Fast Backward

by David Patneaude

“Look around, Captain Jack.” Her sassiness has returned. Her voice is a pitch higher, her words come faster. “A cave, of course. A gypsum cave. Deep. Remote. In central Germany.”

  “You’re sure?” Pete says.

  “I’m sure, Peter. I felt something as soon as we got into the large cavern. Then the memories came flooding back. I’ve seen photos, read descriptions.”

  “Does the cave have a name?” I say.

  “I remember connecting its name to the savagery of the Nazis—their barbarism—when I first learned about the bomb facility. It’s called Barbarossa.”

  “Amazing, Cocoa,” Captain Jack says. “And it shouldn’t be hard for our guys to locate.”

  “It was a tourist attraction,” she says. “Now it’s a fortress, with only scientists and workers inside and an army outside.”

  Pete shines his flashlight on his watch. “You did it, Future Girl. Now let’s get out of here and find a phone.”

  Two hours later we’re in Alamogordo, halfway home. Cocoa and I are sitting in a café, eating cherry pie, while our soldiers stand outside at a phone booth. The captain dials, talks briefly, hangs up, dials again, talks again. His body seems to relax. Pete smiles in our direction.

  “He’s reached the general.” I take a bite of pie. It’s not Mom’s, or Dad’s, but it’s good.

  “The wheels can begin turning,” Cocoa says.

  We’re on the same side of the booth. She takes my hand, and when the waitress comes back with two glasses of milk, she notices, and smiles. Inside, I do too.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Wednesday, August 8

  Today is the day Cocoa predicted the Nazis will try to bomb England. Aware of the eight-hour time difference, we went to bed early last night to get up extra early this morning. The general might call. News might be broadcast. But by the time we have to leave the house, we haven’t heard from the general. All we’ve gotten from the radio are farm reports and cowboy music.

  When we return, there’s still nothing. Captain Nelson and the general talked, but there’s been no attack. Thanks to Cocoa, though, the defenses are ready. Sea. Air. Land isn’t a concern.

  We move distractedly into early afternoon. Then, at seven minutes after two the phone rings. I answer it.

  “General Groves, Bobby,” the general says. As if I couldn’t identify that gruff but friendly voice.

  “Hello, sir.”

  “Captain Nelson there?”

  “Yes, sir.” He’s standing by the stove, looking eager.

  “I’ll speak to him in a moment, but since you’re on the phone, I’ll tell you what we have.”

  “Thank you.” I barely get the words out.

  “Bad-news-good-news sort of thing,” he says. “The krauts sent their bomb over the channel riding a rocket. A V-2, we believe. Aimed at London, we’re very certain, but it overshot the target by more than fifty miles. Exploded in pastureland halfway between London and Bath.”

  “A rocket,” I say. Sitting at the table, Cocoa doesn’t take her eyes off me. “Were people . . . killed?”

  “Immediate casualties were few. Mostly livestock. But the blast could be heard and felt for miles around, and the cloud was tremendous. Unfortunately, it’s drifting east, so London and then France and the rest of the continent will be in the path of its fallout.”

  “Mostly livestock,” I repeat. “They missed London.”

  “That’s right, Bobby.”

  “That’s mainly good news, sir.”

  “It is. Can you let me talk to Captain Nelson now?”

  “Of course. Thank you for talking to me.”

  “The least I can do. And when I get done with the captain, I want to talk to your friend Cocoa. So, warn her, will you?”

  “I will.” I give the phone to Captain Nelson, and for the next few minutes he mostly listens and I mostly imagine. I imagine an atomic bomb landing in a pasture and creating a shock wave that rattles windows a hundred miles away and a poisonous cloud lifting into a darkening sky and drifting over farms and towns and cities and people. I imagine what America and its allies can do to stop it from happening again.

  Finished with his conversation, the captain motions Cocoa over. When she gets up, she grabs my hand and drags me with her. She says hello, holding the phone far enough from her ear that I can easily make out the general’s take-no-prisoners voice.

  “You were right again, young lady,” he says. “We couldn’t stop the rocket, but the accuracy of the information you provided gives me even more confidence, if that’s possible, in what you told us yesterday.”

