, and ran onto the ramp of the last landing craft, Trent signaling us to hurry. The PT boat surged ahead, the steel cable connecting it to the LC going taut as we scraped bottom, engines revved high. Kaz leaned close, whispering.
“It was a clean shot, Billy.”
We came off the bottom with a jolt, and men grinned and laughed as we made our way out of the river mouth. I joined in, not wanting to think about what I had done. Being judge, jury, and executioner didn’t sit well with me. The cable was cast off, and the PT boat moved away, on watch for any enemy movement on shore. The second boat was Jack’s PT-59, and he edged closer to us, putting his boat between us and the riverbed. He spotted me and waved, and I did my best to respond. I should have been happy; everyone around me was delirious with joy. But I was empty, gutted.
Gunfire rippled from the shore. Jack’s boat answered, machine guns and cannon fire chopping up the ground and jungle, taking down small trees and sending the few Japs who weren’t hit scurrying away. A ragged cheer went up from the marines. Then a more immediate concern demanded our attention.
We were sinking. Water was rising in the LC, probably from damage on the rocky river bottom.
I waved to Jack, not fifty yards away. He waved back, smiling, as did his crew. For a minute, they thought we were congratulating them. But it didn’t take long for the list to become noticeable, and Jack drew PT-59 alongside the landing craft.
The navy crewman on the LC kept her steady while the men packed in the landing craft clambered up the side and were pulled on board the PT. The crewman came last, and Jack throttled forward, heading slowly out to sea.
“Chappy, put a few rounds in at the waterline and sink her,” Jack commanded. Chappy, in the gunner’s seat on the forward forty-millimeter, complied. Four shells blew her side in, and the LC was gone in seconds.
“We’ll get you all back,” Jack said to the marines crowding his deck. “But we’ve got to take it slow. We’re low on fuel.”