Adapted from “1942” by Jenny Wanshel

Micronesia, October 26, 1942

Perhaps it was his boots that pulled him under when in crossing the reef, the surf upended the launch, but in any case, Lieutenant O’Connor vanished.

Miss Elsie held back the boys who wanted to swim to the officer’s rescue. She grabbed them by the shoulders, the arms, the hair, but ultimately it was her shrieking that dissuaded them from likewise perishing.

There were nine on the sand, eight boys from Palua Secondary and their teacher.

Miss Elsie had had no idea where Palua was when she responded to “English teacher. Two-year contract. Transportation provided” in the back of the Journal Language Arts. The school turned out to be a boarding institution in the far Pacific for the children of ex-pats who didn’t foresee the world coming their way under the banner of a rising sun.

When the Japanese spotter flew over their vessel -- the M.V. Tammerville, a grime-encrusted inter-islander pressed into evacuation duties -- Miss Elsie was sleeping in her slip, the fan not working, and had barely time to button on her housecoat before she, her boys and their naval escort piled into the launch.

“Safer than here,” the Tammerville captain ordered, pointing to the island. “Goddamn’ Japs. Sorry, ma’am,” leaving Miss Elsie unsure if the apology was for the language, the war, or the island.

As they approached shore, Lt. O’Connor assured them that the island, being of little strategic value, wouldn’t be occupied. Stay in the trees and the Navy extract us in a couple of weeks. They’d be well placed to gather intelligence for the war effort, the lieutenant pointed out, but what Miss Elsie took to be for the boys’ sense of purpose.

The boys weren’t the only passengers impressed by the officer. He wasn’t wearing a ring, and a few days watching the sea would allow her to better make his acquaintance. Not that anything would come of it, but you never know.

Lt. O’Connor beached them safely, only to drown trying to retrieve a drum of supplies, the irony being that the drum later washed onto the sand and contained fresh water, what the island didn’t lack.

The flash on the horizon said the Tammerville was no more. Lt. O’Connor was dead and she and her boys were alone on the island. What if the Japanese arrived before their rescuers?

God help us, she thought.

October 27, 1942

Dawn brought the sun, and with it, an opportunity to assess their situation.

Hungry and exhausted, but still the teacher, Miss Elsie, shivering in her housecoat, had to get a grip. For starts, they’d need shelter, food and water.

“As Jess is oldest, he’ll be my sergeant,” announced to all. Kids know each other’s age.

The boys discussed whether Jess could be a sergeant, given that Lt. O’Connor had been Navy, not Army, but Miss Elsie ruled that her assistant’s rank was her decision.

The boys built shelters from palm fronds. For her, they constructed a lean-to. She appreciated the privacy, but was unsure about the lizards.

We’re rather like Wendy and the lost boys, she decided, their situation seeming a bit less precarious than it had yesterday.

That evening they made a fire, far enough into the greenery that an enemy ship wouldn’t notice. As the boys didn’t want to sing, Miss Elsie couldn’t come up with what to do until she thought of a vocabulary contest. “Who can make up a sentence using both ‘principle’ and ‘principal?”

“The lieutenant told us to spy,” the boys countered, suggesting an exercise involving warship identification. One of them had a pair of binoculars.

“The Navy needs properly written reports,” she trumped their objection.

Jess’s “I’m not afraid” made her glad he was her assistant.

“Me neither,” the others chorused, though Miss Elsie suspected otherwise.

“We’re all scared a little,” she suggested, with which no one disagreed.

October 29, 1943

They made their midday meal of coconut meat, but also finding breadfruit, they’d do better for dinner. Bury it with some coals.

After policing their campsite -- call it “base” and they take it seriously -- the boys went to explore the interior. The stream provided a route home as Miss Elsie reminded them, but when they failed to reappear in due time, she followed the watercourse, and after a scramble, came upon them swimming at the foot of a banyan.

By the clothing strewn on the bank, she realized she shouldn’t be there, but before she could turn, one of them caught sight of her. “Come on in, Miss Elsie,” to which another added, “If you don’t mind a few eels,” at which the others splashed him.

“Perhaps not now,” averting her eyes.

October 31, 1942

Next morning she took advantage of having the pool to herself by shedding her housecoat and brassiere and bathing in her slip. There were rustles in the foliage, probably not a dangerous animal, she hoped, but she knew for a fact that there were lizards.

November 1, 1942

She’d the sense of eyes upon her as she bathed, but this time she suspected not a lizard, but her boys, most likely passing around the binoculars. In just her slip, she knew her nipples might show, but there wasn’t much she could do about it.’

Actually, she realized, the possibility of being watched, seemed a bit exciting, something you’d never let happen in regular times, of course, but these weren’t regular times.

November 4, 1942

When she and the boys were rolling a log, Jess’s hand was on her rear. In moving the next one, his arm rubbed her chest, at first only a little, but as they rolled the log further, it lifted her breast until she’d slide back down. It’s what happens when you’re working together, the way she saw it, each roll repeating. This was a bit exciting, too.

November 6, 1942

Jess wanted Miss Elsie to see a promising site for a semaphore station. She wasn’t sure to whom they’d semaphore, but it seemed military. The route had its share of fallen trees in which one of the boys would shove her up and over and into the arms of a catcher on the other side. To cross a bog, they’d carry her piggyback.

The site did indeed look suitable, if precarious.

Hank demonstrated semaphore signals, Miss Elsie doing her best to mimic in case she’d need the skill.

“I won’t let you fall,” Jess’s guarantee, steadying her around her ribs. Not that she’d have toppled over the edge, but better safe than sorry. It was when she performed the arms-up signal for attention that his hold slid up, in case of a wind gust, she decided. She him a bit naughty, holding her there -- more than holding, actually, moving over her front as she practiced other letters.

