Chapter 1: Lucky Charm

Robert Bingham sat in the cargo hold of the C-47 clinging onto the webbing that kept him strapped in his seat as the aircraft was buffeted around the sky.

The old aircraft was being ferried all the way from Hickham AFB in Hawaii to Ashiya Air Base in Japan to support the Korean war effort. The old war horse had gassed up at Midway Atoll where reports of foul weather over the North Pacific Ocean had not deterred the young and enthusiastic pilots from proceeding with their mission.

The plane was carrying only light cargo to improve endurance and there was nothing on board essential to the war effort so Robert didn’t understand why the flight crew didn’t just wait out the storm at Midway. All they had on board was a pile of crates, trunks, musical instruments and background sets for the USO.

As the plane bucked and swayed, rolling and pitching across the stormy sky Robert bet that two young pilots regretted their decision to continue the flight but now was not the time to be smug.

When Robert heard the aircraft’s port engine begin to sputter he felt not smug at all. He held on for all he was worth as the plane was slammed by a downdraught and began to plummet. He was not a religious man but Robert prayed every second during that terrifying decent.

Miraculously the plane stayed afloat on the tortured mountainous seas long enough for Robert to unstrap himself before it split in half behind the wings spilling Robert and the contents of the cargo bay into the raging Pacific Ocean. The two pilots, the navigator and the radioman strapped into the forward section of the plane never had a chance.

Robert clung to a steamer trunk and tried not to drown. He didn’t know how long he was tossed around the ocean until he felt sand beneath his feet but when he did he was too exhausted to do anything other than drag himself from the sea and collapse on the beach.

“Wake up kid,” a disembodied voice called and Robert felt a shower of water drench his face.

He opened his eyes to see a tall, rangy, shirtless, heavily tanned man towering over him, sprinkling water in his face from a canteen.

When Robert realised that it was fresh water he reached up for the canteen with one hand while he shaded his eyes with the other. The man holding the canteen refused to let go for a second and then let go with a laugh.

“Sip it; don’t gulp it kid or you’ll throw it all up,” the man laughed.

Which is exactly what Robert did. He was so thirsty and his mouth so salty that he gulped down most of the water in the canteen in one long swallow and then immediately threw it all back up.

The man snatched away the canteen and bent down on one knee.

“Sip it kid,” the man cradled Robert’s head and put the canteen to his mouth allowing Robert only a few sips at a time.

“Where am I?” Robert said when he had recovered enough to sit up.

All he could see was a long stretch of white sand with acres of bending palms at the back of the beach. It looked exactly like every other Pacific island and atoll that Robert had ever seen.

“Never mind that kid. Where did you come from and how did you get here?” the man asked.

Robert told the man the story of ferrying the C-47 from Hawaii to Japan and their ill-advised decision to continue the flight from Midway Atoll despite the severe weather warning.

“Korea? We’re fighting there now? We won the war in the Pacific six years ago,” the man sounded bewildered and confused.

Robert studied the man carefully. He was wearing Navy dungarees and had a set of dog tags around his neck. His hair was poorly cut but he had the bearing of a military man.

“Who are you?” Robert asked.

“Chief Petty Officer Ray Millward, United States Navy, and you are?” the man replied.

“Robert Bingham, assistant producer, United Service Organization,” Robert replied.

“I was only on that flight because it is my job to accompany the wardrobe and sets to every location where the USO has a show,” Robert explained.

“You’re a fuckin’ flunky for the USO?” Ray responded.

“I’m an assistant producer!” Robert huffed.

“I was accompanying the show’s theatrical trappings which were being pre-positioned at Ashiya AB in Japan to be transhipped down to Seoul for our USO shows. Of course the performers are flying first class commercial,” Robert said cynically.

“So, where am I?” Robert asked.

“Now that’s a tricky question to answer exactly. Get up and follow me and we’ll get you checked out first, make sure you’re ok,” Ray offered Robert his hand and helped him to his feet.

Robert’s flying suit had dried crusty from the sea water and he had lost his shoes and socks. The sand beneath his feet was warm from the early morning sun.

He followed Ray to the back of the beach and then down a sandy trail winding through tropical foliage. It took Robert a little while to determine why he was so disoriented and then he realised it was the silence. The only sounds were breaking waves and sea birds.

