The crowing rooster had become mysteriously silent. Convinced by this fact that he must be wild, Jack climbed over boulders and forced his way through briar patches to reach at last the crest of the ridge.
Not wishing to expose himself to so broad a view, he threw himself down on a broad rock, then dragged himself forward for a view of the land that lay beyond. He let out a gasp of surprise.
Beneath him was a lower ridge, and on outcropping rocks, with their backs to him, gazing off at the sea, were two native girls. He knew too little about native girls to judge their ages, but both seemed fully grown. They wore short, loose dresses of bright-colored cotton.
The two girls were so strangely different that it seemed they could hardly belong to the same tribe. “And yet,” the boy reasoned, “they must.” Both were quite dark, but there the similarity ended. One was short and stocky, with a mop of black hair that stood out all around her head.
“Regular fuzzy-wuzzy,” Jack told himself.
The other girl was rather slender, and her hair, though black and curly, had a tendency to lie down.
The short stout one held a live chicken by its feet. “There goes our rooster,” Jack thought.
The tall girl had a bunch of small wild bananas slung over her shoulder.
“Oh, well,” he thought, “they may have left a bunch of bananas still on the stalk near here.”
Just then the tall, slender girl, turned halfway around. Startled, not wishing to be seen, Jack drew back.
When he looked again the two girls were walking along the rocks. He got a profile view of them. “Yes,” he thought, “they are very different.” Both were barefoot, but the tall one walked with a joyous spring, while the other one just plodded along. With a laugh the tall girl lifted the bunch of bananas to her head, then, with this crown, she moved away as regally as a queen.
When they had vanished into the bushes he slid back down the rock to his own side of the ridge. After following the ridge for a short distance he took a different route toward their beach.
To his great joy, half way there he came upon a cluster of banana plants growing in a narrow run.
A small stream went trickling and tumbling down the center of the run. Taking a collapsible drinking cup from his pocket, he bent over a pool to fill the cup, then started in surprise. In the soft sand by the pool was the fresh imprint of a bare foot.
“They’ve been on our side of the ridge,” he told himself. “Half way down the slope. I wonder if they saw us?” This discovery disturbed him. One never could tell about natives in these wild islands.
The water was fresh and cold.
“Umm! Cold spring!” he murmured. “Water supply.” He made a mental note—he must follow that stream back to its source.
When he arrived at the banana patch, he discovered more evidence of their visitors, if they might be called that. One banana plant was minus a freshly cut bunch of bananas.
Selecting a fine bunch that was still green, he cut it off with a sheath knife, shouldered it, and went back down the ridge.
“We’re not alone here,” he said, when he reached camp.
“How come?” Stew asked.
“Natives beat us here. I saw two of them. They had our rooster. But I got some bananas.”
“I see,” said Stew. “How come you picked green ones?”
“They’ll be all right when they ripen,” Jack explained. “When they ripen on the plant, bananas are not fit to eat. They lose their flavor and become tasteless; also the skin bursts open and the ripening pulp is attacked by insects. We’ll hang this bunch up to ripen in the shade, and eat them as they ripen.”
They drank coffee and nibbled at the chocolate.
“Were those natives armed?” Stew asked.
“Oh, sure!” Jack smiled.
“Spears or clubs?”
“Knives,” said Jack. He might have added, “and smiles,” but did not.
“What’ll we do about the natives?” Stew asked.
“Nothing. At least, not till night. You can’t tell about natives. They must live in a village or a camp.”
“Sure. We’ll have to find out where it is.”
“We’ll slip around at night and have a look at them.”
“Then we’ll know better what we’re up against. That’s a good idea,” Stew agreed. “But when it comes to seeing that screamer, I’m in favor of having a long-distance look in the daytime. If it’s a plane, and they’re Japs or Germans, we’ve got to see what can be done about it.”
“We’ll wander up along this side of the ridge after a while,” Jack replied. “That plane, or whatever it is, must be on this side. I think the native village is on the other side. We’ll try to dodge the natives for the present.”
