Once ashore, they had set up tents for temporary quarters. That had dampened his spirits some again. Pitched in a burned-out expanse of sugarcane stubble a mile or so from Hickam Field, they reminded him of his time on the road gang. But there was no work to be done, which suited him fine.

All he had to do was figure out how to get down to Hotel Street in Honolulu. Given a few hours down there, he was sure he’d be able to move this loot. Unfortunately they were all confined to camp indefinitely. Somebody told him it was because a couple of Japs from the future had got themselves whacked, but Slim Jim took that for bullshit. The navy had stuck him in this shithole with a moron for a roomy, because the navy had nothing better to do than make his sorry life even more miserable than it might be.

Surprisingly enough, it was the moron, Moose Molloy Jr., who came to the rescue. Mohr had asked him to volunteer for a work detail, helping shift a bunch of gear that had belonged to some dead officers out of the Moana Hotel. There was certain to be heavy lifting involved, a Moose Jr. specialty.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me, Davidson,” the chief had said when Slim Jim had confronted him, eager to pitch in. “What, d’you take a round in the head or something? You forget what a lazy asshole you are?”

“Come on, Chief,” he’d pleaded. “I’m going outta my fucking nut in this cane field. We been here three days with nothing to do but scratch our balls. I just about scratched mine right off. It’s Montgomery all over again, Chief. You gotta let me outta this joint. Even working is better than this!”

No doubt Mohr knew he was being played, but he must’ve decided to let the bum have a bit of rope, see if he looped it around his scrawny neck and hung himself.

“Okay, Davidson, get on the bus with Moose and Barnes. And don’t let me find you pocketing the effects of any of them fine, dead, officers and gentlemen.”

Slim Jim managed to sound reasonably offended. “Stealing from the dead? That’s not my thing, Chief,” he said, as he hurried onto an old school bus, repainted in dun green for war service.

“No, bouncing checks off old ladies is more your style, dickwad,” Mohr grumbled.