Blackbone

by George Simpson

  Gilman tamped out his cigarette. He had written Nona off, as he had written off his burgeoning military career. Now, at Blackbone, he was just marking time, like the Germans in his keep. And when the war ended, and the Germans went home to their wives and children and girlfriends and what remained of their country, what would he do? What was left for David Gilman?

  He moved to the window and stared out at the camp. Lights swept the fence. Nothing moved. Maybe he should have tried with Nona but, when she got to him, he was in no mood to heal: he hadn’t suffered enough. But now he knew that it never would have worked. She might have come to understand the problem, but she would never have stopped believing that she was the solution.

  Gilman climbed back into his cot and wished for only one thing before his eyes closed and he returned to sleep —that he could do it all over again, but this time do it right—his way. From now on, he decided, he would listen to the little voice in his head and, when it conflicted with orders, heed it.

  Chapter 14

  Loring Holloway held her window seat in the club car through breakfast and beyond. She drank a fourth cup of coffee and sat staring out the window at the bleak, overcast cornfields of South Dakota. She had never been this far west and found the scenery fascinating. It was the only thing about this train ride that kept her from thinking of what lay ahead. She wasn’t sleeping very well, her dreams filled with visions of Babylon, Ur-Tawaq, Korbazrah, and drowning Iraqi workers....

  Across from her, a grim fat lady in a black cotton dress tippled brandy and dabbed at the sweat on her chest with a silk handkerchief. She had good reason to drink, having barraged Loring with her story immediately upon sitting down: she had two sons in the war, her daughter had eloped with a Mexican, and her husband had recently died of emphysema. She was en route to California to live with her spinster sister, whom she hated, and was dreading it. Loring had offered sympathy but had tuned out when the woman declined breakfast and ordered her second brandy.

  Loring fingered the silver talisman Yazir had given her. It was still on her chest, draped from the chain around her neck. Whenever she got to thinking about how to deal with the djinn, her hand automatically checked to see that it was still in place. She hardly knew why. Upon leaving Grand Central, she had immediately dug back through her notes and found that, among the talismen presumed effective against djinn, the pentagon shape was the least commonly mentioned. It seemed to be part of a later mythology, more effective against satanic demons than Middle Eastern ones. But then, as both she and Yazir had pointed out to each other, all these things had their roots. The demons themselves, the tricks and games, the folklore, the weapons—all had their ancient antecedents. Just because the pentagon shape was not considered an official djinn deterrent did not mean that it wouldn’t work.

  And so it must be with all the other things, Loring thought. Iron, steel, salt, silver—the list was endless. She would have to try everything and see what worked, what might elicit a response from Kirst. And if nothing happened? If Kirst had no reaction whatsoever? Could she risk believing without proof that the djinn was gone? Or might it have grown stronger and cleverer during all its years of enforced captivity?

  A lump of anxiety rose in her throat. She glanced at her hand and discovered it was shaking. Not nerves—too much coffee. She got up and left the fat lady with a few words of encouragement, then she made her way back to her car.

  Tomorrow, she told herself, tomorrow you’ll be there. Tomorrow you’ll know. And by then, if the djinn was operating at capacity, everyone at Blackbone would know something was up. They might—and this she found heartening—they might be ready to listen.

  “Frisco’s not really my kind of town,” said Corporal Chilton. “What about L.A.? I’ve got girls down there. My mother lives there.”

  “L.A. then. What’ve you got?” Hopkins closed the door to his office. Chilton sat down, held up a sheet of neat typescript, and read it like a proclamation.

  “The skinny on Major David Gilman, formerly Lieutenant Colonel David Gilman, commanding Second Battalion of the Third Division under Major General Benton Malkin, Seventh Army, under Lieutenant General Alexander M. Patch. On fifteen August 1944, Lieutenant Colonel Gilman’s unit landed on the Mediterranean coast of France as part of the southern invasion force following D-day, assigned to keep the Germans in the south from linking up with units in the north and opposing the Normandy operation. They set up a line of communications along the Mediterranean ports, then swept north and in mid-September hooked up with the Allies near Dijon. They were involved in several skirmishes and distinguished themselves in a manner befitting—”

  “Stop glamorizing,” said Hopkins.