Eager to explore the island and solve its mysteries, they were soon working their way along the sloping side of the ridge. Almost at once they came upon a hard-beaten trail that ran along the smoothest portion of the slope.
“Native trail,” was Jack’s verdict.
“That doesn’t sound too good to me,” said Stew. “We may meet some of those big boys with long spears. They have a playful way of fastening flying squirrels’ teeth to the point of a spear, for barbs. If you do get the spear out, the teeth stay in.”
“Look!” Jack stopped suddenly to examine a soft spot in the trail.
“Hoof prints!” Stew exclaimed. “But shucks! They’re small. Those animals can’t be very dangerous!”
“Can’t they?” Jack laughed. “Little wild boars with long noses and curved ivory tusks. Let me tell you, a palm tree makes pretty tough climbing, but if you ever hear one of those little porkers grunting behind you, you’ll climb one easy enough. We don’t dare fire a shot.”
In the end, their fears proved groundless. They walked the length of the slope, some three miles, and came at last to a place where the island sloped away in a series of treeless ledges.
On the last ledge, which sloped very gradually into the sea, there was something resembling a plane. Two men were moving about it. Since they were still half a mile away, they could make out very few details of this strange setup.
Pulling his companion into the shadow of a rock, Jack unslung his small binoculars for a look. Instantly his lips parted in surprise.
“That plane has no propeller!” he exclaimed.
“Probably took it off for repairs,” Stew suggested.
“Who knows?” Jack was clearly puzzled. “It doesn’t look quite like any plane I ever saw.”
“What are the men like?” Stew asked. “Give me a look.”
“Huh!” he grunted, when he held the binoculars to his eyes. “White men—not Japs. Not in uniform. Might be anybody.”
“Probably German traders who stayed here,” Jack suggested. “These islands were full of them before the war.”
“In that case I’m for getting off this island mighty quick!” Stew declared.
“How?”
“Natives might help us. But say! What’s going on?” Steve’s voice rose. Jack hushed him up.
“Look!” Stew insisted in a whisper, handing back the binoculars. “They’re gassing her up! Aren’t those kerosene barrels?”
“Sure are,” Jack agreed, after a look. “But you could put gas in them.”
Fascinated, the boys watched until the strangers had finished fueling the plane and had rolled the barrels into a crevasse, where they covered them with driftwood and dry palm fronds.
“Mighty secretive,” Stew whispered.
“So are all the islanders these days. This is war. We—look!” Jack’s whisper was shrill. “They’ve climbed in to take off and they haven’t any propeller!”
“Good joke on them!” Stew chuckled. “They won’t get far.”
The plane was facing the sea. When the brakes were released, it slid slowly down the slope into the water. Ten seconds later the plane let out a low squeal, then started gliding over the blue sea. The squeal rose to a howl. Faster and faster went the propellerless thing until at last it left the water to sail away at tremendous speed.
“What do you know about that!” Jack stood staring until the plane was a mere speck in the sky. “That’s something I won’t believe—a plane without a propeller that squeals and howls and goes faster than any plane you or I ever saw. Come on! Let’s go down there for a better look at those fuel drums.”
“But there might be more men.” Stew hung back.
“Nonsense! If there were others they wouldn’t have hidden the drums!”
“Guess you’re right.” Stew followed Jack.
Once they were at the spot the plane had just left, they were convinced at once that the mystery plane actually burned kerosene, for the air was filled with kerosene fumes and the buckets and barrels smelled of it. “Kerosene, beyond a doubt,” Jack exclaimed. “Think of doing four or five hundred miles per hour on kerosene!
“Come on! Let’s get out of here! They may come back.” He led the way rapidly up the slope.
CHAPTER IX
THE TAGGED MONKEY
There was little room to doubt that the trail they had followed was used by natives as well as by animals, for on their way back they came upon fresh prints of bare feet in the soft earth.
Stew had uncomfortable visions of poisoned arrows and darts from blowguns flying at them through the brush, but Jack, gripping his automatic, marched straight ahead.
