Just Another Girl on the Road

by S. Kensington

  Suddenly, there was a startling blast of siren and their bodies were pinned in a garish blaze of light. Momentarily blinded, they recoiled, gasping. Their gasp was echoed by an even louder one, and the sound of a flashlight clattering to the ground. After a frantic scrabbling, the flashlight was retrieved.

  A strained, disembodied voice came from the darkness. “Sir. I’m sorry, sir. Corporal Savino here. I was on my patrol. This area is off limits, you know… curfew and all.”

  Nye was cursing, fumbling with his trousers. Katrinka scrambled off his lap, pulling her blouse down and readjusting her skirt. Both stood. The flashlight pointed discreetly to an area about two meters away.

  “Understood, Corporal. Just showing the young woman… that is, we were looking—we are leaving immediately.”

  Nye grabbed Katrinka’s hand, and pulled her over the rocks and bramble, back to the vehicle. Switching on the ignition, he spun the wheel in his hand, and they roared off down the road, the sound of muffled laughter trailing behind them. He got out onto the main track, and they gaped at one another.

  Katrinka burst out laughing. “Oh Wills, you looked so shocked!”

  “Dammit, I was shocked. Not quite the… Bloody hell! There’s something for the young man to remember.”

  * * *

  They drove back to the nurses’ barracks in silence. Nye stopped the jeep and switched off the ignition. It was very dark. Somewhere, a dog barked. They both stared straight ahead, neither talking.

  Katrinka whispered, “I want you.”

  “Yes, that unfinished business is becoming rather—”

  “I want you now.” She put a hand in his lap, her fingers searching.

  Nye was painfully erect. Good God, he couldn’t take her right here. Was she asking that he have her right here? “Is there somewhere—”

  Bending down she parted his thighs, pressing her face into his lap. Gently, she mouthed and nibbled his erection through the canvas of his trousers, exhaling in hot breaths. Nye made a guttural sound deep in his throat. She released him, sitting back up.

  “Do you know where our show is performed? The stage they’ve made from oil drums and boards?” she asked.

  He nodded, unable to form any words.

  “They’ve fashioned a bit of dressing room for the women’s costume changes. I have the key.”

  “Any sentries patrol the area?”

  She smiled. “Not the women’s dressing room. Shall we try?”

  * * *

  Later, amid props and set designs of the backstage, both were able to finish their date in a most satisfying manner. Reluctant to leave one another, Katrinka cuddled next to him, his jacket giving them the barest protection against the rough wood floor. There were mosquitoes, and she got a splinter in her arm, but neither complained.

  Katrinka found herself talking about her father. “You should see him, Wills. He just stays around the house, working in the garden. Sometimes he goes down to Le Flâneur and cleans her out.”

  He smiled. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “You would like such a life?”

  He hesitated. “Yes, I would. When I get back home, I hope to have a small cottage in a quiet village near the sea, with a bit of garden.”

  “That is what you want?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve battered around this old earth for quite a while now. I think it’s time to head for home.” He added lightly, “Of course, none of that sounds appealing to a young woman like yourself. Her whole life ahead of her.”

  “That’s not true. It is a very appealing idea.”

  “As anchorage?” He shook his head. “I think you’ll always be searching for your Amelias, Trinka.”

  “Would you have a veranda? With rocking chairs?”

  He smiled. “Absolutely, there would be rocking chairs.”

  “And you would have a chair just for me? For when I came to visit?”

  He sobered. “It will be there for you, sweetheart. With warm arms waiting.”

  She twined herself around him, stroking his face, “I love you so much, Wills. We have no secrets, you and I.”

  * * *

  For the remainder of her time in Guam, they spent every night together, wrapped tightly in each other’s arms in the little makeshift dressing room of boards and canvas. Nye had a few days’ medical leave before beginning his job in Personnel. He sent in paperwork for a short pass and chartered himself a seat on the transport taking the troupe to Okinawa, their next stop.