  “I am glad that Robert suggested the cave,” Cocoa says. “And that Peter and the captain took us there.”

  “It’s a team effort. But without you we wouldn’t be in the game. So, I want to thank you once again.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Our War Department and military hotshots are busy putting together a plan, gathering essential personnel and equipment, embarking on orientation and training for the members of the armed forces involved in the upcoming effort. And it’s all due to you.”

  “Scary,” Cocoa says. “Fucking scary . . . excuse me, General.”

  General Groves laughs. “You’re a breath of fresh air, Cocoa. Are there more like you where you come from?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “There are other survivors. But if Hitler is stopped, will there even be a place where I come from?”

  I try to digest her question. But it’s rhetorical, right? And overwhelming. I block it out of my mind as the general avoids her haunting words also, and they say goodbye.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Friday, August 10

  The long flight from Tinian on the plodding Skymaster gave Lieutenant Colonel Oliver and his crew plenty of time for napping. And now that he’s sitting on the Kirtland tarmac in the familiar cockpit of the B-29, he feels even more rejuvenated. And elated by the prospect of a fresh start.

  But it’s not all sunshine. He’s troubled by the reason he’s been ordered here so abruptly. Two days ago, the entire crew of a B-29, in England for a mission not unlike the one he’s been preparing for in the Pacific, perished during a practice flight. Oliver and his crew are the replacements, the B-team.

  Regardless of the reason for this assignment, though, he’ll be out from under his former squadron leader’s shadow. Tibbets’s shadow. Being an understudy to the chosen one was never on Oliver’s wish list, especially because there was no chance that Tibbets, with fame in his bombsights, would allow himself to falter.

  The doomed crew in England must have had understudies also. Oliver wonders how they’ll feel, being ousted by strangers—well-qualified or not—from the other side of the world.

  But it wasn’t his decision.

  The plane handler goes through his series of signals, releasing Oliver and his bomber to the runway. Once there, he orientates the big craft, brings it to a brief stop, revs up its fickle Wright engines, glances at his longtime co-pilot, Captain Jimmy Terrell, and gooses it. His first takeoff at Kirtland, but he could do this in his sleep.

  The engines settle down and pull together. Because this is a dry run—no payload—takeoff shouldn’t be a problem. The problem might come tomorrow, when the weight of a simulated load is added. Already on his shoulders, of course, is the weight of the performance he’s been brought here to rehearse.

  Already a mile above sea level, they lift off, heading south toward a town called Socorro and beyond it to the bombing range. The field drops away. The wheels come up smoothly. This isn’t his old B-29, which he and the crew fondly christened Pattern Badness—complete with the name and a cartoonish bald devil decorating the plane’s nose. But it feels almost identical. Like bedding your girlfriend’s twin sister. Fewer pleasant surprises, but also fewer disagreeable ones.

  He checks the instruments. All percolating properly, all in harmony. In minutes the bomber’s shadow will skim over the range. They’ll be flying low, getting tuned in to the terrain, gettin
g their shit together for what’s on the horizon. Trying to minimize nasty surprises. And maybe even find a pleasant one.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Saturday, August 11

  A letter arrives from Mom and Dad. Cocoa and I sit on the front porch and read it together. They don’t have much to report. Heat. Dust. Good health. They’re trying not to complain. The Japanese Americans have been prisoners for more than three years. But my parents and their new Japanese American friends often commiserate about the food, even though Dad is one of the cooks. He refuses to take the blame. You can’t make a T-bone, or yakitori, out of the sole of a boot, he says.

  He’s lost weight, which he considers a good thing. Radios aren’t allowed, but internees do get day-old newspapers, so they’re keeping up with war events, they say, and in the next sentence they ask how Cocoa’s doing. They want to know if she’s still coming up with revelations and how, if she is, the revelations have affected the news. They send their love to her and Pete and the captain.

  I pass along the message to the two uniforms as they leave the house. They have an appointment with General Groves at Kirtland.