Arriving at the spot where the narrow stream tumbled down, they decided to follow it to its source. In just a moment they found themselves confronted with a problem. They had come to a thicket of thorny bushes. These formed an arch over the stream.
“Just one thing to do—pull off our shoes and wade it,” Jack decided.
“Go native.” Stew laughed as he kicked off his G.I. brogans.
“Whew! Cold!” he exclaimed as he plunged his feet into the water. But on they went. Tumbling down a steep slope the stream formed many pools, some fairly large. As he waded through one of these up to his knees, Jack exclaimed:
“There are fish in this pool! I feel them tickling my toes!”
“Great!” Stew was an ardent, though usually an unlucky, fisherman. “Got a line?”
“I sure have!” Jack pulled a hook and line from his pocket. “I took it from the rubber raft. They all carry them now, just in case.”
“And you brought one along, just in case,” Stew laughed. “Wait till we’re out in the clear and we’ll hook our dinner.”
Just then Jack paused to listen. From up stream there came the sound of splashing water, then of rocks rolling down, and after that a hoarse grunt.
“Wild pigs!” Stew whispered.
“Probably doing a little fishing on their own,” Jack suggested.
“Boy! Wouldn’t a young porker taste good roasted over the coals! And here they don’t take ration points!” Stew laughed.
“But they do take shots,” Jack protested. “And shots are out. We’re not going to bring those natives down on us, not before we’ve had a good look at them.”
“Boy! Oh boy! Are we in a pickle!” Stew exclaimed. “If some old boar comes down this stream looking for trouble he’ll force us into a fight. If we shoot and miss, he’ll tear us up.”
“Tell you what!” Jack decided after a moment’s thought. “We’ll keep going as long as we can. Then we’ll work our way back up the bank into the bush and let that drove of porkers pass.”
“As long as we can” was only another ten yards, for suddenly the old guardian of the drove caught their scent and came charging down upon them.
By a mighty struggle they forced their way back into the brush just before the ugly beast with chop-chopping jaws and gleaming tusks came charging past.
The lesser fry, about a half dozen of them, had just stampeded past, when the old boar turned and came charging back upstream. This time he made no mistake. His beady eyes were upon Stew.
As he lowered his ugly head preparing for a charge, Stew drew his automatic, but Jack, swinging a knife that was a cross between a sheath knife and a machete, struck the angry beast a cutting blow across his ugly snout.
With a loud squeal and an angry grunt, the mad creature came on. Jack let him have it again, neatly carving out a curled ivory tusk.
Before he could swing again the pig reared, gnashed its teeth, then tumbled back into the stream, to go rushing away.
“Boy! But that was close!” Stew exclaimed, when after a short wait they resumed their journey upstream.
At the top of the brush canopy, to their surprise they came upon a tiny lake. All rimmed round with gray rocks, it was blue as the sky above, and in its clear water many tropical fish were moving.
“Boy! Any rich man in America would give a fortune to have this in his back yard!” Jack exclaimed.
“Yeah, sure,” Stew agreed. “But a fish is a fish and I’m having some broiled for supper.”
“Here’s the line.” Jack held it out to him. “Try your luck. I’m going up higher to find the spring.”
A few yards farther up, the stream forked, and at the head of the first fork he sought and found a cool, bubbling spring. And beside that spring was the telltale mark of a human foot.
“Must be a big village of natives,” he told himself. “Sooner or later, we’ll have to cast our lot with them, but I’m bound I’ll have a look at them first.”
Jack filled his canteen and stood for a time staring off at the sea. Once he imagined that he caught the scream of that mysterious, propellerless plane, but in the end he decided that it was a wild parrot’s call.
At last his gaze was fixed on one spot. Raising his binoculars he took a good look.
Something out there on the sea, all right! he assured himself. Pretty far out. Looks like a raft or a partially submerged plane. It’s sure to drift this way. Current and wind are both right. If it were only a plane we could put in working order.
When he returned to the small lake, he found Stew the proud possessor of a fine string of fish.
“Grubs,” he explained. “I got grubs out of a rotten log and used them for bait.”
