Fucking Japs. To cause a man’s boat to be tied up by the very Americans he’d fought them for! If Jones had been the kind to write letters, there’d be one to his Senator. Maybe he’d write anyhow. Adele would approve of that. The girl enjoyed getting herself mixed up in things.
Nothing to do but wander the base if he didn’t want to go back to a stuffy room. The whole place had a spooky air in the early half light. Back in harbor the Coast Guard ship had a pale shine on its rain-slicked superstructure. Buildings were featureless blocks of gray. The green hills beyond had scattered quonset huts that took shape and melted away through patches of mist. The only thing steady and solid was the beacon from an airstrip laid out on flats beyond the structures.
His walk from the docks had soon encompassed the rest of the base. At land’s edge, he faced a muddy road that led up into the hills. High, sharp-edged grasses bushed out along its track. White and yellow wildflowers popped through their fronds. It was dense and wet enough to discourage a free romp beyond what had been cleared. The road twisted with backtracks to conform with the hill. At length it degenerated into paths. He stood still, with clear views looking both up and down. Way below, the base’s long, boxlike buildings sprawled like fish spines. Close by stood a gutted foundation with blackened posts, twisted metal, and a solid staircase leading up the side of a hill to nowhere. What remained must have underpinned a large structure. Beyond this ranged a cluster of quonset huts, most of whose long metal roofs had caved in.
Only one hut remained in good repair. Its long arched metal roof caught gray light in the parts that had avoided rusting. The weathered wooden door was padlocked. A sign stated: property of lt. cmdrs ashcroft and warren. The wind blew a light rain in his face. Jones ignored it, as he wandered further upward toward other huts along a path that cut through the brush. The long roof of the first had collapsed and its wooden base was rotted, but others of them seemed to be in stages of repair and also bore padlocked doors with signs of possession.
Outside the fallen beams of a larger building, heaps of things lay rising from the weeds. Jones caught his breath. Ponchos, speckled in camouflage designs, were layered into a mound. Close by rose separate piles of canteens with their covers peeling off and a helter-skelter stack of folded canvas cots. Government issue that he’d known well, back on the islands fighting the Japs. Stuff still intact and usable. But when he kicked absently at the cots, one of the wooden crosslegs snapped like butter and poked a hole into the rotting canvas. Usable like hell! He picked out a canteen, slid off the wet remains of its cover, and ran his fingers along the smooth aluminum. Just like the one that had carried his last lifeline of water, while he ducked in and out of foxholes and traps. He took it for a souvenir.
Half hidden by the grass and wildflowers that had begun to entwine around them lay heaps of dark green cans. Combat K-rations! Dog food, Jones remembered, gobbled cold in fear. Never again! He heard himself yell and felt his foot kick into the middle of the pile. Only when the cans scattered did he pull himself together.
Had the men here even needed to fight? Had their daily lives gripped the line, or had they passed the days fighting off boredom while they cleaned their rifles on the ready? He’d sweated both. No more, except in restless dreams. Hard to believe.
It began to rain in earnest. Jones pulled a poncho free and slipped it on. Wet and clammy, but it still shed the water that suddenly poured in sheets and blew into his face. The poncho had odors. Old earth, old grease, mold, indefinable decay. Here he stood, shivering in the Adak rain, yet sweating from memories of the jungle and glancing for snipers. Nothing here to be afraid of, he told himself. Yet he still felt a tight grip on his stomach.
The war. Fucking war. Men he’d shared it with in blood and jokes. In piss-fear! Their faces came back as he muttered their names. Part of what he’d never wanted to think of again, and now he stood alone and missed them. Guys he’d never see again. Missed them. The rain slashed across his face. At least he couldn’t feel how his eyes watered.
“Hey, buddy. Come on in out of that shit.” A man was at the door of a nearby quonset hut in fairly good repair. His civvies resembled the canvas clothes that Jones would have worn when hunting.
Jones pulled himself together. “Don’t mind if I do.” He walked a straight line through high wet weeds, scorning a roundabout path, and at the man’s invitation ducked through the doorway.
Warmth! An orange wood fire flickered in the opening of a potbellied stove. Rain drummed on the curved metal roof above them. Everything inside was ordered, organized, in stark contrast to the chaos of the tumbled huts outside. Along one side, cots were made up with sheets and blankets. Two other men sat at a table. A kerosene lamp shed light on their faces as they affably gestured him welcome.
“Join us, man. Having our wake-up slug for breakfast,” said the man who had called to him. “We’re just headed for our first eagle bust of the day. Take it neat or with water? Don’t worry. It’s Old Grand-Dad, straight from the PX—not somebody’s bathtub.”
Jones barely considered. “Neat suits me fine.” He slipped out of the dripping poncho, glanced around to see coats bunched by the doorway, and tossed it with them.
“I’m Jack Stevens. Over there’s Bert Gillis and Tom Wells.”
“Jones Henry.” He shook their hands.
“New here on base, Jones? On our way up here yesterday I saw you being checked into VIP quarters.”
“Fishing boat. Out from Kodiak.”
