Day of the Bomb

by Steve Stroble

  Jason shook his head and threw a piece of coral into the waves lapping at his and Kong’s feet. “How many days do we have left to go before we get out of here?” They walked back to the tree that served as a calendar and he counted off his carvings. Then he returned to the beach and studied the cloud as it lost its mushroom cap and drifted toward Monkey Island. They sat back down on the sand.

  “What should I do, Kong? You know I don’t make any decisions without you agreeing. There’s still about a month left before when I planned on setting the bonfire. But that was the plan for waiting out the invasion of Japan til it was all over but the crying. Judging by the size of that cloud over there either the Japs or the Russians and the Japs are busy duking it out with our boys. I sure hope the Professor was all wet about the Russians switching sides. What do you think, Kong?”

  Kong shrugged his shoulders, one of the five gestures his human had taught him. The worry in Jason’s voice troubled him. They sat for an hour while Jason tried to use his father’s favorite piece of advice, the Four Ts, think this thing through. But the more Jason thought the more confused he became. Finally, he walked over to the huge mound of dead palm fronds that he had started to build a week ago. Satisfied that its five-foot height was adequate, he placed the wadded up chart under a corner of the fronds. Two pieces of metal salvaged from the PT boat during his first week on Monkey Island served as a makeshift flint. The first three-dozen sparks failed to ignite the paper but lucky number thirty-seven made a faint red glow on it. Jason blew softly until smoke rose through the carefully stacked material. Then he blew with all his might. The flames consumed the paper and sought out more fuel, which exploded into new patches of fire.

  The fire panicked the troop of monkeys. They screeched to Kong that the human was going to cook him.

  Kong shrugged at his estranged relatives and friends, as if to say, “Stop your jabbering. You’re the ones who have gone human, not me. You worry even more than my human does. Go away and leave us alone.”

  Jason watched the clouds of smoke rise from what he prayed would the funeral pyre for his long isolation on Monkey Island. “It’s not as big as that other cloud of smoke over Bikini Atoll way, Kong. But at least maybe it’s big enough that someone; our guys, the Japs, Russians, or some native will see it. I sure hope it’s our boys who show up. Lately I’ve been dreaming a lot about K-rations every single night. You’ll love them, Kong. But I bet you’ll love Mom’s home cooking even better. I can’t wait till we get back home.”

  ***

  The next day a C-47 flying from Johnston Island spotted smoke rising above Monkey Island. The embers left from yesterday’s fire had allowed Jason to easily rebuild it with new palm fronds dragged from every corner of the island. A passenger who always hogged a window seat on every flight saw the smoke first. He ran to the cockpit and yelled his discovery to the crew.

  “Hey, there’s smoke off to the right, you guys. You think maybe one of our planes went down?”

  The pilot banked the transport’s wings until he and the copilot could see what their passenger was so excited about thousands of feet below them.

  “I thought they cleared out all of the islands over that way for the atom bomb test yesterday,” the copilot said. “Should I radio base?”

  “From what I heard they only cleared off the islands over in Bikini Atoll,” the passenger said. “If you flyboys don’t radio it in right now, I’m going to report it once we land.”

  “Keep your pants on,” the pilot said. “Please go back to your seat.”

  The mumbling passenger obeyed. As he shuffled down the aisle he pointed out the smoke to every other passenger. The cockpit’s crew groaned at his antics.

  “Don’t you just love the ground pounders who earn their wings by flying shotgun?” The pilot pointed at the one who had upset what had been a routine flight.

  “Captain, it can’t hurt if I radio it in. You never know what it might be down there.”

  “All right, all right. Go ahead. It’s been a long haul. I’m too tired for all this monkey business.” Originating at Hawaii before stopping off at the short landing strip at Johnston Island, this flight was becoming a pain for him. All that the pilot wanted was at least eight straight hours of shuteye, his for the taking once they landed. Only the drone of the twin 1,200 horsepower Pratt and Whitney engines soothed his frayed nerves. Some passengers should come equipped with parachutes.

