Day of the Bomb (6 page)

Arkhip extracted a last oath from him the night
before she left for Moscow. “Promise me that you won’t say or do
something just so you can be a martyr.” She cried when he nodded
and gently said he loved her but loved Jesus Christ even more.

Life had at last reverted into a routine for Jason
at his new home on Monkey Island. The first two weeks had been
spent settling in by building shelter and a small reservoir for
rain water and cannibalizing the PT boat for usable materials. With
no belongings other than his life jacket, waterlogged wallet, dog
tags, and uniform to take care of, his life had become simpler but
more complex as well.

He placed the jacket on a wire suspended between two
trees to protect it from the rats, which loved to gnaw on any
object that could be carried away in bits to feather their nests.
Whenever Jason looked at the vest that had kept him afloat for two
days, he thought of the Professor because he was the one who had
convinced him to wear it at all times: “You see, Jason, when a ship
goes down there might not be enough time to put your life jacket on
and still make it off of the boat in time. Let’s say some torpedo
hits us at night. You’re asleep in your rack. By the time you wake
up, put on your vest, and head for deck, the ship has begun to
list. You’re fighting a hundred other guys to go through hatches
and upstairs so some of you won’t make it and go down with the
ship. But if you wear it while you’re sleeping, you’re one of the
very first ones up on deck. You jump overboard and have enough time
to swim away from the ship before it blows up or sucks you under
the water as it goes down. Captain Uley told me all about the time
his carrier sank.” Jason kept it nearby in case the kind of typhoon
that could make an entire island disappear came his way. He figured
Monkey Island was as risk of that because it was the smallest
island he had ever seen in his years of traveling the South
Pacific.

He was now grateful for earlier contacts with native
Polynesians on other islands where he had gone ashore from his
troop transport after they had been taken from the Japanese. One
had shown him the many uses of breadfruit, including using it as
caulking on boats. Remembering the Professor’s admonition of
“you’re dead meat without fresh water,” Jason had dug a shallow pit
next to his lodging constructed of plywood from the PT boat and
covered with palm branches sent to the ground during storms. His
shelter was a lean-to propped up next to the trunk of largest tree
on the island. He lined the pit with stones and filled the spaces
between them with breadfruit caulking.

Whenever it rained, the pit collected enough water to
usually last until the next rainfall. During dry spells, Jason
drank water from coconuts. They and breadfruit quickly became the
staples for his meals. After his diet proved too monotonous, Jason
used another technique gleaned from a Polynesian. He dug pits along
the nearby beach, lined them with rocks, caulked the spaces with
his homemade goop, and waited for high tides. They delivered an
assortment of fish. Because Rule Number 1 was to have no fire that
might draw the attention of a passing ship or plane or native in an
outrigger canoe, Jason cleaned the fish and cooked them on coral
that absorbed and reflected solar heat. His days passed without
incident. But the nights were altogether different.

Until now, Jason’s life had consisted of the next
landing. Forget all the previous ones. Only the next one mattered
in the grand design of things because it might be your last if you
were not careful. Now isolated with no invasion of Japan on his
schedule to burden him, Jason found his repressed memories came to
life nightly in his dreams.

The dreams were usually a variation on a theme: Up
before dawn. Check your gear. Receive your ammo and K-rations.
Clutch your M-1 and pile into the Higgins Boats or whatever landing
craft the Navy had at hand. Listen to the final shells fly overhead
as the battleships and cruisers rained down hell from heaven above
on the Jap fortifications and pray that every last one of those
explosive projectiles were direct hits because if they were not,
there was always hell to pay once you hit the beach. Damn Japs.
Sometimes they had guns or mortars that could put shells on you
before you even made it to shore.

Worst-case scenario for that was the landing craft
sinking and most of us drowning because our packs, boots, and
uniforms were never meant for swimming to shore. Best-case
scenario? The shell hits the landing craft and its shrapnel tears
into one, two, who knows how many guys. Some die instantly. Others
bleed out slowly even though the medics scramble to save them. The
lucky ones get that magical “million-dollar wound” that is just
serious enough to buy you a one-way ticket home. Oh, maybe it means
going home minus a hand, foot, arm, leg, or part or your insides
but at least you get to spend some time there instead of ending up
buried on one of the worthless islands that the Japs are so
desperate to die for and that we are willing to do the same.

