by Brian Payton
Tracks of land have been recently cleared of what appears to be rolling fields of barley. Fifteen thousand men are stationed here and the place looks like an open quarry. Through the jeep’s mud-splashed windshield, Helen can see neither tree nor bush of any description. From the towering fir and hemlock of Prince Rupert to the stunted spruce of the Alaskan mainland, she has watched forests and trees shrink in size until they disappear altogether. On this island, it’s as if no living thing above waist height stands a chance against the wind.
The airfield is vast. At the moment, it might not appear as hectic as Ladd Field at Fairbanks, but as Sargent Cooper explains, that can change in short order. “We are the main base of strike operations against the Japs. From here, we fly bombing runs to Kiska and Attu. We aim to pound the daylights out of them until they scurry back into the sea.”
The “runway” is unlike anything they’ve seen before. Instead of concrete or gravel, it consists of identical sheets of metal grating cinched together in a vast quilt stretching hundreds of yards atop the saturated sand of a recently drained lagoon. Shallow ponds of rainwater form throughout. Cooper pulls over and they all watch another plane come in for a landing. The metal surface buckles in rolling waves as it touches down, tires sending up great plumes of spray, as if landing on a lake.
Then they all stare as the plane with those three bound and broken men skips and splashes before leaping into the sky.
Sergeant Cooper drives with his face near the windshield, hands together atop the steering wheel. He tries and fails to avoid potholes so deep they make the engine hiss. Given what Helen has seen so far, he seems inordinately happy to be here. Stephen sits beside him with his hand braced against the dashboard.
A city of pyramid tents and Quonset huts has been built between wind-whipped puddles. Smoke flies wild from the tops of the tents. Men shuffle between shelters with shoulders hunched, picking their way through the quagmire. Dogs gambol about, seeking and finding affection from any one of innumerable passing masters. Everything is the color of hay, smoke, and khaki green. The red of Gladys’s lipstick stands out from its surroundings like a desert bloom.
There are hangars, warehouses, offices, recreation buildings, mess halls, and countless tents separated by fields of mud. Some of the buildings are connected by wooden planks or boardwalks. The power lines strung along the roads are the tallest features on the landscape, aside from distant hills and peaks. Sergeant Cooper points out all of this with a kind of civic pride that makes Helen feel sorry for him.
“There was next to nothing on this island eighteen months ago,” he says. “The place was uninhabited. We built this all from scratch.”
Gladys feigns genuine interest in the sergeant’s commentary. She sits at the edge of the seat with her head bobbing up and down. Helen leans back and stares out at the men walking muddy paths. They stop and return the gaze, wondering if they can trust their eyes.
“You’ll be attracting plenty of attention,” Cooper observes. “We have a saying out here: ‘There’s a woman hiding behind every tree in the Aleutian Islands.’ ”
They are greeted at their quarters with the news that Judith has been ill. Queasy on the plane, the jeep ride finally did her in. Forced to skip the driving tour, the other girls arrived at their quarters before them. The Quonset hut they’ve been assigned is ordinarily reserved for visiting officers. It has a dry wooden floor—a luxury on Adak, where most residents are forced to camp on bare ground. The room is half the size of the one in Fairbanks and is designed for a single man. Six cots have been brought in and lined up side by side. Judith sits at a little table beside the window, head in her hands, muddy shoes splayed out before her. Helen thinks she can see a little blob of vomit on the tip of Judith’s shoe.
Judith lifts her head. “A little morning sickness,” she declares. “Nothing a good scotch can’t cure.”
Helen appears to be the only one who doesn’t find this amusing. She turns and seeks out the kettle. Before the water boils, she’s rounded up a stash of tea, a bucket, and the last of her own saltine crackers. She wets a towel with some of the hot water and hands it to Judith, who wipes her face gratefully.
The other girls busy themselves unpacking. They exchange knowing glances, hoping they won’t catch whatever Judith’s got, wondering how they are ever going to perform with their lead in such a state.
Stephen lights his pipe and leans up against the door. “It was a bumpy ride,” he says. “Good night’s sleep and she’ll be rarin’ to go.”