“Come on,” said Jack. “We have enough fish for this time. In this climate they won’t keep.”
“Just one more,” Stew begged as he cast in his line. He had the fish at once, so with a sigh he gathered up his catch, strung on a crotched stick. Then they were off.
“The thing that burns me up,” said Jack, as they made their way down the slope, “is that the old Black Bee may at this very moment be ganging up with a lot of other fighting ships for a whack at Mindanao.”
“And if she is,” Stew groaned, “we’ll miss the biggest show of the whole war.”
“That’s right,” Jack agreed. “Biggest and best.”
“‘Remember Pearl Harbor,’” Stew quoted. “How can we forget? We’ve just got to get off this island—even if we have to borrow that propellerless plane or walk right in on the natives and say, ‘Here! Give us a lift in your canoes.’”
“We’ll have to make haste slowly,” Jack replied thoughtfully. “We probably couldn’t fly that plane if those fellows gave it to us as a present. Imagine a plane that flies without a propeller!”
“I can’t,” said Stew.
“But you saw it, didn’t you?”
“I sure did, on the outside. Sometime I’ll see the inside of it, too. You watch my smoke!”
“I’ll watch.” Jack laughed.
“But they may not come back.”
“Something tells me they will. There’s still enough kerosene hidden away in that giant crevasse to take them round the world. Looks like their base.”
After that the boys tramped on in silence.
The fish, broiled over a fire of coals, were delicious. When they had devoured the whole string, Stew thought of dessert.
“How about a banana?” he suggested.
“They haven’t had time to ripen yet,” replied Jack. Stew sprang to his feet, took one look at the tree from which the bananas hung, then exclaimed in a whisper:
“Jeepers! Look who’s here!”
On top of the bunch, holding a banana, sat a small monkey with a dried-up manlike face.
“Wait!” Jack whispered. “I’ll give him a surprise!” Creeping up very softly, he suddenly popped up within five feet of the monkey.
Oddly enough, the monkey did not appear to be the least bit startled. Looking Jack in the eye, he stared at him solemnly for a space of seconds, then with both tiny hands gripping it, he held out the banana.
“Somebody’s pet!” Stew exclaimed.
“He sure is!” Jack agreed. “And look! There’s a silver chain around his neck!”
“Here, monk!” Going closer, he patted his shoulder, and said in a quiet voice:
“Jump, boy, jump!”
And the monkey jumped. A moment later the little monkey was nestled in Jack’s arms.
“What do you know about that!” Stew exclaimed.
“And what do you know about this?” Jack echoed. “This chain on his neck is tagged. Why, it’s the identification disk of an Army nurse. What do you suppose that means?”
“Might mean almost anything,” said Stew. “Perhaps she came ashore here, shipwrecked, or something, and the natives ate her.”
“That, in my estimation, is out,” Jack said, stroking the monkey’s head.
“How come?”
“If that were true, this monkey must have belonged to the natives. The theory would be that they saved the tag and put it round the monkey’s neck.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Just this. Monkeys are very particular about the company they keep. If this one belonged to the natives he’d never make friends with a couple of plane-wrecked white men.”
“All right then, he belonged to the nurse. The monkey escaped, but the nurse was eaten.”
“I still think you’re wrong,” Jack insisted. “It will be dark in a short time,” he added. “We’ll just wander over for a look at the natives. Then perhaps we’ll know what to think.”
“And perhaps we won’t,” Stew laughed softly. “Anyway, it’s worth trying.”
CHAPTER X
“HIST THERE! YOU!”
Two hours later, peering from a thicket of tall ferns and sprouting palms, the two boys were witnessing one of the most fascinating moving pictures from real life that they had ever chanced upon. About a broad fire of coals was a group of thirty or forty natives. Some were seated on palm logs, and some were standing. All were talking and laughing.
“Um-m-m! Lead me to it!” Stew whispered.
The object of his desire hung dripping over the glowing coals. A small porker, bound to an iron rod that slowly turned him over and over, had reached a shade of delicious, golden brown.
