Jimmy

"First lieutenant Santbergen; by the authority vested in me by their lords of the admiralty I am placing you under close arrest." Resignedly he stands, holding out his hands for the handcuffs.

Santbergen was eventually tried and convicted of espionage, the testimony of the flag officer regarding the non disclosure of the radio signal and the strange watch keeping hours witnessed by members of the crew sealing his fate. It was proven that he had hidden the presence of the enemy. He was taken to Gosport, the naval gunnery range at Portsmouth Harbour, shot and then buried in the ground adjacent reserved for spy’s, deserters, and those convicted of cowardice.

During W.W.II the school was enlarged the new buildings now encroaching upon the burial ground .The interred, due to their unimportance were not re-buried.

An aside to the entire above are the reports of strange aircraft engine at the exact chart position of the action leading to Santbergens arrest. Experienced skippers, on the anniversary of his death, routinely report that they hear aircraft engines. There are no flying fields for small aircraft within a five hundred-mile radius. No aircraft use the type of rotary engine heard; the loud yowl unmistakably not of this age of turbo props and highly tuned piston engines.

Dark clammy fog clung upon the horizon. White crested waves make an occasional appearance beneath the cottony clouds, the translucent green sea contrasting with the dark green under the cloud cover.

White breakers stretch towards the horizon in ever diminishing lines. Deep blue water merges into to the green and gray thunderclouds. Under the palm of a hand held above the aquiline nose squinting gray eyes apprehensively scan the horizon, first to the east and then to the west .The gaze holds for a second, moves away and then returns to the original spot, the apprehension in the brown eyes now pronounced.

"Looks like the new man has arrived" spoke the executive officer over his shoulder.

He has an open friendly countenance. Faint blond hairs sprout from an improperly shaved chin. Nostrils containing small blue and pink capillaries snort at the various smells emanating from the early morning air. Clear blue eyes look inquiringly into those of the skipper. The skipper gives a grunt, swivels upon his heel and as an aero engine makes its distinctive buzz, strides towards the operations tent. As he watched the skipper disappear inside the gray and green camouflaged tent the exec scratched his jowl, his brow creased into a frown.

Upon the edge of the tree line a thin figure dressed in khaki coveralls flits into, and then out of the surrounding jungle. The bark of an engine disturbs the tropical morning. High-octane fuel and castor oil surge into blue and black clouds adding to the beginning heat. Mechanics sitting upon leading edge wing tips guide the blue painted single engine low wing naval fighters towards the taxi strip.Yellow clothed and brown helmeted pilots look at the ground over the sides of open cockpits as they steer the machines between pools of muddy water.

The air is already humid. Somewhere a fly buzzes. The skipper gazes down at the replacement list; whispering: "All pilots have arrived via New Hebrides, The Santa Cruz Islands and The Marshall Islands instead of the more direct New Guinea, Solomon's route."The ticking of the typewriter and the roar of an aviation engine fills the tent.. To the amazement of specialist clerk Johansen the skipper slams shut the filing cabinet with his foot causing him to break his rhythm .On the edge of the jungle the figure flits into and then out of the shadows; mocking him.