Somewhere West of Fiji Read online

  The fact is, I read where a downed pilot, not unlike myself, was beheaded by their military in some kind of time–honored ceremony. And since then it has been corroborated by many of their other sickening atrocities. But you can bet that before this War is over, we will have committed a few of our own. The point is: these islands are lousy with Japanese. And I better hope and pray if I land near one or paddle to one that it turns out to be uninhabited.

  At any rate, I’ve got to concentrate on finding an island–any island. I have seen several and they all look alike. I’ve got to settle on one and then land in the water and then scuttle the airplane–if I don’t, some patrol boat or larger vessel will spot it and send troops ashore to look for me. That’s what the survival instructor said, anyway; it makes perfect sense now, even if I wasn’t paying too close attention to him then. But with my luck you better believe it will happen sooner than later.

  I placed the mixture controls forward in full rich as part of the regular landing procedure when I glimpsed the next one of any real size. This mixture is more important now than at any other time, because I have the engines leaned out more than usual for the altitude I’ve been flying. The leaner they are the less fuel they use but the hotter they run. If you left them leaned-out they would starve for fuel and quit on descent. A “dead-stick” landing on instruments is not the best position to be in. I would be in a much worse predicament than I am in already.

  The engines began cooling off and I turned on the carburetor heaters. These beauties have “Holley’s,” with the new neoprene throats that are not supposed to ice up and kill the engines. But the latest “poop from group” is that they will if the manifold pressure is reduced, and the outside temperature is just right and there is enough moisture in the air. No doubt there is enough, so I’m not taking any chances.

  I lowered the flaps as the airspeed fell off, all the while watching the flight indicator to make sure the nose is not too far below the horizon. The rate of descent showed normal on both the altimeter and the rate of climb indicator.

  At three thousand, I went through the rest of the cockpit check, switching tanks and turning on fuel booster pumps. I lowered flaps to further reduce air speed. At one thousand, I stopped bucking around a little and a few minutes later the cockpit started to brighten up.

  The rain is still coming down in sheets and I can see an occasional flash of lightening. I’m not afraid of being electrocuted if I did get hit. Likely as not, though, I will lose electrical power to my instruments. But just as important, I will be temporarily blinded at the critical touch down point. Everything has to work just right or I can quit worrying about sleeping in a wet bed and start worrying about drowning in a wet ocean.

  The next thing is to place my two propellers in the increase RPM position to insure I have enough power in the event I need to pull up or go around. That will happen if I find myself descending into a mountain or a bunch of palm trees.

  At three hundred feet, I broke out of the clouds and lowered my flaps all the way but not my landing gear. No beautiful firm sandy beach waits below as in the movies. But the sea is there all right and it is raging. Worse than that there are breakers out my port window. I can see them as I head into the wind with minimum flying speed for a crash landing. I need to concentrate on touching the water on the other side of the breakers or risk drowning while attempting to get to my life raft. If I can, I might be able to save the airplane and end up in shallow enough water to walk to the beach.

  I hit the water with a jolt, and as the nose of the nacelle contacted the waves it threw me forward violently against the shoulder straps attached to my seat. My head was thrown forward, stopping short of contacting the control wheel that is pulled back against my chest in the aircraft stalled position. Nevertheless, I hit the instrument panel with my head almost breaking my neck.

  My first thought was of her and what she might say about this nasty bruise. Then after hanging in my straps for another few minutes, I realize I have been dreaming. I have made it, though. But she won’t be waiting for me in base operations as I dreamt she would. I am fully conscious now and she has left me without saying goodbye. But I have survived. I have crash landed near and island inside the reef somewhere west of Fiji–exactly where, I have no idea.

  Chapter 2

  “The thing to remember about a crash landing in a fighter is not to panic. Don’t mess with the canopy until you come to a full stop.” My instructor also said, “don’t worry too much about fire, likely you’re not going to explode or catch fire until you stop. Then be careful with the canopy. Don’t panic and do stop monkeying with it. There’s a certain way it unlatches, and then it either moves back on rails or it swings up. Concentrate. Don’t forget which airplane you’re in and lose precious time fumbling around with the canopy.

  “While you’re bouncing along the ground, hang on and ride her out. She will eventually stop and settle down, smoking. If you don’t hit something, and if you’re belted in, chances are you’re not going to run out of seat or aluminum bottom and go skidding across country on your own assets.

  “When you stop, get out. If she looks like she’s not going to blow or catch fire, start worrying about helping somebody else if there is somebody else. If there’s gas on the ground, get away. Get away fast. And don’t sit down a few yards away and think about how lucky you are. If you do, you’re going to get blown up and you will have wasted your time.”

  These things are going through my head as I concentrate on lifting the canopy. I have been told not to worry. If it ever happens, my instructor will be here talking to me all the while. It is true. He was here. But then, he faded away–I lost track of him and his voice, quickly.

  I’m not willing to admit I panicked but maybe I did. But, whatever, I forgot my things and of course the drinking water, in my hurry to swim around to the compartment in the starboard boom housing the life raft.

