The White Ghost by James R. Benn

the war.”
    Cluster nodded, his face grim. “So either Jack’s father sent you, or someone who is an enemy of the old man,” he said. “Or this is the biggest coincidence of the war.”
    â€œNo coincidence,” I said. “We were picked for the job, you’re right. But it won’t be a whitewash. Or a witch hunt. You have my word.”
    â€œOkay,” Cluster said. “And if that’s true, I don’t envy you the assignment.”
    â€œTell me about it, Commander. I could use some of that coffee. Is it any good?”
    â€œBest in the Solomons,” he said, signaling for two more to a sailor at the grill. “Nix takes care of his pilots. Like I take care of my PT crews.”
    With that subtle warning in mind, we ate hamburgers and drank coffee. The chow wasn’t bad, and the hot joe was welcome even in the sticky, humid air. An occasional breeze blew the heat around, but it wasn’t long before our khakis were drenched with sweat. Many of the guys were shirtless or wearing grimy T-shirts.
    â€œProper uniforms do not seem to be the order of the day here,” Kaz said.
    â€œNot on Guadalcanal,” Cluster said. “The rot is in the air. You can smell the decay. Those leather shoes of yours would be mildewed by morning and falling off your feet by nightfall. The humidity eats at everything. If there wasn’t flat ground for an airstrip, no one would want this place.” He shook his head as if in disgust at the very notion of the island.
    â€œNixon said Tulagi was better,” I said.
    â€œA lot better,” Cluster said. “Which is why the hospital and naval headquarters are there. I’ll bring you over on my boat.”
    â€œBoat?” Kaz asked. “Is it a long journey?”
    â€œLess than thirty miles,” Cluster said. “An easy run. Unless the Japs make a daylight raid, but the action has mostly moved to the northwest, up to Rendova and New Georgia. They’re more likely to come at night. We still have a few hours before dusk, but we might as well get started.”
    â€œWhy at night?” Kaz asked as we left the thatched-roof grill and blinked our eyes against the blinding sun.
    â€œA raid in force could come at any time. But after dark our propellers churn up the phosphorescence in the water when we’re under way. So the Kawanishis like to fly low and slow looking for phosphorescent wakes. They patrol the Slot—the main channel running through the Solomons — nearly every night. The wake is like a big arrow pointing right at us. We can’t see the Jap planes but they can see us. Not a good combination.”
    â€œWe already had a run-in with a Kawanishi,” I said. “Our PBY almost collided with one in a cloud bank.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” Cluster said. “It won’t be your last.”
    We walked along the runway, heading for a line of vehicles. A burned-out bulldozer and a wrecked aircraft—Japanese and American, respectively—sat rusting in the sun. Weeds and vines grew through gaps in the shredded steel and aluminum, testament to the jungle pressing in on us.
    â€œEven metal doesn’t last long on Guadalcanal,” Cluster said, waving his hand over the pile of battle debris. “Rust, rot, and the jungle will swallow all this up. I wonder if people will remember this place when it’s all over. Seven thousand soldiers, sailors, and marines dead. The brass guess about thirty thousand Japs dead, all told. Out there in the channel, there’s so many sunken ships they call it Ironbottom Sound. Except for the occasional bombing, it’s basically a backwater, a stopover on the way to the real war.”
    â€œHow long have you been out here, Commander?” Kaz asked.
    Cluster stopped, staring at the wreckage. He didn’t answer. Which was an answer. Too long.
    â€œCome on,” he finally said. “Let’s get you two outfitted