“And barbecued pork is the thing I am fondest of.” Stew’s whisper betrayed real agony.
“We’ll barbecue one some time,” was Jack’s only reply. He had been studying the group intently. They were a motley throng. There were big, dark-skinned men in the group who could have placed him across a knee and broken his back. There were dark-eyed, laughing children that anyone could love.
The men, for the most part, wore cotton trousers. Some of the women wore dresses, some only cotton skirts, and some were in native grass skirts.
“There’s that tall, slim one turning the roast,” Jack whispered.
“What tall, slim one?” Stew replied.
“Oh! I didn’t tell you!” Jack laughed softly. “I’ve seen her before.”
“You would!” Stew mocked.
Over near one corner of the fire two dusky maidens were baking some sort of cakes and stacking them in appetizing piles. The roasting of the porker appeared to have been left to the tall, slim girl. She turned and twisted it, prodded it with a huge fork, then turned it again. At last, taking up a large knife, she cut off a slice, held it up, and blew on it to cool it.
At once from the throng rose an expectant murmur. Stew joined in.
“Keep still, Stew!” Jack warned in a whisper.
Without really knowing why, Jack had brought the monkey on his shoulder. Now the little fellow stirred uneasily.
The girl at last handed the slice of bronzed pork to an old man with a long, wrinkled face.
Carving off a small portion, he put it in his mouth. For a space of seconds his face was a study. Then it was lighted by a wide grin. He said a single word. At that the crowd exploded with joyous anticipation.
“It’s done. The porker is roasted. And we don’t get even a bite,” Stew groaned. “What a life!”
Then a strange thing happened. The crowd lapsed into silence. Only the snapping of bursting coals could be heard as the natives bowed their heads while the girl said a few words in a low tone.
“Grace before meat,” Stew whispered. “What more can you ask?”
“Plenty,” was Jack’s reply. “The Nazis and the Japs also pray. Then they go out to massacre women, children, and helpless prisoners of war. We’ll wait and see.”
As if this scene awakened memories in his small brain, the monkey on Jack’s shoulder stirred, danced for a second, then gave an immense leap that landed him almost in the center of the throng.
“Now we’ve got to beat it! They’ll be looking for us! Let’s scram!”
It was a disconsolate Stew who trudged along the native trail toward their camp. “Lot we gained by that!” he grumbled. “Just a look at a grand feed! They were putting slices of pork between cakes when we left. Besides, we lost our monkey!”
“We know more about the natives now,” said Jack.
“Lot more. They say grace and eat nurses!” Stew mocked.
“We couldn’t prove that. Perhaps the nurse gave them her dog tag.”
“Fine chance!” Stew lapsed into silence.
Jack was not thinking of the natives now, but of Ted, Kentucky, and all the other fellows on the Black Bee. “If they attack Mindanao before we get back to the ship, I’ll never recover,” he thought.
“Hush!” Stew stopped to listen.
Faint and far away they caught a long-drawn wail like a bow drawn slowly over the C string of a violin.
“The Howler is coming back to roost,” said Stew.
“Sounds that way,” Jack agreed.
“Boy! I’d like to have one more look at that plane!” Stew said eagerly.
“We’ll take a good look one of these times,” Jack assured him. “We’ve seen enough for one day.”
They stood there listening until the howl of the rapidly approaching mystery plane had reached its height, then, as on that other night, wavered and ceased.
“They’re here all right,” Stew said, as they paused on a tall, barren rock to look back. On the spot where the plane had been parked before, they caught the gleam of a wavering light.
When they reached the beach, ready to start on the last quarter mile of their walk, they paused once more. The tide was coming in. Above the rushing sound of the breakers on the beach they had caught a bump—bump—bump. After ten seconds of listening, they heard a loud crash.
“What’s that?” Stew asked in surprise.
“Don’t ask me. Let’s go see.” Flashlight in hand, Jack was clambering over the rocks.
“It’s a life raft,” he called back a moment later. “Waves threw it on the rocks. Come on! Let’s grab it before a bigger wave carries it back.”
