Jungle of Bones

by Ben Mikaelsen

  “Just a second,” Dylan answered, searching around the cockpit, looking for the map box. He remembered his grandfather’s journal talking about the flag he had stored to remind him why he was fighting. Almost ready to give up, he spotted a square container alongside and to the rear of the left seat. He had to pry at the cover to force it open, but stored in the box, with only a little dust, was a folded American flag.

  “Hurry,” called Kanzi. “I have to leave to get you help.”

  Dylan crawled back across the bomb bay, the flag tucked under his arm. Every movement took great effort. “Are you leaving right now?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Is it better if I leave next week?”

  “No, I just thought with night —”

  Kanzi held her index finger to her lips. “You talk too much for somebody who is foolish,” she said.

  Dylan collapsed on the floor and leaned against the side of the fuselage, too tired to argue with this smart-alecky young girl who was his only hope of living.

  Kanzi squatted beside him. She handed him a big stick. “When rats come in, sit very still until they’re close, then use this to kill him. They will make good food until your friends find you.”

  “You’re coming back with them, aren’t you?” Dylan asked.

  Kanzi ignored his question. “Tell me what your friends look like.”

  Feeling as if he were going to pass out, Dylan kept pinching his eyes closed as he tried to describe each person. He ended by saying, “The boy that is my age is taller and thinner than me, and is called Quentin. He wears glasses and never quits talking.”

  “He’s like you,” Kanzi said. Then she corrected herself. “No, you don’t wear glasses.”

  Before Kanzi left, she brought some big, soft leaves inside and showed them to Dylan. “Use these when you go poo poo. Other leaves can hurt you.”

  “Now you tell me,” Dylan muttered.

  “If you go outside, always stay where you can see the plane,” she said. “If you’re stupid again, Kanzi will let you die. The world doesn’t need more foolish people.” She turned and gave him a handful of marshmallow-sized betel nuts. “Chewing on these might help your pain, but spit out the juice.” She pointed to a place where the twisted aluminum formed a trough halfway down the side of the bomber. “When it rains, good water drips here. Drink all you can. If it doesn’t rain, you can drink the blood from rats.”

  As an afterthought, before crawling out the bottom of the fuselage, Kanzi turned and said, “Crocodiles and snakes don’t come in here because of the rats. People don’t come in here because there’s bad spirits. So what are you, a rat?”

  Dylan took one of the betel nuts and threw it at Kanzi but missed. “Looks like you’ve been here a couple of times, too,” he said.

  She giggled as she squirmed out the bottom of the fuselage. Dylan peeked out through a rip in the metal and saw her disappear like a shadow into the trees. Once more an eerie silence blanketed the bomber.

  Dylan examined his new home. Even with the cobwebs, bones, rat droppings, and mud, it was still better than another night in the open jungle. He used his boots to clear a space on the floor between the two waist gunners’ positions where he could lie down. This was way better than sleeping out in the open in the clearing beside the twisted tree. At least here he was somewhat protected. The bones gave him the creeps, and the rat smell made him want to throw up. But for the moment he was safe, and now somebody on the planet knew where he was — a small smart-alecky jungle girl who treated him like a child.

  After Kanzi left, an overwhelming weariness came over Dylan. He had a sense that he would never leave this place walking. He would be carried out on a stretcher, either dead or alive. All day he fought sweats and chills and had horrible and bizarre hallucinations of falling off cliffs, being eaten very slowly by crocodiles, and running and running to get away from a bad spirit — he could never see the spirit’s face. Dylan stared at the twisted metal and closed his eyes. Nothing mattered anymore — he would either live or die now. That was okay.

  As dusk turned to night, the sky darkened and became inky black. The swamp awoke with a new sound in the distance, a yapping like wild dogs. Waves of chills came over Dylan, and without thinking, he unfolded the small American flag and pulled it over his chest. As he lay on his back, he stared at the openings in the wreck where faint hints of moonlight leaked in. He felt exhausted, but tonight it didn’t matter if he had chills or sweats. It didn’t matter if the thorns in his heel hurt, if he was hungry or thirsty, if his rash bled, or if his many insect bites itched or hurt. Nothing mattered anymore because somebody now knew where he was!

