The Seabees had built the cemetery on the point of the bay, not far from the old Residency bungalow. It was surrounded by a white picket fence. The Stars and Stripes fluttered from a steel grey flagpole at one corner.
There was row upon row of neat white crosses, almost three hundred of them, each one someone's personal tragedy, anonymous now. They stood at attention in neat white lines, the dead mustered for inspection on their final parade; the colonels, the captains, the sergeant-at arms; the husbands and brothers and lovers. The air was redolent with frangipani; the Pacific breakers boomed like cannon fire on the reef below.
He stopped at the gate and lit a cigarette. They were here on the island somewhere, he knew. Shoup had told him so.
A native policeman came shambling towards him. He wore a lava-lava and a broad leather belt with a heavy metal buckle, and there was an ancient Enfield rifle over his left shoulder. He walked with a heavy limp; there was a large slice of muscle missing from the thigh of his right leg, and an ugly purple scar above his knee, round as a nickel.
The policeman watched him, his head cocked to one side. ‘What name you?’ he asked finally.
‘Major James Mitchell, US Air Force. I was looking for someone. A woman. Rachel Goode.’
‘I know that one orright.’
‘You do? Perhaps you could take me to see her.’
‘Mebbe,’ the man said. ‘How you know white missus?’
‘I don't ... I mean, we never actually met. I was with on Guadalcanal. She meant a lot to all of us on the island. I wanted to say thanks.’
The policeman smiled, revealing the white tombstones of his teeth. ‘Good you come,’ he said. ‘You walk longa me. I show you.’
Mitchell followed the man up a winding path through the ferns and banyan. Mitchell wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead. ‘What's your name?’ Mitchell asked him.
‘Name b’long me Sergeant Lavella.’
‘What happened to your leg?’
‘Japoni he kill me. But not kill finis. Sergeant Lavella too much big man for japoni.’
‘Were you one of Manning's men?’
Lavella nodded his head vigorously. ‘Damn good kiap, that one,’ he said, using the strongest oath he knew. ‘Damn good.’
They reached the mission building at the top of the hill. The sound of children's voices came from inside the thatched hut that dominated the compound. They were singing a hymn; ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’.
On the other side of the compound was a bungalow, the verandah wreathed with purple flowering bougainvillea. Outside there was a small white cairn of stones and a white cross. Mitchell bent to examine the inscription:
PATRICK CORRIGAN 1907-1942
If it wasn't for me he would have got away
Mitchell straightened, frowning. He turned to Sergeant Lavella. ‘I don't understand. I thought that . . .’
The singing stopped. A group of children swarmed out, laughing and shouting. In the midst of them was a white man, with a face like a boxer. A lock of hair fell into his eye and he pushed it away with a practiced sweep of his hand.
Sergeant Lavella went over to him and said something to him, pointing at Mitchell. His face split into a broad grin. ‘Patrick Corrigan,’ he said, extending his huge hand, ‘welcome to Santa Maria!’
‘So you're one of the Yank pilots?’
‘Major James Mitchell.’ He shook his hand. ‘And you must be The Weatherman.’
‘No, not me. The real Weatherman’s in the church there, collecting the missals.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I still don't lay a great store by it myself but Rachel thinks it's doing the children a bit of good and everybody likes a good sing-song now and then, don't they?’
Mitchell pointed to the cross. ‘But the inscription says . . .’
‘Oh, take no notice of that. She put that there. Symbolic she reckons. She says I was reborn. I think it’s daft but it doesn’t pay to argue with a woman.’ He led the way towards the mission church. Mitchell noticed the limp. ‘You tangle with the same Japanese marksman as the sergeant over there?’
Corrigan shook his head. ‘Shark,’ he said. ‘Nearly had me, but one of your lot managed to get me out of the water just in time. Still, it kept a bit of my leg as a souvenir.’ He patted his left trouser leg. ‘It's slowed me down a bit, but Rachel reckons it was about time. Talk of the Devil, here comes your Weatherman now.’
She was one of the most beautiful young women Mitchell had ever seen. When he thought about the Weatherman, he had imagined an Amazon like the matron in the field hospital, not a pretty waif with long black hair and a face like a film star.
You never could tell.
She put a proprietary arm around Corrigan's waist and stood on tip toe to kiss him lightly on the cheek.
‘This is Jim,’ Corrigan said, introducing them. ‘Jim, this is The Weatherman.’
Mitchell held out his hand. ‘I'm glad you made it. I'm glad you both made it.’
Rachel offered him a dazzling smile. ‘You were one of the pilots on Guadalcanal.’
‘I was, ma’am.’
‘How wonderful. I want to hear all about it. Come over to the bungalow, I’ll make you a gin and tonic. Will you join us, Patrick?’
‘Not me,’ Corrigan said, ‘I've reformed.’
And he gave Mitchell a broad wink and left the American to wonder what it meant.
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Find Colin Falconer at: https://colinfalconer.wordpress.com
or on Twitter at @colin_falconer
Born in north London, Colin Falconer worked for many years in TV and radio and freelanced for many of Australia's leading newspapers and magazines. He has been a novelist for the last twenty years, with his work published widely in the UK, US and Europe. His books have been translated into seventeen languages.
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
CORRIGAN’S RUN
Prologue
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 5
Chapter 7
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
PART TWO
Chapter 14
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 46.
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
PART THREE
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 56
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Epilogue
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rrigan's Run