It was a large raft, wet and slippery. They got a good ducking before they had the raft high and dry. They were soon to learn that it was worth their effort.
“It’s a Jap raft!” Stew exclaimed. He had discovered Japanese characters on a sealed metal cannister.
“Must have come from a carrier,” suggested Jack. “Too big for a cruiser or a destroyer.”
“I’ll bet it came from that carrier we spotted!” Stew exploded, becoming greatly excited. “Boy! Oh boy! Our bombers got them!”
Jack was not too sure of this. However, they soon established the fact that the raft was undamaged and had no broken lines attached to it, so it could not have been blown from the carrier by a bomb. Then Jack was convinced that the Japs must have lost the raft in trying to launch it while under fire, and that the carrier must have been sunk.
“That’s swell!” he sighed. “Means we’ve been some use to our country. I hope Ted and all the rest got home safely.”
“It’s great news!” Stew agreed. “But that means our task force finished that job twenty-four hours ago, so where are they now?”
“You tell me,” Jack sighed.
“But say!” Stew exclaimed. “There are three or four big sealed cans attached to the raft. Let’s cut them loose and take them in.”
“Sure! That’s what we’ll do!” Jack agreed. “Then we’ll open them and see what kind of luck we’ve had.”
They carried away the three large cans, to open them later by the light of a small fire built among huge rocks, where the glow would not show.
One can they found to be filled with food—packages of rice and tea, bars of bitter chocolate, and small tins of fish. They put away these supplies against some evil day.
The second can also contained some food. Besides this there was a quantity of first-aid material. Finding this in good condition, they stowed it away carefully.
The last can promised to be the grand prize, provided they could figure it out. It was a small radio sending set, powered by electricity generated by turning a crank.
“It’s an imitation of our American emergency radio,” Jack declared after looking it over. “Take a lot of doping out, but it’s our best bet for getting in touch with our ship. We’ll get busy on it first thing in the morning.
“And now,” he added in a changed voice, “how would you like to grab a few winks of sleep while I guard camp and solve some of the problems of the universe?”
“Nothing would suit me better.” Stew yawned. “It’s been a long day.”
It was a gloomy little world Jack watched over that night. Dark clouds had come rolling in at sunset. They had thinned out a little now, giving the moon an occasional peek at him.
“Just enough to give some prowler a shot at us in the night,” he grumbled to himself. He wished he knew who those men were with the propellerless plane. How was he to find out? Ask the natives? But were these natives to be trusted? Missionaries had beyond a doubt been here, but they weren’t here now. “How long does it take these primitive people to drop back into their old ways?” he asked himself. But he found no answer.
“Things will work themselves out,” he reasoned hopefully.
After that he gave himself over to thoughts of the folks at home. Dad and Mom seated by the fire—Patsy in the house next door, studying perhaps, or entertaining one of the 4-H boys. How shadowy and far away it all seemed now.
He was deep in the midst of all this when suddenly, as the moon cast a patch of light on his beach and the cluster of palms not twenty yards away, he was startled by a voice at his very elbow.
“Hist there! You!” it whispered.
Startled, but standing his ground, he gripped his automatic, then in his hoarsest whisper answered:
“Hist back to you!”
CHAPTER XI
NIGHT FIGHTERS
Jack’s conclusions regarding the Black Bee’s fight with the Jap task force were correct. After he and Stew had been driven from the scene of fighting and had abandoned their plane on the sea, the U. S. dive bombers had come in for their deadly work. Diving from twelve thousand feet, they had released their bombs at a thousand feet. Some bombs missed their mark. Others made contact. One fell forward on the Jap carrier, killing a gun crew. Two fell almost directly on the propeller, rendering it useless. While the carrier ran around in wide circles, the torpedo bombers closed in. Judging the enemy’s probable position at a given moment, they released their “tin fish” with such deadly accuracy that one side of the carrier was blown away. Just as the Japs began abandoning ship, the carrier blew up.
A squadron of U. S. dive bombers that had arrived too late to work on the carrier, went after the fleeing cruisers, which did not pause to pick up their own men struggling in the water. Two cruisers were sunk, and one left in flames.
