Dear Diary. This has been a decidedly shocking two days. Where there were four of us Songmark girls on the trip, there are now only three. And yet – it might be that things have turned out for the best, all round.

            Yesterday, after a day of fishing and handing out catch to the Ice Queen, we headed for Chiklooha,  the Noenokes letting me handle the sail for the first time. A gusty wind, but getting decidedly warm even on the sea. Soppy was splashing water over her oilskins to cool off all day, which surely defeats the point in wearing them. An excellent evening meal on the shore – roast chicken, which was a very welcome treat. Helen ate half a chicken herself, and I must confess I devoured the rest and looked around for more.  Mr. Sapohatan seems to have arranged it beforehand, which was very kind of him. When we finished and looked around, there was no sign of our shipmates, but Molly found a note explaining they had been called away, and would be back late in the evening.

            Mr. Sapohatan turned up ten minutes later, explaining the rest were at a town council meeting – the news had come in that our fleet would be calling again tomorrow, and the locals were discussing a suitable entertainment. I could see Helen and Molly cheer up at the prospect – if the Chiklooha folk are planning any dances and need extras, we will certainly volunteer to help.  Indeed, he mentioned that a shore party would be landing – hopefully not the whole crew of the Lord Moseley, which carries two bomber and five fighter squadrons aboard, and might rather overwhelm a small village with its aircrew alone.

            For the time being, we were left to our own devices, though he suggested a walk on the cliffs. Soppy eagerly took up the idea, as she has been keen to spot what birds nest on these cliffs, and is always jotting nature notes in her notebook. I managed to sneak a glimpse as she took her oilskins off – there were quite a few maps and diagrams, and some very odd flight patterns sketched in.

            Having an hour or so before dark, we went up the cliffs out to the West of the island, towards where Mr. Tikitavi’s sculptures stand looking out over the Nimitz Sea.  Very quiet indeed, without a sight of a native, and not a boat to be seen on the whole horizon.  About two miles from the village, we were just North of the volcanic cone, and approaching the “sacred area” where hardly a single trail goes.

            Molly was the first to prick up her ears, having indeed the best ears of the party. She swore she could hear an aero engine quite close – but though we scanned the skies, there was nothing to be seen, and still the noise continued for a full minute. Then it cut out, sputtering most unhealthily. A few minutes later it started again – and this time Molly was sure it was from below us, under the angle of the cliffs. It was getting quite dark, so we cautiously looked down over the edge into the long shadows of the precipice, with hard dark lava dropping straight down to the surf.

            I only caught one glimpse, as it vanished into the deeper shadows of a cove – but a very sleek amphibian seaplane was heading towards the rocks,  its engine evidently misbehaving! It seemed obvious that it must have hit engine trouble out to sea, and been taxiing round the coast towards Chiklooha, the only decent landfall for miles, only to be swept on the rocks by the currents.

            A very quick argument followed,  Helen being all for trying to get down the cliffs to help. But the cliffs were decidedly sheer,  and even if one reached the water with an unbroken neck, rescuing a possibly wounded pilot without ropes and climbing equipment would be impossible. So we raced at top speed back towards the village,  arriving greatly out of breath to find all the boats pulled up high on shore, and nobody around on the dockside to help. Molly volunteered to run and raise the alarm, while I took our boat out with Helen and Soppy to look for the wreck.

            It was decidedly stirring, heading out into the fading light, on a mission of rescue! Quite the sort of Ripping tales that one reads at home – though at the time I was too busy spotting rocks and managing the sail while Helen steered and Soppy swarmed to the top of the mast, binoculars ready. We had to go quite a way out to clear the rocks, a quarter of a mile or more,  before we reached the right part of the coast and cautiously tacked in towards land. The tide was coming in, and at least we hoped that the more jagged rocks would be safely submerged.

            For ten minutes we scoured the cliff line, looking and shouting – but there was no sign of any wreckage, no stranded pilot waving from the top of a rock.  I was quite hopeful that he might have fixed his engine and flown off in the time we had been running towards the village – but Helen seemed gloomily sure the surf had smashed the aircraft to pieces, and it was resting on the bottom along with its pilot.  As it happened, Soppy was the one to spot its fate.

            Right below the tallest part of the cliffs, there was a deep cove where the waves hit without breaking,  showing the cliff went right down underwater. Soppy had been staring at it for a minute, and chittered to head in closer. I could hardly see why, but she had the best view and the field-glasses, so we followed her route in past great buttresses of black lava down into the cove.

