by Helen Wells
“It’s a shame,” Charlie grumbled, as they groped their way out of the hospital area in the black-out. “She was all repaired and patched up the same day she got hit. Now we’ll have a devil of a time finding any telltale marks on her.”
“Better late than never,” Cherry said, feeling her way along beside Charlie in the dark.
They groped along for a few minutes in silence. “Wonder what we’ll find on her?” Charlie mused. “The repairs will show, they ought to tell us at least which direction the shots came from. Boy, it sure is dark here.”
The total black-out these steamy, early April nights made the island especially dark. Everyone was being very careful about observing all cautionary measures, all black-out regulations. Not even a match was to be struck out-of-doors at night. For the dull roar of forward guns was growing more and more frequent. Yesterday, men, tired and unshaven, in mud-spattered, jungle-spotted suits, filtered onto the island, refusing to say where they had been. Right now, Cherry distinctly saw the flowering fireworks of tracer bullets over the fighting forward islands. Cherry wondered if the Japs might not bomb Island 14 one of these nights. Everyone half expected it. She asked Charlie what he thought.
He hesitated, and she wished she could see her brother’s face, instead of only a pale blur in the gloom. At last he said, “It may be only a question of time.”
They reached the road leading to the airport. It was deserted along here, eerily still. Charlie had left a jeep parked in a clump of trees. They found it and climbed in. Charlie drove slowly, for it was so dark you could not see the steering wheel in front of you, and the jeep’s pin-point black-out lights threw only the faintest splash of light on the sandy road.
When they reached the camouflaged airport, they did not linger. They clambered out of the jeep, left it high up on the beach, and started for the fringe of palm trees. Even though they walked quickly, Cherry saw that something special was going on here. Through the darkness came the sounds of planes and trucks and men’s voices. A shielded light flat on the sand showed her a man completely covered in an asbestos suit, mask, and gloves, squatting as he wielded a torch, welding two strips of metal net together.
Cherry followed her brother into the protective trees. They had barely entered when a tall figure rose and stopped them.
“Temporary command post,” Charlie hissed at her under his breath.
Cherry stared but she could not make out anything but a hole in the ground and a field telephone slung over a coconut tree. The tall figure turned out to be Captain Keller, pilot and commander of Charlie’s crew. Charlie explained something to him in a whisper, and he said, “Oh!” and came forward.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” he said. “It’s nice to see you again. How is Gene, our copilot and gun expert? We’re all very anxious about him—for many reasons.”
“He’s better and he will be perfectly all right,” Cherry reassured him, “and soon.”
She heard the young captain’s sigh of relief. “Good girl! All right, Lieutenant Ames. And Lieutenant Ames! Go ahead.”
The three of them saluted quickly, and Cherry followed her brother deeper into this secret camouflage area. She peered about, enjoying the adventure. Having a flier brother who could show her these things was a stroke of luck! She made out small planes—fighter planes—tucked away between and under trees. These sharp-nosed planes had horrid fangs painted on them, “enough to scare the Japs or anybody,” Cherry thought. Men were working on some of these planes but Charlie impatiently hurried her past them. They hurried past the concealed hangar, too. Deeper and deeper into the woods they went, until they were in a patch of heavy jungle growth.
It was dank and evil-smelling here; the jungle was so dense the sun never penetrated. Though a take-off strip was cleared, there were plenty of scratchy, poisonous, hanging vines and undergrowth to dodge. Cherry hoped all this had been sprayed with anti-insect spray. They cut through a jungle defile and emerged on a grassy plain, edged by steep bare ridges. An armed sentry was patrolling up there on the ridge and Charlie called up to him. Then Charlie took Cherry’s arm. “Look there!”
Cherry turned, and there, standing in the shadows, was the huge transport plane. It was so well hidden that Cherry might not have seen it had not Charlie showed her where to look. It loomed up like a spreading giant in the dark.
They walked over and stood under its enormous wings. Charlie patted the plane’s side. “Good old Jinx. She’s taken good care of me.”