They came out of the dense vegetation onto a runway apron. The apron and the runway itself were cracked and uneven and the jungle was encroaching on it. In several places vines and shrubbery actually crossed the runway. The apron was skirted by several buildings in poor state of repair and rusting Quonset huts.

“What is this place?” Robert asked looking around in confusion.

He could hear the faint humming of a diesel generator in the distance.

“Welcome to Harris Field, Mirrocau Island,” Ray waved his hands expansively.

“Never heard of it,” Robert remained puzzled.

“Not surprised kid. This little shithole was an uninhabited fly speck until it was converted into a staging base back in May 45. Then the war moved on so it was mainly used as a supply and repair facility until it was abandoned in September 1945,” Ray explained.

“They didn’t even bother trying to repatriate most of the surplus stores, they just loaded the troops and anything classified into transports and left the place to rot. Wasn’t worth the time, money and effort,” Ray sighed despondently.

“So what are you doing here?” Robert asked.

“Now that’s a good question but first let’s get you cleaned up, fed and watered then you can meet the others,” Ray started to walk across the crazed and splintered runway towards a group of buildings that looked to be in better condition than the others.

Three other men dressed similarly to Ray came out of one of the buildings to greet them.

“That’s Petty Officer John Fitzgibbons, Seaman Craig Bowen and Seaman Steve Ford, all of the PT 991,” Ray said as the men rushed towards them.

“Settle down guys, let’s get this kid some clean clothes, water and food and then he can tell you his story,” Ray called to his men as they clamoured around Robert and bombarded him with questions.

Robert was taken into a building that looked timeworn on the outside but inside was in remarkable condition. It appeared to be a small mess-hall replete with a stove, cooktops, refrigerator, freezer, table and chairs.

“John, check this kid for injuries,” Ray ordered and went over to a battered coffee pot and poured himself a cup.

The men looked anxiously at Robert whilst Petty Officer Fitzgibbons helped him out of his flying suit and checked him for wounds and injuries. It was obvious that they were keen to speak to him; to interrogate him.

“A few nicks and bruises and he’s dehydrated but that’s all,” John said handing Robert a glass of water.

Seaman Bowen harried away and returned with a pair of dungarees and t-shirt which he handed to Robert.

“These should fit,” Craig Bowen said and pulled up a seat at the table.

“We all got questions but you men let me ask mine first,” Ray glared at the other three men who crowded around Robert expectantly.

Robert repeated his story to the men and told them about the crash.

“Do you know if the radioman got a mayday message away before the plane crashed?” Ray asked anxiously.

“The weather was bad. It was a big electrical storm so I’m not sure if the radio would have got through. To be honest I don’t know, I was in the cargo-hold the whole flight and the flight crew were up front,” Robert explained.

Robert saw the faces of the other three men who had been listening hopefully suddenly fall.

“Look, I don’t know. The radioman told me that comms are sometimes sketchy when they are that far out in the Pacific, but who knows, maybe he got through,” Robert tried to placate them a little.

“Ok men we don’t know if that kite got a mayday away and reported their position but let’s hold onto the hope they did,” Ray said to his compatriots.

He turned back to Robert who had been given a cup of coffee and slab of cornbread spread with margarine

“So you said before that we are at war with Korea, is that right?”

Robert began to realise that there was something seriously wrong here. These men seemed ill informed of current events and he had seen no officers. Surely as a military aircraft crash survivor he would have been brought before the CO or XO by now rather than being interrogated by a Chief Petty Officer. Surely he should have been taken to sickbay and been checked by someone from the medical corps.

“What’s going on here Chief? Everything here seems a little whacky. Where is your CO?” Robert asked.

“I’ll ask the questions for now Mister Bingham,” Ray Millward snapped.

“Tell me about Korea,” Ray was insistent.

“After the war we occupied Korea south of the 38th parallel and the Russians occupied the North. Then somehow China got involved, I don’t know about politics. Anyway North Korea invaded South Korea and we sent in MacArthur to sort it all out and he didn’t. We’ve been at war with North Korea since 1950. I’m not even sure if it’s a real war but guys are getting killed over there,” Robert summarised what he knew and cared about the situation in Korea.

