The White Ghost by James R. Benn Page A

for the Solomons.”
    â€œWhatever you say, Commander,” I said. We got in his jeep, tossing in our haversacks. I got the sense that we’d passed some sort of test. He’d warmed up, or maybe simply figured out that I was a pawn in someone else’s game. No threat to his men, at least not compared to the Japanese.

Chapter Eight
    The army sergeant waved away our orders as I began to unfold them.
    â€œNo need,” he said. “If you’re with the commander, you’re okay by me.” We were in a large tent with the sides rolled up, surrounded by K rations, Spam, artillery shells, grenades, medical supplies, and all the other tools of assault and sustenance.
    â€œDitch them shoes,” the sergeant said. “They won’t last unless you’re going to sit at a desk over on Tulagi. And then not for long anyways.”
    â€œYou have those new jungle boots?” Cluster asked. The sergeant nodded and eyed our feet, then reached into a crate to grab a couple pairs.
    â€œTry these on,” he said. “They don’t last long either, but they’re rubber soled and made of canvas. Water drains right out, and you can count on getting soaked plenty around here.”
    â€œSo what good are they?” I asked as I slipped one on.
    â€œLeather combat boots mildew and rot,” he said. “Plus they keep water in when you get wet, so you end up with all sorts of fungi. The canvas boots don’t hold up over the long haul, but they’re a damn sight better than the old clodhoppers.”
    â€œComfortable,” I said, lacing up the boots. It was like wearing tennis shoes. “Anything else we should have?”
    â€œYou might want to get rid of that wool cap, Lieutenant,” the sergeant said to Kaz, who wore his British Army service cap.
    â€œI shall keep the hat,” Kaz said. “Otherwise I may be mistaken for an American.”
    â€œI wouldn’t worry about that,” I said, to which Kaz raised a languid eyebrow.
    I swapped my garrison cap for a billed cap, or M41 HBT Field Utility Cap, Sage Green Herringbone Twill, as the army insisted on describing it. Shading my eyes from the glare of the sun would be important out here. I took a canvas holster to replace my leather one, figuring it would be hard enough to keep my .45 automatic clean without worrying about the holster decomposing around it. Kaz already had a tan canvas holster for his Webley revolver, which he had chosen because it matched the color of his web belt. Always the clotheshorse. Once the sergeant gave us an extra set of cotton khaki shirts and trousers, we were all set to win the battle against mildew and jungle rot.
    I hoped that was as much fighting as we’d need to do.
    Cluster drove to the docks at Lunga Point where his PT boat was docked. As he braked the jeep to a halt, a low wail rose in the air, a familiar sound from London and North Africa. Air-raid sirens. Seconds later came the snarling engines of Navy Wildcat fighters, the sound growing louder as the planes rose in the sky and flew overhead, due north.
    â€œLet’s move!” Cluster yelled as he leapt from the jeep and made for the docks. We scrambled after him, haversacks in hand. The PT boat engines were rumbling; sailors held lines, ready to cast off. We raced up the gangplank as Cluster barked orders to the crew. Other PT boats were already underway, opening up their supercharged Packard engines as soon as they cleared the docks. Within seconds we joined them, sailors manning the two twin fifty-caliber machine guns swiveling their weapons skyward, searching for the enemy.
    â€œWhat’s happening?” I asked above the sound of the engines. Kaz and I hung onto the rail behind the bridge as the boat thumped against the waves in the open water.
    â€œJap air raid,” Cluster shouted over his shoulder. “When we scramble fighters in a rush it means one of the Coastwatchers radioed in a