Night Over the Solomons

He was lying facedown under the mangroves about forty feet back from the sea on the southwest side of Kolombangara Island in the Solomons.

For two hours he had been lying without moving a muscle while two dozen Japanese soldiers worked nearby, preparing a machine-gun position.

Where he lay there were shadows, and scattered driftwood. He was concealed only by his lack of movement, although the outline of his body was blurred by broken timber and some odds and ends of rubbish, drifted ashore.

Now, the soldiers worked farther away. He believed they would soon move on. Then, and then only, would he dare to move. To be found, he knew, meant instant death.

He was dressed only in a ragged shirt, and the faded serge pants hastily donned in his escape from the sinking ship. The supply ship had been bombed and sunk in Blackett Strait, en route to Guadalcanal. If there were other survivors, he had seen none of them.

That he had lived while others died was due to one thing, and one thing only—he was, first and last, a fighting man, with the fighting man’s instinct for timed, decisive action.

He was not, he reflected, much of a soldier. He was too strongly an individualist for that. He liked doing things his own way, and his experience in China and elsewhere had proved it a good way.

He lay perfectly still. The sun was hot on his back, and beneath him the sand was hot. The shadow that had offered partial concealment had moved now, the sun shone directly down upon him. From his memory of the mangrove’s arch he believed he would lack the shadow no more than fifteen minutes. It might be too long.

Yet he dare not move. He was not in uniform, and could be killed as a spy. But the Japanese were not given to hairsplitting on International Law. He was ashore on an island supposedly deserted, but an island where the Japanese were apparently building a strong position.

Overhead, a plane suddenly moaned in a dive, then came out, and from the corner of his eye he saw it skim the ragged edge of the crater and vanish.

That Japanese was a flier. Say what one would about them, they could fly.

In his mind he studied the situation. Soon, he could move. When he moved he must know exactly where he was going and what he intended to do. There must be no hesitation.

Behind him lay the sea. It promised nothing. Before him, the jungle. He had no need to study the island, for he knew it like the back of his hand. He hadn’t visited Kolombangara for several years, but his memory was excellent.

Two rounded ridges lifted toward a square-topped crater. The crater itself was the end of an imposing ridge of volcanic rock, not far from Shoulder Hill. Both ridge and hill extended downward from one side of what had once been an enormous crater that had at some distant time been ripped asunder, exposing the entrails of the mountain.

Now, jungle growth had healed the surface of the wound, leaving the riven crater divided into two magnificent gullies whose walls lifted five thousand feet above the sea. Their lofty pinnacles lost themselves in the clouds, towering above a scene majestic in its savage splendor.

Those rugged slopes offered concealment. They might offer food. It was characteristic of Mike Thorne not to think of a weapon. He had his hands. When the time came he would take his weapon from the Japanese.

They would be concentrated near Bambari Harbor. Not large, but perfectly sheltered, it offered excellent concealment from all but close aerial reconnaissance. What supplies the Japanese would need must be landed there. That they were ready for trouble was obvious from their careful preparation of machine-gun and mortar positions at this spot. Here, if necessary, a landing could be effected.

Something big was in the wind. From here a mighty blow could be unleashed at the American forces on Guadalcanal and other Solomon positions. Somewhere on the island the Japanese had a secret landing field.

Suddenly, he tensed. Directly before him there was a stealthy movement in the jungle. A second later, ghostlike, he saw a Japanese soldier slide through the jungle. Even at the bare thirty feet that separated them, the man was all but invisible.

Fascinated by something he was stalking, the Japanese was crouched, staring ahead. He moved again, and vanished.

Mike scowled. What was this?

Something in the manner of the man told Thorne the soldier was closing in for a kill. His intended victim, being an enemy of the Japanese, must be a friend of Thorne.

The American hesitated. To lie still was to remain safe. To interfere was to risk his own freedom or even his life.

Thorne moved. He left the ground in a swift, deadly rush that brought him to the edge of the jungle. Sliding into the dense cover, every sense alert, Mike’s big hands opened, then closed. They were all he had, his only weapon.