“Hey! A civilian! Come in, come in, man. Tell us what you’re fishing!” It turned out they were all junior navy officers, restless with their desk assignments, unhappy at being stuck on Adak, but not so bored as their wives. They had commandeered the quonset hut and fixed it up themselves as a hunting lodge.
“Eagles! You know?” Jack Stevens said lightly. “Keep ’em away from the dump. Same for those scavenging ravens. Anything that moves, actually. I brought down one eagle just before dark last night. Down somewhere. Never found him. Didn’t look too hard. What’s a big dead bird when you’ve already got two of ’em stuffed and your wife complaining that they take up too much room?” He handed Jones a drink and raised his own. “Routine rainy morning in crummy Adak! Chug, man!”
The man named Bert, whose stomach bulged slightly through his checked shirt, topped off Jones’s glass when he set it down half-drained. “Never let your glass be empty up here with us, man. Fuckin’ bugs might crawl in the glass and take over if you don’t keep chuggin’.” The others joined his laugh. The drink went readily to Jones’s head. He leaned back in the chair they had offered, raised his hand as if in agreement while he warmed himself, and through a growing buzz, watched them without needing much to talk.
“Ass-end of the world up here,” Bert continued. “Of the globe. Of the fuckin’ universe! When we could be in Japan living high, or at least off in Korea getting real career points. So you do what you can.”
“We come up here more to get away than anything else,” explained the man named Tom in an easy voice. He had a carefully trimmed mustache that he kept tweaking with his fingers. “Get away from the movies every night—ever had to sit through the same Bob Hope thing three times before they shipped up a fresh batch of films! Work out at the gym every day, but how many times can you run the same treadmill? Friday—Saturday dances at the club, wives bitching, kids yowling. Anybody who went to war was lucky. They got adventure. Promotion! Out here we just have to mark time, you know? Stay ready. Kiss each others’ asses. Watch the rain blow.”
Officers. Young assholes. Without a clue. The man named Jack took over. “Now say, what kind of fishing you do? Tuna, marlin, anything big? Hey! How about taking us with you? Give us some action.” He lowered his voice. “You have anything to do with those Jap boats out there? I guess it’s against the law to shoot Japs anymore. But no harm to sight in a few.”
“Shut it, man,” said Tom. “Those Japs are a secret.”
Bert yawned. “Secret the whole base kno
ws. Secret we keep right here in Adak, end of the universe. Mum’s the word, eh, Jones?”
Jones shook himself alert. So this is what the war he’d fought had come to. It took all his energy to bang down the glass and rise to his feet.
“Hey, old-timer. Need to take a piss? Just do it outside the doorway—don’t need to get wet. If you need to shit, there’s a little outhouse we dug fresh, just up the hill. Shake in some lime from that bag by the hole when you’re through.”
Jones didn’t bother to speak. He walked out the doorway into the rain, then uphill through undergrowth that tangled in his feet.
“Buddy!” called Jack. “Outhouse is the other way. And you forgot your poncho.”
Whatever. Jones continued to climb. Water streamed down his face and sogged in his shoes. He paused, panting, only when he stood high enough to see the hut roofs below. The one that he’d just left puffed smoke. At the doorway, Jack called, “Hey Jones. You don’t need to go that far to take a piss, man! You’d think that ol’ boy had a bear on his tail!”
The long buildings of the base further down misted gray. The sea beyond undulated dim rows of waves. He pressed on until his feet had stopped pulling at vines and only moss covered the rocky ground. With nothing to break its drive, a gust stronger than the steady blow tattooed rain in horizontal streaks. The force made him sway before he leaned into it. For a moment, the sky cleared enough to show a peak whitened by snow, then closed again. Top of the world. World gone spook.
At least with the wind, he couldn’t hear any more if they were still calling him back. Men in authority that were really nothing but kids dreaming of war. Boozing, bitching, shooting creatures just to ease the boredom—when they hadn’t a clue what they’d been spared!
Dripping wet suited him. He felt bent to the raw weather like the weeds and brush. With sudden energy he planted his feet apart, spread his arms, and shouted “Fuck!” to the wind. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” until he needed to cough. All the buddies he’d held dead, while their blood burned his hands! They’d left him alone to booze with kids who wanted war because they didn’t know what it was. Left him alone and alive on a mountain of tumbled quon-set huts. “You hear me, guys? I’m alive and you’re dead. I can’t help it. That’s just how it turned out! Callihan! Jimmy! Chuck! Sokovich . . . Sugarmouth! You guys hear? You died, and I’m alive with kids bitching ’cause they don’t have a war! Ahh!”
There was silence except for rain pelting against metal and a distant foghorn far below.
“Sir. You are sick? You must come in from the storm.”
There stood a figure at the entrance to the nearest collapsed quonset hut. Jones squinted to clear his vision through the rain. “Who the hell is that?”
“Sir. You come in from the rain.”
Jones took a step closer. A Jap. Maybe an ambush, and his hands were empty. He glanced around. Not even a branch to grab.
“Sir! I am friend.” A face he knew.
