UP AT DAWN
When Jack was still in grade school he had often visited his uncle's
farm. In summer he had stayed for weeks at a time. There were ghosts
that haunted the lonely country roads at night. Old Jock Gordon, the
hired hand, and Maggie MacPherson, the cook, often told weird tales
about these ghosts as they sat by the kitchen fire at night.
When he was out late playing with some neighbor boy and had to brave the
dark roads alone, Jack had gone on tiptoe. But that didn't always help,
for more than once he saw weird white things moving in the hedge or the
willows.
"Ghosts!" he would think, scared to death. But he never ran. A ghost at
your back is much more terrible than one you can see. Jack always walked
straight toward the ghosts, and always they vanished into thin air.
As he caught the hoarse whisper there on the lonely mysterious island,
he thought of those ghosts, and it steadied his mind. He answered the
hoarse whisper, then walked straight toward the spot from whence it
came. He had gone a dozen paces when a low voice said:
"Don't come closer."
Gripping his gun, he stopped.
Out of the brush and the shadows stepped a figure that even in the dim
moonlight appeared familiar.
"What are you doing here?" a woman's voice asked. "How did you come? And
why?"
The woman was tall, and rather slender. She wore a broad hat that hid
her face.
It's that slim queen of the island, was Jack's thought. He had come to
think of her as just that, but was astonished to discover that she spoke
English fluently.
"Who are you? And what are you doing here?" he countered, taking two
steps.
"It doesn't matter who I am," came slowly. "It will pay you to stay
where you are. I am not alone."
Jack remained where he was. He seemed to catch sight of shadowy figures
in the brush. Visions of flying spears and arrows haunted him.
"We're two fliers from the United States Navy," he said, having decided
to tell the truth. "Our plane was wrecked. We came ashore on a rubber
raft. Now, who are you?" he repeated.
"How are we to know that you are speaking the truth?" the girl asked,
ignoring his question. "There's a Jap raft drawn up on the beach," she
went on.
"Yes. We drew it up." Jack's throat went dry.
"Then perhaps you came in it."
"Do I look like a Jap?" He played his flashlight on his own face.
"Not like a Jap, but you might be a German. All the traders were Germans
before the war."
"All right. Have it your way!" He threw a flash of light into her eyes.
By doing this, he discovered an added pair of eyes--small, monkey eyes.
The monk was on her shoulder.
"Is that your monkey?" he asked.
"Yes."
"How did you get that American nurse's identification tag the monkey
wears?" He asked without thinking.
"That!" There was anger in her voice. "That's none of your affair."
She went on after a moment, "We want to know about you."
"And now you know." He laughed softly.
"Do I?" She returned the laugh.
"Do you know all about those fellows who come here in that queer sort of
plane?" he asked.
"Do you?" she came back at him.
"No."
"Well then, that makes two of us. Thanks for listenin'. Good night." She
was gone.
She's heard that farewell off here on the radio, Jack thought. Did
missionaries have radios? He supposed they did. Queer little world he
had dropped into. So she didn't know much about those two men and the
mystery plane? Well, one way or another, _he_ was going to learn more.
If they turned out to be Australian, British, or Dutch, they might give
the boys a lift to some spot held by the United Nations. Then Stew and
he would get back in time for the big push against Mindanao, he thought.
Worth taking a chance for that, he assured himself. A very long chance.
When Kentucky and two of his night fighting comrades made their way back
to the carrier they were greeted with enthusiasm.
"You did it!" The Commander gripped Kentucky's hand. "You broke up their
formation! Not a torpedo found its mark. But where is Ted?" His voice
dropped.
"We don't know, sir," said Kentucky, wrinkling his brow. "We had to
scatter, and go on our own."
"Of course."
"Red saw him climbing for altitude, sir--thought his motor might have
been smoking."
"Yes, sir. That's the way it was," Red put in. "After that the moon went
under for quite a while. When it came out his plane was gone. I thought
I saw a white gleam like a parachute in the moonlight quite close to the
water, but I wasn't sure."
