Nalani

Notes from the author: Hi everyone! Ever since I wrote Life is a Runway - which had a WWII element in its plot - I have been itching to craft a WWII war bride story (with a happy ending, of course: I simply refuse to write anything that is not corny). This obviously implied some serious research on my part and major adjustments to the mores of my usual protagonists. Well... there you have it; I hope, as always, that you have a pleasant and exciting read. :)

P.S. This is a long story. In addition, I have tried hard to balance the war story with the romance and the sexual frolics; I apologize if there is too much of the former and not enough of the latter to your taste.

P.P.S. The squadron, the historical events and some of the characters are real; I have placed my story of fiction within this setting for reasons of verisimilitude, not to demean in any way the people (American, Australian, Japanese or Papuan) that took part in the New Guinea Campaign.

---

"If I owned New Guinea and I owned hell, I would live in hell and rent out New Guinea."

- Bob Hartman, American GI

1.- A new Headhunter

"There you are, sergeant... 3-mile drome. You're sure you want to walk from here?"

"Sure! I have plenty of time before my appointment and I would like to get a feel for the place."

"Okee Dokee... good luck, then!"

"Thank you, corporal. Have a nice day."

USAAF flight technical sergeant Ezekiel Molina watched the US Army jeep drive away and was now standing, duffel bag in hand, before an aerodrome overlooking Joyce Bay, roughly 3 miles away from Port Moresby, Papua - hence the familiar name of Kila airfield. As he was already sweating profusely under this Papuan late-morning sun, he was almost regretting his decision to wander on foot; his native Hawaii had not prepared him for such an equatorial dampness.

From afar, the scenery was on par with all the idyllic cliches of a tropical haven. A full palette of multiple green hues completely covered the landscape and the outcrop of small hills delineating the northern extremity of the aerodrome perimeter. Despite the crushing humidity, the sky was barely shrouded by a few cumulus clouds and its blue was bright and immaculate, as if competing with the sea and its gentle surf for scenic bragging rights. There was no relief in the sea breeze, only a tangible transfer of heat. Regardless, Ezekiel cared little for climatology or tourism prospects; on this day, 20 June 1943, the island of New Guinea, which includes the Territory of Papua (a protectorate of the Commonwealth of Australia), was very much at war.

It was on this large island that the advance of the Army of Imperial Japan towards Australia had been recently checked, but by no means repelled yet; on a strange battleground where an illusory frontline was etched by the Owen Stanley Mountain Range, where land battles had been fought all along jungle tracks by ill-supplied - sometimes starving - combat units, where casualty figures were dwarfed by losses incurred by malnutrition or disease and over which the airspace was still bitterly contested by four different air forces: the USAAF and the RAAF for the Allies, the IJAAS and the IJNAS for Imperial Japan.

Walking inside the aerodrome and now taking in the scene with his technically trained eye, Ezekiel found that his new base of operations was a sobering sight. No control tower, no obvious taxiway to speak of, barely a runway in fact: he would soon fly out of a 5 000 ft. long gravel bed overlaid by a Marston Mat - an assembly of perforated steel planking. Adding to his sense of dread, the buildings he could see were all wooden constructions built on stilts that were more reminiscent of the Neolithic period than of the 20th century.

As he kept on walking and neared parked aircrafts inside their dispersal pads, however, his smile returned. Without requesting it, Ezekiel Molina was about to become a fighter pilot. He was lucky and he knew it, as pilots who qualify for multi-engine aircraft out of advanced flying school are usually assigned to bomber or transport squadrons; but not him, because of his exceptional vision and the marksmanship he had displayed at gunnery school. Ezekiel strolled along several P-40 Warhawks and then stopped in front of a fighter aircraft that took his breath away.

It was a P-38H Lightning, a peculiar and sublime design: basically two huge turbo-supercharged engines attached to a wing for the sole purpose of carrying into battle a nacelle that housed a single pilot and nose-mounted guns. This one in particular was currently being serviced by a team of armorers, carefully inserting .50-caliber ammunition belts for the four machine guns and 20mm shells for the cannon. The P-38 bore propeller spinners painted in lime green and identification bands of the same color on its twin empennage, thus it belonged to his unit: the 80th Fighter Squadron. In fact, when Ezekiel noticed the name Porky II painted on its nose, he realized he was gawking at the mount of his new commander.

