The survivor (20 page)

He had seen the Americans and he was afraid of them. The politicians were fools. All this, the pilot sat thinking—all the conquests in the Pacific, all the islands, everything—was going to be rolled up and thrown in the faces of the politicians and admirals and generals by the Americans in their motded green uniforms that looked, to him, like dog puke. These strutting admirals in their sashes and white clothing and confidence were going to get killed. Killed by the thousands, by the mil-Hons.

The pilot was trying to figure a way not to be one of them as he sat eating and watching the parade.

They were showdng off their mechanized equipment for the admiral. The tank was roaring along down the runway (and some poor pick-and-shovel laborers would have to get out here tomorrow and repair the damage the tank tracks were making in the coral of the runway—fools) with guns following.

And then, as suddenly as though they had dropped from heaven or risen, complete and tall, from the

ground four native medicine men appeared walking straight toward the oncoming tank. The feathers of their cloaks were blowing in the wind, the tassels on their tall masks were streaming.

The pilot took his binoculars out of the case beside him and looked at the medicine men. Somehow the sight of them made him feel a httle cold, a little afraid. The same feeling he had had as a little boy when he was taken to the temples and saw the giant idols there glaring down at him with their jeweled eyes.

The tank was bearing straight down on the four tall men, but they did not change their course; they kept walking, slowly, majestically straight toward the tank. The tank was unbuttoned so the crew in the open hatch must, the pilot thought, see them. But the tank did not change course either. The corporal in charge of the tank had been given orders to drive to the end of the runway, make a 180-degree turn and come back down the other side. He had not been ordered to stop for four men dressed in masks and feathers.

ADAM couu) NOT TELL what the marines behind -him were doing. He could not even tell whether they had broken and run for the shelter of the jungle or whether they were still behind him, marching with him.

Nor could he tell how far they would now go with him.

But he thought that, if they felt now as he did, they would go all the way.

Adam felt committed to this thing. As you take a monster wave and give yourself to it, knowing that it can kill you, but knowing too that you have a chance to survive it. As you take a plane into a dive-bombing attack and take it down—all the way down—so that after you release the bomb, only your abihty to fly the plane correctly will save you from going on down to collide with the sea. So far down that there's ocean spray on the bottom of the fuselage as you pull out.

He looked at the tank now looming high above him, its metal front dented from some encounter. The tracks kept coming over the top of the front rollers and going down hke a metal waterfall to the surface of the runway. He could not see any sign of the waterfall or track slowing. The tank kept coming straight at him, its noise and smell now billowing over him.

Adam knew then that he, at least, had no further choice. If the marines behind him had faltered and run, they still had a choice. But he did not. This tank was either going to stop, or he was going to stand here and let it run over him, the hard treads of the metal tracks grinding into him and then pressing him down into the surface of the runway.

Behind Adam the three marines marched in a straight rank, abreast. Jason's mouth was dry, his tongue feeling heavy, dry, and rough. His throat was dry too. He wanted to take a deep, long, slow breath but could not.

The Rebel did not know that he was humming a song about somebody's in the kitchen with Dinah.

He did not even hear his humming, as it echoed shortly around in the hollow mask standing above his head. He was looking at the blood streaming down Adam's leg.

Guns was looking through the two Httle holes in the mask at the long barrel of the cannon. He saw it sUde over Adam's head but the mask prevented him from seeing it any longer. He could see the muzzles of the machine guns, though.

Adam stopped and the marines stopped. Adam slowly raised his arm, covered with a cloth of feathers, and held it out against the tank.

The tank stopped, and the three men of the crew peered curiously down from the open hatch.

Behind this tank the guns and caissons, the armored cars—the entire column of vehicles stopped.

Adam slowly lowered his arm as the tank stood there, engine panting and gasping, hot fumes of oil sweeping from it.

The hollow mask gave Adam's voice a deep, booming, almost inhuman sound, as he called out, "Are you the chieftain of your tribe?"

The corporal of the tank shook his head. "I m only chieftain of this tank," he said.