“Jesus! We whooped the Japs in the Pacific and then the Koreans start a war. What the fuck did we fight for?” Steve Floyd shook his head.

“Stow it Floyd,” Ray snarled.

“And back home? How are things in the USA?” Ray asked.

The questions seemed unending. The four men were hungry for news and they bombarded him with questions. After nearly two hours of answering their questions Robert had had enough.

“Ok Chief. Can you please tell me what is going on here please because nothing here seems right,” Robert asked insistently.

Ray looked at his three compatriots knowingly and then turned back to Robert.

“We are the remaining crew members of the PT 991. In November 45 we were mopping up in the Northern Philippines, digging out the last Nips who hadn’t surrendered,” Ray sighed.

“We got caught in a typhoon and were pushed out into the Pacific. The boat broke down and drifted for two weeks. We ran out of food and drank rainwater and ate any fish we caught. The PT 991 washed up here but by then everyone else was dead except for two others who died just after we arrived,” Ray said solemnly.

“Wait! You’ve been on this island since November 1945! You’ve been on this island for six years!” Robert was astounded.

“I told you, this place is of no strategic or economic value. Technically Mirrocau Island belongs to Palau, a United States governed Trust Territory of the Pacific Islands but no one comes here. At least they haven’t for the whole time we’ve been here. Get the chart John,” Ray motioned to John Fitzgibbons who came back with a creased and stained chart of the north Pacific.

“We’re here, off the main shipping and commercial aircraft routes,” Ray pointed to the chart.

“The island is only five square miles most of which is mountainous jungle. The airfield and base facilities are built along the coastal fringe. At least there is fresh water but other than sea birds and turtles no one comes here,” Ray sighed.

“How do you survive? Why couldn’t you radio for help?” Robert looked into the eyes of the four desperate men.

“Look. You’ll have plenty of time to ask questions so why don’t you just get yourself settled. Craig, get our guest settled. John organise a lookout roster and check that our signal fires are ready to go. If we see any search and rescue aircraft I want those fires lit asap,” Ray got up from the table and took John Fitzgibbons and Steve Ford outside with him.

“Come on Bobbie, let’s get you situated,” Seaman Craig Bowen grinned.

Craig Bowen was in his late twenties with sun-bleached hair and unlike the others he was quite portly. Like the others he was tanned brown as a berry.

“This is our mess hall, kitchen and recreation room,” Craig waved at their surroundings.

“We can’t maintain all of the infrastructure on the island so we just preserve and sustain the essentials,” Craig said as he led Robert outside into the brilliant sunshine, picking up two full canteens of water on the way out.

“Over there is the storehouse or ‘Q store’ as we call it. We have a huge supply of canned goods. When the Army pulled out they left everything behind, even the commissary. We took most of the perishables that we couldn’t use immediately and burnt them in a fire pit not long after we arrived,” Craig pointed to a concrete building.

“Why did you burn the perishables?” Robert asked.

“To keep the rats away,” Craig grinned.

“Rats?” Robert looked alarmed.

“Don’t worry. They’re all gone. Ray insisted that we wage war on them because they were the only introduced species on the island and we didn’t know how long we would be here,” Craig said solemnly.

“It took us a year but we shot and poisoned them out. Ray’s smart, he knew that the rats would ruin everything left behind if we didn’t get rid of them.”

“Those Quonset huts used to be barracks. We each took one so we have our own homes so to speak. When there’s only four people in the world to talk to you can get on each other’s nerves pretty quickly. Ray insists that we keep our rank structure so he’s pretty much in charge and we mostly do as he says,” Craig explained.

“You can have that Quonset over there next to mine. It’s full of old furniture and fittings but the building is in good repair. I’ll help you clean it out and set it up. Hopefully it won’t be for long. You’re the first ray of hope we’ve had for a long time,” Craig sighed.

“Ray of hope?” Robert furrowed his brow.

“They gotta come looking for you. And if they come looking for you, then they gotta find us,” Craig beamed.

Robert grimaced at Craig’s naiveté. The C-47 had been thrown all over the sky and was likely way off course. It was also unlikely that the crew got away a distress signal. But most importantly the Pacific was a huge ocean and with the Korean War raging, how much time and effort was the Air Force going to put into searching for a cargo plane with nothing of strategic value on board?