Eventually, the staring newcomer was noticed. "Anything I can do for you, sir... huh, sorry... sarge?" The crew chief was in turn annoyed, commanding, confused and embarrassed at observing Ezekiel's flying wings first, followed by his enlisted rank.

Ezekiel was already used to this awkwardness around ground crew and pilots, so he did not react to it and kept on harboring a huge smile of admiration. "Ho! Sorry chief! I didn't mean to bother... I'm on my way to meet Captain Cragg and the squadron XO... I'm new here."

"Just keep going past these pens and you'll reach the main barracks and the offices. Since he's not flying, you'll find Porky in there."

"Thank you chief! See you later..." but there was no reply; the maintenance crew was fully focused on the P-38 again.

---

"At ease... huh... are we going to spend the rest of the war with me calling you sergeant and you calling me sir?"

Ezekiel was obviously treating this as a trick question and his answer was fidgety. "Well, sir... huh... I mean, it's your call, really. The fact is that I am a flying sergeant and will likely remain one for the duration... after all, senior NCOs are supposed to be older than 20 years old, aren't they?"

"Yeaaa... I guess so. At least, I'm relieved to see that the rank issue doesn't seem to faze you... that's a distraction that I can do without, to be honest."

"Of course, sir."

"So... huh... accommodations OK?"

"I'm about to find out... the XO just gave me the official base welcome a couple of minutes ago."

"Well, keep an open mind; we're at war, after all... and the Papuans know how to build for their island. Those stilts will resist a typhoon storm surge and are high enough to ward off a great many critters."

"I will, sir." In truth, Ezekiel now had anxious visions of being choked in his sleep by large snakes or of being washed away by a rogue wave into the waiting mouths of sharks.

"Good... hmmm..." Captain Edward "Porky" Cragg was seemingly reading his personnel file for the first time. Ezekiel just stood there, waiting for some sort of paternal verdict.

"Ezekiel... God's strength, huh?" The captain looked at him in mock disbelief.

"VERY Catholic parents I'm afraid, sir..."

"Are they Spanish?"

"Actually, Puerto-Rican, sir."

"But you were born in Hawaii?"

"Yes, sir. Mom and Dad moved to Oahu after he served in France."

"So... huh... you're a US Citizen?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good... did you lose anyone close at Pearl Harbor?"

Ezekiel let go a very visible sigh of relief, as he was growing weary of explaining the jurisprudence of the Jones-Shafroth act of 1917 and its impact - or lack thereof - on Hawaiian immigrants. He could not care less whether his CO knew all about the legalities or had just accepted his answer at face value.

"No, sir... but it was a close call. My folks live in Kunia Camp and we were all preparing for Sunday mass on the morning of 7 December 1941, so we watched Wheeler Airbase being strafed and bombed by Zeros and Vals from less than a mile away."

"I guess I don't have to worry about your motivation, then... so, Zeke... is it OK if I call you Zeke?"

"If it's all the same to you, sir, call me Ziki... that way I won't be mistaken for the Japanese fighter when you address me in front of people."

"We wouldn't want that, now, would we?" That brought a smile to the face of the notoriously pugnacious squadron leader, who was already legendary for browbeating Fifth Air Force Headquarters in person to ensure that the 80th would be equipped with the new P-38, bypassing in the process two more experienced squadrons. "So, then... do you know what still worries me about you, Ziki?"

"No, Sir."

"You're green."

"Of course, sir."

"You readily acknowledge that you're green?"

"Yes, sir."

"This file is not omitting or forgetting a term of service? You've never flown anything before an AT-6 at basic training and you've never seen any kind of combat?"

"That's the jigs of it, sir." Ezekiel thought wise not to add that, on land, he had also only ridden bicycles before basic training.

"And yet you are now, according to this, ready to fly a P-38... you're even already checked-on-type."

Ezekiel was unsure whether to make a strong show of confidence or to diplomatically agree with his Commanding Officer and war leader. He chose a middle ground response. "Do you want me to pass a flight test here, sir?"

"No, Ziki... your airmanship is totally beside my point. Do you know what we're about to do here?"

"Escort bombers, sir." Ezekiel tried not to sound haughty or know-it-all, waiting for the obvious tirade to come.

"Give the man a cigar! You know what P-38s are designed for! BUT... have you wondered WHY do we escort bombers?"

Ezekiel was stomped. He had no idea where the captain was going with this, so he waited him out.

"Look around, Ziki... what's worth bombing around here?"

Now he got his point. "Aircrafts."