“So her name is Jinx, is it?” Cherry laughed softly. “In view of the mystery, Jinx is the right name for her.” Charlie was not paying any attention but continued to run his hand lovingly over the wing edge.
“You act as if the plane were almost a person,” Cherry teased.
“Well, she almost is, to us who fly her. She’s definitely a personality. She’s got her own quirks and we know just how she bucks angrily in a high wind, and how she purrs with pleasure when you take her up, even with a big load, and how she’s lazy and doesn’t like to hit over a hundred and fifty, and has to be coaxed. No two machines are exactly alike, Cherry. Machines are sensitive and individual, and respond to you just like people. Well, now let’s have a look at her.”
“Wait!” And Cherry told Charlie how she had managed to get the silent soldier to communicate, and what he had written. “Concealed guns—maybe,” she repeated.
“Whew!” Charlie whistled under his breath. “That would be a discovery! Could that be what the Intelligence Officer is so darned worried about? He seems to have some other bits of information on his mind, too, that he’s trying to fit together into a whole. Cherry, come on, let’s see what we can find!”
They circled the great cargo plane, each with a blue-shaded flashlight, trying to decide the likeliest spot to study. The huge fuselage, or body, seemed to have no marks at all. There were no marks on the wide cabin door, either. Charlie pointed out the middle section, where Gene had gone back alone to check cargo. They decided the best procedure was to climb up on the wing and examine the fuselage more closely. Both of the Ames twins boosted themselves, by way of the wheels and landing gear supports, and up they went, catwalking along the port wing. They had catwalked plenty of fences and pierheads together, but this was very different. Outside the middle window where Gene had been, they got down on hands and knees, then lay down flat to study the plane area inch by inch. They searched minutely, with both eyes and fingers.
Cherry was the first to find something. “Look here, Charlie,” she called softly. “Look at this!”
Up where the wing joined the fuselage, about amidship where Gene had been, Cherry’s sharp eyes had picked out a tiny fragment of metal still embedded there. It was no bigger than a dime, and it seemed to be the same silvery metal they had removed from the flier’s shoulder. A little farther back she found several other smaller fragments.
Charlie came crawling over to look. “Say, that’s a find!” He studied the spots where the fragments had been lodged in the plane. “Look, maybe I can figure out the angle from which the shell was fired.”
He climbed down to the ground quickly, Cherry right after him, and ran around to the starboard side of the plane. There he closely examined a patch on the fuselage. “Yes, yes!” he shouted. “Here it is! The shell went in here and after it burst, fragments came out on the other side.”
Cherry looked at him puzzled.
Charlie explained. “If we know the angle at which the shell hits, we can usually tell where it came from—from the land or from the air or from the sea.” He took a scrap of paper from his pocket and rapidly drew a diagram of what they had just found.
Cherry said uncertainly, “But isn’t this more important—the fact that there are two kinds of marks on this plane, just as there were two in Gene’s shoulder? Little marks where something went in and a big one where it came out?”
“Sure it’s important. Hey! what did you say?” Charlie hesitated a moment. “It’s the other way round, Cherry. The shell made o
ne tear going in, but it left only those little fragments on the opposite side.”
“Do you suppose that Gene was hit from the back, then?” Cherry asked. “I can’t believe it.”
“He must have been,” Charlie answered.
“I still can’t believe it.” Cherry shook her head in bewilderment. “The doctors wouldn’t have been mistaken. They’ve seen too many wounds.” Cherry took from her coverall pocket the tiny bits of metal she had found in the plane and the two pieces she had inadvertently kept.
Charlie examined them again closely. “I’d like Gene to see these, too,” he said. He straightened up thoughtfully. “Do you know what I think? I’m sure there must be a new chemical in that shell that leaves almost no solid residue after it explodes. I can’t make head nor tail of this, and I’m the boy who’s supposed to know something about guns. One thing is certain, Cherry—the enemy has a new weapon.”