Stealthily, he advanced. The Japanese had paused and was lifting his rifle. Then, surprisingly, the fellow lowered his gun and Mike, closing in, saw his teeth bare in an ugly grimace. Wetting his lips the Japanese moved forward.

In that instant, Mike saw the girl. She was not twenty feet from the Japanese, facing the opposite direction. She had paused, listening.

Mike lunged.

Catlike, the Japanese whirled, stabbing at Mike’s throat with the bayonet.

Instantly, Thorne slapped the blade aside with an open hand and moving in, dropped the other over his opponent, at the same time hooking a heel to trip him. With a quick push, he spilled him and snatched the rifle away.

A shot rang out, and Mike wheeled to see two Japanese coming toward him on the jump. Dropping to one knee, Thorne fired, once, twice. Both men spilled to the ground.

         

Springing up, Mike was just in time to meet the barehanded rush of the soldier he had disarmed. But as he jerked the bayonet up, it hung on a liana, and before he could free it, the Japanese had leaped upon him. Thorne staggered back, losing his grip on the rifle, and clawing desperately to get the man’s hands free from his throat.

Fighting like madmen, they hit the ground hard. His opponent tried to knee him, but Mike rolled away, driving a powerful right to the man’s midsection. The Japanese tried to squirm out, but Thorne was fighting savagely. He leaped up and rushed his enemy, smashing him against the bole of a huge tree with stunning impact.

The man’s grip broke, and he fell away. Mike struck out viciously and the soldier crumpled.

“Quick! This way!” Glancing up, Thorne saw the girl beckoning, and out of the tail of his eye he glimpsed a rush of movement across the space where lately he had waited his chance.

Wheeling, he ran after the girl. Vaulting a fallen tree, he plunged into the brush. The girl ran swiftly, picking her ground with the skill of long familiarity.

Suddenly, she stopped. Holding up her hand for stillness, she began to worm swiftly through the jungle. Mike followed. This way, with their momentary start, they might elude the Japanese. The girl was working her way along the ridge, when Mike recalled the cavern.

“This way!” he whispered hoarsely. “Up!”

The girl hesitated, then followed. Mike Thorne took a path that led steadily upward, at times almost closing in around them. Behind, the sounds of pursuit increased, then suddenly died away. The Japanese were cautious now, but they were coming on.

Ruthless and determined, they would be relentless in pursuit. It had ceased to be a matter of hiding away until he could escape. By interfering he had sacrificed all possibility of that. Now it was a matter of a fight to the death.

Once, halting beneath a towering crag, he glanced at the girl. For the first time he realized how lovely she was. Despite the jungle, the desperation of their climb and the heat, she was beautiful.

He was suddenly conscious of his own appearance, the torn uniform and scuffed boots—his open shirt stained with perspiration and his hair, naturally curly now a black tangle over his dark, sun-browned face.

“What will we do now?” she asked. “I know Ishimaru. He’ll never stop until we are both killed.”

Thorne shrugged. “We can’t run for long,” he said. “We’ve got to fight.”

“But we can’t,” the girl protested. “There are only two of us, and we are unarmed!”

Mike Thorne smiled grimly. “No matter how small one’s force there is always a place where attack can be effective.

“Hit hard and keep moving. It does the job every time. That’s what we’ll do. We’ve got to keep them so busy protecting themselves they can’t take time to look for us properly.

“They are getting set for an attack on Guadalcanal. An attack now, from here, could do a terrific amount of damage. So they don’t dare let anything happen here. We’ll see that plenty happens.”

Turning, he led the way up a steep mountain path. They were leaving the heavier jungle behind and worming a precarious way through a maze of gigantic boulders, enormous volcanic crags, and beds of lava. It was a strange, unbelievable world, a world of rocks that looked like frozen flame.

Suddenly they were in a gray fog layer, and Mike stopped, glancing back. They were in the low clouds now, over four thousand feet above the sea.

The girl came up to him. He glanced at her curiously.

“What in the world are you doing in these islands?” he demanded. “At a time like this?”