  Sometime during the night it began to rain. The heavy drops beating on the fuselage sounded like the steady tattoo of a drum. Tossing back and forth in tortured sleep, Dylan imagined the loud hacking of a 50-caliber machine gun firing out the side of the bomber at an attacking fighter. The sound grew louder, and Dylan’s nightmare continued. A sergeant woke him up. “Mission’s on!” the man yelled, running toward the next barracks. Dylan knew his job. He was a waist gunner on a big B-17 bomber called Night Rider.

  Today’s mission was over Berlin. Almost seven hundred bombers were taking part. Dylan heard the rumble of the engines in the early-morning air, and he smelled the smoky exhaust of the big radial engines starting. He saw crew members praying fearfully. Others threw up behind the tires of their bombers before crawling aboard. They would be at high altitude, so everyone wore heavy flight suits, thick jackets, and pants made from leather lined with wool. Dylan felt the rough lumbering takeoff of the fully loaded bomber. As they approached enemy territory, the bomber climbed to 25,000 feet and Dylan put on his oxygen mask.

  In the swamp, the rain beat harder on the outside of Second Ace, but what Dylan heard was the beginning of an attack. He heard the rapid firing of machine guns and the nose gunner’s voice screaming over the intercom, “Bandits coming in at nine o’clock!”

  Dylan rolled back and forth on the dirty floor of the wrecked Second Ace, mumbling “No, no, no.” In his hallucinations he swung his 50-caliber machine gun around and began firing. His tracers squirted out of the barrel, carving long arching streaks across the sky. An enemy fighter flew directly at him, firing. Dylan fired back. Still the fighter kept coming, its guns blazing, ripping up the bomber. Dylan kept firing, but nothing stopped the fighter.

  Lightning and thunder struck over the swamp, but all Dylan heard was explosions. He heard screaming and the vibration of other machine guns firing. Water from the storm leaked into the fuselage of the wrecked Second Ace, dripping on Dylan’s legs where he was lying. Dylan felt the wet and looked down. An enemy round had exploded near him, leaving his legs numb and wet with blood.

  Rats squeaked and squealed, scurrying from the swamp into the fuselage to escape the pouring rain that dripped through the openings, drenching the floor. All Dylan heard was the faint cries for help from other crew members who were also injured, dripping so much blood that the floor glistened. The bombardier yelled, “Bombs away!” and the B-17 banked to head for home.

  The rain and lightning let up over the jungle, but Dylan’s hallucination continued. With only one of the main gear down and two engines out, the B-17 limped home, then ground-looped on landing, bursting into flames as it slid down the runway. Somehow Dylan crawled from the burning wreck, and then sat in the grass and watched their B-17, Night Rider, erupt in flames. All of his friends and fellow crew members tried to escape, but the flames were too hot. All Dylan could do with his injured legs was sit beside the runway and watch his friends burn to death.

  Was all of this worth the price? Had they helped to stop Hitler? The questions were like the clouds of smoke billowing out from the plane. They surrounded Dylan, choking his throat and tearing his eyes. He couldn’t get his brain around them.

  Dylan’s nightmare continued in flashes of pain and emotion. An operation to remove his mangled legs. The grim satisfaction of learning to use a wheelchair.

/>   Finally being sent home on the Fourth of July.

  The mayor invited him to be in a parade. What a bittersweet honor, being pushed down Main Street in his wheelchair, an American flag draped over his missing legs. At least people would recognize his sacrifice.

  Waving to the crowds, Dylan noticed that nobody was cheering or waving back. People were already laughing at the clown that traipsed along behind Dylan, blowing up skinny balloons. Children scrambled along the curbs to gather candy that had been thrown. A group of boys sitting on a brick wall in front of the library shouted and taunted Dylan.

  “Hey, you old fossil, find a coffin that fits you!”

  “Hey, gimp, why didn’t you duck!”

  Dylan wanted to run over to the boys and chew them out. He wanted to lecture them on respect, but he didn’t even have legs to stand on. He couldn’t even scratch his butt.