Charlie jammed his flashlight into his pocket. “Whatever the enemy’s new weapon is,” he said, “it’s a weapon of diabolical cunning. Smokeless, leaving almost no traces—it’s the devil’s own weapon.”
Charlie led Cherry out of the camouflage area, back to the beach and the jeep. Driving back to the hospital area, neither of them said much, for both the Ames twins were thinking hard, trying to arrange these broken bits of facts.
When they reached the hospital area, Charlie turned to Cherry and said, “Guess we should report our findings to Captain May, but somehow I’d like to see Gene first and ask him what he makes of all this, and also show him this sketch. Can I see your patient?”
“I’ll let you know the minute he’s well enough for you to come,” Cherry promised. “He’s much better.” They said an absent-minded good night. Cherry despaired of ever figuring out anything that had to do with such complicated mechanical facts as these. “Well, that’s Charlie’s department,” she consoled herself. “My job is to get Gene to talk, and to cure him in time for his special secret mission. The time is growing short.”
Luck was with her. Within the next few days, the silent flier improved more than she had dared hope. He would soon be able to get up, Dr. Willard said, and had him sit up every day and dangle his legs over the side of the bed, to prepare him for actually walking around. His shoulder was almost healed. But he was still very thin and weak, and needed more rest. He still had not spoken.
Late one afternoon Cherry dropped into the flier’s isolation room and sent Ann and the corpsman off duty for their suppers. Gene’s supper tray had just come in. Since he was actually smiling a little at Cherry, and sitting up in bed under his own power to receive the supper tray, Cherry was emboldened.
“How would you like to get out of bed and eat your supper in the chair?” she asked. “Feel strong enough to try?”
The flier nodded. Delighted, she bundled him into the hospital bathrobe, found slippers, and eased him onto his feet. He was taller than she had imagined, and he stretched his legs as if it felt good to be up again.
“Don’t get too frisky all at once,” Cherry laughed. “You can walk a little, then you must sit down.”
With his good arm around her shoulder, they walked once, slowly, around the little room. Cherry felt, as any good nurse feels when her patient can get up, that this little stroll was a triumphal procession.
“Enough for now!” she said, easing the smiling flier into the chair. “Dinner is served!”
Because one arm was still clumsily bandaged, Cherry had to help him a little. She cut up some of the food, and spread the crackers with preserve for him. The flier nodded his thanks, with a twinkle in his grave, dark blue eyes. He held out the plate of crackers to her. Cherry made an exception of the rules and accepted a cracker, and munched and chatted companionably while he ate his supper. Suddenly he was tired, and Cherry had to help her patient back into bed.
She was bending over the bedside table, holding the empty tray, when a man’s distant voice said, “Cherry!” She looked up startled, peering through the door of the tent. Who had called her? She turned to the bed, and was about to say, “Did you hear someone call me?” when she saw that Gene’s lips were moving. Once more, he said, “Cherry!”
Crash went the tray on the floor, tin dishes flying in every direction!
“Oh, Gene! You’re talking again! Hurray for you!”
He was smiling too, holding fast to her hand.
“I’m very much flattered,” Cherry cried joyfully, “that the very first thing you said was my name!” The soldier nodded and his smile deepened, almost affectionately.
After that, the flier’s progress was marked. Cherry urged him to talk, but with care and tact. Since music had helped Gene earlier, she tried music once more, using the victrola from the recreation room. She discovered that certain songs, especially melodious rhythmical songs, put him in a relaxed and cheerful mood. Then, when he was in that mood, Cherry would talk to him and occasionally ask him funny or tantalizing questions. He began to answer Yes and No. It was a big step.
Under Cherry’s patient encouragement, and with the approval of watchful but unobtrusive Major Pierce, Gene began to talk in earnest. Not very much, at first, and with an effort, but he was talking. One of the first things he said was, “You’ve been awfully good to me, Cherry.” Cherry was so touched, so moved, that she made a rather flustered remark about how nurses do take some slight interest in their patients.