She smoothed her hair and looked at him.

“My father was here. He persisted in staying on, regardless of everything. But he told me that if the Japanese did come to the Solomons, he would leave Tulagi and come here. There was a place we both knew where he could hide. And he didn’t believe they would bother with Kolombangara.”

“That’s just the trouble,” Mike said grimly. “Nobody thinks they will. That still doesn’t tell me how you got here.”

“I flew. I’ve had my own plane for several years. I learned to fly in California, and after I returned here, it was easy for me to fly back and forth, to cruise among the islands. I was in Perth when the Japanese came, and they wouldn’t let me come back after Daddy.

“Then, three days ago, I finally succeeded. I took off and landed here at Bambari Harbor, and when I went ashore, the Japanese were waiting for me. I got away, but they have the plane.”

They moved on, working their way among the crags, still heading onward and upward. They left no trail on the lava, and the jumble of broken rock and blasted trees concealed them.

Once, on the very crest of the ancient crater, where the lip hung over the dizzy spaces below, they came upon a tangle of huge trees, dead and dried by sun and wind, great skeleton-like fingers of trees, the bones and wreckage of a forest. They were worn out and panting heavily when they reached the other side.

Then Mike Thorne saw what he was looking for, a curious white streak on the face of a great, leaning boulder. He walked toward it, skirted the boulder, and, without a word, squeezed into a narrow crack behind it. Following him, the girl saw him turn sharply to the left, in the passage, then to the right, then suddenly they stood in a small open place, green with soft grass. Beyond, the black entrance to a cave opened, and, from a crevice in the rock near the cave mouth, a trickle of water fell into a basin about as big as a washtub.

“You knew this was here?” she asked, staring about wonderingly. “But the water, where does it come from?”

“Seepage. It seeps down from a sort of natural reservoir on top of that peak. Rain collects there in a rock basin and seeps down here. There is always water.”

“They would never find us here.” She looked at him. “But what now? What will we do?”

“Sleep. We’ll need rest. Tonight, I’m going back down the mountain.”

“It would take hours!” she protested, glancing at the lowering sun.

“Not the way I’m going!” His voice was grim. “I’m going down the inside of the crater.”

Memory of her one glimpse of that yawning chasm gripped her. The idea of anyone suspended over that awful space was a horror.

“But you can’t! There’s no way—”

“Yes, there is.” He smiled at her. “I saw it once. I’ve often wondered if it could be done. Tonight, by moonlight, I’ll find out.” He smiled, and his teeth flashed white. “Say, what is your name, anyway? Mine’s Mike Thorne.”

She laughed. “I’m Jerry Brandon.”

         

Hours later, she awakened suddenly. There was a stealthy movement in the cave, and then she saw Mike Thorne standing in the entrance. He bent over and drank at the spring, then straightened, tightening his belt. She moved swiftly beside him.

“Be careful,” she whispered.

“Don’t worry,” he replied softly. He pressed her hand gently. “So long.”

He moved off. One moment he was there beside her, then he was gone. Remembering that almost bottomless chasm, she shuddered.

Mike Thorne moved swiftly. He had no plan. He knew too little about the enemy dispositions to plan. He must make his reconnaissance and attack at one time.

When he reached the lip of the crater, he hesitated, drawing a deep breath. He knew the place. In the past, he had speculated on whether or not a strong, agile man could make it down to five thousand feet from that point.

Taking firm grasp on a rock, he lowered himself over the rim. For an instant his feet dangled in space. Carefully, he felt for the ledge he remembered. He found it, tested it briefly with his weight, then relaxed his grip and felt for a new handhold on the edge itself.

Slowly, painstakingly, he worked his way down the six-inch ledge of rock, feeling with feet and hands for each new hold.

On the way up the mountain he had thought much. Areas for possible landing fields were few. Kolombangara was rough, and the best spot, if not the only spot, was on the floor of the crater itself. There was a chance that when he reached bottom he’d find himself at the edge of their field.