  As dawn broke, Dylan opened his eyes but couldn’t remember where he was or what he was doing. All night, his hallucinations had been so real. Even as he sat up, he looked around, searching for the crew members and all the blood. What was real and what wasn’t? He still wasn’t sure. Nothing that had happened in the last week seemed real.

  His muscles ached and cramped as he struggled to stand. Stumbling around, he stuffed some of the withered leaves Kanzi had given him for toilet paper into his pocket, then worked his way to the back of the fuselage. He squeezed carefully through the jagged opening in the tail. Bending at the waist like an old man, he hobbled away from the bomber to go to the bathroom.

  Dylan squatted with his pants down and tried to relieve himself. For the first time, crouched in this awkward position, he had a chance to look around at the landscape outside Second Ace. This place was trying to kill him, but it also held a harsh beauty: giant gray clouds hanging like huge bellies from the sky as morning crept over the jungle; the tangled pattern of thick, woody vines overhead; heavy beards of moss and lichen hanging from branches; and the flaming colors and weird shapes of the flowers. Two feet away, a dragonfly landed on a leaf, its translucent wings and brilliant body shimmering in the light.

  Thankfully, Dylan’s diarrhea had cleared up, but the rash kept making him cry out in pain. The leaves had blood on them after he used them. It took every ounce of his strength to return to the bomber and crawl back inside. To keep conscious, Dylan picked up the American flag that had been his blanket. First he counted the stars again and again. Then he concentrated on folding it, making sure each crease was exact. It probably wasn’t very respectful, but now, lying on the hard floor, surrounded by human bones and rat droppings, he used the folded flag as a pillow.

  Dylan breathed deeply to stay conscious. Each time he fell asleep, it was harder to wake up. Soon he would simply fade away. Blinking his eyes forcefully, he stared up at the compressed top of the fuselage. What had the crash been like? How much had the crew suffered? The journal said that five crew members had lived through the actual crash, but three died during the first night. Dylan reached out and picked up one of the bones and stared at it hard. It would have been easy to ignore the bones if they were from some animal, but each one came from somebody’s father or son. Did those crew members ever think they would end up as rat food in some jungle on the other side of the planet?

  Other questions forced their way into Dylan’s thoughts. Had the families of these men, especially the children, ever imagined what their fathers had sacrificed? That they gave their lives so that others could be free? Growing up without fathers, what had the children thought? Did they blame their fathers for leaving home?

  As his chills returned, a deep shame came over Dylan. He rolled the bone back and forth in his hands. It had been easy blaming his father for being away, saving somebody else’s kids. Dylan realized now that he was wrong. His dad had known that freedom wasn’t free. That was why he was reporting on the slaughter and genocide of innocent people in Darfur. It didn’t have anything to do with how much he loved his family. Maybe, in a twisted way, it showed his love more. Maybe as he watched those poor people being butchered, it was his own wife and son that he saw. Maybe he couldn’t just let their deaths go ignored.

  Dylan carefully set the bone back on the floor as big, watery tears flooded his eyes. Why was he so stupid? Why did he have to be half dead, lying in a crashed bomber in the middle of some jungle, to realize this? Now it was probably too late. Even as he cried, Dylan felt himself drifting unconscious again. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep the huge wave of numbness from pulling him under.

  Once again his hallucinations returned, but this time it wasn’t gruesome or terrifying. This time he dreamed a silly children’s story of a little rabbit that left home and got lost. He got lost for so long that when he found home, it wasn’t home anymore. He had grown so big and changed so much that he wasn’t the same rabbit. Nobody even recognized him.

  Dylan woke suddenly. A big rat had crawled up on his chest and sat watching him, its nose and whiskers twitching. Convulsing, Dylan swung his arm, sending the rat scurrying away.

  Dylan’s chills had morphed into profuse sweating. With the sun higher in the sky, the bomber had heated up like an oven. Dylan’s sweaty shirt clung to his skin. The last image he remembered from his dream as he woke was the lost rabbit looking in a mirror. The image in the mirror had been his own, Dylan Barstow. What did that mean? Had he also changed? Dylan no longer knew who he was, but deep inside he felt different. Here he had energy and time for only one simple focus: survival.