Everyone hopes this is true. Stephen fetches a length of rope and hangs wool blankets to separate Judith’s cot from the rest of the room. As he works, he declares that this is being done for Judith’s sake, for her peace and quiet, but it’s clearly aimed at quarantine. Finally, Stephen slings his bag over his shoulder and sets out to find where he’ll be lodging for the night.
THE WHINE OF ENGINES warming up on the airfield begins before dawn. At 06:10, Judith wakes the entire room to go outside and wretch. An hour later, Stephen arrives to collect Sarah and Jane to view the stage and take the piano for a spin. At half past eight, Helen and Gladys take their turn visiting the hospital.
The air inside is warm and moist, having circulated through the lungs of thirty-two patients in this ward alone, perhaps hundreds more throughout the facility. Helen and Gladys remove their coats as each open eye gazes back at them with a kind of wonder. Gladys takes a step closer to Helen and whispers, “They’re undressing us in their minds.”
Gladys wears her royal blue dress and white silk scarf with a rhinestone brooch in the knot, the brooch her mother gave her for good luck on this journey. Having never met her own father, having grown up under the tutelage of a strong woman on the outskirts of Chicago, Gladys has honed many of the feminine skills Helen feels she lacks. Gladys knows how to read the ever-shifting social winds, build consensus in her favor, lead without the appearance of leading. She is fluent in a language Helen never had a chance to learn.
This morning, Gladys’s flaxen hair is curled back over her forehead and collected in a snood. Her nails have a fresh coat of red, and Helen thinks Gladys looks about as good as a woman could a thousand miles from the nearest salon.
The doctor is all of twenty-eight years old but carries himself like a surgeon general. He takes great pleasure in announcing the girls to his patients. Helen is pleased to see a few female nurses on hand, and yet as Helen and Gladys approach, they shrink into the background. There is a general stir as the men hike themselves up into seated positions, cover exposed limbs, square shoulders, smooth down cowlicks, close open robes. Those who are able, applaud.
Pinups are tacked in great collages over their beds. There are the standard-issue Betty Grables and Rita Hayworths, but also snapshots of mothers and girlfriends representing a remarkable range of sizes and orthodontic predicaments. One boy has a picture of his horse.
Helen feels moved to touch. She holds hands, strokes arms, brushes hair off their brows. The urge to comfort and protect. This, and the constant awareness that each man might have met her husband.
They declare their name and rank, tell her where they’re from, describe their injuries. When they announce that they have sweethearts back home, Helen nods but can’t help but wonder how many of those girls are still waiting. The part that moves her the most is how forthcoming they are about their commitments. As if Helen’s presence at the side of their bed calls for uncommon chivalry. As if she needs to be reminded that, at present, it would be improper to allow romance to blossom between them.
There are burns and broken bones. One patient has a tube running out of his chest into a jar of puss, another has his neck in a brace. The doctor explains that the bullet wounds were all received from antiaircraft fire erupting up and into the backsides of airmen on bombing runs over the Japanese stronghold on Kiska. Some of these men flew back to base with dead comrades seated beside them. Two have been miraculously pulled from the sea. Most, however, are victims of exposur
e. So far, the weather has claimed more casualties than the enemy.
One boy, with rust-colored hair and freckled cheeks, reclines atop the covers, flipping through a tattered sports magazine. His legs are crossed at the ankles and one foot taps out some unheard tune against the other. Helen learns that Petty Officer, Second Class Michael Kenny threw his back out unloading planes. He did it once before, but this time it’s much worse. Might be a slipped disk, he explains in an Arkansas drawl. They give him morphine for the pain and the promise he’ll be assigned lighter duties once his condition improves. He apologizes for the unglamorous nature of his injuries. Helen asks how long he’s been here.
“On Adak, just over a year. In here, three days.”
“That’s quite a while. Must drive you crazy.” She immediately regrets the choice of words.
He shrugs. “Some folks, I suppose.”
“It’s a shame people back home don’t know the first thing about what you boys are going through. The newspapers hardly ever mention it.”
“It’s the blackout. That’ll change when the movie comes out.”
“Movie?”
“They came up here and shot a documentary picture. Filmed bombing runs in Technicolor. John Huston. I helped his crew shift their gear all over the place. I flew with them on a sortie out to Kiska, helped their cameraman keep his tripod from falling out the hatch. When the censor releases it, everyone’ll know.”
