When the Moon Was Blood

By Eben Beukes

More than a mile away and turning, a silvery shadow momentarily etched against the rising sun, the Zero was readying for a return, the beat

of its radial engine drumming across the water as it prepared for another strafing run. And with all

options seemingly exhausted Dawber knew that this time there would be no escaping the certain

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pen Culture Solutions
• Release date: May 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781638128915

Eben Beukes

Growing up in apartheid-era South Africa Eben Beukes experienced at first hand the turbulent transition period of that country to a modern democracy. A University of Stellenbosch graduate he worked as a young surgeon in several of the country's "black hospitals" after completing his compulsory military service in the SADF.In later years he worked as a surgeon at a large military hospital in Saudi Arabia, two years in New Zealand and for the five years leading up to 2006 was a senior surgeon at the Armed Forces Hospital in Kuwait City, the base hospital at the start of the Iraq War in 2003.His experience during the six weeks war led to the publication of Pockets of Resistance documenting the often farcical and always chaotic inner workings of a large military hospital with Americans and Arabs reluctantly rubbing shoulders while in the throes of a hot war. A total of seven years in the Middle East provided the background for both The Mask of Louka (Saudi Arabia) and its sequel, Devil's Tumble, both featuring British educated Kuwaiti detective, Riad Ajmi.Earlier novels were political thrillers set against the background of a newly democratic South Africa. These feature Harry Dance in the Shadows of a Rainbow trilogy: The Cherry Red Shadow, The Lily White Shadow and the recently published The Blue Ice Shadow.Other novels include Any Way the Wind Blows, a noir detective novel as well as A Straitlaced Man.Eben Beukes lives in Australia.

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When The Moon Was Blood

Copyright © 2023 by Eben Beukes.

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-63812-890-8

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63812-891-5

All rights reserved. No part in this book may be produced and transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Published by Pen Culture Solutions 05/24/2023

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When fishes flew and forests walked

And figs grew upon thorn

Some moment when the moon was blood

Surely then I was born

G.K. Chesterton

Dedicated to that generation of Australians and Americans

Who at a time when the world went mad

Stepped up to the challenge

And defined the meaning of mateship

CHAPTER 1

The Pacific, August 1942

It was Face who saw it first. A mere moment’s glitter on the edge of the horizon. Gone so instantly that he was quick to dismiss it as a flash of sun on an aberrant wave. The kind of trick so easily played when a man was exhausted to the point of collapse and with nerves on screaming edge ever since … well, since they took over the boat off the bluff of Gasmata some ten hours earlier.

That was when Bluey had bought it, he could still see the hatred on the face of the Japanese officer as he lowered the samurai sword now dripping red, replaced by shock as the Captain came up behind and, hand clasped over the mouth, slit his throat just like they had been taught at Fraser Island all those months ago.

Quick and lethal. Too late for old Bluey though.

Bluey whose body was lying below wrapped in a canvas sheet they had found in a forr’ard hatch. At least he would get a decent burial when they got back to Milne Bay, not like Jackson and the youngster from Bundaberg whose name now escaped him.

Poor bastards never stood a chance when they ran into that Japanese patrol the moment they beached the kayaks on what was supposed to be a deserted spot. And then the—-

There it was again! The flash. And this time he knew it wasn’t his imagination for coming faintly over the water was the sound of an aero engine.

‘Zero!’ he shouted as he reached blindly for the Thompson nestling by his side even as he realised it would be futile against a Japanese fighter coming in at over three hundred miles an hour and spitting fiery death.

The Captain was instantly by his side, binoculars raised as he swept the horizon where Face pointed. Turning he shouted at the others to take cover and for Larry to prop the dead Japanese gunner into the seat of the Oerlikon with a piece of plank shoved down his back and holding up his neck so he would look right.

And to squat down low in the turret together with Darryl, ready to man the cannon should the bluff fail. Not that they fancied their chances much against the plane but if offered a fair go and in this shit war all a man could ask for.

‘Charlie! Hold her steady and make sure you wave at the pilot when he does a pass. And put the bloody cap on!’

Charlie’s reply was lost over the deep growl and burble of the diesels but he donned the enemy cap and with his Chinese features and ever present grin could just pass as a Japanese at a moment’s glimpse.

‘Throttle back to fifteen knots, it’s not like we can outrun him for God’s sake!’

Turning to search for the others he located the dark shape of Preacher where he was huddled under the shade of the canvas canopy cupping a fag followed by a shower of sparks as he pinched it out before carefully stowing it in the waterproof tin nestling in a breast pocket.

‘Flynn! Man the radio, he’s sure to make contact any moment now.’

‘To be sure,’ came the muted reply followed by a curse as a tangle of coiled rope had him stumble on his way over to where Charlie made room for him as they all squinted towards where the Zero was now coming in. Fast.