  When Pete hugs me goodbye, I notice he looks even more squared-away than usual—close shave, every hair in place, sharp creases, shined shoes. I wonder if he’s counting on seeing Corporal Amy Elizabeth Lewis.

  When I answer the letter later in the afternoon, I don’t include the specifics of Cocoa’s magic act. A censor might not even believe it, but why take a chance? I simply say that we’re all staying closely tuned to the war news, and that Cocoa has been a BIG help. I trust Mom and Dad to connect the dots.

  Cocoa adds a note; she’s doing fine, she’s gaining the weight Dad lost, she misses them, she’s working hard for her uncle . . .

  She’s made a big bowl of butter-drenched popcorn that sits between us on the kitchen table, half gone. Between mouthfuls, she asks a question: “Is it time for me to talk to the general about bringing Chuck and Dottie home?”

  “Like extortion or something? Isn’t that what they call it when you put the squeeze on someone?”

  “I’d make it more like a favor. I’ve done a lot for Uncle Sam.”

  “The general wouldn’t be the problem. Dad wasn’t interested the last time you offered help, and he wouldn’t change his mind this soon. He’s probably more determined than ever to stay with his buddies. By now he’s most likely formed a unity pact with his new Japanese American friends.”

  “I don’t like them there, Robert. Being away from you. Us.”

  “Me, neither. But maybe if—when—we win this war, the camps will get shut down, and everybody will be free to leave.” Too late, I realize I’ve put more pressure on her: The faster you get this war won, the faster my parents can come home.

  But if she feels the burden of my words, she doesn’t show it. She smiles. “I can’t wait.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Tuesday, August 14

  Cocoa continues to poke at her memories, but Tuesday morning arrives without any new breakthroughs. While the rest of us eat breakfast, she wanders, studying maps.

  Pete and Captain Jack have told us that the details of the US plan for attacking the Barbarossa Cave are strictly need-to-know, which leaves out them, and consequently us. But being in the dark isn’t helping Cocoa’s frame of mind. We know there’s a strategy in the works, but when will it be put into action? Will it be before or after the next German bomb flies, or sails, or drops?

  “Breakfast, Cocoa,” Pete says, and to my amazement she comes to the table and sits.

  “My thoughts have dried up anyway,” she says, absentmindedly buttering a piece of cold toast.

  “It’s gonna be another scorcher today,” Pete says. “You two ready for a swim?”

  “A swim?” Suddenly Cocoa sounds and looks less discouraged. “I would sink.”

  “You can’t swim?” Captain Jack says.

  “I’ve never tried.”

  “You never tried riding a horse until you got on Big Muddy,” I say.

  “If you fall off a horse you don’t drown, Robert.”

  She has a point, but a broken neck is no better than drowning—unless there are sharks involved. “Where would we go?” I ask.

  “Base camp,” Pete says. “Not far from it, anyway. I know where there’s a pool—deep enough for swimming, too shallow for drowning.”

  “A pool,” I say. “At the base camp.”

  “You’ll see,” Pete says.

  “Do you have a bathing suit, Cocoa?” the captain says.

  “In case you haven’t heard, Jack, I arrived here with nothing.” She winks at me. My face warms.

  The captain is grinning. “We’ll remedy that. We’ll take you and Robert to town this morning and see if you can find something.”

  “Really?” she says.

  “Shopping, lunch, home, swimming,” Pete says. “You can be a kid again.”

  I think about reminding him that she’s never been a kid, but from outside comes the sound of Mr. Unser’s Packard rolling down our driveway. I’ve nearly forgotten that Tuesday is milk and butter day. I head for the door with Cocoa and Lolly on my heels.

  I’ve never been beyond the outskirts of the base camp. I’m supposed to keep to my route. Period. But today I’m with Captain Jack and Pete, who have their own rules. My rear end is perched on the back seat of an Army car, not on a bicycle seat. Cocoa sits next to me. Pete whistles cheerfully as he maneuvers the car past the buildings and foot and vehicle traffic of the dusty outpost and onto a gravel road that quickly puts all the activity in the rearview mirror.

  “Going to tell us where we’re going, Pete?” I say. “Is there some kind of oasis out here?”