Suddenly, he was in complete blackness. Twisting his head, Mike saw the moon was under a cloud. From his memory of the cliff, he knew he had reached the most difficult point. Carefully, he felt over a toehold, found it, and reached out in the darkness. His hand felt along the bare rock, searching, searching.

A protruding corner of rock met his fingers. He gripped it, shifted his weight. The rock came loose.

For one awful, breathtaking instant, he grabbed wildly, then he felt himself falling.

He slid, grabbed out, felt a rock tear loose from his hand, and fell clear. He must have turned over at least three times before he struck with such force that it knocked the wind from him, then slid, and started to fall again. His hand, grasping wildly, caught a shrub. It pulled, then held.

Breathless, frightened, he hung over the void.

Around him was absolute silence. Slowly, majestically, the moon slid from behind the cloud. To his horror he saw the bush to which he clung had pulled out by the roots, and seemed suspended only by a few stronger roots that might give way at any moment.

Turning his head carefully, he glanced below. Nothing but blackness. The shrub gave a sickening sag, then held.

Moving cautiously, he felt with his toe. He found a toehold, not more than an inch of rock. Then another inch, and he let go with one hand. A heavy root thrust out from the face, and he took hold with a sigh of relief.

         

Almost a half hour later, he let himself down on the slope, then stepped into the brush. He had worked along silently through the jungle only a little way when he heard a clink of metal against metal. He froze. A sentry stood not twenty feet away, and beyond him bulked the dark body of a plane.

Mike Thorne flattened against the earth. The grass beneath him was damp. He crept softly nearer the sentry. The man turned, rifle on guard, staring out into the dark toward him. Mike lay still. Then the sentry shouldered his rifle and walked away.

Listening, Thorne could hear the man’s feet recede, then stop, then start back. Mike moved forward and lay still.

The sentry drew near, paused, and turned away. Swiftly, Mike lunged. His left arm slid around the sentry’s throat, crushing the bony part of the wristbone against the man’s Adam’s apple. His left hand grasped his own right wrist, and Mike gave a quick, hard jerk. The man’s body threshed, then relaxed slowly. Grimly, Mike Thorne lowered the body to the ground.

When he straightened again, he carried a heavy-bladed knife. It was a smatchet, evidently taken from some British commando, or picked from the ground after a battle. The rifle he put aside.

Moving forward, he sniffed air heavy with the fumes of gasoline. He hesitated, then felt around. Several tins of gas stood about the plane. It was a Zero pursuit.

Deliberately, he opened the cans and poured one of them over the plane itself. His time was short. He knew the chances of discovery were increased immeasurably by every instant, yet he worked on.

A movement froze him to stillness. A Japanese sentry had stopped not fifty feet away and was staring toward him. The man stepped forward and spoke softly, inquiringly. Mike Thorne crouched, his lips a thin line along his teeth.

This was it. He could see it coming. Suddenly the Japanese jerked up his rifle. There was no hesitation. The man fired as the rifle came up, and the bullet smashed into the pile of cases beside Thorne. Instantly, Thorne lunged. The rifle cracked again, and a bullet whiffed by his cheek. The soldier lunged with the bayonet, and Mike felt the point tear through his sleeve, then he struck viciously with the smatchet.

Blood gushed from the side of the Japanese’s neck, but the man scarcely staggered. He wheeled, dropping his rifle, and grabbed at Thorne’s throat. Mike tried to pull away, slashing viciously at the sentry with the heavy knife.

The camp was in an uproar. Running men were coming from every direction. With a tremendous burst of strength, Mike hurled the sentry from him, struck a match, and dropped it into the gasoline.

The tower of flame leaped high into the sky behind him, but he had plunged into the brush. He was running wildly, desperately. Running so fast that he never saw the wire until it was too late. He plunged into it, tried to leap, but his foot hung and he fell forward. Desperately, he hurled himself to one side, trying to avoid the barbs. He fell flat, and his head struck one of the anchor pins. He felt the blow, but nothing more.

         

His eyes opened on a different world. Weird flames lit the sky, although they were dying down now. They wouldn’t, he decided, be enough to attract help. It was too deep within the sheltering bulwarks of the crater.

