Winter in June by Kathryn Miller Haines

“I’ve been on Tulagi for about a month now, though I island-hop quite a bit. Got to go where the news is happening.”
    â€œAnd where exactly is Tulagi?” I asked.
    He turned around in his seat. “You ladies have landed yourself in the former capital of the Solomon Islands.”
    â€œAre there Japanese around?” asked Jayne.
    â€œNo worries. We took this place over last August and flushed out the Japs at the same time.”
    â€œSo if the Japanese aren’t in Tulagi anymore, why are we?” I asked.
    â€œBecause we want to make sure they don’t come back. This is one of our base camps here in the Solomons. We use it as a staging place for the rest of the South Pacific. We got boys from every division working here.”
    â€œNot just navy?” asked Jayne.
    â€œNo, ma’am. We got army, marines, air force, navy seabees—we even got some Australian and British troops camping here.”
    That was a lot of men in one place. It would be easy for someone like Jack to get lost.
    â€œAnd what do they do here?” asked Jayne.
    â€œOutfit the ships with supplies. Enjoy some R & R. Survey the island. Code break. Repair the damage the Japs left behind. You name it, they do it.”
    â€œHow big is the island?” I asked.
    Dotty let out another gust of air as he thought about the question. “Not quite four miles long. You landed in the laguna.” He pointed off in the distance. “Over there is the harbor where the ships comein for refueling and to take on more ammunition. We’ll pass through the village as we head toward camp. To the right of it is the cricket field.”
    â€œThat’s a cute name,” said Jayne. “Are there a lot of crickets there?”
    His face crinkled as he laughed. “Probably, but they call it that because that’s were the Brits used to play cricket. The island was under British control before the war. In fact, there’s even an Anglican church in town.”
    On cue, the tiny village appeared, still bearing the scars of recent battle. The remnants of a private girls’ school awaited clearing. Buildings had caved in and pieces of mortar bombs lay scattered on the edge of the street like refuse. People clearly were still living here though. Hand-scrawled signs let us know that we could buy grass skirts for two dollars, beaded necklaces for a quarter more. British-made bicycles leaned before homes. As we kicked up dust on the dirt road, children came to open doorways and waved at the passing vehicle. Dotty waved back, greeting some of them by name. “Hello, Thomas,” he called out to one little boy. “Hello, William,” he said to another.
    I stared at these small dark-skinned people, many of whom bore their own physical scars from battle. “I kind of figured their names would be more exotic,” I said.
    â€œMore British influence,” he said. We passed a mission hospital where we saw a native woman sweeping the porch. This wasn’t Dorothy Lamour primped for film with her flower-dotted hair and brightly colored sarong. This woman was naked from the waist up, her massive brown breasts swaying as she worked.
    We drove and he continued narrating what we were about to see. “There’s the governor general’s house. And the British high commissioner’s. Up there are the caves—that’s where the Japs had their headquarters when they were here. And those are the Suicide Cliffs.”
    â€œThe what?” asked Jayne.
    â€œThe Suicide Cliffs. When the Japs had the island, they threatenedthe natives, telling them that if they were friendly toward us Yanks, they’d skin them alive and rape their wives. When we invaded, rather than face what they thought was certain Japanese wrath, some of the natives opted to dive to their deaths instead.”
    Jayne put a hand to her mouth. “How awful. Why didn’t anyone stop them?”
    â€œSome of them