  “Manmade,” he says. “Another ranch house. Formerly the George McDonald place. Brother of Dave and Ross, who owned the ranch houses back at base camp.”

  “There’s a pool or something?” I say.

  “Something,” Pete says.

  “How far is it?” Cocoa says.

  “From here,” Pete says, “fifteen minutes or so.”

  From a J.C. Penney bag Cocoa pulls out her new swimsuit. It’s navy blue. There’s not much to it. Of course, there’s not much to her, either. “Do you still like it, Robert?”

  While Pete and Captain Jack ran errands, I sat on a bench outside a J.C. Penney dressing room and gave my expert opinions as Cocoa put on an endless one-girl swimsuit fashion show. Eventually she tried on this one, and I told her I liked it, and she liked it also, mostly because it fit her like the skin of a plum rather than the skin of a prune.

  “Still stylish,” I say. Once you’ve seen a girl naked, even in the dimness of early dawn, even when she’s not at her best, it’s easy to resent clothing of any kind, stylish or not.

  We pass one car going the opposite direction. Two guys—scientists, is my guess—in the front seat. Pete moves over to share the narrow road. Dust blows in, dust blows out.

  Finally, we crest a rise and a house appears. In front of it is a windmill like the one back at base camp, and between the windmill and the front porch of the house is a concrete enclosure, half the size of the house, maybe. As we get closer I see that it’s full of water.

  “A swimming pool?” Cocoa says.

  “Now,” Pete says. “Used to be a horse trough, until Lieutenant Bush decided base security needed something faster than horses to cover all this territory. But at one time Big Muddy used to come here regularly.”

  Cocoa’s face, already full of life, brightens like a painting on a museum wall at the mention of Big Muddy. In the angled afternoon sunlight, the canvas of her skin sheds shadow and takes on color.

  Pete parks in a patch of shade near the house. The pool isn’t deep. Cocoa will be able to keep her head above the water, which is cool and surprisingly clear.

  Inside the house, there’s little furniture, a table and a couple of chairs in one room, a desk and chair in another. Each room has its own door to the outside. There are missing windows and glass
on the floor in three of them. Someone has swept it into corners.

  “What happened to the windows?” Cocoa says.

  “The test,” Pete says.

  “We’re close to where it took place?” I say.

  “A couple of miles to ground zero,” Pete says. “You wouldn’t have wanted to be here.”

  Ground zero. A new one on me. I glance at Cocoa. How close was she? During. After.

  “This old house doesn’t look like much,” Captain Jack says. “But this is where the scientists put it together.”

  “The bomb?” I say.

  The captain shakes his head. “Brought the critical components here in a car and assembled them on the table.”

  Not what I would have pictured. A weapon with the power to change the world is put together in a back-country ranch house? I imagine the secret Nazi facility: fluorescent lights, glistening steel, madmen in white coats.

  A chill grips my sweaty body.

  We return to the room with the table. Nothing impressive but the history.

  “Then what?” Cocoa says.

  “On July 13, they drove their assembled piece out to ground zero, where it was placed in a larger bomb structure that contained other components,” the captain says. “The next day the entire bomb—nicknamed Fat Man—was raised to the top of a one-hundred-foot tower. Two days later, after a lot of preparation and fretting about the weather, Fat Man was detonated.”

  “The Nazis were doing the same thing,” Cocoa says. “Earlier.”

  “There were rumors,” the captain says. “Fears. Many of our scientists fled Germany during Hitler’s rise, either because of ideological differences or because they were Jewish. Often both.” He pauses. “They saw the gleam in Hitler’s eye.”

  Even with a breeze blowing through the broken windows, the house suddenly feels hotter, stuffier, tainted.

  The pool calls. We choose rooms and change clothes and meet up outside. Then it’s everyone in.

  The water feels wonderful—refreshing. I’m a desert boy, not used to wet, but I could learn to be. Cocoa is hesitant at first, but soon she’s all the way under and popping back to the surface and trying to mimic the strokes of the three of us in the pool who can actually swim—Captain Jack, smooth and fast; Pete, lots of white water; and me, YMCA dog-paddle.