            Just then Helen pointed at what Soppy must have seen – almost the last thing I expected. As the waves fell, we could see what looked like the top of a natural arch – and in the deep shadows of the cove, a dim green glow of lights underwater! For a second I  thought some patented emergency beacon light might be marking where the aircraft had sunk – and then Helen pointed out something else. Completely black-painted to match the rock, in the sheer face of the cliffs there was a large mooring-ring, wholly invisible until one approached to ten yards or so.

            Well! I had a decidedly uneasy feeling as Soppy surveyed the ring, and dropped down to deck to squint under the entrance to the arch.  She announced that there were at least four lights inside, and that she was going to investigate.  She grabbed a snorkel from the locker, which quite surprised me, as she has been making quite a thing of not liking to swim – and told us to wait outside. I protested, but she was out of her oilskins with a speed I would hardly have credited, and over the side before either of us thought to grab her.

            Helen and I looked at each other, our ears down.  From what we discovered hidden away under these islands last holiday, discovering secrets is liable to be damaging to the health, unless one is “trusted” to keep silent about them. Which we seem to be, but Soppy is decidedly not – and indeed she has often expressed little liking for the Native culture. Helen volunteered to look for Soppy and drag her back before she finds something too incriminating, but alas she is not the best of swimmers. West Texas, by her accounts, is generally hard pressed to have enough water for drinking, let alone practice swimming in.

            Still – one of us had to go. I waved Helen farewell (not without some trepidation), took the second snorkel set and went over the side, following the underwater lights into the cliff. I had a moment of panic when I spotted some dim fish-like figure off to the side like a sentinel – but if it was a shark, it made no move towards me. The passage underwater was only about five yards, before I broke surface in a long, mostly flooded tunnel easily four yards across. I had been shown “lava tubes” on the slopes of Main Island, and this appeared to be just such another volcanic cave, heading in towards the cold heart of the extinct volcano.

            Another twenty yards, and the tunnel opened right up, lit by electric light in a wide underground harbour! There seemed to be nobody around – but four small, sharp-looking seaplanes of an unfamiliar type were moored by the far wall.  I did my best to keep in the shadows of the dock, and spotted an iron ladder leading up. There was no sign of Soppy to be seen.

            However – when I climbed the ladder to the dock, I spotted a wet trail leading towards the seaplanes. Of course, she would be interested in the seaplanes, especially if they were the ones we had seen performing such incredible manoeuvres last week. I carefully followed in her trail, both to follow her and not to leave evidence of a second unexpected visitor for anyone finding the tracks.

            At last – I got a good look at the aircraft. And despite being soaked, my tail surely fluffed out like a bottle-brush. They were sleek metal-skinned biplanes, with the top wing supported by a single streamlined pillar and not a bracing wire to be seen – but in general layout, they were obvious descendants of what else but my own dear Flying Fleas! The engines were nowhere to be seen, until I spotted cooling air intakes behind the single pilot’s seat. Radiators were very sleek cylindrical French-style “Lamblin” units just behind the pilot, and not the square boxy units that I had had to make the best of on my own projects. Everything looked sleek and very well-finished – oddly enough, there was no Rain Islands insignia to be seen, or indeed any other markings at all.

            I must confess – I had never seen such a beautiful aircraft in my wildest dreams. It was everything I had in the back of my mind when assembling Flying Flea #1, and an awful lot more. This was decidedly a fighter rather than a stunt aircraft, as I noted from the twin gun tubes in the nose – not cannon, but perhaps .50 calibre. 

            I had almost forgotten where I was, at the unbelievable sight – and indeed I was looking over the design piece by piece, quite fascinated.  The cockpit layout was very modern, and I recognised a radio-compass, a gyro gun-sight and several other items I had only seen in books. There seemed to be something very odd about the rudder pedals, though it was hard to say what from the top of the ladder. The idea of just sitting in the cockpit and getting a feel of the controls almost overwhelmed me, and I was half-way down the ladder when I stopped myself.

            Indeed – it was not that this was such a dangerous place for uninvited guests that stopped me. I told myself that it was simply Wrong of me to interfere. Although I could imagine literally nothing more tempting – I sighed, and forced myself back up the ladder towards the dock. I almost thought I heard someone applauding, but that must have been the slapping of the waves and my imagination.

            Hastily rejoining Soppy’s damp trail, I followed it inland towards various tunnels that seemed to be artificial: one could spot drilling marks in the black basalt. Just then I heard voices from one of the tunnels, and hurriedly dived into another one that I could see was filled with piled-up crates.  There appeared five folk in Rain Island undress uniform, carrying tool bags and boxes of spare parts – they strolled over towards the dock, and one of them called down towards the aircraft, out of sight. I could not quite hear what he said – but someone answered,  up from the water! It was certainly not Helen, or Soppy either, which was quite baffling. Three of the mechanics went down the ladder, and in a few minutes I heard the engine turning over, as someone tinkered with it.