So the scenes of yesterdays’ battles
played out nightly for Jason during his first three months on
Monkey Island. Then they were magically replaced with memories of
home – dreams of Mom, Pop, two sisters and three bothers. Wait a
minute, what are you doing still alive, John. You’re no longer with
us remember? He had bought it as a waist gunner on a B-17 flying to
deliver greetings to Herr Hitler and the boys in Berlin. The
“Boxcar Express,” that was what John had called it. “Those
Messerschmidts
come at us
from every angle but we give ‘em the gun. Truth is, the ack-ack
from those monster German guns thousands of feet below us scare me
worse than the enemy fighters.”

The telegram did not mention if it was a fighter
plane or artillery round that made John’s plane explode over the
outskirts of Berlin. Did it matter? According to one of John’s
buddies flying with the same formation, not one of the nine crew
members were able to bail out of the two sections of B-17 left
after the shell hit its fuselage. “It just sort of disintegrated
once the fire hit the fuel tanks,” he had said.

But one phantom from Jason’s island landings remained
– Private Robert Tinkermann, jerk extraordinaire. Because Robert’s
father had connections he could have kept his son from being
drafted but he chose not to as a way to be rid of the spoiled brat
he had helped to create. After years of little parental discipline,
Robert grew to believe that the world revolved around him. As its
supreme commander, he was naturally entitled to treat all who had
the misfortune of meeting him as he deemed fit, at least in his own
mind. He was the school bully, neighborhood bully, and family bully
all rolled into one package of terror. Making the transition to
Army bully had been effortless; his targets now wore green uniforms
whenever he was not firing his rifle.

Killing Japs was not enough for him. He mutilated
their corpses if they did not provide enough watches, rings, gold
and silver fillings, and anything else of value. When the enemy was
not available for him to vent his hatred, he spewed it on his
fellow soldiers, especially Jason. Like most bullies, Robert could
spot the most sensitive and vulnerable person in any group of
people in any setting. Within his battalion that one was Jason.
After learning that Jason had spent basic training at Fort Leonard
Wood, Missouri, Robert had nicknamed him.

“So you went through Fort Leonard Wood? That makes
you the peckerwood from Leonard Wood. Get it? Ha, ha, ha!”

No matter how Jason had tried to avoid his tormentor
he always seemed to hunt him down. So when four rounds of machine
gun fire tore through Robert’s chest on some forgotten island,
Jason celebrated his death. Inwardly, of course. He mourned every
other brother-in-arms who fell during the war. But when it came to
Robert, he gloated, rejoiced, and mocked the stiff body that would
inflict no more pain. “Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving
person.” Jason had muttered as he stopped in front of Robert’s
body, one of 49 lined up on the beach after the island had
fallen.

But now the solitude of Monkey Island led to much
reflection, which led to the conclusion that he was no better than
Robert had been. So Jason held a funeral, complete with a cross
anchored into the sand. He acted as minister as he prayed over the
empty grave and released Robert to the state of “ashes to ashes and
dust to dust.” Afterwards, Robert no longer haunted his thoughts,
whether Jason was awake or asleep.

By Thanksgiving week, Jason believed
he had much for which to be thankful: he was avoiding the invasion
of Japan, his tropical paradise supplied all of his needs except
girlfriend Thelma, and Kong and he had become the best of
friends.
Why not? Robinson Crusoe had
Friday. I have Kong. Now if I could only learn his language. I’ve
figured out what most of his noises mean but it’s a complicated
language to learn to speak.

The monkey was adept at choosing the
ripest coconuts and breadfruit and shaking them until they left
their lofty perches forty to eighty feet above ground. Then the man
always prepared enough of the fruits to satisfy both of their
stomachs. Kong even developed a taste for the dried fish that Jason
ate. And the rainwater from the reservoir was pure and delicious.
When not eating, sleeping, or daydreaming, Jason talked to Kong.
The monkey listened attentively. By Christmas Day, Kong had
abandoned his troop for the camp of The Man Who Does Not Eat Us,
his name for the strange human so unlike those who had preceded him
on the island. The following day Jason included Kong in his first
re-enactment of one of the hundreds of movies he had seen since
five years of age –
King
Kong
.