She tried later that night to recall the other semaphore positions, but remembered little but Jess on her housecoat.

November 7, 1942

Saturday was their recreation day, Jess winning most of the races. Boys being boys, however, most of the action was horseplay, and being included in Pileup made her feel like one of them. Somebody’s it and everybody else piles on top. Pretty simple. She’d at times felt hands on her buns, but more and more on her chest, but it was all in fun. Sometimes in the pile she’d realize that the hem of her housecoat and slip had worked their way up and an arm or leg would be on the skin of her thigh and she’d have to escape.

When she’d find her own hand on a boy where maybe it shouldn’t have been, she hoped it went unnoticed. Just a lump, she told herself, letting the jostling move the side of her hand against it.

There’d been the time with Jess behind her in the pileup, his hand on the side of her breast. When it moved over and his finger had slipped between her buttons, what could she do? Maybe a couple of fingers, even, though she couldn’t really see. It’s a reason you wear a slip under your housecoat.

When his other hand went further down, bunching up her housecoat and slip, it wasn’t that far from being on her panties.

She’d tried to wiggle away, but all that came of it was her own reach going onto him. Just a lump, what was there, she told herself, but a pronounced one. If she touched it a little, he’d not notice.

That it went from there to him touching her panties and her moving her hand a tiny bit was just a silly game, Pileup, a teacher with her students, but not a game she’d play back at Palua Secondary.

Afterward, though, it felt somewhat exciting to see Jess going about, now knowing a little something about his penis.

It was not long after sunset when TJ, the youngest -- TJ stood for Thomas James, but no one called him that -- came to her, and maybe because he seemed as scared as she was, she gave him a hug. “It’s OK, TJ. We’ve got each other.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, not letting go.

She gave him a we’re-not-scared type kiss the edge of his cheek, a way to promise that rescue would come. It must have done some good, she thought, as he kissed her back.

“Tell you what, TJ. Why don’t you stay here and be my protector?” as a job helps a boy feel needed. At a time like this, a boy needs to be with someone.

Stretched out on the fronds beside each other, they talked of what they might build for fortifications. Not that they’d find them of much use if the Japs found them, but boys like to talk about forts, and as they did so, she found herself turning his way and him, hers, until they were again holding each other.

In the end, though, she gave him another kiss, turned away and felt his warmth on her back.

In the small hours, Miss Elsie was awakened by a hand under her elbow.

TJ was gone when she awoke. That’s when she noticed her housecoat’s misaligned buttons.

November 8, 1942

As their Sunday school teacher, she had them discuss the Good Samaritan.

That night several fell ill, but no one thought it was the breadfruit. Miss Elsie was up late, a nurse with a soothing hand, and finally all were asleep except Richard, the one who’d joked of eels.

“Were there really eels?”

“The nighttime ones,” he warned her. “You want a protector again?”

TJ must have said she needed one, she realized, but yes, she did.

“Aye, aye, ma’am. Consider me on duty,” as he smoothed himself a place beside her on her fronds, and the two talked of the wages of war and the tracks of crabs. She was almost asleep when the hand of tonight’s protector ventured forward. Richard wasn’t TJ, though, the difference apparent by his boldness.

She tried to act asleep and rolled onto her stomach, but a few moments later felt his weight on her back and his hands under her, finding her nipples through her housecoat.

She didn’t know what to do when he began to slide his body up and down the back of her housecoat, and less knew what to do when he lowered his shorts, his penis now doing the rubbing. Act asleep, all she could think of.

She hoped he didn’t know she could tell when he ejaculated. She’d wash off the evidence in the morning. When he was finished, he let go of her and resumed guard responsibilities.

November 9, 1942

It occurred to Miss Elsie that word squares might be fun, letters in the sand. The boys, at first dubious, pursued victory with a vengeance. The winning square:

E A R

E Y E

L E D

Miss Elsie liked the use of “eye” and “aye,” as in “Aye, aye, sir,” By how they elbowed one another, she could tell that they took special delight in “eel.”

That night, Tom would be her protector.

Miss Elsie knew the routine, not that she’d agreed, of course, but they’re boys. When he opened her housecoat, it wasn’t the breeze that caused her to shiver.

Don’t, Tom, she wanted to say when his hand slipped into her panties. Not all the way, Tom, she wanted to say.

He knows I’, not asleep, she allowed, the fronds of her bed crackling as he masturbated her.

Afterward, as he massaged her neck, she wanted to know something. “You’ve got a sister?”

“Gwen. She’s married and has a kid.”

“Makes you an uncle!”

“That’s half of it,” with a grin.

Oh my!

November 10, 1942

Robinson Crusoe wasn’t in Palua Secondary’s curriculum, but as she remembered some of it, given their current situation, Miss Elsie figured it an appropriate substitution. She’d follow with The Swiss Family Robinson, another curricular deviation. Both being “Robinson” was probably coincidental.

When she and Tom crossed paths, he asked, “Did I protect you OK, Miss Elsie?”

“I guess,” but it made her smile.

Dinner: fruit and fish, but a bigger fish with fewer bones. Or maybe it was that her boys were now better at cooking on a stick. Tonight’s protector was Jess, and she’d shed her brassiere before his arrival.

“I get to do you first because I know how best,” he informed her.

“Do what?”

“Protect you.”

“You can’t just...”

“I’m the sergeant. In the pileup, we could tell you were ready to not stay a virgin.”

“What?”

“But I said you’d want more privacy.”

“I’m your teacher”

Jess looked hurt. “Rather some Jap?”