Without saying anything, Adam began climbing up on the tank. For a moment the crew stared at him and made involuntary movements toward the machine guns.

Adam said, "I will go with you to your chieftain.**

Adam had not yet looked back, but now he heard Jason say, low-voiced, "Other side.'*

Adam was glad that the tank crew could not

see his face. He could not help grinning, for now he knew that Jason, and the Rebel, and Guns were still with him.

The tank began to move again with Adam and the marines on the rear deck.

The corporal asked, in childlike language, **Where you come from?''

"From the sea,** Adam said.

The corporal looked at them, one by one. Jason and Guns stood with tall dignity, but the Rebel said, "Doodah doodah."

Now the corporal was making his turn. The other two members of the crew stared at Adam and the marines for a moment and then faced forward.

Standing behind the crew, with the roaring of the tank's motor all around them, they could talk.

"We got to take em," Guns said. "Right now."

"Yeah," the Rebel said.

Adam knew that, this time, he should use the knife correctly. That he would, finally, have to use it.

But the action must be hidden from the drivers of the vehicles behind the tank. Someone must prevent them from seeing the movement.

Jason said, "Adam, spread those feathers out so nobody can see."

In the masks it was hard to see anything except what was directly in front of you. Adam spread his arms out, the feathered cloak falling from them and flowing in the wind.

He hoped it would be enough as Jason, Guns, and the Rebel moved toward the open hatch.

One of the crew must have sensed that they

were coming, for he turned and when he saw the knives he screamed. But it didn't do any good.

"Get this thing off me," Jason said.

"Hold these guys up!" Gims said. "Keep us covered, Adam."

Adam stood with his arms outstretched, the feathers blowing.

The Rebel got the mask off Jason and he slid down through the hatch, still in the feathers.

"Move up slow, Adam," the Rebel said.

Adam moved up to the hatch.

**Hold him," Guns said.

Adam took the corporal under the arms and held him upright in the open hatch. Guns and the Rebel each held a dead man up, the pretty ribbons streaming from the football helmets.

Down inside the tank Jason was sitting in a tractor seat with long levers on each side of it. As he worked these levers, and the bare metal foot pedals, he looked up toward them. "What do I do now?" he asked.

Adam turned his shoulders slowly, moving the mask so that he could see out of the Uttle peepholes.

Behind the tank the other vehicles followed steadily, in Hne, equally spaced down the runway. Directly behind the tank there was a long cannon of some sort being drawn by a small tractor. The driver had a scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth to keep out the billows of grayish coral dust blowing back on him from the tank's tracks, but his eyes, Adam could see, were looking at him with interest.

"Those guys behind us can see everything we do," Adam told the Rebel.

The tank, with its steel tracks biting into the coral of the runway, created more dust than the other vehicles, but each one of them, in turn, moved through the dust cloud of the ones in front and added its own cloud to the big one.

The tank was moving straight into the steady wind, which, Adam estimated, was blowing at about ten knots.

"How fast are we going?** he called down to Jason.

"This thing reads in kilometers," Jason called up. "Twenty kilometers, it says."

Six times twenty divided by ten. Twelve miles an hour. "Slow it down to fifteen kilometers," Adam told him, "and as soon as the rest slow down, we'll make a hundred-and-eighty turn and go back toward the plane."

He heard the diesel slowing and turned his mask again to look back. For a few minutes the change of speed upset the timing of the column behind, but at last they adjusted. "Okay, turn her," Adam said.

Jason swung the tank in a wide turn, the other vehicles following in his tracks on the coral, and headed back down the runway.

Adam watched the dust at the end of the column and called down to Jason, "Still too fast, Jason. Slow to ten kilometers."

Again the change of speed made the vehicles behind bunch up for a moment, then they began to string out again—and disappear. The cloud

of dust they created was caught and lifted by the wind and blown back over them.

It evidently infuriated the drivers. As the dust cloud billowed over them, Adam could see them making wild motions at the tank to speed up.