  Both of the twin booms are under water, which means I can’t get at the life raft. But then the tide is apparently out and the water is not that deep.

  But what about the airplane and the Japanese–how am I going to sink her? She appears to be grounded on the sandy bottom. I can’t tell, but hopefully the waves will carry her across the reef out into deeper water and she will sink of her own accord.

  But how do I even know there is a reef–because all of these islands have reefs. Most of them are built by volcanic action but there are these little animals that live and die forming a ragged hard coral reef that surrounds the island.

  Sailors always refer to their ships as she. And in the first person, too, as though she is alive. But I’m no sailor, so what’s up. I can only conclude that now she’s dying, I have fallen in love with her. To be sure, she is a thing of beauty but so are all airplanes. But this one now, with those beautiful reliable in-line engines, and those two long twin booms narrowing-down at the tail section, resembling a woman’s legs, are truly something worth gazing at if you have the time. Funny, I have begun thinking of her as a “she” now that I’m going to lose her. In my mind, she is no longer an “it.”

  I read somewhere that real men think of machinery as beautiful. And I’ve heard it said, they all think that way about their automobiles. And let me add airplanes–maybe they’re the most beautiful inanimate objects of all. But that’s the thing of it: they don’t think of them as being inanimate. Through some kind of crazy thought transference, they see then as human and beautiful. I’m not sure I know what I’m talking about–I just know they do.

  When I was very young, I recall having received a truck from Santa Clause. All day long I played with it as though it was going to disappear if I put it down. That night, I took it to bed and put my arms around it. Don’t ask me why, but those thoughts were not exclusive to trucks. That’s the way I always thought about airplanes, even now I think that way.

  I often pumped miles to the airport when I was older, where the army reservists kept a hanger with two airplanes. True, they had open cockp
its and two wings and they were not very fast–but the pilots loved them–I could tell. And me: I loved them, too, they could tell. I used to hang around with them, staying out of the way but listening and watching. When they rolled them out Saturday morning, I was often there. I would find a place on a wing to take hold to help push. It was just an excuse to touch them. They never said anything, they knew. Every red-blooded boy of the times knew. That’s why pulp-writers spoke fondly of the “golden age of aviation” and the “romance of aviation.” Many referred to them as “ships.” That gave them an excuse for calling them “she.”

  A few weeks ago, an army bomber pilot spotted several Japanese carrier aircraft below him. He reported them to the navy as ships. The navy naturally believed they were war ships of the line, and forwarded their position and course to one of their carriers. They in turn launched dive-bombers and torpedo bombers, expecting to engage a task force headed for Guadalcanal. But they were not ships they were airplanes. We were immediately briefed that all airplanes, from now on, would be referred to as airplanes and not ships. How long this will last is anybody’s guess. But to my way of thinking it won’t be for long.

  Just before I touched down, I thought I saw mountains in the gathering dusk. I’m almost sure there is a canopy of trees off the beach and a thick jungle containing mixed trees rising to mountains in the distance. This part about mixed trees, I can’t be sure, I just figure there are and I’m hoping there are. In the back of my mind, I’m already thinking about suitable wood for building a raft and sailing to Fiji or back to the Solomon’s. But where are they and how far away are they?

  Quickening thoughts they are, with no substance. I am tired, wet and cold and prone to thinking about most anything at all–Gene is my favorite subject. I know how my mind works under stress and I have to caution myself to think about one thing at a time

  I’m glad I don’t have to worry about getting across the reef without a raft, and maybe skinning myself to death. This might become a worry though if the tide takes her past the breakers. I’m going to want to come back I’m sure in the next few days, maybe even tomorrow. I’ve got to get the map if I’m ever to get off this island.

  The thing about breakers and reefs if you can survive the first few seconds without being thrown on to the reef, you can usually walk or swim to shore with relative ease

  Halfway to shore, I glanced back over my shoulder. I left off thinking about Gene for a minute and thought about food and water. The only sure source was still in the airplane. Did I want to walk back? No guarantee she will still be there tomorrow. And it’s almost dark. When it gets dark in these islands it gets real dark–black dark, as in no light at all. Until the moon comes up, you literally can’t see your hand in front of your face. I have this on good authority and I don’t need to see for myself.

  Time enough in the morning to go back. I just hope she will still be there.

  There has to be water on the island, though, it rains often enough–but what about maps and my clothes?

  What about my wallet? Military I. D. can be replaced and so can my shot record, but what about her picture? It’s the only one I have of her and the baby. I can get them replaced but do I want to wait?

  But wait a minute. I should be home in a few weeks. I heard they give you sixty days survivors leave if you go down at sea. They aren’t interested in the reason, you only have to go down and survive.

  Army Air Force airplanes fly a couple of times a week in and out of Fiji. From Hawaii, they fly daily to the mainland. Once there, you can catch one going almost anyplace in the country. No problem replacing the picture. I’ll get one updated with her and the boy.