  “Base, this is Charlie one four niner out of Johnston.” The copilot radioed the tower that was their link to a safe landing.

  “Roger.”

  “We’ve spotted smoke from an island where there’s never been any before all the other times we’ve flown this milk run.”

  “What’s your heading and ETA?”

  The pilot had delegated all navigational duties to his subordinate. At least he’s getting to strut his stuff. He smiled as his lieutenant made his calculations. A moment later the copilot transmitted the requested data and the only one staffing the tower answered.

  “Acknowledged. We’ll map the location based on your present heading and ETA. See you when you land in about 95 minutes.”

  ***

  The seaplane’s landing 200 yards from shore created the most pandemonium Monkey Island had known since PFC Jason Dalrumple had washed up on it almost a year earlier. The sight of the two men who paddled the four-man raft toward shore pushed the troop of monkeys into frenzy as they showered their wrath on Kong.

  This time Kong was speechless. He sought refuge at the top of the breadfruit tree that supported the lean-to. Its leaves and fruit concealed him but allowed a clear view to watch as the raft bobbed up and down over the waves. Why was Jason not hiding from the men? Didn’t he like Monkey Island anymore? When the big bird had buzzed the island, Jason had jumped, waved, and yelled until it dipped its wings and turned to land. Why did the huge bird make him so crazy? As Jason pulled the raft to shore Kong spotted the .45 caliber weapon holstered to one of the new human’s belt. When he recognized the thunder maker, the kind that had killed so many from his troop, he shrank further into his refuge.

  “Welcome to Monkey Island!” Jason clenched the hands of his rescuers.

  “Who are you?”

  “PFC Jason Dalrumple.”

  “I’m Sgt. Muldooney. This is Corporal Exodus. He’s a medic. Check him over, doc.”

  “Over here, Dalrumple.” He led his patient to the shade of the nearest tree.

  “So you guys have been fighting the Japs or the Russians and the Japs? I saw the clouds of smoke over that way.” Jason pointed. “You guys must have opened up with guns from at least thirty ships from what I saw.”

  “Huh? Just how long have you been here, son?” Sgt. Muldooney plopped down next to the castaway. “The war’s been over almost a year now.”

  Jason’s head grew so light that he thought his brains had been replaced by air. “No. Invading Japan was going to take at least six months, probably longer than that. That’s what the Professor said. He’s an officer so he would know. A navy officer but they know the war just as good as the army ones do. Right?”

  “Invasion? We never had to. Those A-bombs made the Japs see the light.”

  “A-bombs? What’s that? Never heard of it before.”

  “His vital signs are okay.” The medic placed his stethoscope into his pack. “You sure look like skin and bones, though. Like Sarge said, how long have you been stuck out here?”

  Jason stood and led them to his shelter and pointed at the date he had carved during his first day on Monkey Island. His rescue team stared at each other and shook their heads.

  “August 7, 1945? Well that explains it. You washed up here right before the bomb hit Hiroshima.” The sergeant placed his hand on Jason’s drooping shoulder. “Corporal, break out that K-ration we brought along and let him eat a bit before we take him on back to base.”

  His patient’s vacant stare and silence convinced Corporal Exodus to open the box’s main course, shred
ded stewed chicken meat in a broth that had congealed into thick greasy gravy speckled with yellow globules of fat. Jason swallowed the first meat he had tasted since going overboard from his transport ship. He jumped to his feet.

  “Kong! I forgot that I promised that he could taste some real food first.” He turned and cupped his hands. “Hey, Kong. Come and get it! You’re going to love this chicken.”

  “Who’s Kong?”

  “My friend. He’s going back to the States with me.” He called again for his friend.

  “Is that him?” The sergeant pointed.

  “No. That looks like Screecher. He’s Kong’s friend and always yells at him. I’ve learned to understand their language.”

  The rescuers stared at each other and shrugged. Once again the sergeant placed his hand on Jason’s shoulders. “We have to get going before it gets dark. It’s dangerous trying to land or take off when it’s dark in a seaplane. Real dangerous. Do you want to finish off your K before we take off?” He pointed at the can Jason held.

