“Holy Christ,” I said in a whisper, backing away instinctively from the waist blister. “It’s another PBY!” The sound I’d heard was their engines as the aircraft drifted closer and then away, both of us unaware of how close we were.
“Where?” The waist gunner leaned in next to me. It had vanished again.
“Right there,” I said. “Slightly above us. I saw a waist blister and the high wings. Look!” It had drifted close again, a large fuselage that looked about to drop on top of us. Then I saw it. That big red ball that made it clear it was not one of our floatplanes.
“Kawanishi!” Yelled the waist gunner. “Port side.”
He opened up with his machine gun as the PBY banked to starboard. The narrow interior was filled with screaming voices, thunderous bursts of fire, and the metallic clatter of ejected shells bouncing on the deck. Terrified, I grabbed the edge of the blister and caught a brief glimpse of a face staring openmouthed from the waist position in the Jap plane, like some macabre mirror image. His machine gun spat fire, but his shots were as wild as ours-an instinctual reaction on both sides to put hot lead and distance between the planes and the possibility of collision.
But was the Jap plane heading for home? Were that gunner and his pals as scared as I was? Or were they circling around, hunting us in the clouds? I kept watch for a while, nothing but mist and murk as far as the eye could see, which was no farther than the acrylic bubble.
“That was close,” White said when I went forward. “The Kawanishi is larger than us, a four-engine job. He might have survived a collision, but he would have crushed us.” He put the PBY into a slight dive until he found the bottom of the clouds and evened out, staying right below the unending fluff, not a yard from cover if needed.
“Kawanishi? No code name?” I asked. “Patty or Maxene maybe?”
“Mavis,” he said. “But everyone in the Solomons knows the Kawanishi. It’s the Jap version of the PBY. Long range, and not bad at night either. I guarantee that won’t be the last one you see.”
“I just hope the next one isn’t that close,” I said.
“I hope it is in flames, like the Flying Cigar,” Kaz said.
“You got the right attitude for the Solomons, Lieutenant,” White said to Kaz. “Welcome to our South Pacific paradise.”
Chapter Seven
The PBY put us down on Henderson Field on the north side of Guadalcanal. It had been less than six months since ground combat had ended on the island with the last of the Japanese troops vanquished. The airstrip was alive with fighters, transports, and bombers, all in various stages of readiness as crews swarmed over them, fueling, rearming, and unloading supplies. Seabees smoothed out the runway with bulldozers shoving crushed coral into bomb craters.
“I guess the girls paid a visit,” I said. “Betty and her friends.”
“Let us hope they’ve grown tired of this island. I already am. What do we do now?” Kaz asked, eyeing the repair work as we stood in the hot sun. Lieutenant White had already taxied down the runway for his return leg. We walked to the nearest hangar, haversacks slung over our shoulders. The heat was thick and humid, nothing like the breezy warmth of Port Moresby. The place had a smell about it: oil and gasoline mixed with stale sweat and fetid decay.
“Boyle and Kazimierz?” A navy lieutenant in bleached-out khakis called out to us as he emerged from a Quonset hut. His shirt was soaked with perspiration and rivulets of sweat ran from his black wavy hair.
“That’s us,” I said, mopping my forehead. “You got a heat wave going on here?”
“Funny,” he said. “This is actually the nicest day we’ve had in a week. Welcome to Henderson Field. I’m Dick Nixon, Air Transport Officer.”
“Billy Boyle, and this is Kaz,” I said as we shook hands.
“Commander Cluster is waiting for you,” Nixon said, leading us to an open pavilion with a palm-frond roof. A crudely painted sign read: Nick’s Hamburger Stand.
“That you?” I asked as we followed Nixon.
“Yeah, we organized that for pilots coming through. We grill burgers and try to put out whatever food we can scrounge. A lot of the guys bring stuff from Australia when they can. Even cold beer once in a while.”
“All the comforts of home,” I said.
“That’s the idea. There’s Commander Cluster,” Nixon said, waving to an officer drinking coffee at the end of a long wooden table that had been cobbled together from packing crates. “I’ll have some chow sent over for you fellows. We don’t see too many Poles out here, Lieutenant Kazimierz. Is the Polish Army in Exile sending troops to fight the Japs?”
“We Poles have enough war in Europe,” Kaz said. “Between the Germans and the Russians, we have our fill of enemies. The Polish government did declare war on Japan following Pearl Harbor; however, the Japanese rejected the declaration.” We walked into the shade of the open-air hamburger joint, thankful for the slight coolness and the familiar aroma from the grill.
“Rejected a declaration of war?” Nixon said. “That’s a new one. Why’d they do it?”
“Prime Minister Tojo said Poland had been pressured into it by Great Britain, since we were dependent upon their support. Tojo probably rejected it purely for propaganda purposes, since we obviously pose no threat to them in the Pacific.”
“Well, don’t try telling that to the first Jap you see,” Nixon said. “The finer points of diplomacy are lost on them. So what exactly are you two doing here?”
“Long story,” I said. “We’re looking into a possible murder. One of the natives who works with the Coastwatchers got himself killed over on Tulagi.”
“You’re lucky,” Nixon said. “Tulagi is a tropical paradise compared to Guadalcanal. That’s why the British made it their district headquarters for the Solomons. Is one of our guys involved?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” I said. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know a pal of mine from Boston, would you? PT skipper named Jack Kennedy? He had his boat sunk recently.” I made it sound casual, to see if any scuttlebutt had reached across the bay about Jack being involved with the killing.
“Kennedy?” Nixon said, tapping his finger against the dark stubble on his cheek. “No, never heard of him. PT boats get sunk all the time. Wouldn’t exactly be big news. Sorry. Good luck, fellas.” Nixon waved to Cluster and we headed over to him. We did the salutes and introductions. Cluster was good-looking, tanned and blond. A walking advertisement for PT boats.
“Have a seat,” he said. “I understand you boys have come a long way.”
“How’d you hear that, Commander?” I said in my most polite voice. As far as I knew, a commander in the navy was close to a colonel in the army, so until we knew how things worked out here, it paid to observe the niceties of military rank. He also wore an Annapolis ring, so I figured he’d be a stickler for that stuff.
“Between the pilots coming through here and the navy base on Tulagi, you can pick up a lot of gossip. I heard about two hotshots sent out here all the way from Europe to investigate us,” Cluster said, eyeing me as he sipped coffee from a chipped mug. “Figured I’d better check you out myself.”
“Must be two other guys,” I said. “We came from North Africa. To look into the murder of a native, not to investigate the navy.”
“Sounds like you might be ready to make an arrest,” Cluster said. “I heard you mention one of my men to Nix.”
“Jack Kennedy is one of yours?”
“I have two Motor Torpedo Squadrons up at Rendova. Jack is one of my best skippers, and he’s been through a lot.”
“We heard about his boat being sunk,” I said. “And I know Jack from Boston. That’s why I was asking about him.”
“You’re a friend of his?” Cluster asked.
“We’re acquainted,” I said. “It’s been a while. But we have no plans to arrest anyone. We’ve simply been sent here to look into things.” Cluster looked at Kaz, then back to me. He set his cup on the table and leaned back, taking our measure.