Clever bastard! Dawber thought, dropping down to low above the waves with dawn’s rising sun at his back, a silver tipped black shadow growing larger by the second with the scream of the radial engine now hammering across the waves. He glanced at the stern where the Imperial Nipponese Navy ensign was flapping listlessly with only the apparent wind of their progress to stir it, then ran his gaze over the trim lines of the patrol boat and finally satisfied that the boys were in cover he made for the cockpit donning his own Japanese style forage cap in the process.

They had applied the usual dark brown staining cream to their faces and arms and the uniforms were olive green instead of khaki and devoid of any insignia of rank. But that would hardly be noticed by the solo pilot hurtling by at speed. Hopefully it would suffice that the uniforms were close enough to pass as Japanese.

Casting a final anxious glance towards the rear deck where Larry had the Oerlikon in a neutral position and not tracking the incoming fighter as instructed he climbed into the commander’s seat just as the radio crackled into life.

‘NV 239, identify!’ came the command in crisp guttural Japanese, the rest of the sentence drowned as the fighter flashed past close enough for Dawber to see the face of the pilot and the white silk scarf at his neck.

On cue Preacher responded, his Japanese fluent but always with that strange to place accent that might puzzle some but then again most would never have met an Irishman. He was speaking rapidly and as usual Dawber could not understand a word, instead lifting his binoculars to watch the Zero which was now seemingly miles away and slowly banking, the low rays of the early morning sun showing up the red and white roundels on the silver wings and fuselage.

‘What’s he say?’

‘Asking for the code of the day,’ Preacher said without looking up from where he was desperately leafing through the boat’s codebook. ‘Damned if I know, I only speak the damn language not read it!’

‘Answer him. Say our radio operator is below deck, sick with malaria, that we can’t find the code. That we’re heading for our base at Gona.’

He listened while Preacher transmitted, at the same time ordering Smiley up on the deck, instructing him to look Japanese and wave as the Zero came in again. Maybe; just maybe…

There was a long pause before the pilot came over the static again. ‘You are off course by 60 degrees. Explain.’

Because we’re heading for Milne Bay you dumb bastard! Dawber thought grimly while his mind raced to find a way out. Radio for help? Get a Kittyhawk or two from 76 Squadron over from the Bay, they were less than a hundred miles away by now?

But no, the Japanese would monitor it, press in for the attack.

‘We received a report of an enemy destroyer group in the channel, heading due east by southeast. We had to alter course to avoid them.’

Complete fabrication of course but you had to admire the Preacher for being game.

The Zero was hanging back now, circling them at a wide berth, no doubt in radio contact with his base. And, Dawber thought, that would be that. The patrol boat would have been missed by now and a quick check would reveal that there was no mission to Gona.

‘Larry! It’s game over, when he comes in again it’ll be for the kill. Get in the seat and swing the gun around. Hold your fire until I give the signal!’ He watched as the propped up dead marine was unceremoniously dumped to be replaced by a grinning Larry while his brother stepped up with a fresh magazine drum at the ready.

Gripping the wheel tighter, his sweating hands slipping on the bare metal, Dawber pushed the throttle forward, instantly increasing their speed as the trio of big Packards responded, the boat coming onto the plane and increasing its manoeuvrability. Black smoke was wallowing up at the stern now and there was a rhythmic hissing as the exhausts intermittently dipped below the surface.

Let’s have you, mate–he thought as his teeth bared in a grim smile. Let’s see what you got! But he knew it was just bravado, for in this calm water they were little more than sitting ducks, his only chance to throw the boat around violently when the Zero homed in. And for Larry to get lucky with the Oerlikon.

And then it was time. Steadying at the end of a lazy turn the fighter settled down low on the horizon to make its death run, coming straight for them. Shouting for Smiley to stop waving like an idiot and take cover behind the scant armour plating of the bridge Dawber glanced anxiously to where the boys had now swung the Oerlikon around and were drawing a bead.

He knew they were the most vulnerable, exposed with no cover and no doubt where the incoming pilot would be directing his fire. He also knew they would not fail him, for them this was all part of the game. They were croc hunters from Humpty Doo and had long ago forgotten what fear was.

More than that, they harboured a silent rage ever since Darwin got bombed; any chance of settling the score was OK by them.

Even when the odds were hopeless.

The pilot opened fire when still five hundred yards away. A sighting burst, the zipper line of water spouts fifty yards short but ranging in as he lifted the Zero’s nose to correct his aim.

‘Now!!’ Dawber shouted as he momentarily held the boat steady waiting for the thud thud of the cannon, while hoping Larry could draw a bead, their clever adversary coming in low enough to be at the very lower limit of the Oerlikon’s elevation range.