  I had everything worked out before I got anywhere near the beach. Stress causes you to think like that–in double-time. They say too much adrenalin for too long causes it. Settle down and relax, I tell myself. That’s what the medics in survival school were teaching. And don’t put too much stock in simple solutions to complex problems if you’ve been under a lot of stress.

  The tide is still going out and the beach seems to go on forever. Some beaches are like that. Some are also violent. I mean they begin abruptly, sharp upward slanting with breakers just a few yards out from where the water begins; and rip currents that are dangerous to the uninitiated. I’ve seen some in Hawaii like that and at Balboa in Southern California. I’ve even been caught in a rip and not known what was happening until I was fifty yards at sea.

  In every flying school class there’s at least a couple of cadets from California. Most of them are experienced with beaches and breakers. And most of them love to talk–they are homesick. Most of my practical knowledge about the subject comes from listening to them, except for body surfing in big waves at Balboa. And on that, I’m something of an expert myself. And of course, when I tried them it was my luck the surf was running high. But unless I plan to go beyond the breakers here, none of this experience will do me any good.

  This beach is low and smooth and I needn’t worry about any rip currents unless there’s an earthquake, somewhere. I read about them in school and I even discussed them with a few native Hawaiian’s. I asked them why they didn’t build their homes closer to the water where the expensive hotels were located. They told me the natives prefer homes on high ground. “Let the ‘Hoales’ have the low ground, with it comes destruction from the big waves.”

  They told me about tidal waves following earthquakes, and the terrible loss of life at Hilo on the big island in the thirties and from another one later. Some of their relatives told them of their experience with these kinds of big waves. Beware of low beaches in the South Pacific is their watchwords. But I have more important things to think about right now than tidal waves.

  They were right it is dark, I can’t see a thing–I’m blind. I guess you might say I have learned my first practical lesson in survival. Don’t get caught away from your camp after the sun goes down. Make sure you’re settled in for the night before that happens. I have no flashlight and no beach fire, nothing, not even a candle and it’s not likely things are going to improve much in the near future. I have to make up my mind; I’m going to have to live as the natives do–whether I like it or not.

  I have a couple of things going for me, though. One is I have read Robinson Crusoe. I have also seen the army’s training film How to Land And Live in The Jungle. Then there’s my Boy Scout training; all I remember from that, though, is don’t get too far from drinking water. Being thirsty is a bad thing–it catches up to you. Dehydration comes on fast. Making sure you have water needs to be the first thing on your list. Don’t even think about anything else until you have found a source of water.

  I went on a scout hike in the mountains without a canteen once and was without water for a half a day. It was one of the worst experiences of my life. I never forgot it. And I don’t intend doing anything now, either, until I first find a source of fresh water. Forget going back to the airplane, and forget looking for my raft in the morning until I find water.

  There might just be a couple of other things the scouts taught me that was worth remembering. One of them is how to build a fire without matches. I don’t have any, and I know you can’t do it by rubbing two sticks together. I don’t care how the sticks go, whether you spin them with some kind of string and bow or work all day until your hands are raw rubbing them; I mean kneeling down and rubbing as hard as you can while holding one between your knees. Forget it–two sticks in any scheme or configuration won’t work.

  When I was growing up I lived for a few years in the mountains in a mining town. I used to go up in the hills and roast potatoes with some older boys who were scouts. More than a few times we used all our matches trying to start a fire. And not wanting to walk home to get more, we tried the stick method. Never got close to starting a fire by rubbing sticks–not one time.

  I don’t intend to spend one minute rubbing sticks; I don’t need to learn that lesson all over again. I wish I had those potatoes, though, the ones I threw away bec
ause I didn’t want to eat them raw.

  The only way to do it is with what scouts call “flint and steel” or a “magnifying glass.” If you lack either one, you have no fire. That’s about all I took away from scout training–that and I don’t especially like raw potatoes.

  Having said all that, I did hear about an exhibition once where an islander made a fire with wood. But I understand he used a soft wood something like balsa. He made a pile of shavings and then used a thin pointed hardwood shaft in a groove of soft wood. He did rub but against this grooved very soft and porous wood that had a lot of friction. I am not sure there is any wood of that sort around here. But I definitely know it won’t work with any other kind.

  The sun comes up early in the islands. That is it does if there are no mountains blocking it. There are some here, and pretty high too that begin just back of the beach. My watch stopped. Salt water is not a good lubricant for watches, and I have no idea how high the sun is above the horizon because I have no horizon.

  I have been reconsidering changing my mind and trying for the airplane first thing this morning. Maybe I can get the eight-day clock from the instrument panel, also the compass, my maps and of course the can of water and my clothes. But do I want to gamble she’s still there. If she isn’t if she is beyond the reef and the breakers and I try it, I might be a goner. I only have about three days to go without water and fighting breakers and doing what needs to be done is going to use up, maybe, the equivalent of two of them. Then what? And I don’t have a screwdriver to remove the compass or anything resembling one. So I’ll be making the trip really for my shorts and the maps, and of course the water. Do I want to chance it? I don’t know? But I would retrieve my wallet from my shorts–other than her picture, though, there isn’t much in it of any value. But right now that picture is really important.