            I could see the far side of the underground dock from my hiding-place, and watched as one of what I must call the Sea Fleas taxiied out, making a tight circuit then returned. The three mechanics had climbed back up – so where did the pilot come from? There were no boats or other tunnels visible that he might have been hidden on. Most curious.

            Just then there was a great disturbance further up inside the complex, various people shouting and blowing whistles. My heart sank indeed – evidently Soppy had done more investigation than was good for her, and been spotted. The six mechanics dropped their tools and ran back up the tunnel, leaving the dockside deserted.

            For a second or two all was quiet, as the sound of running paws vanished. I realised that folk would be back to make a thorough search, and would certainly find me if I stayed where I was. It was an awfully hard decision, to retreat leaving Soppy in unfriendly hands – but all alone in an unknown base, I realised there was nothing I could do for her, and getting captured myself would not help. Very quietly I walked over back to the dock, found some deep shadows behind a crate of ammunition labelled “Machine Spares”, and leaned over, trying to spot where the pilot of the Sea Flea had gone to.

            There was nobody there. Every cockpit was empty, and there were no boats, submarine or otherwise to be seen. Fortunately, by this time my fur was no longer dripping enough water to make a clear trail, as I reached the iron ladder. Just as I ducked below the edge of the dockside, I heard more voices coming back, and hurriedly dived in with as little splash as I could.

            Getting back seemed an eternity – but in two minutes I surfaced next to a very worried Helen, who had almost given us both up for lost. I sketched out what had happened in as few words as I could (being thankful that we do not speak Tillamook) and we headed away from that cove as fast as the wind would carry us, hoping nobody saw us.

            Happily, it was almost dark and we carried no lights – but we managed to avoid the rocks and circle out to sea until we saw the lights of Chiklooha in the distance. When we arrived, we found the rest of the fleet just setting out to search for us, Molly almost frantically trying to egg them on.  Nearly three quarters of an hour seems a rather poor show to get a rescue attempt underway, I would have thought!

            Still, we had time to rehearse our story – in perfect truth I told the Natives that Soppy had gone down to look at what she thought were lights underwater, and had not come back – and that I had gone down to look for her, but had found neither her or any aircraft wreckage. I do so hate lying – and yet revealing what I did find in the underground hangar, might end up with more than one of us lost in a “tragic boating accident.” Helen had used that phrase a few times, and indeed I had seen it in small print quite often in the “Daily ‘Elele” last term.

            It was pitch black by that time, so all we could do was follow the rest of the boats back to Chiklooha, listening to Mr. Sapohatan playing a sad tune on his guitar all the way back to the dock. Molly was most upset – although Soppy was not exactly thrilling company, having her lost like this is very discouraging. (Helen and I have not decided how much to tell Molly – she tends to be impulsive, and I had uneasy visions of her idea of a rescue mission.)

            The Noenokes seem very sympathetic, but are quite obviously watching us carefully.  Helen suggested that we take turns staying awake on watch, but I vetoed the idea. There seems little point – either the locals decide we are actual Agents, or they clear us once and for all – and either way, there is little we can do about it.  Trying to make a run for the nearest transport out of the Spontoon area would hardly encourage belief in our innocence – and I rather doubt we would get very far if we tried.

            The next day, the 29th, we were roused from an uneasy sleep by the ringing of a large ship’s bell that serves as a fog warning and general village assembly bell. Looking out to sea, we could see why – again, out on the horizon we could see the smudges of smoke showing where our Fleet is heading this direction, presumably returning towards Humapore.  Mr. Sapohatan quietly told us that boats had been out searching the coast since first light, but had found nothing – and indeed, I would have been surprised if they had. Of course, we volunteered to go out and join the search – more for Molly’s sake than anything, as otherwise we would have to tell her why not.

            We searched the cliffs with field-glasses all day – and at lunchtime, one of the other boats came up with a sad piece of evidence – a bright yellow oilskin tail-cover, of quite unseasonable Winter grade. Molly is not quite as hard-boiled as she likes to think, and broke down in tears – while Helen and myself nodded and exchanged glances. It is a most convenient piece of evidence – too convenient, I would have said if none of the Natives had been listening.