"Yes... and also radars, fuel depots, ammo and runways. This isn't Germany or Romania... there's no strategic target to bomb here: no industries, oil refineries, dams or power stations. Here, we strafe and we bomb ships, supply lines and airfields. And the Japs don't watch us doing it under the cover of anti-aircraft fire: they fly up and fight, ALL the time! And if they put their mind to it, like they did last April, they can still very well challenge our own airspace and return the favor, so you better stay on your toes."

"I see, sir."

"You think you do. Let me make it plain. Back in early April, Fifth Air Force had two P-38 squadrons fighting in a big scrap over the Bismarck Sea. We arrived here later that month. Since then, General Kenney has also ordered the creation of a fighter group flying exclusively the P-38, the 475th. So how many P-38 squadrons does that give us?"

"Two, three... plus three... six squadrons, sir?"

"Nooooo... we still have so few P-38s that two of the existing squadrons have switched to P-47s since. We have four squadrons, Ziki... four. Rain or shine, milk run or maximum effort, we can put no more than eighty P-38s in the sky; we have to provide top cover, sweeps and strafing runs if it's called for; and we'll have to keep on doing it, over and over, until the Japs are pushed all the way back into Japan!"

The implications of his argument were sinking in. "I get it, sir."

"So the planes are precious and you even more so. I need you to stay alive and to stay healthy. The pilot you're replacing hasn't been shot down, Ziki... he's shaking like a leaf with malaria! Always sleep inside your mosquito net, try to dress up even in this God forsaken heat and always shake your boots before putting your feet in them... scorpions just loooove GI boots!"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now, all I have to figure out is how to make you combat-ready for the gradual and ritual slaughter of the Japanese Fourth Air Army, which is our immediate objective. We'll be fighting Oscars and Tonys, mostly, with the occasional visiting navy squadron of Zeros."

"I'll learn, sir."

Captain Cragg laughed heartily. "Of course you will... you die if you don't! You know the saying: a doctor..."

"... kills his mistakes and a pilot is buried with his. Sir."

"Right! Well, welcome to the Headhunters, Ziki! Here... get that sown on your flight suit." The Captain was handing to Ezekiel a combat patch depicting a decorated black aboriginal warrior with goggles, fangs and a broken bone under his mouth. "Given your family heritage, I suppose I don't have to explain our motto to you?"

Ezekiel read the patch's creed aloud and translated matter-of-factly. "Audentes Fortuna Juvat... Fortune Favors the Brave."

"Fantastic! Take that to heart, kid..." Ezekiel noted that the father figure facing him was in his mid-twenties. "... and I believe that you're ready for your initiation task."

"What would you have me do, sir?" Ezekiel was now expecting some sort of primitive hazing ritual.

"We're all on the board. We'll fly a milk run later this afternoon, covering C-47 transports. I need you to go to Kila Kila village and contact the orderlies there. Ask for Annie Angara and her mother. I got word that a downed pilot of ours is about to return from the highlands jungle. Maybe he's there already. Since we fly, the airfield is closed to non-US personnel. Find out whatever you can from the Papuans and bring him in. The docs will be ready for him."

"Those people I'll meet, are they military?"

"I'm not entirely sure, Ziki. The Aussies are the ones who formed the Papuan Infantry Battalion, but even the ones who don't actively fight the Japs are Godsends. The Aussie soldiers call them Fuzzee-Wuzzy Angels; I have named our squadron Headhunters in their honor; so I want nothing but the utmost respect towards them... you got that?"

"Of course, sir."

"And you've probably noticed by now that the Papuan women live... huh... topless; so I want no stupid stunt like sending home a picture of you standing beside a pair of black boobs, all right? Nothing but respect."

"Understood, sir."

"Good. When that's done, go meet your crew chief. You'll be flying Femme Fatale for now. Log some flight time on your ship and memorize the local landmarks. You also ought to quickly catch up on your technical reading and your navigation. We usually fly over jungle or the ocean... both of which are large and featureless."

Ezekiel was dismissed and he was now, officially, a Headhunter with a mission.

---

Kila Kila village was sparsely built, so not difficult at all to navigate in; but Ezekiel, with his roughly three hours of driving experience, was finding the jeep temperamental.

(I can see the headlines from here: US pilot killed by concussions from jeep ride!)