  As he lay flat on his back, his head resting on the folded American flag, Dylan drifted in and out of consciousness. Sweaty heat flashes and chills wracked his body. He could no longer stop the violent shaking. He looked down at his stomach and discovered two big black sausages hanging from the side of his stomach. It took several minutes to comprehend that he was looking at two new leeches. Somewhere in the swamp they had hitched a ride and clung to him, sucking his blood.

  He wanted to brush them away but hesitated. In a stupor, Dylan stared at the leeches for a long while. Something deep inside kept him from trying to remove the bloodsucking sausages. Maybe he was too sick. Maybe he was tired of fighting the world. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. Doing everything his way had almost killed him. Deliberately he turned his head and stared to the side.

  Now Dylan felt as if he were swimming through the universe. First he passed too close to the sun and started burning up; then he shivered in the black empty cold of outer space. Next, he entered a black hole, the pressure so great it crushed his skull and vaporized every atom of his body. He became part of the universe, instead of being Dylan Barstow, major screw-up from Wisconsin.

  Slowly at first, but then louder and louder, sounds echoed. How weird. There weren’t supposed to be any sounds in outer space. Dylan heard shouting and screaming, and then movement, bumping and lifting and being rolled over. Then grunting.

  “Hold him steady!”

  “Move him slowly down.”

  “What’s his temperature?”

  “He’s burning up.”

  “Okay, I have him.”

  “What’s his pulse?”

  “We have to move quickly.”

  “Keep him level!”

  “Okay, Dylan, can you hear us? Dylan, wake up. Can you hear me?”

  Dylan felt rain on his face but that wasn’t right — there wasn’t rain in outer space, and surely not in a black hole. Something pried his eyes open and held his head up to put fluid in his mouth. He coughed and choked on the fluid. Now his clothes were being removed. But if he was in space, that would be his space suit. Taking his space suit off would kill him, so Dylan tried to swing his arms and fight back. He couldn’t let anybody take his space suit off.

  Strong hands held him still. Something was being pried from his fingers. He couldn’t fight against all the hands that gripped him. Why were they trying to kill him? What were they doing taking off his space suit? Then more voices sounded.

  “Make sure his airw
ay is clear.”

  “Hold his arm. We have to get some medication onboard for his malaria.”

  “How could he have gotten malaria?”

  “Keep giving him fluids — he’s dehydrated.”

  “Looks like a snake bit his ankle.”

  “What ripped the skin up so bad?”

  “Looks like the jungle tried to kill him.”

  “Okay, somebody cover him with bug spray and suntan lotion — we need to get moving.”

  Then Dylan felt jostling motion. He wanted everything to be still again. He wanted to float again through space. Instead it was as if he were being dragged down a bumpy dirt road. He felt powerless, and every movement hurt. He tried to shout, but a huge hand pinched his throat. Another strong hand kept him from sitting up. He tried to open his eyes but they felt glued closed. Finally Dylan gave up and clenched his teeth to ward off the pounding pain. If this was what it felt like to die, he wanted to get it over with. But the end refused to come.

  It seemed forever before the bumping and jostling finally subsided into stillness. Dylan lay unconscious in a pole house in Balo, never seeing the villagers’ eyes peeking in at him during his heavy slumber. Ghostly voices whispered in the distance — different voices than those that whispered across the room.

  Dylan woke once during the night, long enough to wonder where he was and what had happened. A slight breeze blew through the palm planks covering the walls.

  Not until morning could he finally open his eyes and stare up at a ring of concerned faces: Uncle Todd, Quentin, Allen Jackson, Gene Cooper, a young, tired-looking woman from the village, and an odd old man. They all stood looking down at him. Dylan eyed the old man. His skin was wrinkled as a prune. His whole body had been rubbed with coals from a fire, making him all black except for his face, which was painted white. Painted with the shapes of a skull. A necklace of shells, dogs’ teeth, and feathers hung from his neck. Bones hung from his stretched earlobes. Only a breechcloth of leaves covered his lower body, like a skirt, swishing each time he moved. Dylan stared at the strange man.