“Well it’s not really me who is the ray of hope, it’s the C-47 I was flying in; I’m just the sole survivor,” Robert said.

“You’re our lucky charm Bobbie. I know they’ll come looking for you and they’ll find you too and when they do they’ll find all of us,” Craig beamed.

Robert decided not to curb Craig’s overzealous optimism. Robert might only be a lowly production assistant but he knew the odds of them being found were slim. He was sure that Ray felt the same way but he had to provide his men with any possible hope.

The tour continued.

“That’s the generator house. There are two diesel generators in there but we only need one, if fact we don’t use that much power between the four of us and the base facilities we use. We rotate the generator’s duty cycles and I service and repair them. I was an engineer on PT 991,” Craig seemed proud of his trade.

“Those three tanks you see up on the hill are the base’s supply of diesoline. In five years we’ve used hardly any of it,” Craig pointed to three huge storage tanks nestled in the jungle.

“You guys seem very well supplied. What do you eat?” Robert was curious.

“We catch fish, crayfish and crabs of course. We set traps in the lagoon. Some of the bigger sea birds are good eating and there is a herd of wild pigs on the island. The only thing we’ve been able to grow is corn but there are plenty of wild fruits and vegetables. Steve Ford makes a mean cornbread,” Craig boasted.

“Then of course we have the mountains of tinned food that was left behind,” he waved his hand at the Q store.

“We get plenty of rain, too much sometimes, and there are a couple of streams and even a natural fresh water pool up the hill aways. The engineers who constructed Harris Field diverted one of the streams to those fresh water tanks which give us our water supply,” Craig pointed out three elevated water tanks standing on steel scaffolds that looked like aliens out of a science fiction movie.

“And that’s pretty much the cook’s tour so to speak. Come on let’s get you settled,” Craig led Robert to the Quonset hut he had picked out for him.

They spent most of the rest of the day clearing out the Quonset hut, cleaning it and then putting in a cast iron bed with a clean mattress taken from the Q store where they also commandeered bedding, dungarees, shirts, underwear and shoes. They went over to another store and moved some furniture from that store into Robert’s Quonset.

“These bigger bunks are for the officers but there ain’t any now so we enjoy what little luxuries we can,” Craig said as he helped Robert fold hospital corners on the GI issue counterpane.

“You can pick up toiletries in the Q store or the commissary. I’ll leave you to explore the rest of the base on your own. I wouldn’t wonder off into the jungle until we show you the trails. The island is only small but you can still get lost easily and Ray will get pissed if we have to come find you. He likes to run a tight ship,” Craig said solemnly.

“Dinner is at six in the mess. Don’t be late. We take turns cooking and I’m making my famous albatross stew,” Craig smiled and Robert managed to hide his disgust at having to eat a seabird.

Robert went back to the Q store and ferried items he thought might be useful back to his Quonset. Now he was by himself all he could think of was rescue. How could these men have survived here for so long here? Robert had heard of Japanese soldiers and sailors who refused to surrender after the war, holding out in the jungles of the Philippines, Indonesia and some Pacific islands. The surviving crew of PT 991 seemed to be trapped in similar circumstances. Time for them had stopped in November 1945. It was incomprehensible.

Robert admired the little abode he had made for himself in his Quonset. Originally it was designed to house twenty soldiers or five officers but he was already starting to make it into his own little chalet. He had a bedroom, a lounge room of sorts and a bathroom which was really just four shower stalls and as many sinks set into a long bench.

He hoped to be rescued soon but was not optimistic and he already had plans to make the place more comfortable. He was experienced using hand tools and light building materials, building sets and props for the USO shows. He had done everything from makeup, costumes, set design and had even performed a few bit parts as a supporting actor in comedy sketches on stage. He only had one recurring role which was used sporadically and Robert didn’t really feel comfortable doing that particular sketch anyway.

Robert had taken acting, dance and singing classes in college but had been unable to find work as a performer so he’d taken a job with the USO as a production assistant, which was a fancy name for a Jack of all trades, hoping that one day his talents would be recognised. So far Robert’s only standout performance was a gig where he came out in drag and performed a set singing and dancing as ‘Bobbie’. At the end of the set there was a big ‘reveal’ where Bobbie whipped off her wig to divulge that she was really a man.