Now that Gene was nearly himself again, fighting down the last traces of the chilling memory, Cherry did not make the mistake of believing him entirely cured. She realized he still needed encouragement to regain his poise, and most of all, he needed companionship. So she asked other convalescing, ambulatory patients in the hospital to stop by and visit with the flier. She mentioned this, too, to the nurses and the friendly young corpsmen. Everyone was willing and eager to help the patient they all had puzzled about, everyone wanted to make him feel he “belonged” again. Within the next few days, Gene’s room became the most sociable place in the camp. Bessie Flanders was particularly sympathetic with him. There was always—within certain limited hours—someone there reading to Gene or chatting with him. His spirits rose quickly.
Partly to strengthen his disused arm, partly to keep his mind occupied, Cherry wished she could find some occupational therapy for the flier. If they had been at a big base hospital, either at home or abroad, there would have been a room for this purpose, with all sorts of things, like looms for weaving, leather to be made into handbags, materials for painting posters, and simple machinery for making novelties and gadgets. “Machinery,” Cherry thought, “he’d like tinkering with machinery—or how about tinkering with a gun?” After all, guns were his hobby. And repairing a rifle would not only exercise his mind and muscles, Cherry realized; it might start him thinking constructively about the mystery!
Cherry borrowed a Garand rifle from an infantry lieutenant and presented it to Gene to fix. He was delighted.
“I know the Garand so well,” he told Cherry in his reticent voice, “that I can take it apart and put it together again, blindfolded.”
“Maybe I’ll find you a more complicated gun problem,” Cherry hinted.
Of course Major Pierce, and Captain Willard, too, supervised Cherry’s therapy for the flier. They approved her handling of Lieutenant Grant’s case. Gene steadily improved and at last Cherry sent word to her brother to come over to see Gene as soon as he had free time. Until Charlie could come, Cherry tried talking with Gene herself about the mystery. Like most soldiers, Gene was eager to talk about what had happened to him—as well as he could remember.
“Gene,” Cherry said casually when he paused at one point, “do you remember how you were hit? I mean in the front or the back of the shoulder?”
“Why, in the front, I suppose, of course.” His thin face was troubled.
“Never mind,” Cherry said soothingly. “We’ll talk more about it tomorrow.” But she was more certain than ever that there was a new angle to the mystery of this strange s
hell.
When Charlie finally did get over to Island 14, the two boys had a happy reunion. Charlie was enormously relieved to see his friend and crew mate almost his old self again.
“Remember a certain date?” he asked Gene eagerly.
Gene nodded quietly. “I’ll be there.”
Cherry put in, “If your shoulder is all healed.”
Gene turned full around to look down at her with those thoughtful, dark blue eyes. “Shoulder or no shoulder, I’ll be there.” Then he smiled, a little wanly, but it was a game smile. Looking at Charlie, he said, “Ames, I want to discuss this mystery business. Let’s all three of us sit down and talk it over.”
Charlie turned to Cherry, “Have you told Gene all the facts to date?”
“No,” replied Cherry. “Not yet.”
Gene looked eager for the information and Charlie rapidly explained what they had discovered and showed Gene the diagram of the plane.
“Charlie,” said Cherry when her brother finished explaining about the fragments, “Gene is sure that the front of his shoulder was hit first. I’m sure, too.”
Charlie thought for a long minute. Then he exclaimed, “That’s it! Why didn’t I see it before! Look, a shell is a hollow metal case. Inside it are small shrapnel balls and a bursting charge of some sort of powder. The whole shell tears one hole in the fuselage as it enters. The shock of hitting the plane sets off the bursting powder, the shell explodes and scatters the balls. Both the balls and the shell fragments cause damage to anything in their way. So far this shell acts pretty much like any other. That accounts for the big hole where it entered the plane and the small ones on the opposite side.”
Cherry was growing more and more excited. “I think I see what you’re getting at, Charlie.”
Charlie grinned. “Now we come to the point. Suppose both the shell case and the shrapnel balls are made of some new explosive alloy that leaves almost no residue after it explodes. See?”
Gene nodded, but Cherry had to shake her head. It was not quite clear yet.