The next burst hit midship, the force of the impact sending a shudder through the craft and pushing it violently to one side as Dawber fought the wheel, his ears ringing from the sound of rupturing steel followed instantly by the crackle of flames and the stench of raw fuel. ‘Flynn!’ he shouted, raising his voice to be heard over the staccato pounding of the big stern gun as it traversed to trace the path of the Zero now thundering over their heads, ‘get the extinguisher and put that fire out!’

But Preacher was ahead of him, already furiously spraying the licking flames while shouting at Smiley to get the goddamn water hose working. A sentence punctuated by a plea to no less than Jesus, Joseph and Mary to have mercy on their souls.

Momentarily silence returned, apart from the ringing in Dawber’s ears and the hissing of the fire, as the Zero climbed away into the sun to, miles away, start its slow turn once again. Even in that moment’s madness when it had buzzed them with machine guns blazing he had noted that it carried no bomb for that would have finished them for sure. Just a long range drop tank.

Five seconds, he calculated, five seconds of machine gun fire. That would leave how much ammo? He knew all fighter planes were limited in how much ammunition they carried, perhaps 350 rounds, maybe as little as fifteen seconds of sustained firing.

Ten seconds, they only had to survive another ten seconds under attack. But he knew that reasoning was futile; they would not survive much more of this. For he had suddenly remembered the Zero also carried two wing mounted 20 mm cannons, similar to the Oerlikon. Why had the pilot not used those yet? But he knew the answer, the first run was just a sighting one, next time around he would come in with every thing blazing and that would pretty much be that–

He needed a plan and fast! Something that would scare off the Zero if not kill it. Casting around desperately for something, anything, his gaze fell upon the satchel charge bag lying in a corner. Containing eight blocks of dynamite and a primer, two of these had been on the mission to blow up the transmitting station. It’s companion lost overboard during the fight with the PT’s Japanese crew when they had captured it.

Grasping the heavy canvas bag he quickly attached it to the rope running up to the tall radio mast before rapidly hoisting it up as high as it would go while shouting at Smiley to bring over the flare pistol he’d spotted at the control panel. A corner of his mind told him that he must be crazy, that igniting that bag might blow them all up but then what other options were there?

The boys were quick to grasp his plan, for they had been together for a while now and this was not the first time a mission had gone badly wrong and it had depended on the Captain’s wile and sheer good luck getting them through, didn’t it?

Darryl at the stern was even grinning from ear to ear as he held two thumbs up. ‘Good on you, Cap!’ he shouted as his brother brought the Oerlikon about to bear on the Zero now making its return run.

‘Everyone get down, take cover wherever you can!’ Dawber shouted as he checked the flare gun and cocked it. Then, squatting behind the scant armour plating of the wheelhouse while staring over his shoulder and exposing just enough of his head to see the incoming plane he took aim at the satchel charge and waited.

Timing would be everything. The Zero was coming in fast and low and he would have to time it exactly right, he reckoned pull the trigger when the enemy was about one hundred yards away.

Larry had opened up with the cannon again and it didn’t seem to bother the Japanese who just kept on coming. Then it came again, the puffs of smoke from his fuselage mounted guns instantly followed by the wing cannons joining in. This time he was firing high and Dawber noted that he had jettisoned the drop tank which probably explained it. At the last moment the Zero overcorrected with 7.7 mm bullets and 20 mm cannon shells hitting them on the hull and, judging by the six feet high waterspouts, below the waterline.

At the stern the brothers were furiously swinging the big gun around as they vainly tried to follow the plane’s path, it was heading straight for the middle of the boat and–

Now!!

The flare gun bucked under the recoil, there was a red streak too fast for the eye to follow and then a tremendous blast as the satchel charge exploded. The force of the explosion blew Dawber clean off the bridge to land eight feet away on the mid deck where he lay momentarily stunned and incapable of moving.

His timing had been slightly off, the Zero had already been twenty yards past and sustained no apparent damage as it slowly climbed again preparing to bank for another run.

‘God bless us all–‘ Preacher said it for all of them as they watched Dawber locate the sheet of steel awning that was pinning him down to crawl out from under it. A glance showed that the bridge superstructure was all but gone while of the tall radio mast there was no sign unless it was that twisted pile of steel trailing over the portside beam.

‘You’re bleeding, Captain,’ a concerned Smiley exclaimed as he surfaced from the hatchway, indicating a gash on his arm.

‘What? Oh.’ Flexing the arm he saw it was a deep gash but not bleeding much, a bandage would do. Later.

Everybody seemed OK as they all clambered to their feet while all eyes were on the Zero now a bright speck in the distance.

‘It’s coming back,’ Smiley said and Dawber saw no point in contradicting him. Clearly the plan had not worked and the next run, well, the next run would do it for them. Already they seemed to be listing slightly and he knew there would be water in the engine room by now.