“What’re you doing up here? Saw you back on that ship—where you belong.”
“Arm broken, sir.” The Jap held up the cast. “From a sudden fall when not looking. The Coast Guard vessel returned with me for a doctor at the hospital. Now I must wait for return to my fishing vessel.”
“I can’t shake you, can I?”
“Shelter in here from wind and rain. You come, please.” Sure it wasn’t an ambush? Even with that arm in a cast, it could be a trick. Jones felt his mind clearing, although the whiskey still made objects swim. But nothing he couldn’t handle.
“Well. For a minute.” His legs led him to the entrance. A half-rotted door hung by a single hinge. He tensed while he peered inside, checking all around. No question, drink or no, he could handle more than one Jap if it came to an ambush. Never trust them. But even in the dim light he saw the long interior was empty except for scattered junk. No hot stove like in the other hut. Halfway along, the curved roof had fallen in. Rainwater sluiced from it to splash on the blackened canvas of a half-opened cot. Weeds poked through a hole in the floor where the water continued down. Jones entered. Musty chill inside. But at least the wind was blocked.
“You wish to sit, sir? Please.” The ridge of a chair pushed against his
leg.
“None of your tricks! I’m standing.” It flashed in his mind. Here was a place where American soldiers, maybe even Marines, had waited to fight Japs. Waited ready for Japs. And now a Jap stood safe where those men might have died. “Who said you could be up here?”
“Climb up, from the hospital. No boat back for me for two more days. Doctor tells me walk where you wish. This after I hear him say to a nurse how things are so different now than back during war. That he had hands not for helping stupid Japanese that fall down. Thus, yesterday, dinner forgotten. Up the hill.” He stopped, eyeing Jones. Seemed to consider, then changed direction, speaking softly, “War long ago, sir. But in this place I feel still the spirits from war. From terrible long ago. I wandered up whole side of hill—have passed all huts and felt the many spirits here in this place. Sometimes I wish to go down. But then also, I feel spirits. Thus, I do not wish to leave.”
“Been up here all night? Before dinner? No coat. Ain’t you cold?”
“Cold, hai. Not important. Many times cold in wartime. Did you come to search for me, sir?”
Jones looked at him, wide-eyed. “Why the hell would I do that? Fuck no. What’s your game?” Jones regarded him with something of his old suspicion, but spoke less gruffly than he might have done. “You keep showing up. On that Jap ship a couple of days ago. In Akutan, in Bristol Bay almost a year ago, sucking up to Swede at the cannery. And before that. Mebbe even in Japan.”
“Hai?” The man watched him squarely, not with that sneaky turn of the eyes.
“You people all look alike. You know?”
“You people also, sir.”
Neither man looked away. Outside a wild bird cried. A gust of wind blew rain through the doorway and rattled a loose piece of metal dangling from the caved-in roof.
Jones felt hungry. He pulled a candy bar from his pocket and peeled down the wrapping. Started to take a bite, considered, then snapped the bar squarely in the middle. “Here. Your half. Breakfast.” The Jap put out his hand, then hesitated. “Take it. Take it!” Jones snapped.
“I do not have in return.”
“Ain’t a gift. Just a piece of candy!” Jones took his own half and shoved the rest into the man’s hand. “Eat it or throw it away. All the same to me.” He studied the face that was watching him. The man broke off a piece of the candy bar and put it in his mouth.
“Thank you. The flavor is . . . delicious.” He finished it ravenously.
“Just a chocolate bar. Mebbe not all your faces are the same. Just the way memory plays.” Jones bit into his half of the chocolate. Chewed for a few moments in silence before saying, “You coming over here now—think you’ll grab all our fish?”
“Only to share, sir.”
Jones took a minute to consider. Swallowed the last bite of the candy. “Share, bullshit,” he growled. Then announced, “I’ll be there watching. You might be catching all the fish for now, but I’m in Kodiak and I’ll be watching. Just you wait, I’ll be coming to get ’em back. Here. You look hungry.” Jones rummaged in a pocket and pulled out his last candy bar. “Peanuts. You people eat nuts? Look, you chew ’em first. Take it.” He waited until the man’s hand closed around the candy Jones proffered. “Least you didn’t just come up here to shoot down eagles, appears. Not bitching about how you spent the war.” Jones looked up angrily, glared at the rotting door they had trudged in through. Behind him, the crinkling of the wrapper as the Jap opened the candy sounded like the crackle of radio static over the storm. Jones felt his shoulders sag, his frantic energy ebbing away.
“Spirits, huh?” he asked. “Like buddies dead and who won’t leave your mind?” The Jap—Tsurifune, his name was?—he nodded. “Mebbe we’re together on that one.”
Jones watched as this ma
n named Tsurifune looked up at the caved-in ceiling. Closed his eyes and seemed to be listening. Jones listened too, to the rain dropping heavily on the corrugated sheeting, to the wind whispering past with those voices he’d tried to forget. Maybe the Jap was right. Maybe there were spirits wandering this place.
“That one at least,” Jones muttered. “At least we’re together on that one.”
WARRIORS Page 40