He was bound to a tree, his right leg around the bole, the toe hooked under the left knee. The left leg was bent back under him. His arms were tied around the tree itself.

Mike’s eyes were narrow with apprehension. He knew what this meant. In such a position, in a short time his legs would be paralyzed and helpless. If he were to escape, it must be now, at once. From the tail of his eye he could see enough to know that two planes had been burned, and a fair quantity of supplies.

Suddenly, a shadow loomed between the fire and himself. He tilted his head, and a stunning blow knocked it down again.

“So?” The voice was a hiss. “You?”

He looked up, brow wrinkled with anguish. Commander Ishimaru stared down at him. He remembered the man from an event on the coast of China. He forced a grin. “Sure, it’s me, Mike Thorne. How’s tricks?”

Ishimaru studied him.

“No change, I see,” he said softly. “I am glad. You will break harder, my friend.” He bowed, and his eyes glittered like obsidian in the firelight.

The Japanese officer studied him. “Where did you come from?” he went on. “How many are there? Why did you come here?”

“Side issue,” Mike replied. “Doolittle and his boys are taking another sock at Tokyo. They sent me down here to keep you boys busy while the big show comes off.”

Ishimaru struck him viciously across the face. Once, twice. Then again.

“You tell me how many, and where they are.” Ishimaru’s voice was level. “Otherwise, you burn.”

“Go to the devil,” Mike replied.

“You have ten minutes to decide.” Ishimaru’s voice was sharp. He spun on his heel and walked away.

Mike Thorne’s lips tightened. His legs were already feeling their cramped position. The position alone would soon be torture enough, but the Japanese would not let it rest there. He had seen men after Japanese torture, and it had turned him sick. And Mike Thorne wasn’t a man to be bothered easily.

If he was to escape, it must be now, at once. From the activity around the landing field he could see that the hour of attack was approaching. The wreckage of the two burned pursuit ships had been hurriedly cleared away. The other planes were being fueled and readied for the takeoff. From his position his view was limited, but there were at least fifty Zeros on the landing field.

More, the Japanese were wheeling attack bombers from concealed positions. In the confusion he was almost forgotten.

         

Desperately, he tried to pull himself erect. It was impossible. The cramped position of his legs was slowly turning them numb. He strained against the ropes that bound him, but without success.

His arms were not only bound around the tree, but were higher than his head, and tied there. By pressing the inside of his arms against the tree trunk he succeeded in lifting himself a bare inch. It did no good and only caused the muscles in his legs to cramp.

Trying to get the ropes that bound his wrists against the tree bark did him no good. He sawed but only succeeded in chafing his wrists.

A movement in the shadow of some packing cases startled him. Suddenly, to his astonishment, Jerry Brandon emerged from behind the cases. She walked across to him, unhurriedly, then bent over his wrists.

“Get out of here!” he snapped, and was astonished by the fierceness of his voice. “They’ll get you! These devils—!”

“Be still!” Jerry sawed at the ropes, and suddenly his wrists were free, then his feet. Slowly, carefully, she helped him up.

“Beat it,” he said tersely. “You’ve done enough. If they catch you, death will be too easy for you. I can’t run now. I doubt if I can even walk.”

Her arm about him, he tottered a few steps and almost fell. The pain in his legs was excruciating. Suddenly he saw the smatchet he’d had lying on a case beside some rifles. He staggered to the case and picked it up. They each took a rifle.

A Japanese dropped a sack to the ground at the nearest plane and started to turn. He saw them, hesitated, then started forward.

“This is it,” Mike said. “Get out of here. I’ll get away now. Anyway, no use both of us being caught.”

The soldier halted, stared, then turned to shout. Mike Thorne lifted the rifle and fired. His first bullet struck the man in the head and he pitched over. The second smashed into the plane.

Jerry Brandon was beside him, and she fired also. Slowly, they began to back away, taking advantage of every bit of cover, firing as they retreated. A bullet smashed into a tree trunk beside Mike, and he stepped back, loading the rifle again.