  “Thought you’d want the flavor, sir.”

  “Never mind the flavor. Get to the meat.”

  “Yes, sir. Basically, it happened like this...” From here on Chilton stopped reading and used his report only as a referral. “Somewhere in mid- to northern France, Gilman was informed by General Malkin that a captured German officer had revealed the following piece of intelligence—a certain area designated Window Hill had recently been evacuated by the Germans. Malkin wanted Gilman to move his battalion up and take the hill. Gilman was reluctant to do it, pleading for time to soften up the area with artillery then send in a recon patrol. Malkin was impatient and ordered him to go in at once. Gilman protested that they were relying on the word of a prisoner, and he didn’t want to risk casualties without a chance to reconnoiter.”

  Hopkins sat back, seeing the confrontation in his mind’s eye: pushy light colonel versus tough general. He had heard about Malkin—no one to trifle with. He fished out his cigarettes, offered one to Chilton. “Go on,” he said.

  “Malkin accused Gilman of disobeying a direct order and relieved him of command. The exec was placed in charge and ordered to take the men in. Malkin chewed Gilman out and threatened to court-martial him. Second Battalion took off for Window Hill.”

  Hopkins chuckled, enjoying this.

  “Then the report came in. Gilman’s unit had been suckered into a trap. The entire battalion was annihilated. No survivors.”

  “Wow,” said Hopkins.

  Chilton went on spinning his tale, oblivious to the weight of the events he was recounting. “Gilman became an embarrassment. General Malkin refused to admit he was at fault for not questioning the word of a prisoner more closely. He met privately with Gilman—notes were taken by the general’s aide and later transcribed by a clerk—”

  “I was wondering how you got all this,” Hopkins snorted. “The network of brother clerks.”

  “Yes, sir.” Chilton flashed a smile, then continued. “Anyway, the general told Gilman that he would deny ever having discussed softening up Window Hill, so there would be no point in Gilman relying on that to back up his own actions. It came down to this—no one would believe a light colonel over a two-star general. Then he said he would forget about the court-martial if Gilman would quietly allow himself to be transferred out of Europe.” Chilton paused, grinning.

  “What happened?”

  “Gilman punched him out.”

  “He punched a general?”

  “He fucking well did, sir. Flattened him.”

  Hopkins whistled.

  “Malkin threw Gilman into detention for a week. But he must have realized he could never court-martial Gilman for the punch without the other crap coming out. So he busted him a grade, shipped him home, and had him transferred here.”

  Chilton pushed the report across to Hopkins with a flourish that ended in a burnt-hand gesture. Hopkins studied it a long moment, impressed by the crisp typing and even paragraphing. Chilton did great work.

  Hopkins unceremoniously tore the report in half, then in half again. He crumpled the pieces and dropped them into his wastebasket. Chilton was stunned.

  “Nice work, Corporal,” said Hopkins. “Two weeks in L.A., earliest opportunity.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “On one condition?”
/>
  “Sir?”

  “If that story gets back to you with some details a little out of joint, don’t bother to correct them, get me?”

  Chilton didn’t quite get him, but he nodded anyway.

  “After all,” said Hopkins, “losing your command for refusing an order and punching a general in the bargain—that’s bad news. Word gets around, former light colonel Gilman could lose whatever friends he’s making here.”

  Chilton was puzzled. “Yes, sir, but... it was more the general’s fault, don’t you think?”

  Hopkins eyed him coldly. “The way I hear the story, it sounds more like Oilman blew it. It’s going to sound that way to you, too, when you come back from L.A.”

  Chilton stared at him. Finally, he got it.

  Hopkins seemed uncommonly smug when he reported to Gilman after the morning roll call. Gilman ignored it and showed him a dispatch. “Got a job suited to your talents, Hopkins. Prepare accommodations for a visitor. Someone from the State Department is en route here to interview the prisoner Kirst. What are you grinning at?”

  “Nothing much, sir,” said Hopkins. “Just recalling that last night you wouldn’t let me put the screws to him, now here comes the State Department.”