‘Bobbie the drag queen’ was really just a ‘stocking filler’ that the show’s director used to fill in a set if a performer was tired or unavailable for some reason, which usually meant drunk. It was not part of the regular production. Robert had reservations about performing as Bobbie because ‘she’ played with his psyche in a disturbing way. Robert was a little annoyed that Craig kept referring to him as Bobbie. Robert would ask Craig to stop once he knew him better.

He turned on the water in one of the showers and let it run for about five minutes before it changed from rusty orange to a clear bright stream. The soap was hard and difficult to lather but the water was warmed by the sun and then turned cooler as he luxuriated under the shower. The GI issue towel was scratchy but it felt wonderful to wash off the salt and grime from his body.

Robert shaved the few wisps of hair from his chin and cleaned his teeth with tooth powder. The toothpaste in the commissary had all turned and was useless. He put on fresh underwear, dungarees, t-shirt, socks and his new shoes and was ready to face the new world.

Robert’s Timex had amazingly survived the crash and all those hours being tossed around the Pacific and he saw that it was five minutes to six so he made his way over to the mess hall.

The albatross stew was surprisingly good. It was fortified with breadfruit and canned carrots and peas. Steve Ford had made his famous cornbread. There were condiments and corn oil spread which Robert had earlier mistaken for margarine.

Craig Bowmen, John Fitzgibbons and Steve Ford bombarded Robert with questions about post war life in the USA and they of course wanted to know what had happened to their favourite movie stars. Robert answered their questions as best he could and countered with questions of his own, asking how the four men survived on the island, which they gladly answered. They were justifiably proud of how they maintained a good standard of living on the deserted island.

What if came down to was mostly hard work. They religiously maintained the machinery and equipment they needed to survive and kept meticulous records as to what they had used and what remained in the storehouses. They were fortunate that when the island was abandoned by the military, all the stores were left behind, if it didn’t have wings or wheels it stayed put unless it was classified.

Robert had seen newsreels of US military surplus being pushed into the ocean or simply abandoned as being no longer required. It was more effort than it was worth to tranship the surplus back to the USA. Harris Field on Mirrocau Island was a fine example.

As usually happens when strangers meet and are required to spend time together, talk turned to family. Craig Bowen and Steve Ford were single and were only nineteen when they were shipwrecked. John Fitzgibbons was newly wed when the war broke out. He passed around a creased and faded picture of a pretty, chubby young woman wearing a wedding dress. He said that he knew that she would wait for him but you could tell by his tone that he really believed that wasn’t the case. He looked conspiratorially at Steve Ford who returned his gaze. Ray Millward had stayed silent and surly through most of the meal but he loosened up as he drank.

The ingenious sailors had learned how to ferment coconut juice and made coconut beer and a spirit they called coconut rum. Robert didn’t really like the taste of the rum but it certainly had a kick.

“I bet that bitch will remarry as soon as they pay out my insurance,” Ray said bitterly, referring to his wife.

“I heard she was putting it around before I even went missing so you can bet she couldn’t wait to have me classified as presumed dead. I heard she’d open her legs for a pair of black market nylons,” Ray said through gritted teeth.

Craig and Steve steered the conversation away from girlfriends, wives and lovers and back to life on the island, they had seen Ray’s melancholy quickly turn to anger when he was drinking.

“There’s no point talking about home. All it does is make us unhappy and disconsolate. We make the best of what we’ve got until we’re rescued; then we’ll talk about home,” Ray growled.

“Kid, I’m not sure if you’re good luck or bad. You raised the hopes of my men who think that rescue is not far away but I’m a pragmatic man. We’ll remain extra vigilant for the next week or two and keep our signal fires dry and ready but I ain’t optimistic,” Ray glared at Robert.

“You may be our salvation or you may be an albatross around our necks. You men have your overnight lookout watches so make sure you stay awake and vigilant,” Ray said to his crew.

“You can have a day or two to settle in then we’re going to have to find something useful for you to do. On this island we all earn our keep, I don’t brook no malingerers,” Ray turned back to Robert.

