Fighter Pilot

Bullets whizzed by the cockpit of my P34 fighter plane, piercing the windshield as a hot breeze whistled in, only increasing the sweat rolling down my skin. I was trying to dodge the Zero that was closing in fast. Climbing was the only thing I could do better, so I sent Betty Grable nearly straight up until I hit a big cloud.

Now that I'd made it in, the Zero wouldn't be able to find me. The foggy wet mass was blinding, but on instruments and instinct, I managed to circle around in it for ten minutes while figuring out what to do next. The Zero knew I could outclimb him so he was probably lurking above, waiting for me to shoot it out.

That's why I dove out of the bottom of the cloud, but the Zero had outthought me and was waiting underneath. In no time, he was on my tail, firing fusillades of hot lead. This time, he shredded an aileron and flamed out one of my engines. With a loss of airspeed and fighting for control, he had to zoom by me, looping around for the kill.

About two miles away was an island, so I headed for it, low to the water, and hoped I could make it in time. The Zero saw that I was headed for a crash landing and was done for, which didn't stop him from peppering me with another dose of artillery. Then he finally peeled off, laughing no doubt, as I looked at an island looming up in a hurry with no place to attempt a landing.

A water landing onto the beach seemed best, but I didn't want to be there when it happened. I set the autopilot and hit the eject button. Suddenly, I was 400 feet above the ocean and immediately yanked open my parachute. The plane performed well, scudding in sideways about 50 feet from shore before coming to rest with its nose in the sand. Meanwhile, I was desperately trying to aim myself toward land, having no desire to plop way out in the ocean. I almost made it.

A hundred yards away wasn't too bad so I shucked off the 'chute and swam the rest of the way in. My hand was still bleeding from the broken glass so I wrapped it with a piece of ripped off shirttail before collapsing in exhaustion. That rest didn't last long as I knew I had work to do.

Good ol' Betty. She'd carried me to safety and would never fly again. I scrambled into the cockpit to salvage what I could: a flashlight, some candy bars, a few other things that might come in useful. They don't stock these things with very much. They expect you back in a couple of hours - if you come back. As I clambered back out, I saw several feet away a group of dark-skinned natives, painted and carrying spears. That 'if you come back' looked pretty iffy to me right then.

What could I do but put my hands up in the air and smile? They weren't the smiling type. Here I am, thousands of miles from home on some obscure little island. I'm fighting for these people and what do I get? I probably get to be the main entree at tonight's cannibal feast. One of them stepped forward and pointed his spear at me. Then he pointed it down the beach toward the mountain.

"White man."

Hey! He speaks English.

'I'm a, er... Me, white man."

"White man," he repeated, pointed towards the mountain again, started down the beach, and waved at me to follow him. I had no choice but to comply. A couple of other natives fell in behind me. Running away was out of the question. There would be sharp spears in my back before I got a few steps. There was nothing to do but grimly accept my fate. whatever that might be.

After about an hour of winding up a tortuous trail and I'm glad they were leading the way, we came to a tiny shack on a promontory. Out of it emerged a tall man with curly blond hair wearing regulation khaki shorts and no shirt. He looked me over then put out his hand.

"G'day, Mate. Nice to see a Yank up here for a change. 'Ow's it going, cobber?"

An Australian, way up here? He exchanged a few guttural sentences with the natives until they waved goodbye and sped silently back down the trail.

"I reckon you're the pilot of that plane that crashed a couple of hours ago. Lucky one, you. I didn't think you'd make it."

"I parachuted. There might be some useful stuff in that plane if we go back down there tomorrow."

He gave a hearty laugh. "No need, Mate. It won't be there. The natives will be dismantling it straightaway. They have uses for all that stuff, and by morning, you'd never know it was ever there. Come on in for a spot of java, as you call it, only this is the real stuff, from Java."

The little hut was sparse: a cot, a few books, some cooking things, a little clothing, and a large chest on the floor by the window. I asked him:

"So what do you do here?"

He opened up the worn metal chest and had me look. Inside there was a radio transmitter, a pair of binoculars, and a high-powered telescope.

"Bird watching?"

He laughed again. If birds is what you call Japanese planes and ships. I keep an eye out for those buggers, and when I see something, I radio in the exact number and direction. I travel light because they triangulate the signal and fly over to wipe me out. The bastards haven't got me yet," he added with another big laugh.

He told me about working for his father on a cattle ranch not too far from Melbourne, the wide open spaces and fresh air down in Oz. Also, of many a wild Saturday night when he could make it into town. I had a similar story from growing up in the cornfields of Nebraska. The man knew more dirty jokes than I had ever heard. We drank coconut milk straight from one he had slashed open with his machete and chomped on some hardtack.

"We'd better get some sleep. Long day tomorrow. We'll parley more then."

A variety of caws and coos woke me just before dawn. The brightly plumaged birds flitted about as if they owned the place, which of course they did. The Aussie spent most of the day scanning the sea and sky. We saw one convoy of about 25 ships move through in the early morning and later a squadron of bombers and fighter planes heading east. He was on the radio after each sighting giving out exact positions and enemy strength. All the while he filled me in on his life there and his background. We dragged the radio case out into the woods, and then it was party time.

Near dusk, we made our way down to the village where a feast was in progress. There was dancing and delicious food, a welcome relief from the months of hardtack, and the natives welcomed us warmly. Some of the children were dancing too and everyone was arrayed in their best finery. Some of the girls were so pretty, I was thinking I could live here if it weren't for the heat and mosquitoes. I heard some gunfire in the distance but he said to pay no attention to it. Full and drowsy, we finally made our way back to the hut. It was shredded.

"Not to worry, Mate. I knew they'd try and shut me up. The Japs triangulate the radio signals which is how they found my little shack. That's why we put the radio in a safe place. I'll tidy up the inside and leave the outside just as it is so maybe they'll think they got me. Ha"

"I'm not sure I'd like being shot at all the time. Is there a way off this island?

"I was waiting for you to ask that. There'll be a seaplane landing tomorrow that you can hitch a ride on. Eventually you'll end up in Sydney, where I reckon you'll be due a month's R&R. Lot's of sheilas left down there, Mate. How does that sound?"

"Works for me, Mate."