  “Do you think he’s scared? Maybe if you walk away for a little while, he’ll come on out.”

  “I’m afraid we have to go now, boy. Maybe you can leave the ration for your monkey friend? I bet he’d like it a lot.”

  “But…” Jason scanned the trees a last time and cursed. “But I promised him.” He dropped to his knees and placed the can of chicken on the rock he and Kong had shared as a table for hundreds of meals. After opening the can of fruit cocktail and unwrapping the chocolate bar, Jason placed them next to the chicken. Holding onto the bouncing raft’s sides did not quell the sickness in the pit of his stomach. Halfway to the seaplane, he saw a tiny speck running up and down the beach. He pointed but the sergeant shook his head. Still in shock after learning he had wasted a year in hiding for nothing because of his fears, he turned toward the plane and tried to picture Thelma.

  Chapter 12

  The seaplane’s pilot radioed Jason’s request, as Monkey Island seemed to be swallowed up by the dark blue waters that surrounded it. Jason had searched it with borrowed binoculars as it made a final pass over the island and pointed to the group of monkeys gathered around the K-rations.

  “One survivor recovered from island. PFC Jason Dalrumple. He has a request that you contact his girlfriend Thelma Pollack.”

  “Acknowledged. What’s her address?”

  “They need her address.” The pilot held the microphone in front of Jason’s mouth and waited until he had given it. “Did you copy?”

  “Yeah. What should we tell her?”

  The pilot repeated the question to his newest passenger and held the microphone in front of him.

  “Tell her if she still loves me she needs to meet me in San Diego.”

  Laughter came through the pilots’ headsets. “Wilco. Tell him congratulations from all the boys in the tower. You should hear them cheering.”

  The pilot gave Jason a thumb up and gunned the engines to their maximum RPMs.

  An Army captain met the plane as soon as it pulled up to its berth. “I’m Dr. Hendrickson. I’ll ride with you in the ambulance to the hospital.”

  More of a dispensary with a side room for patients who needed extended care; the hospital housed six, including its latest addition. One was there for sunstroke, another for a bad case of diarrhea, and three for malaria. All of them winced at the sight of Jason.

  “You that guy that was marooned?” The one with the runs asked.

  “Yeah. Is it really true the war’s over? That’s what they kept telling me.”

  “Man, how long have you been out in the sun? You’re talking as crazy as Larry over there did when they first brought him in.” He pointed at the sunstroke victim.

  “Almost a year.” Jason propped his feet on his bed’s metal end. “When do we eat?”

  “After we examine you.” A doctor interrupted. “Corpsman, start an IV of saline solution.”

  “Yes, sir.” The medic searched Jason’s arm. “Sir, I can’t find a vein.”

  “Try his hand.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The needle burned as it broke through tissue. Once anchored in place by half a roll of tape, it fed the liquid into the patient who came to be nicknamed The Skeleton Man. After examining Jason’s eyes, ears, throat, chest, heart, and abdomen, the doctor sat in a chair and recorded his findings on his chart. “They tell me you were stranded on the island for a year. What did you eat during all that time?”

  “Coconuts, breadfruit, and fish, Doc. The only other things there were rats and monkeys but I didn’t have a gun to shoot the rats and the monkeys were my friends so I couldn’t shoot them.”

  “Your friends?” The doctor looked up from his note taking. “The monkeys?”

  “At least Kong was.” Jason described their first meeting and how Kong had abandoned his kind to live with him.

  “So you talked to him a lot?”

  “Yeah. All the time. Only problem was that I never really could learn monkey talk. But Kong understood me better than I did him. When do you think I can go back to Monkey Island to get him to take on back home? I promised him I would.”

  “We’ll see about that. You just rest now.”

  The doctor went to a nearby Quonset hut that contained his office. It took a few moments of searching through a directory before he could find the name of a fellow doctor who specialized in psychiatry. A radio message brought the psychiatrist via airplane to examine Jason the next day. Dr. Hendrickson introduced them. “PFC Dalrumple, this is Dr. Zingler. He has a few questions for you.”