Robert walked back to his quarters alongside Craig Bowen feeling a little despondent.

“Don’t worry about the Chief; he gets grouchy in his cups. You’ll do fine Bobbie and anyway we ain’t got much longer left on this rock,” Craig kicked along a piece of dried coral.

“Hey Craig ... about you calling me Bobbie ... can you ... ah never mind, forget it,” Robert was about to bring up the subject but changed his mind.

Robert went into his Quonset and stripped down to underpants and t-shirt and sat with his head in his hands for a while. He was glad that he hadn’t died in the plane crash or drowned in the ocean but he didn’t want to waste years of his life on this island like these four men. It was obvious after only one day that they were dysfunctional but what else could be expected?

Robert decided to confront Craig after all and ask him to stop calling him Bobbie; he didn’t need to explain why, he would just say that he didn’t like the abbreviation.

Robert padded through the soft warm sand to Craig’s quarters and saw a soft light coming from an open window. He wasn’t sure of privacy protocols on the island so he went up to the window with the intent of whispering to Craig. What he saw stopped him cold and shocked him.

The window overlooked Craig’s bed and he was lying on it naked with a bedlamp providing just enough light so he could look at the periodical he was holding. The periodical in question was a dog-eared copy of Eyeful magazine. It was open to the centrefold of a woman lying on a couch in a provocative pose. She was dressed in a black and red satin and lace basque, wearing full makeup and high heels, displaying her long legs sheathed in silky black nylons with her pubis shrouded in frilly red panties.

Craig was slowly stroking his erect penis.

Robert knew that he should just back away quietly but he was mesmerised. He looked at the cheesecake picture of the pretty woman in the magazine then back at Craig’s chubby torso, his throbbing member standing upright from his crotch as he stroked it softly and slowly.

Robert felt himself becoming erect and he put his hand down there to move his erection into a more comfortable position but as soon as he touched his flesh he was filled with wanton desire. He knew what he was doing was wrong but he couldn’t help himself.

Robert freed his cock from his underwear and stroked it in time with Craig, looking alternately at the women in the sexy lingerie and Craig’s pulsing penis which was now secreting droplets of dewy precum. Robert bit his lip to stifle a gasp as his own cock began to dribble pre-ejaculate which he used to lubricate his shaft, exactly as Craig was doing only inches away from him.

Robert was not homosexual, he had been with women, albeit not always successfully, but seeing this young man stroke his magnificent manhood only inches away from him invoked a sense of arousal that he had no choice but to gratify.

Craig’s penis began to quiver and he began to stroke it harder and faster. Robert mimicked his actions and bit down harder on his lip as he felt his orgasm getting close.

“Mhg ... oh ... Karen! Karen!” Craig cried.

A spume of creamy semen erupted from Craig’s penis and spattered on his chest. Another followed. Then torrents of milky spend splattered on his soft plump belly as his penis erupted in geysers of hot, creamy seed.

Robert’s cock erupted at the same time and he ejaculated his load onto the sand as an enormous orgasm washed over him. He had to hold onto the window ledge for support. It was difficult experiencing such divine pleasure without divulging his presence and he tried not to gasp too loudly. He fell to his knees and drained the last of his ejaculate onto the ground, his whole body shuddering with the intensity of his climax.

Robert stayed on his knees, breathing deeply as he scattered sand over his semen then he crawled away, not getting to his feet until he was at the door to his Quonset hut. He knew what he had done was wrong but too much had happened today; there was too much going on in his head for him to stop and try to psychoanalyse it. He crawled into bed and fell into a deep sleep.

His dreams were interwoven with facts and fantasy. He relived the plane crash and the hours spent clinging to the trunk on the tortuous seas. He relived his days working as a waiter and busboy in New York restaurants so he could pay his way through drama school. He relived the time when his father caught him dressed in his sister’s clothes putting on a performance for his sister and her girlfriends. His father had taken Robert into the kitchen had beaten him. Mary Spencer, his sister’s best friend, had consoled him, hugging him to her. He had become tumescent and Mary had put her hand under his skirt and stroked him until he filled his sister’s panties with his essence. She had sworn him to secrecy and it had been his main masturbatory fantasy until he finally lost his virginity.