Then, at that moment of despair, something happened. At first he thought it was his imagination but no, there it was again! A definite hint of black smoke. The plane had dipped slightly and the trailing plume of smoke was now clearly visible. It seemed to come off the fuselage rather than a wing but it was there alright!

‘You bloody beauty!’ Larry shouted followed by a chorus of cheers as the Zero veered off to the left and set a course well to their stern, heading back in the direction it had come.

They stood there in mute silence for minutes as they watched the trail of smoke growing smaller until it finally disappeared over the horizon.

Still deaf from the explosion Dawber sent the brothers below deck to see what could be done about the holes in the hull while Preacher set about trying to fix the wheel which had been blown away leaving only a twisting and turning shaft. He finally rigged a steering device by clamping a large shifting spanner, lifted from a tool box, onto the shaft enabling the craft to be steered.

Encouraging news was that the engines seemed to be OK, the earlier fuel leak from several of the spare jerrycans they carried and not a fuel line. It did leave the question however whether they carried enough fuel to get them to Milne Bay, especially travelling at a near full throttle twenty five knots as they were now.

It was a chance they had to take, for there was little doubt the Japanese pilot would have radioed the situation in by now and it was only a question of time before his mates arrived. And this time in force.

On the bright side, if they ran out of fuel it would likely be close enough to the airbase at Milne Bay for a patrol of Kittyhawks to locate them and provide cover. All the control gauges were shattered by the explosion which included the compass. Which made the whole business a bit of a guessing game now. He was in fact steering by his hand held compass dug from a tunic pocket and battling to keep them steadily heading south by south east.

His thoughts were interrupted by Larry, his face smeared with oil so that his teeth glinted white as he grimaced. ‘Half a dozen holes down below, Cap, luckily only two large enough to be cannon. We plugged them as best we could with the kit they have but we’re still taking on water. The bilge pumps are going flat out.’

‘Good work Corporal,’ Dawber replied as he patiently held out his wounded arm for Smiley to bandage. His ears were still ringing and there was still a hint of blurriness to his vision and he reckoned shards of the console glass was probably embedded in his chest wall judging by the way his tunic was ripped and blood stained.

Apart from that he felt OK.

‘The wireless has had it,’ a voice behind him said, ‘we’ll have to rely on our own and hope it will reach the base.’

Wireless. Only Preacher was old enough to use a term Dawber had last heard his own dad use. He smiled which made his face hurt, ‘It’s OK, Flynn, see if you can raise them will you?’

Turning to a hovering Smiley he asked him to dig out the Australian Navy flag they always carried as part of their kit and raise it at the stern in place of the Japanese one. A slight breeze had come up and as Dawber watched the Red Ensign with its Union Jack and stars he experienced a fleeting moment of an emotion quite alien to him. Putting it down to aftershock he issued instructions for the men to scrounge whatever feed they could from the boat’s galley and snatch a bit of sleep if they could.

A mug of strong tea wouldn’t be a bad idea either he thought to himself but then he knew the Chinaman would already be onto that.

With the two cockpit seats now nothing but twisted lumps of steel there was no sitting as he manned the helm and he was grateful when, after a while, Preacher clambered up from the direction of the galley hauling a foldaway chair in his wake. It was too low for Dawber to see the boat’s prow and after some further scrounging they came up with some cushions to solve the problem.

Wolfing down the sandwich the older man had put together–the filling was something alien he could not put a name to but as hungry as he was now it didn’t matter–he asked what was in the bottle Preacher now produced with a sigh of satisfaction.

‘Not quite whiskey but a wee dram of rice wine shan’t do any harm, now will it?’

Dawber wordlessly took the offered bottle and brought it to his lips. The fiery liquid seared the back of his throat and brought on a coughing fit as he quickly handed the bottle back to a smiling Preacher.

‘Here’s to Hell,’ Preacher said, ‘May the stay there be as much fun as the way there!’

‘It’s a spiritual matter, my boy,’ Preacher added after a long satisfying tug at the bottle which lowered its level noticeably. Smacking his lips in satisfaction he added, ‘we Irish are a very spiritual people, you know? Why only—’

He was interrupted by the radio set at their feet crackling into life as an unmistakeably Aussie accent demanded to know who they were and their destination. The operator identifying himself as an Australian aircraft without giving any details in case the transmission was monitored by the enemy.

Handing the handset to Dawber Preacher fiddled with the dial to get the best reception as Dawber identified himself as leader of a Z unit returning to Milne Bay. There followed a series of protocols which Dawber thought he answered satisfactorily but still the pilot of the Kittyhawk–there were two of them now approaching—was not quite satisfied. The Japanese were notorious for masquerading as allied forces and there had been a number of incidents. A torpedo boat approaching the moored supply ships at the Milne Bay jetty could wreak havoc.

‘Where are you from?’ came the voice over the ether.

‘Ballarat,’ Dawber replied, at a guess that’s what the man was asking.

There was a moment’s static