At first, Jason had watched the silent films from the
balconies of the two movie theaters downtown. Then he befriended
the projectionist at one movie house and watched at least one a
week for free from the projection room. He learned that others
considered the old man eccentric. After the “talkies” took movies
to another level with sound, seven-year-old Jason watched Mr.
Gentry become even stranger as he appeared to carry on
conversations with himself. Only Jason understood that he was
repeating dialog memorized from the films he threaded into the
projector and then watched four to six times a daily for days on
end until the next blockbuster or B-movie took their place. A
mimic, Jason memorized snippets of dialog as well. Many scenes of
the movies remained embedded in his mind, which proved useful for
entertainment on Monkey Island.

“Okay, Kong. I’m part of the explorers and
adventurers. We’ve been at sea for weeks looking for the mysterious
island that’s always surrounded by fog. We find it. But when we go
ashore on Skull Island, the natives are restless. Their welcoming
committee is not very friendly. That night back aboard ship the
natives show up and kidnap Fay Wray. Of course I’m Robert
Armstrong, her heartthrob.”

Kong blinked.

“Okay, okay, you win. She’s my heartthrob. I round up
the boys and we go ashore to rescue her. We know something’s fishy
because the natives are up on top of this wall that’s at least
thirty feet high and divides the entire island into two. They’re
beating their drums and shouting, ‘Kong! Kong! Kong!’”

At the sound of his name, the monkey flipped and
landed at his friend’s feet.

“We climb up on top of the wall to see what’s going
on. There’s Fay tied to two pillars. And then…” Jason pointed at
Kong, who did a back flip and then stood fully erect. “And then
trees come crashing down and the entire island shakes under your
feet, which are bigger than a man! Finally we see you, King Kong!
The King of Skull and Monkey Island!” Jason beat his chest with his
fists.

Kong copied the one trick he had agreed to learn and
flailed away at his chest. He added grunts and screeches to
embellish his role.

“That’s it! You stomp over to the beautiful Fay who
is screaming in terror. Beauty and the Beast! It’s too much! We
can’t believe our eyes…” Exhausted, Jason fell onto the sand and
rolled onto his back. Kong scurried over and hopped onto his
heaving chest. “Boy, some of those movies really take it out of
you, Kong. Just watching them was enough to do you in. Acting them
out is a whole other story. Now I finally understand why actors
make so much money. It’s hard work.”

Kong stood up and thumped his chest to let his former
troop of monkeys know who was king of Monkey Island.

“
You tell them, Kong. You’re number
one head honcho on this island.” Jason pulled him onto his
shoulders, Kong’s favorite resting place.

***

Kong had grown accustomed to his easier lifestyle.
He enjoyed not having to labor breaking open coconuts or catching
and drying fish. His servant Jason did it for him. Having a
constant source of fresh water and a warm, dry lean-to for shelter
against the rains was preferable to shivering under palm fronds in
trees that bent almost to the ground in the worst storms. Besides,
this human took time to interact with him. Maybe the language
barrier was insurmountable but a shared sign language kept
communication between monkey and man at an acceptable level. The
only direct contact Kong had with his kind was if females in heat
came down out of the trees. Then he would gladly mate with them to
ensure a lineage that would include at least one suitable heir to
become Kong II. The only times he climbed trees was to harvest
breadfruit and coconuts. Even kings have to supply something to
their subjects in exchange for their loyalty, Kong concluded.

The next day Jason acted out
Citizen Kane
, then
The Phantom of the Opera
,
Gone with the
Wind
, and
My
Darling Clementine
on each succeeding day.
He always used the monkey troop as outlaws in westerns and the
opposing army in war scenes. This made them hostile because his
finger guns and accompanying sound effects of “Bang! Bang! Pow!
Pow!” reminded them of the PT boat crew shooting at them and the
smell of the roasting flesh of parents, siblings, children, and
cousins that they had consumed like rats. Surely any day now they
would smell Kong’s flesh once the human tired of eating fruit and
fish.