  “Hello, Doc. I’d stand up to salute you but they got this IV thing hooked up to me.” Jason pointed at the drops falling from the bottle to the long plastic tube.

  “At ease, soldier. So what can you tell me about your time on Monkey Island?”

  Jason spent an hour detailing his two days in “shark infested waters” and how only one creature on Monkey Island had befriended him. Dr. Zingler took sporadic notes but mostly listened.

  “Is there some reason you did not build your fire sooner so that you could be rescued?”

  Jason stared at the ceiling. “You mind if I take the Fifth Amendment on that, Doc? About the only excuse I have is that after whoever it was knocked me on the head and I fell overboard and spent two days in the drink I wasn’t thinking too straight. But seeing that big cloud above Bikini Atoll sure snapped me out of it. I was sure the Japs or the Russians and the Japs and us were going at it in a big way.”

  Dr. Zingler stood and stretched. His ten-hour flight had drained his body but Jason’s tale was taxing his mind. “Are you sure you didn’t see who it was that hit you on the ship before you fell overboard? Charges may still need to be brought up against whoever it was that assaulted you.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I was pretty woozy from barfing over the side. Then when I felt the konk on my head I tried to turn around but the ship sort of pitched to one side and the next thing I know I’m hanging over the side. Whoever hit me grabbed me by the ankles and tried to pull me back up over the rail but I guess he just couldn’t hold on.”

  “I see. Thank you.”

  “Sure thing, Doc. Thank you.”

  The two doctors walked to Dr. Hendrickson’s cramped office. “What do you think?” He lit two cigarettes and gave one to his guest.

  Dr. Zingler sighed and yawned. “Sorry. I didn’t sleep too well on the plane last night. I’m not certain. He seems lucid enough to me. The ones who rescued him say they saw at least one monkey so it’s highly unlikely that this Kong was just a hallucination of your patient’s mind. It’s why he waited so long to be rescued that still has me stumped though.”

  “Maybe he just wanted to be alone for a while. I’ve been on more than one transport ship. It’s close quarters for even the officers like you and me. Plus he had spent years of island hopping enough to have had a bellyful of what the Japs dished out on every one of them. Maybe he just wanted a really long R and R?”

  “Maybe.
” Dr. Zingler shook his head. “You know I was in Germany when we liberated Dachau and Auschwitz.”

  “Yeah. I remember you telling me.”

  “The worst of it is that Dalrumple reminds me of the better fed prisoners we found there, the ones who the S.S. guards used to pull the gold fillings out of the Jews that got gassed and then haul the bodies to the ovens to cremate them. How much does he weigh?”

  “Today he was up to 101 pounds because we’ve been pumping IVs into him since he got here. And he eats about six or seven meals a day, even when they’re just K-rations. You know how most patients leave part of their food on their trays?”

  “Yeah.”

  “PFC Dalrumple doesn’t leave a single crumb.”

  Chapter 13

  Thelma was not the first one to read the telegram sent to tell her of Jason’s resurrection. That honor went to the boy delivering it. His job did not pay much and tips were sporadic. But being the first to know of a far-away death, illness, or an occasional bit of good news made him a big shot, at least in his own mind, especially whenever he told others of a telegram’s contents before the one to whom it was addressed had read it. After not finding Thelma at home, he decided “to go the extra mile” that his boss always preached and deliver it to her at work. When he arrived at the factory he spread the biggest news to hit Madisin since WW II had ended in the Pacific Theater of Operations.

  “Jason Dalrumple’s alive!” He announced to the first one he found on the factory floor. “Where’s Thelma at?”

  She was at the far end of the single-story building applying stain and varnish to finished pieces of furniture. Because Thelma took her job seriously, she did not notice how bit by bit the factory’s din quieted as employee after employee stopped sawing, hammering, and upholstering furniture and instead relayed the news of the one who had gone from MIA to dead to alive and kicking. By the time that the delivery boy reached Thelma, 126 pairs of eyes were focused on her.