Jason held it at ten kilometers.

The dust sifting into the masks was gritty, with a faint, faint fishy smell. Looking back, Adam could barely make out the shape of the tractor following behind, and barely see the still furious arm waving of the driver.

"How close can you get to the wing of the plane?" Adam called down to Jason.

"How many coats of paint you want scraped off?*

"Come as close as you can." Adam turned to the Rebel. "I want to get this mask and stuff off. Well put it on this one." He touched one of the dead crew. "Then when we pass the plane Til try to get up on the wing. In the dust they may not see me."

"By yourself?"

"Jason will swing the tank around behind the plane. Then you aU come over. Wear the masks. Say 'doodah doodah' if they stop you. Try to make it fast before the dust settles. But walk. Don't run.**

"Ill be too scared to nm."

Adam looked at the wooden, impassive face staring with its painted wooden eyes. "You don't look scared," he said.

The tank made a tremendous amount of noise, the diesel roaring, the tracks clanking around and around, the rollers squeaking.

Adam looked ahead. The band, in its white uni-

forms, was playing away—he could see the drummer banging, see the trombone slides moving in and out—but he could hear nothing over the noise of the tank.

As a particularly big cloud of dust swept toward him, he stooped and said, "Okay, help me off with this thing."

The Rebel got the mask off and down on the shoulders of the dead man as Adam got down into the hatch of the tank and stripped off the feathers. He noticed now that he was bleeding from both the bullet holes, and the sight of the blood seemed to allow him. to notice the sharp pain in his body.

Adam crouched in the hatch as he looked ahead at the plane. It sat there so still, so lifeless and pretty, the silver propellers unmoving, the long tapered wings rocking a little in the wind . . .

In the plane the pilot was annoyed with the admiral, who insisted that, whenever there was a parade, the pilot wear full uniform complete with sash and side arms. The pistol belt was hot around his waist, the pistol and ammunition a heavy, useless weight.

But the parade would soon be over, he hoped. The silly tank was about to pass in review. Then the admiral would tell the commanding oflBcer what was wrong with his outfit, get in the plane, and fly away.

The pilot looked out the wide window at the approaching tank, moving with only its nose really clear of the cloud of dust. The wild-looking medi-

cine men were still aboard it, those feathers and painted masks showing through the dust.

He thought there had been four of them. Now he could only see two. Possibly the other two were down in the tank selling souvenirs of the South Seas to the tank crewmen. . . .

The parade would soon be over. The pilot started to unbuckle the pistol belt, then changed his mind. The admiral was an observant, fat httle fool. He'd notice a thing Hke that. The pilot settled back into his seat to wait, the roar of the approaching column of vehicles and the noise of the band drowning out the broadcast he had been listening to on the plane's radio.

""YTou wop/t even have to jump for it,** Jason

1 told Adam, "I'll go imder the wing so you can just step off."

Adam didn't say anything. His throat was too dry as he crouched, almost naked, in the hatch, his blood running down his flanks and dripping on the hot metal platform.

He waited, gauging his distance as well as he could through the dust, as the tank moved on toward the long, graceful wing.

Now he could see the stall-out ribbons moving a little in the wind, see the aileron hinges, prettily faired into the wing. He looked up at the Rebel standing up there nine feet tall in the mask. "As soon as you all get in the plane, Reb, close and lock the door, because we're going to take off like that great stripy bird."

That's what Ah lak about the South."

The wing was over the front of the tank now. Adam came out of the hatch, put both hands on the moving wing and easily got up on it. As the tank passed from under him, he began to run along the wing, being careful to step on top of the ribs with his bare and now bloody feet, which left footprints along the wing.

The tank rumbled on, and then, with one track locked, Jason spim it around so that the long, thin-barreled cannon pointed toward the troops in ranks; pointed over the heads of the men of the band playing away.

Guns, awkward in his mask and feathers, was still studying the heavy Nambu machine gun mounted behind a littie barrier of steel plate. He had already figured out the cannon.