Ted had limped back to his own waters to make a crash landing in the sea close to the Black Bee, and to be picked up by a PT boat. All in all it was a glorious fight. One U.S. fighter and his gunner were permanently lost. They had been seen to fall flaming into the sea. A service was read for these men by the chaplain.
The Commander lost no time in letting his men know that this battle was in the nature of an accident and that the real goal of the task force at that time still lay ahead.
All day they steamed rapidly toward the west.
“It’s Mindanao,” Kentucky, Ted’s flying partner, said to him. “We’re going to hit them where they live, in the Philippines. And will we take revenge!” Kentucky’s eyes were half closed as he looked away to the west. Ted knew that at that moment he was thinking of “the best pal I ever knowed,” as Kentucky had expressed it to him, whose grave had been dug the day after the smoke cleared from Pearl Harbor.
“Did the Commander tell you it was going to be Mindanao?” Ted asked.
“No. But I’m plumb certain it has to be from the course we’re taking,” was the answer. “Just you wait an’ see! Some evening about sundown we’ll be meetin’ up with another task force. An’ then, man! You’ll really see some fightin’ ships!”
They did fulfill a rendezvous at sunset, but the force they met did not fit into Kentucky’s picture. It consisted of four transports, three cargo vessels and their escorts, two cruisers, and three destroyers.
The two forces moved into position, then steamed on toward the west. Two hours later the Commander called Kentucky into the chart room. Since Ted was with him at the time, he invited him to accompany them.
“You too may be in on this,” he said to Ted as they entered the brightly lighted cabin. “So you might as well know what it’s all about.”
Wasting no time, he led the boys to a large chart spread out on a table.
“This is where we are,” he said, pointing to a spot on the chart with a pencil.
“And this is about where we were during the battle with the Jap task force, is it not, sir?” Ted too pointed.
“Right,” said the Commander.
“Then Jack and Stew, if they made it, are on one of these three islands?” Ted pointed again.
“That seems probable.” Then, reading the look of longing on Ted’s face, the Commander added, “Everything in its time, son. We do not desert our boys if it can be helped. I am sure you shall yet play a part in the rescue of your buddies.
“But now,” his voice changed, “there is other work to be done—dangerous work. This island,” he pointed once again, “is our present destination.”
“Not Mindanao then, sir?” Kentucky heaved a sigh of disappointment, for the Commander had pointed to a small island just inside a coral reef.
“Not Mindanao this time.” The Commander smiled. “This is to be a step in that direction. At present we do not have a force large enough for that undertaking. But some time we’ll hit Mindanao, and hit it hard,” he added.
“That’s good news, sir,” said Kentucky.
“Now we have another mission.” The Commander’s voice dropped. “The troops we are convoying tonight are to be landed shortly after dawn. Just before dawn we shall attack, using planes and warships.”
“Tear them to pieces!” Kentucky beamed.
“We hope to. But first,” the Commander weighed his words, “we may run into trouble. And that’s where you boys come in.”
“What sort of trouble, sir?” Ted asked quickly.
“Land-based torpedo planes, perhaps.” The Commander spoke slowly. “We are not quite sure the Japs have them. We do know there’s a landing field on the island.”
“We’ll take them fast enough if they come after us, sir.” Kentucky squared his shoulders.
“At night it is not so easy,” was the quiet reply.
“Night!” Ted stared.
“Your squadron has been making practice flights at night recently,” said the Commander. “That wasn’t for fun.”
“I—I suppose not.” Ted was trying to think what going after torpedo bombers at night would be like. “Exciting,” he told himself. “And very dangerous.”
“In the past,” the Commander spoke once more, “our task forces have been destroying their torpedo planes long before they reached us in the daytime. So—”
“So they’re going to come after us in the dark, sir?” Kentucky suggested.
“Our Intelligence Service has strongly hinted at it,” said the Commander. “So,” he drew a deep breath, “I thought you, Kentucky, would like to call for four volunteers to be ready for night fighting, just in case they come after us.”