  It was typhoon season, and the previous month a large storm had battered the island. As the troupe prepared for departure, there was a strange stillness to the air. By the time the sun came up they were airborne, heading west out across the ocean. Their first inkling of trouble came when a sudden pocket of turbulence caused a galley shelf to dislodge, sending dozens of dishes tumbling down.

  The ride became progressively rougher. Some of the girls were sick. Katrinka tried to sleep while Cricket chattered away at her side.

  “It seems so bumpy. Look at Mr. Withers. He’s turning green!” exclaimed Cricket.

  Katrinka vowed if she ever got out of this machine, she would swim home before boarding another.

  The hours went by with periods of quiet, followed by a series of more turbulence.

  The steward came back with reports from the cockpit. They were trying to go south of the storm, but it was too big, and they could not waste any more fuel. Hopefully, they would just skirt its outer bands.

  Later, he came back again and told them they would be descending into Okinawa shortly. A collective sigh of relief came from the young women. As they began their descent, a violent gust of air bucketed the plane into a downward plunge. The steward flew into the ceiling, striking his head. He staggered to a seat, bleeding. Another steward rushed for the first aid kit.

  One of the women screamed as the plane tilted, slipping sideways across the sky. A steep lurch was followed by a shrill blast from the cockpit’s loudspeakers, warning everyone to assume the crash position. The plane’s right wing pitched severely, and Katrinka gathered Rolf into her arms, bending her body over his. He squirmed frantically and scratched her cheek. Cricket was silent, gripping Katrinka’s arm. Nye hurried down the aisle, clinging to the seat backs, and buckled himself into a position next to them. Katrinka gave him a shaky smile.

  She looked out the window, shocked to see the water only meters away. She screamed, and they hit the waves with a sickening jolt, slamming along with a series of stomach-churning skids, until finally coming to rest. The bloodied steward struggled to his feet, and he and Dave managed to pull open one of the cargo-bay doors. He turned, shouting above the roaring wind, for everyone to abandon the plane. Nye helped them drag out the emergency rafts and throw them into the sea. The rest of the passengers scrambled out of their seats and to the open door. Katrinka had Rolf in one arm and grabbed Cricket with the other. Together, they stumbled down the aisle to the open door.

  “I can’t!” screamed Cricket.

  Katrinka grasped her tightly, hauling her into the doorway. The wind whipped across the waves, drenching them. Nye came up from behind. He jumped, pulling both women out the door with him, Rolf clinging to Katrinka’s neck. All three hit the water hard, and she was ripped from Wills’ grasp. There was a terrifying amount of noise. The plane dipped over onto its side, beginning its slide into the waves as the last of the passengers leaped from the doors.

  Katrinka struggled to keep her head above the surging water, holding Rolf tightly in one arm. She could see Wills several meters away, pushing Cricket onto one of the rafts. Now he was turning, fighting over the towering swells to get to her. She struggled to swim toward him, but her wet clothes were dragging her down.

  A monstrous gust whirled her body out of the water, slamming her against an oncoming wave, and Rolf was ripped from her arms. She cried ou
t in horror, choking on the saturated wind. She couldn’t breathe. Thrashing wildly, she kicked her legs in a futile effort to propel herself forward. Rolf drifted further away, nothing visible but his small, spiked head. His ears were flat, and his eyes rolled back in terror. She sobbed, crying out his name, but her voice was drowned out by the howling wind.

  Dragging wet hair away from her eyes, she saw Wills fighting his way toward her, hurtling his body through each mountain of surf. In the distance, a cresting wave tossed a life raft, and the faint voices of passengers called to her. A moment later, a man leaped from the raft with a life preserver, swimming in their direction.

  Something came spinning across the waves, heavy and dark, and struck her head. And then there was nothing at all.

  Chapter 15

  Burma, 1945

  Shouting over the ricochet of bullets, Captain Stoddard waved his team ahead. “Scatter yourselves!”

  The men sprinted into the village, darting between thatched huts for cover and picking off the remaining Japanese soldiers.

  Rounding a corner, Farr spied a Karen villager crawling in the dirt. His arm was raised in a futile defense as a soldier stood over him, stabbing downward with his bayonet.