            All this time, the fleet had been getting nearer, smaller warships surrounding the carrier and the new battle-cruiser HMS Blue Steel,  which I remember seeing launched in the newsreels last year. Quite a sight! The whole assemblage headed towards us, and anchored perhaps a mile from Chiklooha while launches and skiffs were winched out to carry the shore party over to land. I raised a cheer as I spotted a very neat formation of Hawker Demons coming in to land on the carrier, their aluminium doped finish sparkling in the sun.

            The village had certainly planned well last night – there was an afternoon of most elaborate dances and general merriment, such as one sees in the films. Of course, this being Spontoon, our sailors soon discovered that while watching the dances was free, nothing else was – and I shuddered at the prices the natives were charging for coconut rum punch served in the shell, and for the clay roasted fish they were serving by the yard. Still, nobody objected out loud, and one supposes there is little enough to spend one’s wages on while out at sea. I watched the merriment along with Helen and Molly, but had to confess my heart was not in it.

            And then – the last boat was leaving three hours later, when something happened that completely changed everything.  The deep water channel passes a high rock before the bay opens out into the ocean – and as the steam-launch full of happy and impoverished sailors headed back towards the waiting Destroyer,  I  spotted movement on top of it. As ever, I had my field-glasses to hand – and though it was three hundred yards away, I spotted Soppy,  poised for a second just before making a perfect swan-dive into the water just ahead of the launch!

            Had I not been watching with excellent glasses, I would certainly have missed the very strange things that happened in the next minute. From the ocean side of the bay I saw something moving under the surface; for a second I thought they were torpedo tracks, but they were smoother, less bubbly and more sinuous,  more like dolphins moving at speed.  Soppy seemed to have spotted them, and redoubled her efforts – she reached the launch about five seconds ahead of them, and was pulled over the gunwales. She then showed the Captain something – it might have been a document, or it might not – and he seemed to stiffen with alarm, and gestured towards the fleet. The launch foamed ahead at full speed, and our last view of our classmate was her sitting next to the officer, talking very animatedly and occasionally pointing in our direction.

            Well! One really has to think again about our classmate. I fear she was not entirely truthful with us as to her being a Quaker from Lancashire – from Lancashire she certainly was by her accent, but if that was her real name I will be most surprised. (Apart from her first name being Charity, I mean. She was christened “Soppy” immediately on arrival, though I now think she tried hard and successfully to cultivate that image.) Molly looked on open-mouthed – and all Helen and I could tell her, was that it looked as if Soppy was transferring from aircraft to the Navy ahead of schedule.

            An uncomfortable early evening changed dramatically when Mr. Sapohatan reappeared, and had a quiet word with the Noenoke family. Whatever he said to them cheered them up considerably – and then he came over to us. By his account, he had been having a long conversation with our chum, and she had decided that leaving the climate of the Spontoon Islands would be good for her health. Molly nodded at this, as she has told us a lot of similar tales from her Father’s profession.  He reassured us that he had received answers to some questions that had been troubling him and his colleagues for some time – and that we were to regard ourselves as freed from blame. Our tutors would be told the relevant facts, indeed – he seemed to know all about the difficulties I had been in when I had “lost” Molly last month. Bowing, he excused himself and took his leave, explaining that his duties now called him elsewhere on the islands.

            When Molly was fast asleep, I had a long whispered chat with Helen.  Our best guess is that his story is as true as the one I told him – perfectly true, but leaving out a lot of inconvenient facts.  I could well believe that he had talked with Soppy – and that he was the one asking all the questions.  What I was less convinced of, is that Soppy had simply been released and told to leave – she had left the cliff in an awful hurry, and something had been trying to intercept her at the launch. Whatever else she was, Soppy turned out to be an absolutely champion swimmer – or I have a feeling she would not have got to that boat at all. There was something underwater heading towards her at a great rate of knots, and I doubt it was to wave her farewell. In which case, it is surely a draw between two Intelligence agencies – one agent exposed and having to flee the islands for good, though alive and with some information I doubt the Spontoonies would been happy to let her walk away with.

            I talked over what I had seen of the “Sea Fleas” with Helen, and drew a sketch that I hastily tore up and disposed of in the galley fire when she had looked it over. I pride myself on being quite fair on sketching from memory – but Helen is a little doubtful, claiming that anything very similar to my version would be radically unstable, and fall out of the sky in all directions at once. Which I can hardly argue with – except to point out that we had seen some aircraft performing very dramatic aerobatics that no Tiger Moth could match, however expertly handled. The Spontoonies have managed it somehow – but I doubt they will be giving us guided tours to tell us how.

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