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don’t mind a strafing run on the airstrip to slow down pursuit.”
    We crested the hill and saw that the bombers were closer. Antiaircraft fire rose up from the destroyers and emplacements along the harbor. One of the bombers blossomed into flame, its wings trailing fire and belching smoke as it fell, twisting and turning as if trying to shake off the grip of the red blaze. White barely slowed as we took a turn that nearly spilled us from our seats. The chatter of machine guns and the rhythmic thuds of larger antiaircraft shells filled the air with noise and explosions. Another Betty blew up, descending in a fireball to the sea.
    Then they dropped their bombloads. I could see the bombs descend as the aircraft turned away, climbing from the barrage clawing at them from every point in Port Moresby. The bombs exploded in neat rows, ripping into the docks and small ships moored in the harbor. I saw the Sunderland lifted from the water, its back broken by a direct hit.
    We were spared the sight of any further destruction as White took the jeep down the hill toward the airfield, where a flight of P-40 Warhawk fighters roared down the runway and took to the air in pursuit of the bombers. We raced past hangars until he slammed on the brakes near a Consolidated PBY, its two engines already warming up. It was painted a flat black, even the US Navy insignia done in a dull grey. There was no time for questions as we scrambled aboard, the crew and copilot already at their stations.
    We began to taxi, then had to wait for another half dozen Warhawks to get in the air. When it was our turn, White lost no time leaving the ground behind. The waist gunners manned their thirty-caliber machine guns in the distinctive blisters that afforded a wide view of sky and sea. But no Japanese Zeroes challenged us, and as White gained altitude and headed south, the only thing we saw was smoke blackening the sky above Port Moresby.
    â€œKeep your eyes peeled, boys,” White said over the intercom. “I’m headed for that cloud bank at nine o’clock.” He tossed the headset aside, told his copilot to take over, and leaned in our direction as we stood in the lower passageway leading to the cockpit. “We’ve got you guys to thank for saving us from those Betties.”
    â€œHow so?” I asked.
    â€œWe normally berth in the harbor,” White said. “But we needed some quick maintenance to make this run to Guadalcanal. So we flew up to the airstrip this morning. We would have been right under those bombs. We owe you.”
    â€œI will take a smooth flight as thanks,” Kaz said. “Why do you call them Betty?”
    â€œThat’s our designation for the Mitsubishi G4M bomber,” he said. “They give Jap planes code names to make it easier to remember. I hear the Nips call them the Flying Cigar.”
    â€œWhy?” I asked.
    â€œBecause they light up so easy,” White said with a grin. “The Japs don’t have self-sealing gas tanks on ’em, so even small-arms fire will turn a Betty to toast. You saw those two go up over the harbor, right?”
    â€œHard to miss,” I said. “You expect to run into any other enemy aircraft today?”
    â€œYou never know, but don’t worry. We’ll get you to Guadalcanal in one piece.”
    â€œWill it be a water landing?” Kaz asked, eager as always to avoid choppy seas.
    â€œNo, we’ll put you right down at Henderson Field. What’s the Polish Army doing in the South Pacific anyway, if you don’t mind my asking?”
    â€œI do not mind at all,” Kaz said. “But neither can I say.”
    â€œThat’s okay,” White said. “I’ve seen all sorts out here. French, Dutch, not to mention the Brits, Aussies, Kiwis, and the Fuzzy Wuzzies, of course.”
    â€œI know Kiwis are New Zealanders,” Kaz said. “But who are Fuzzy Wuzzies?”
    â€œThe natives,” White said.