“Count me in on that, sir—that is, if you think I’m good enough,” Ted volunteered.
“You’re plenty good,” said Kentucky. “Your plane was shot up. Got a new one yet?”
“Sure have, same kind of a plane,” said Ted.
“Good. Then you’re on,” Kentucky agreed.
“We’ll be in the vicinity of the island by midnight,” said the Commander. “Have your planes in position ready to take off at a moment’s notice. Two destroyers will move in close far ahead of us. If Jap planes take off they will notify us. You won’t forget the soldiers crowded on those transports? Transports are vulnerable.”
“We won’t forget, sir.” There was a look of determination on Kentucky’s lean face as he left the chart room.
It was an hour after midnight when word came from the radio cabin that twelve night torpedo bombers had left the shore of the Jap-held island.
At once there was hurried, excited action, but no confusion. The four night fighter planes were warmed up. The fliers took their places, tested their guns, studied their instruments, then settled back.
Besides Kentucky and Ted, there were Red Garber and Blackie Dawson. The ship carried no better fighters than these.
“Remember, fellows,” Kentucky called just before they parted, “the thing to do is to rip right in and get them confused. That way they’ll think there are a lot of us.”
“And they’ll start shooting one another up,” Red laughed.
One by one they cleared the deck to soar away into the night.
The night was not all dark. The moon came out at times, but not for long. Clouds went scudding across the sky.
“We’re not a moment too soon,” Ted thought as in a brief period of moonlight he caught sight of a dark bulk against the night sky.
“There they are!” came in a quiet tone over his radio. It was Kentucky speaking. “Let’s bear down on them. Can’t hold formation. Every man for himself. Choose your targets carefully. We can’t have lights on. They’d get us sure. But let us not shoot one another up.”
They bore down upon the advancing enemy.
It was an exciting moment, but to Ted everything seemed strangely unreal.
“Like a dream,” he told himself.
He knew soon enough that it was no dream. Underestimating their combined speed, he almost ran into the foremost enemy plane. He was seen, but by the time guns rattled, he was not there. Going into a stall, he circled left, then came up below the bomber formation.
“Well, I had a look at them,” he told himself. They were powerful two-motored planes. He had tried as he passed under them to estimate their speed.
Suddenly, off to the right there came the quick rat-tat-tat of machine-gun fire.
“That’s Kentucky!” He thrilled to his fingertips. “I wonder what luck!”
That was all the time he had for speculation. He was now behind the enemy formation, swinging into position. And there, again, was the moon. To his great joy, he found that the bombers were between him and the moon, where they could be clearly seen.
With a sudden increase in speed he came up on the last plane, let out a burst of fire, then, swinging right, poured a second volley into the next plane. Then again all was dark.
To his surprise, in the midst of this darkness he heard gunfire—heard it again, and yet again. “They’re at it!” he exulted. “Fighting one another.”
Then suddenly the sky about him was all alight. A hundred yards away a big Jap plane had burst into flame.
With a gasp, he pointed his plane’s nose down and dropped into space. He was not a second too soon, for the exploding plane all but blew him into the sea.
When he had righted himself, he wondered momentarily whether or not that plane was his kill.
Then the moon came out. By that time some of the bombers, now badly scattered, were some distance away. Once again the moon painted a picture. A small plane, like a catbird after a hawk, darted at the bomber.
“Kentucky!” he shouted aloud. “Good old Kentucky! Give it to him!” He saw the flash of fire, heard the rattle, then his picture was gone.
Ten seconds later the sky was lighted once again by a burning bomber sinking toward the sea.
Off to the left another bomber exploded with a roar. One of the other night fighters had gotten his man.
“They’re scattered now,” Ted thought as he set his plane climbing. “Their torpedoes will never reach their marks. They—”
His thoughts were interrupted. The moon having come out once more, he found himself above a Jap torpedo plane. Tilting his plane at a rakish angle he fired straight down. His shots were answered by a burst of fire from a small free machine gun. The slugs ripped into his motor.