And we almost left twelve men on the beach!
No sooner had we raised the ramps than the Caribbean was tugging at
our LCVP's, the waves trying to take them back to sea. Our ramp men
jumped up on their ramps, rolled crazily into the LCVP's, and the ramps
raised all the way, clicking into place to become the prows of the
unwieldy landing craft.
Cries of glee rose from our boat-handlers. Motors caught on the first
try, exactly as if they had not been idle for two weeks, and the LCVP's
were backing away from Yataritas Beach, turning, heading out to sea. I
whirled and looked out into the deep blue. I think all of us expected
to find the _Odyssey_ still standing off, waiting for us. But it wasn't
there.
"Can we make it back to Guantanamo Bay?" I asked the motorman. "Never
mind answering; we're going to!" A cheer rose from the marines and
sailors as we rounded the point we had never expected to see again, and
started west, in deep blue water, along the coast.
LCVP's aren't good travelers. They roll like eggs on a hill, but this
time nobody got seasick.
"Outpost Zero," said someone, looking back at Yataritas Beach. "If I
never even _hear_ of it again it will be too soon!"
* * * * *
We kept in close formation as we approached Escondido Bay, outside the
Reservation. There a cruising plane picked us up, dipped wings over us,
looped and headed full speed back to Guantanamo.
We all crawled up our starboard sides, tilting the LCVP's far over, and
not caring a bit, to pick out landmarks ashore that we knew--Kittery
Beach, Windmill, Cuzco, Blind, Blue and Cable Beaches. Every one looked
like home--and the marine hadn't lived, up to that moment, who regarded
Guantanamo as home!
There were many planes out, including some of our jets, by the time we
reached the mouth of Guantanamo Bay. Luckily the long run was made in
fairly smooth water.
We crossed the shelf where the deep blue water of the Caribbean becomes
the green-dirty water of the Bay, and were as good as home.
I planned on making it to the Marine Boat House, but the Admiral's
launch came out, with a staff officer aboard, with instructions to land
at the Admiral's own dock.
I guess it didn't matter much where we docked, for the point of land on
which the Admiral had his quarters was covered with uniforms. Marines
and sailors were kept back by MP's.
The Chief Staff Officer placed me formally under arrest, "for absence
over-leave," he said--though there was a suggestion of excitement in
his voice that made me suspect subterfuge. One thing was certain, an
officer under arrest kept his mouth shut. I couldn't tell anybody
anything. The same thing, or something like it, happened to every one
of us. We were all completely muzzled by being placed under arrest.
Whatever else we might be, we were "hot."
Then it was that we worked together as even marines did not always work
together--and the six gobs pitched in, too.
I made out this report, with the understanding that it would be seen
by every leatherneck and sailor, and not submitted until all were
satisfied with its accuracy.
I told what seemed to have happened to us. As commanding officer I was
requested also to express an opinion. I had none to offer, except that
two news bulletins, received over the radio the next day after our
return, gave me something to think about.
One of the bulletins explained in somewhat guarded language, that new
A-bomb experiments were being made--not in mid-Pacific, in Bikini, but
in the heart of the Kalahari Desert! So careful were the brass hats in
this important series of tests, that no words in any civilized tongue
were allowed to be spoken even on intercom sets! The report didn't
mention Mangbetu, but it did say "little known African dialects." This
wasn't an unusual procedure, by the way--Comanche Indians had been so
employed in World War II.
And what were those people testing, besides the newest thing in A-bombs?
"Part of the test," said the voice of the announcer, "involves an
amazing above-ground bomb-shelter! This shelter, of secret manufacture,
is believed to be proof against anything except the explosion of
the planet itself. Not only is each such shelter capable of great
extension, thus to handle large groups of people, but built into it
is something new in provisioning. People who are forced into these
shelters by sudden attack, are automatically provided with food, water
and equable temperature, by a process which provides these necessities
as separate exudations from the inner walls of the bombproofs!
"Some fear was expressed, in the midst of the tests," said the
announcer, "that there were traitors even among the carefully screened
technicians--for despite orders, for a period of three days not only
English but many other languages, including the secret dialect used by
the technicians, were heard in their intercoms!"
I shivered at that, remembering how, for three days, we had tried every
tongue of which we could think. Gradually a picture was beginning to
emerge.
"It was feared for some time that some potential aggressor nation had
managed somehow to get past the Kalahari guards and ferret out secret
information--or else that there was already a fifth column among the
technicians!"
No mention anywhere, of the Shadow Men!
I was scared stiff when I realized this. For those Shadow Men, it now
seemed, had accomplished something the A-bomb had not been able to do;
they had got inside the bombproof, killed Yount--and could easily have
killed us all--and got out again.
"The experiments," said the announcer, "were of course carried out
by the United Nations Security Council. The results have not been
announced in every detail, but the world _has_ been informed that
complete security against the A-Bomb has been produced and will be
available if ever there is another world war!"
_But what about the Shadow Men?_ What good was the best bombproof if it
could be entered so easily, and everybody inside it destroyed?
On the next day after our return I picked up a brief broadcast which I
could easily have missed.
"It appears that there are still Japanese soldiers, hiding out on Guam,
who do not know that the war is over. Ten Japanese, led by a Corporal
Matzuku, surrendered yesterday to Guamian authorities! How they
survived for almost four years is a mystery. They appear well fed."
I got this far and realized that I knew a great deal of _what_ had
happened, but not _how_. How we and the Guamian Japanese had been
netted under the same bombproof, for instance--they on Guam, ourselves
on Yataritas Beach, Cuba.
I had no explanation for the Shadow Men--except that nobody but the
"vanishers", ourselves and the Japanese, so much as mentioned them.
They were, I felt sure, outside the knowledge of the Security Council.
The Shadow Men were some manifestation--chemicals, or instantaneously
acting disease germs?--of a potential enemy fifth column which had
horned in on the Kalahari experiments.
I can do no more. This report is respectfully submitted for
transmission via official channels.
* * * * *