They were almost to the brush, and turning, he started for it in a tottering run. Jerry fired another shot, then ran up alongside him. Together they fled into the brush.

Behind them the field was in a turmoil. The escape had come without warning, the sudden firing within the camp had added to the confusion, and it had been a matter of minutes before anyone was aware of just what had happened.

But now a line of soldiers fanned out and started into the jungle.

Mike Thorne stopped, wetting his bruised lips. This was going to be tough. The Japanese would cut them off from his trail up the mountain. They knew where they had lost him before and this time would take care to prevent that. Furthermore, they were closer to the path up the mountain than he.

Worse, the ascent of the precipice down which he had come might be impossible for him in his present condition. And it was a cinch Jerry would never be able to make it.

His own problem was serious, but there was another, greater than that. Death for himself, even for Jerry Brandon, was a small thing compared to the fearful destruction of a sudden, successful attack on grounded planes and ships at anchor. The loss of life would be terrific. But what to do? What could two people do in such a case, far from means of communication.…

But were they? The idea came suddenly.

Instantly, he knew it would work. It was the only way, the only possible way. He smiled wryly into the darkness. Was it possible? It meant climbing the cliff in the darkness, climbing along the sheer face, feeling for handholds, risking death at every second. It meant doing what only a moment before he had thought was impossible.

They slid swiftly through the jungle, but now, taking the girl’s hand, he chose a new path. He was going to the cliff.

Suddenly, the girl’s grip tightened.

“Mike, you’re not going to …?”

“Yes, I am,” he said quietly. “Something big’s coming off. I’m not going to sit by and see the enemy close in on those boys on Guadalcanal.”

“But what can you do?” Jerry protested. “Getting up that cliff won’t help. And I can’t climb it, even in daytime.”

“You aren’t going to,” he told her. “I know a cave in the rocks down below. You can stay there. I’m going up, somehow, some way. If I should fall, you’ll have to try. Up on that peak there is heaped-up forest, forest dead and parched by sun and wind, rotting in places, but mostly just dry. We’ve got to set fire to it.”

“Could they see it from there, Mike? It’s so far!”

He shrugged. “You can see a candle twelve miles from a plane on a dark night. I’m hoping some scout will sight this flame. It should be visible for miles and miles.”

“But won’t the Japanese put it out?” Jerry protested.

“They’ll try.” He laughed softly.

         

When he reached the foot of the cliff he stopped dead still. Suddenly, despite the oppressive heat, he felt cold. Above him, looming in the darkness, the gigantic precipice towered toward the stars. Somehow, along the face of that awful cliff, he had climbed down, feeling his way. Now he must go back.

A slip meant an awful death on the jagged rocks below. Yet not to climb meant that many men would die, brave men who would perish in a world of rending steel and blasting, searing flame.

         

His hands found a crevice, and he started. Inch by inch, he felt his way along, the awful void growing below him as he mounted upward. Rocks crumbled under his fingers, roots gave way, he clung, flattened against the rock as though glued to it, living for the moment only. His flesh damp with cold sweat, his skin alive, the nerves sensing every roughness in the rock.

Time and again he slipped, only to catch hold, then mount higher. A long time later, his clothing soaked, his fingers torn and bleeding, he crawled over the ridge and lay facedown on the rock. His pounding heart seemed to batter the solid surface beneath him, his lungs gasped for air, his muscles felt limp.

“So … I was correct.”

The voice was sibilant, cold. Mike Thorne’s eyes opened wide, suddenly alert. Ishimaru’s voice broke into the feeling of failure, of utter depression that swept over him. “I knew you would try it, American. So foolish to try to outwit Ishimaru.”

Mike knew he was covered, knew a move meant death. Yet he moved suddenly and with violence. He had drawn his hands back to his sides unconsciously, and with a sudden push up he hurled himself forward against the soldier’s legs.

A gun roared in his ears, and he felt the man go down before him. He lunged to his feet, and Ishimaru, wild with fury, fired from the ground. A searing flame scorched the side of Thorne’s face, and then he dove headfirst onto him.