  Farr pointed his rifle and pulled the trigger, but he was out of ammo, and the soldier turned on him. Jerking his knife from its sheath, Farr dodged the blade and grabbed the rifle’s handguard. He dragged the soldier into him, raising his knife. Before he knew it, Farr was thrown over the man’s hip, his back slamming onto the ground. The soldier raised his bayonet. The sharp crack of a rifle sounded, as Stoddard cut the man down.

  Farr sat up, his voice unsteady. “Good shot, sir.”

  Farr crouched over the Karen, who was bleeding from the mouth. As he leaned in, the man vomited a final gush of blood and then lay still. He felt for a pulse and found none. Farr sat back on his heels, still holding the man’s wrist.

  Stoddard came over. “Let’s go, Sergeant.”

  Farr sat, motionless.

  “Sergeant!”

  Farr blinked and looked up. “Yes, sir.”

  Dropping the man’s wrist, he looked around. It was obscene to leave the Karen like this, his wounds gaping in the sun. He found a dirty tarp that had blown off one of the huts and used that, wrapping it around the dead man’s body.

  Stoddard’s voice urged again. “Let’s go.”

  There was nothing more to be done. After searching for remaining villagers, the team headed back to their camp.

  * * *

  An explosive clap of thunder shook the thatched hut, and Farr’s eyes flew open. Hoisting himself up from the straw mat, he fumbled in the darkness for the half-smoked cheroot he’d left on top of his kit. He lit it with shaking hands. No more cigarettes here. No more anything.

  He’d spent the past several months working with Special Forces in the Karenni hill country of Eastern Burma, fighting alongside the Karens. Besides being couriers for the British Army, the Karen levies were ruthless fighters, proficient in guerrilla warfare, and extremely loyal to the British. They had been working with Farr’s team since his drop in mid-April.

  He stood in the doorway, watching rain pound the thatched roofs. A warning spasm from his stomach sent him hunching down the steps to an area of dense brush. Scraping a hole, he squatted down, as his bowels expelled the bits of rice and rations he’d consumed earlier.

  A rustling in the twigs announced the dung beetle’s predatory attack. Farr swore loudly, fending it off while trying to complete his business. He was shocked to hear laughter coming from a nearby bush. Apparently, Corporal Summerfield was out on the same reconnaissance.

  He called out to Farr above the crashing thunder. “A man can’t even shit in peace. I signed up to kill Japanese, not do battle with these damn bugs.”

  Farr mumbled a reply. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

  Summerfield popped a loud bubble with his chewing gum. “Hear about Benson? Goes out on attacks with a square cut out of the rear of his khakis, so he can keep fighting. The smell probably kills more Japs than his bullets ever do.”

  Summerfield was hauling himself up, popping another bubble. “Well, back to the Ritz. Don’t take too long down here.”

  Farr shifted his weight. Another beetle struggled through the twigs, and he squished it with his hands. With his bowels finally empty, Farr pulled himself up, thinking of Summerfield’s last remark. So far, he’d managed to keep his ass intact. Not that there was much of his uniform left.

  He headed back to the stairs, soaking wet. They were setting an ambush in the morning, and he needed to get some sleep.

  * * *

  Farr wiped his brow, glancing at Summerfield, who sat several feet away, nervously chewing gum. The team had been sitting for hours in the hot sun with their rifles and grenades, hiding in cover on both sides of the main road. Rangoon had been freed a few months previous, and they heard of Germany’s surrender soon after. But here in the jungle, the war raged on with hundreds of Japanese troops fleeing to the Siamese border. They left trails of destruction behind them, wiping out entire communities and burning them to the ground. Those Karen inhabitants unable or too old to flee, were brutally attacked and killed. In one village, an old man had been crucified, and the Japanese had left his body hanging from a wall. What was left of it, anyway.

  The angry buzzing of insects swelled around them. Farr checked his weapon again, sweat running down his face in grimy rivulets. Then he heard a low whistle; the Karen levies announcing an oncoming squadron. He signaled Summerfield, and both men crouched down in position, their rifles leveled.

