The White Ghost by James R. Benn Page B

warning.”
    â€œI thought you said the Japs hardly ever came over in daylight,” Kaz said, wincing as the boat plowed through a swell that nearly knocked us off our feet.
    â€œThey must have known you were coming,” Cluster said with a grin as he spun the wheel to starboard, putting distance between our boat and the others scattering into Ironbottom Sound. After that all eyes were on the sky, searching for enemy aircraft.
    But our first sighting was a formation of four Wildcats. They climbed away from us, probably worried about itchy trigger fingers. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
    Then we saw what the Wildcats were after. A large formation, twin-engine bombers. Betties, they looked like, heading for Henderson Field. From above the Betties, Japanese fighter planes dove into the Wildcats, trying to intercept them before they had a chance to turn a Betty into a fireball. Cluster shouted an order to the engine room and the PT boat picked up speed, headed away from the dogfight and the oncoming bombers. The wind whipped against us, salt spray coating our faces. I glanced at Kaz, who had a landlubber’s pale look to his face. Me, I’d grown up going out into Massachusetts Bay with my dad’s fisherman buddies, so I enjoyed a ride across the wave tops. It was the men in aircraft trying to kill us I could do without.
    I saw one plane go down in flames, but it was hard to tell what it was. The sky was a confusion of contrails, smoke, flame, and the distant chatter of machine guns. A few minutes later, Cluster eased up on the engines.
    â€œWhat gives?” I asked.
    â€œWe’re getting close to Tulagi,” he said as an island came into view. “We don’t run the engines at full bore for long. Wears them out. We’ve put enough water between us and the Jap planes. They’re probably going to hit Guadalcanal in any case.”
    That was a reasonable guess, but in short order we were watching two fighters circle, dive, and climb in a fight for advantage. As they dueled for position, they drew closer to us and farther from the other aircraft to our rear.
    â€œLooks like a Wildcat,” I said. “What’s the Jap fighter? A Zero?”
    â€œNah, we don’t see many Zekes down this way,” the gunner next to me said. “They’re carrier-based. These are Jap Army planes from their bases on Bougainville, probably.”
    â€œIt’s a Tony,” the other gunner yelled. “He’s headed for us!”
    The Wildcat dove to the deck, trailing smoke and heading for home. The Tony—I guessed fighters were boys and bombers girls—swung around to come at us from the port side. Kaz and I ducked behind the low bulwark behind the bridge and peeked out to watch the Tony’s approach. Cluster zigged and zagged, making for Tulagi and the protection of the antiaircraft batteries there.
    The Jap fighter was too fast for us. We were still a mile or so out when he opened up, his machine guns sending up spouts of water in our wake. Our machine guns and the twenty-millimeter cannon on the aft deck returned fire, sending the fighter into a climb to escape the tracers seeking him out. He made a giant arc across the sky and came at our starboard side. I saw a thin wisp of white smoke coming from his engine. Had we scored a hit?
    Then the Tony did. Rounds chewed into the bow of the PT boat, narrowly missing the bridge. Our guns followed the fighter as he roared overhead, staying with him this time. The trailing smoke grew as black and orange flames spread across the fuselage. A cheer went up from the crew, just in time to see the pilot bail out. The plane went into a spin and crashed into the ocean as his parachute opened, stark white against the blue sky.
    â€œLet’s go get ourselves a prisoner, boys,” Cluster announced as he steered the boat toward the downed flyer.
    As we neared the pilot, I leaned over the bulwark and watched him release his