Like a cat, the Japanese officer rolled away. He came up quickly and, as Mike lunged in, grabbed at his wrist. But Mike was too wise in the ways of judo, swung away, and whipped a driving right to the chin. The officer went down, hard.

Feet rushed, and Mike saw a man swinging at him with a rifle butt. He dropped in a ball at the man’s feet, and the fellow tripped and fell headlong, rolling over the edge of the cliff. The Japanese made one wild, futile grab with his fingers, then vanished, his scream ringing into the heavens.

Mike’s rifle had fallen from his shoulders where it had been slung. Now he grabbed it up and fired two quick shots, then dove into the brush. He staggered through the jungle toward the place he had chosen to start the fire. Heedless of danger, he dropped to his knees, scraped together some sticks, and with paper from his pocket, lit the fire.

A shot smacked dully into the log near him, and he rolled over. The flame took hold, then a volley of shots riddled the brush around him. By a miracle he was unhurt. A Japanese came leaping into the growing firelight, and Mike’s rifle cracked. The soldier fell headlong. Another, and another shot.

The flame caught in a heap of dead branches, flared, and leaped high. In a roaring holocaust, it swirled higher and higher, mounting a fast crescendo of unbelievable fury toward the dark skies. The scene around was lit by a weird light, and into it came the Japanese.

Desperately, yet methodically, making every shot count, Mike Thorne began to fire. He sprang to his feet, rushed, changed position, opened fire again. A bullet stung him along the arm, something struck his leg a solid blow. He raised to one knee, blood trickling from a cut on his scalp, and fired again.

Then, suddenly, another rifle opened fire across the clearing. Taken on the flank, the advancing enemy hesitated, then broke for the jungle.

Suddenly, over the roar of the fire, Mike heard the roar of motors. Their planes, taking off!

He saw them mount, swing around, then a bomb dropped. He heard it one instant before it exploded and hurled himself flat. The earth heaved under him, and the fire lifted and scattered in all directions, but roared on.

         

Then out of the night he heard the high-pitched whine of a diving plane, and the night was lit with the insane lightning of tracer gone wild, while over his head the sky burst into a roaring, chattering madness of sound.

Battle! Planes had come, and there was fighting up there in the darkness. He rolled over, swearing in a sullen voice, swearing in sheer relief that his warning had been successful. He fired at a Japanese soldier, saw the flames catch hold anew, and then as his rifle clicked on an empty chamber, he lunged erect, hauling out the smatchet.

Suddenly, something white loomed in the sky, and then a man hit the ground beside him. It was a paratrooper! An American! Then the night was filled with them, and Mike staggered toward the man.

A forward observer grabbed Mike’s arm. “What is it? Where the devil are they coming from?”

Mike roared the information into his ear, and the officer began a crisp recital of the information into the radio.

A plane roared over, then explosions came from the chasm below, the night changed from the bright rattle of machine-gun fire to the solemn, unceasing thunder of big bombs as the bombers shuttled back and forth, releasing their eggs over the enemy field.

Mike staggered back, feeling his numbed leg. It wasn’t bleeding. Evidently a stick knocked against his leg by a bullet, or a stone. He turned, dazed.

Jerry Brandon came running toward him. “Mike! Are you all right?”

“Sure,” he said. “Where …?”

“I came up the trail. I thought maybe I could make it, and when the fighting started up there, I got through all right.”

The Army officer walked back through the smoke and stopped beside Mike. “This is a good night’s work, friend,” he said. “Who are you?”

Briefly, Mike told him. The officer looked curiously at Jerry. Mike explained, and the officer nodded. “Yes,” he said dryly, “we heard about you. Incidentally, your father’s safe. He got into Henderson Field last night.”

They turned away. Mike looked at Jerry, smiling wearily. “Lady,” he said, “tired as I am, I can still wonder at finding a girl like you in the Solomons. If there wasn’t a war on …” He looked at her again. “After all,” he said thoughtfully, “what’s a war between friends?”

Jerry laughed. “I think you could handle the war, too,” she said.