  The first truck came lumbering up the road, flanked by Japanese, carrying bayonets. The soldiers were emaciated, their uniforms hanging in tatters, and their eyes staring straight ahead.

  Stoddard tossed a grenade, and the lead truck exploded. Then Summerfield stood, tossing a grenade at the last truck in line. The explosions ripped through the vehicles, hurling shrapnel into the air.

  As soldiers fled the burning vehicles, Farr’s team picked them off, shooting anything that moved. It was a grim, ugly business, and seemed to go on forever, but the entire fight lasted only a few minutes.

  Cautiously, the team crept down the hill to the road, inspecting the bodies for any signs of life. Suddenly a Japanese soldier sat up, pointed his pistol, and fired. Summerfield recoiled and hit the ground, blood spurting from the hole in his chest.

  “Medic!” Farr screamed. He pointed his rifle and unloaded it into the Japanese until the man’s body was no longer recognizable as human.

  A young soldier scrambled down the hill with his kit as Farr knelt in the dust. Summerfield’s flailing hands grasped Farr’s arm, squeezing with ferocious strength.

  Farr clenched his teeth. “Hang on, buddy.”

  The medic squatted down, grabbed a small bag from his kit, and ripped it open, sprinkling powder onto the man’s wound. As he reached back into his kit, Summerfield made a gagging sound and dropped Farr’s hand. And then he was gone.

  Stoddard shouted orders, but the words seemed to come from a long distance away, so Farr paid no attention to them. He sat in the road of dead men and scattered body parts, staring into Summerfield’s astonished eyes.

  The medic stood and prodded him with his boot. “C’mon, Farr. We gotta go.”

  Farr got up, and the team climbed up the hill and headed back to camp.

  Later, Farr and the medic returned, carrying a stretcher for Summerfield. They took him back to camp and buried him in the evening, after a brief ceremony. You couldn’t let bodies stay out too long in that heat.

  Farr sat by the gravesite until early morning. When the sky began to lighten, he stood up, laying his last stick of gum on top of the newly dug soil. Then he turned and went back to his hut.

  * * *

  Fucking prick.

  Sitting astri
de an elephant, Farr watched the Karen levy lash the mule’s back with his dagger-like stick. The animal let out a hoarse braying sound. This had been going on for several days. There were cuts on the mule’s back and legs where the weapon had slashed. The Karen guides used gentle persuasion to lead the beasts, encouraging them through the hilly terrain and jungle paths. This man’s behavior surprised Farr.

  Traveling in a small convoy of elephants and mules, his team neared the end of a four-day trek to Major Braithwaite’s camp to deliver munitions and supplies. It was now late summer, and they were in monsoon season. The team, along with a few Karen levies and Burmese sappers, were forced to travel in single file as they followed narrow trails through the jungle.

  Farr watched a shudder ripple through the mule’s body as Thet Maung again brought the weapon up to strike, the beast apparently not moving fast enough.

  Another bleat of pain from the animal, and Farr was off his elephant, dropping to the ground with a hard jolt. He strode over and jerked Maung by the arm. The man shouted as he twisted around, the sharp weapon still in his hand.

  The sudden activity caught Captain Stoddard’s eye and he turned, astonished to see Farr and the guide grappling on the path. Farr grabbed the weapon from the man’s hand and threw it down.

  “Get the hell out of here,” growled Farr. “I’ll take care of the damn animal myself or find someone else to do it.”

  Maung waved his arms, speaking loudly in Burmese, but Farr shouted him down. “Get out. Your job here is finished.”

  Turning to quiet the agitated animal, Farr heard Stoddard’s warning cry. At the same time, he saw Maung retrieve the stick. He ducked just as Maung swung, bringing the pointed tool down with incredible force, ripping through Farr’s shirt. The momentum threw Maung into the side of the elephant. The startled animal rocked back, knocking Maung down, and in a moment, his head was caught under its shifting feet and crushed.