  “I doubt the two things are related, and I hope whoever they’re sending is at least marginally more qualified than you.”

  Hopkins’ grin froze.

  “Let’s just concentrate on the job at hand, okay? State wants to question a captured German submariner, that’s all there is to it. So we’ll go out of our way to cooperate with this”—he glanced at the cable—”Mr. Holloway.”

  There were a dozen men in Hut 10 when Gebhard entered. Everybody else was outside, involved in a mass soccer game. The Luftwaffe had challenged the Navy. Gebhard couldn’t care less: he was interested neither in soccer nor interservice rivalry. At the moment he was disgusted, angry, and brooding. Spotting Kirst on a sofa, Gebhard walked past him, glared at him, then took a table less than five yards away.

  Gebhard picked up a worn deck of cards and began shuffling. He looked around. The others were occupied in relaxing. There was a sullenness among them that Gebhard attributed to last night’s events and Kirst’s presence in the room. Nobody liked him now, Gebhard realized with satisfaction. Even his own wild suspicions no longer mattered: he had something else to hate Kirst for.

  Directly or indirectly, in Gebhard’s view, Kirst was responsible for the shower hut being closed. For that, Gebhard could never forgive him. Gebhard loved his showers.

  Dortmunder and Hoffman finished a game of gin rummy and leaned back, studying Kirst. “How’s your periscope, Kirst?” said Hoffman. Dortmunder spat a laugh. Kirst didn’t move. Not getting a rise out of him, Hoffman looked around for someone else to needle.

  Eckmann walked in, happier than usual, waving a letter from his wife.

  Hoffman scooted up to the table, grabbed the cards, expertly shuffled and cut, winked at Dortmunder, then said, “Eckmann, what’s that you’ve got there?”

  Eckmann came over, proudly displaying the letter. “From Frieda,” he said.

  “Is that so?” said Hoffman, hardly surprised. Eckmann got them at the rate of one or two a month. His wife was a devoted pen pal. “Come and sit down, Eckmann.”

  Eckmann drew up a chair and held the letter in his outstretched hands. The envelope was slit. He had already read it. Probably ten times, Hoffman decided.

  “Eckmann,” he said, “you depend too much on those letters. You don’t play soccer, you don’t play cards, you don’t joke—your whole life is wrapped up in Frieda.”

  Dortmunder snickered. He leaned toward Eckmann. “Come and sit on my lap, little Frieda!” He snatched Eckmann’s letter and placed it on his thigh. Eckmann tried to grab it back, but Dortmunder scooted his chair aside.

  “Easy, Eckmann,” said Hoffman. “Dortmunder just wants to hold it. You know, he hasn’t held anything softer than Bruckner’s dog since he arrived here.”

  Eckmann hesitated, frowning. They were always playing games, these two. Ordinarily he could take it, but he hated it when they picked on his devotion to Frieda.

  Dortmunder rubbed the letter across his crotch. “Ah, my gorgeous Frieda,” he murmured. “Your breasts white as twin alps, your legs like alabaster columns, your cunt—” He slapped the letter up to his nose and sniffed.

  Eckmann jumped up. Hoffman got between them. Dortmunder opened the letter and shoved his fingers into the envelope, stirring them about with a lascivious grin. Eckmann shook with anger at the way his property was being defiled.

  Dortmunder drew something out of the envelope and held it pressed between his thumb and forefinger. It was a single curly hair. “God in heaven,” he said. “She has sent him a hair from her pussy!”

  “Damn you!” Eckmann lunged at Dortmunder. Hoffman slammed him backward. Eckmann collapsed into his chair.

  Fascinated, Dortmunder waved the hair before his eyes. “Brunette.... Eckmann, I thought your Frieda was a blonde.”

  “Go disembowel yourself.”

  Dortmunder brought the hair to his nose, swayed in ecstasy, then sniffed loudly. He grimaced and dropped the hair with a cry of disgust.

  “What’s the matter?” said Hoffman.

  Dortmunder wrinkled his nose. “Christ, that’s not from her pussy at all. It’s from her asshole.”