"We'll hope he made a safe landing," said the Commander. "We have to go
in about a hundred miles. The Marines go ashore at dawn. We must furnish
them a protecting screen. You boys have done a fine job. Now get some
chow and rest. We'll need you again soon. It's going to be a long pull
for you, but this is war."
The moon had come out just in time for Ted's landing. He sank beneath
the sea, lost his grip on the rubber raft, then came up for air.
The moon was still out. His raft was some ten yards away. After
disengaging himself from his chute, he swam to the raft, then worked
himself into it with great care. This accomplished, he paddled to his
chute, squeezed the water out of it as best he could, then deposited it
on one end of the raft.
He took off his clothing. The air was warm. He was not uncomfortable.
After wringing out his clothes he put them all on again except his heavy
flying jacket. He was warm enough without wearing the jacket.
Then, with feet on the chute and head on the inflated edge of the raft,
he sprawled out in absolute repose.
"Nothing I can do right now," he assured himself. "Might get a little
sleep." He recalled the words of his father.
"You may have to bail out and land on the sea," his father had said. "If
you happen to find yourself in a fix like that," his father had rambled
on, "you may feel like praying that there will be no violent storms,
that God may send birds to light on your raft so you can catch and eat
them, that He'll send fish, not sharks--all that sort of thing.
"Well, if you feel that way about it," his father had paused, "it won't
do you any harm. But for my part, I'd rather pray for wisdom and skill,
for the good sense to relax and take it easy, to save my strength and my
skill for catching fish and birds and preparing them for food. I'm
convinced that there is a power within us or about us that does give us
both skill and wisdom if we only ask for them."
"A power within us or about us," Ted repeated slowly, "that gives us
skill and wisdom." At that, rocked by small waves, he fell asleep.
Kentucky never needed much rest when he was in a fighting mood. Two
hours of sleep, a stack of pancakes, three cups of black coffee, and he
was ready to lead his fighters out over the island that lay like a dark,
gray shadow rising out of the sea in the first flush of dawn.
One by one the planes left the carrier. Fighters, scout planes, dive
bombers, torpedo planes--all thundered away toward their target.
Leading them all, Kentucky felt important and very happy.
"Hot diggity!" he exclaimed to the morning air. "This is what I call
life! And here's where we pay the Japs a little on account for Pearl
Harbor." He was thinking of little Joe Kreider, his pal from Kentucky.
He's gone, Kentucky thought soberly. Japs got him in that sneak attack
on Pearl Harbor. Gone, but not forgotten. He gave his motor a fresh
burst of gas.
Then he saw it, a big old four-motored Jap snooper slipping out for a
look at their carrier.
"Hot dog!" Kentucky's plane shot skyward and then came plunging down in
a steep curve. His two guns poured hot lead into the snooper's right
outside motor. The motor, almost cut away, hung by shreds.
Before the snooper could right itself, Kentucky was back, firing away at
the other right motor. He set it smoking. The big plane tilted, rolled
over, then went plunging toward the sea.
All this had happened in the space of seconds. Enough time had elapsed,
however, for other things to be brewing. Suddenly two of his fighting
pals joined him, while from up beyond there came the sharp
_rat-a-tat-tat_ of machine-gun fire.
Rubbing his eyes, Kentucky peered into the brightening dawn. A half mile
or so before him he made out the shadowy forms of several planes
circling wildly, with guns blazing.
His triggerlike mind took in the situation in an instant. "Hey! Red!
Blackie! Jean!" he roared into his radio. "Hold up! Circle Back! BACK!"
As they began swinging back, speaking in a low tone, he continued:
"That's only a bunch of Zeros putting on a show for us. It looks like a
fight, but it's only a sham battle. None of our planes are in there.
We're in the lead."
Through his earphones he caught low grumbles and some unprintable words.
"Come on, now," he invited. "Get into formation. You know the lineup.
We'll join in their game, all right, but on our own terms."
They climbed rapidly and joined in wing-to-wing formation, Kentucky in
the lead and Red bringing up the rear. Red carried a gunner, the best
the Navy knew, in his rear cockpit.
"Now! Come on down! And give it to them for my old pal Joe and all the
American boys lost at Pearl Harbor!" Kentucky shouted into his mike. And
down they came.