He parked the jeep with the US Army and Red Cross markings with both care and relief. As he walked towards the makeshift medical clinic, Ezekiel first heard and then met head-on the orderly leader and the stretcher carriers exiting the premises. He realized that the drawing on his brand new combat patch was not a caricature: the leader wore nothing but a sarong around his waist, large golden rings on his ears and nose, a collar and several golden studs that seemed etched onto his jet-black skin. He also realized, once he stood close to this aboriginal medevac unit, that the midget Papuan cliche did not apply to it. Two of the men were as tall as he was, 5ft. 10in., and the other three were not much shorter.

Just in case, Ezekiel chose to salute the unit leader. A military courtesy that was obviously appreciated. "Good afternoon, sir. I am technical sergeant Ezekiel Molina of the 80th Fighter Squadron. I was told you were carrying one of ours and I'm here to transport him to Kila airfield."

The leader noticed the patch and smiled approvingly. "I am Towee. Porky is not here?" His poise was regal, he looked old enough to be Ezekiel's father and his English had an accent that seemed to borrow from several different languages.

"The squadron is flying today, so he couldn't come in person."

"I understand... your warrior is inside; he is wounded and sick. The sangumas can tell you more. We have to go."

"Very well... it was a pleasure to meet you, Towee. Thank you for your service."

"It is a duty I am happy to carry out against the siapan. Take care, Ezekiel."

After watching the men walk away, Ezekiel tried knocking on the wall beside the opening before going inside.

A dour, matronly voice answered, in well-articulated English. "You can come in."

Ezekiel walked in on two women intensely involved in relieving the pain of a man lying on a makeshift stretcher. His flight suit had been torn to shreds in several places, he had many bandages and his clothing was wet from both sweat and bleeding. The women had their back turned to Ezekiel. A sweet and pungent herbal fragrance permeated inside the whole dwelling.

Absorbed by the scene, Ezekiel barely whispered. "How is he?" The older woman rose without looking at him and closed all the shades in the hut.

The younger one turned towards him and replied, in a clinical voice. "Not good. He has a high fever..."

Ezekiel suddenly felt feverish himself. The young woman was a mesmerizing sight of beauty. Her face was without blemish and had an expression of purity stemming from the clean lines of her chin, her cheeks and her smallish nose. She was not tall and quite thin, but not sickly. Her skin was dark brown, a shade paler than Towee's was, and its perspiration almost glistened in the filtered sunlight. Her lips were discreet and yet looked moist and rich even from a distance.

Then there was her breasts. Ezekiel was, in fact, getting used to the local custom and, truth be told, seeing exposed breasts as a matter of course - small, large, pert or sagging - tends to have a neutering effect; but not hers: her breasts were plump and firm, with a shaded cleavage between them that promised untold pleasures to the lucky one who could explore this hidden cove, and her nipples were plentiful and protruding from generous areolas; Ezekiel instantly felt the need to suck them and became extremely self-conscious, remembering his instructions.

"... and we believe that, on top of his infected wounds, he suffers from scrub typhus."

The name of a disease brought a welcome distraction to Ezekiel. "How can you tell?"

The young woman motioned for Ezekiel to come near her and the patient. He felt a shudder throughout his entire being and walked gingerly, which she noticed. "Are you all right, huh..."

"Ezekiel... you can call me Ziki... and yes, I'm doing fine. You must be Annie."

She took his hand. He lost his sight for an instant and his heartbeat was all over the place. "Yes... my name is Lehuanani Angara; people call me Annie."

"That's a shame... you have such a beautiful name." She looked at his shy smile, then straight into his eyes. Her own brown-black eyes had a sparkle in them and, during that moment of unplanned intimacy, some obscure ethereal messages seemed to have been exchanged between them. In a supreme effort of willpower, Ezekiel blinked his own light-brown eyes closed and pulled his hand away from hers to point to the patient.

Her forensic demonstration, however, was anything but romantic. She lifted a piece of the wounded pilot's garb and revealed an eschar, a tick bite that was now blackened with caked pus and dead tissue; next, she pointed out his very stained bottom and took his hand again. "Don't touch this, it's very contagious. Dead flesh and diarrhea are not symptoms of malaria."

Ezekiel was drinking her words like a divine elixir. "Are you two doctors, Lehuanani?" It was not asked in the condescending tone a challenging MD would use, but one of pure admiration.

She felt it. "No, Ziki... my mother - her name is Kaamia - is more a faith healer; she is also the village midwife. I help and, thanks to that, I have had the chance to attend school. I can read, write and do arithmetic, you know..." she lowered her gaze to hide her embarrassment.