  Eckmann kicked his chair back then grabbed the table and overturned it. Cards scattered. He snatched his letter from Dortmunder’s lap.

  “I’m not finished,” Dortmunder said.

  “You—you—” Eckmann could hardly get the words out. “My wife is the most beautiful woman on earth! You would be lucky if she lowered herself to look at you—”

  “I would be lucky if she lowered herself on this.” Dortmunder gripped his crotch. “And that’s probably what she’s been doing since you’ve been gone. Face it, Eckmann—you had one day of marriage. Letters are easy to write. Keeping her legs closed is a bit harder.”

  “He’s right,” Hoffman agreed. “No woman would put that much on paper unless she had a lot to atone for. She does it to conceal her sins.”

  Shaken, Eckmann stuffed the letter into his pocket and backed away from them and turned—

  To see Kirst staring at him.

  He whirled and ran for the door, pursued by laughter.

  Through it all, Gebhard had watched Kirst. As soon as Hoffman and Dortmunder started their game, Kirst’s face had become a mask. Whatever his response to Eckmann’s razzing—if he had a response—he was not letting it show. Now the empty look shifted to Gebhard.

  And for just a flash, Gebhard thought he saw an indescribably hideous grin.

  The soccer game was raucous and half-assed. Rules were ignored because everybody knew the game was merely a cover for committee meetings, which were always held during mass physical activity in order to foil the MPs. There was no way so many key people could meet at night or in the huts without attracting the sentries’ attention.

  The committees were everywhere. The food committee was meeting among a cheering section of Luftwaffe officers, discussing how to more equitably divide up the Red Cross parcels due the following week. The health committee was meeting outside the Krankenhaus, where the medic, Leutnant Cuno, had set up an emergency field hospital complete with two stretchers and a first-aid table. Behind him, two National Socialist army officers argued with the number two medic, Leutnant Heilbruner, about getting priority care in the event of a flu epidemic. Heilbruner stated flatly that, if that were enforced, he would withhold services.

  The escape committee was on the warm-up bench and, like the players, stripped down to shorts, undershirts, and bare feet. The ground was icy cold, so most sat cross-legged or with legs tucked beneath them. There were Steuben, Bruckner and Churchill, and three others.

  Steuben and Bruckner applauded as their side thwarted a near goal. In the ensuing brawl, two Navy men were flattened and had to be carried off amid much boisterous laughter.

/>   Steuben nodded to Mueller that he could join them now. Mueller strolled over and squatted down in front of the escape committee. “All right, Mueller,” said Steuben, “let’s hear your plan.”

  Mueller nodded toward Blackbone Mountain. “The old mine cave-in near the fence.”

  “What about it?” said Steuben.

  “Look at it.”

  They all looked. Not much of it was visible, just a depression in the ground surrounded by winter-dried bushes, behind it a bulge in the hill, and above that the fence line.

  “Digging at night, I believe I can cut through that and get into the main shaft.”

  “With what?” said Bruckner.

  “Tools made from ration tins, homemade shovels, and scoops concealed beneath one of the huts.”

  “You’d be seen easily.”

  “I can rig a simple lean-to around those bushes with sticks sunk into the ground, a blanket thrown over them, and a layer of dirt over that. Even in daylight, it will look exactly as it does now. And if it snows—even better.”

  “How long to do the digging?” Steuben asked.

  “Not more than a few days.”

  Steuben eyed the cave-in skeptically. “Not enough time. As soon as supplies arrive, they’re going to move that fence. In any case, I would think the entire shaft collapsed back when they blew up that entrance.”

  “If that were true,” said Mueller, “you would see depressed ground all the way up to the fence and beyond. I’m convinced that no more than the first twenty feet could have sustained damage. We can get through that easily. The important thing is that this shaft goes up into the mountains and lets out on the other side of Blackbone. I’ve heard the MPs mention a river over there. The miners who used to work here had to have a river to transport ore, which means that this is the back door... and the main entrance is on the river side. They blew up this end to keep us from using the tunnel, but they wouldn’t have bothered with the other side. It should still be open.” Mueller beamed. “And as for moving the fence, we’ll worry about that when those supplies arrive.”