This is as close as she’s come. This place, these men. She can feel the distance narrowing. “Have you heard of other reporters, journalists, coming through?”
A slight wince mars Kenny’s face as he shifts position. “They all got kicked out ages ago. This place is tighter than a drum. You should see what they do to our letters. Any news you read about this place comes straight out of Washington, D.C.”
All at once, her doubt is unleashed. Maybe John isn’t here. Maybe he never even made it this far.
Gladys approaches from the other end of the ward, swinging her hips, waving at the men along the way. She smiles down at Kenny and motions for him to shove over. She makes herself at home on the cot, her hip pressed against his thigh. “This man looks perfectly fine to me,” she declares.
Kenny blushes, sits up a little straighter.
Gladys glances at her watch. “We’d better make a move. Stephen will be getting antsy.”
They wish Kenny luck, then pay quick calls on a few more men—leaving lipstick on as many cheeks as possible. Before they leave, the doctor thanks them and tells them what wonderful work they’re doing, lifting the spirits of the men. Wishes he could bottle it, he says. Best kind of medicine there is.
THE GIRLS SIT in the mess hall awaiting the big announcement. They have the place to themselves, except for a squat, aproned man stacking mugs on a shelf along the far wall. On Adak the officers and men take their meals together. Helen has noticed a loosening of protocol on this far island, longer hair and scruffy beards, salutes rarely seen. Now it appears as if the man is stacking, moving, and restacking mugs just so he can ogle them a while longer. Helen feels the hours available for her search draining away.
At last Stephen arrives, packs his pipe, and tells them what they already know—that Judith will not be performing. Long sighs and pouts all around. Judith is the foundation upon which the show has been built. In the absence of Teresa Wright, Judith sings the lead on most of the songs in their repertoire. With neither star nor understudy, should they cancel tomorrow’s show? Pack it in and go home? Stephen is building toward inspiration.
Sarah wastes no time knocking him down. “Absolutely. There is no ‘show’ without Judith.”
Helen feels a tightening inside.
“Not so fast.” Stephen rests his foot on the bench and leans in. “We postpone. We divvy up her songs and spend the afternoon in rehearsal. We get the show ready and perform tomorrow night. If Judith gets better, we put her in. If not, we press on without her.”
“If we agree, who gets what?” Gladys lights a cigarette. She sees the opening but waits for it to come to her.
“Well, for starters, you get ‘One for My Baby’ and ‘Time Goes,’ Sarah gets ‘Don’t Fence Me In’ and ‘Tangerine,’ Helen gets ‘The Nearness of You.’ ”
No one speaks. The distant rumble of bombers returning home. Helen knows she must act. This cannot be allowed to spin out of control, threaten their presence on Adak.
“No offense,” Sarah says, glancing at Helen, “but why don’t you just drop ‘The Nearness of You.’ ”
Gladys’s eyes grow large. She turns toward Jane, in search of another ally.
“It’s not Helen’s fault.” As Sarah digs in, her mouth goes tight and small. “That song is trickier than it seems. It calls for perfect pitch and timing. Maybe we’re better off getting out while we’re ahead.”
“Maybe I’m in charge of this goddamn show.” Stephen jumps to his feet and nods, agreeing with himself. “Maybe I should get a little credit for knowing what I’m doing.”
Sarah crosses her arms. “Am I the only one who remembers what happened back at Fort Richardson?” Now she’s up on her feet, too riled to sit. “I mean, we have to be honest with one another. Helen’s fine with backup and melodies. She can dance better than I can, but you’re putting her in a position—”
Stephen raises his hand. “That’s enough.”
“No, she’s right.” Helen looks directly at Sarah. The moment has come to show her hand, lay out the truth before them. “Please, you two, sit down.”
Stephen is reluctant to surrender the floor. At last, he sits and looks up at Helen with a baffled expression, awaiting her next move.
“It’s true,” Helen explains. “I don’t have the experience you do, experience I tried to pretend. Outside high school, I’d never performed in front of an audience.” The liberation of confession is sudden, overwhelming. “Everything I’ve told you about performing was a lie designed to get me to the Aleutian Islands so I could find my husband, a writer who’s not supposed to be here, but I hope to God he is.”
They all look to her hand for a ring.
“I’ve kept all these things from you because I was afraid I’d get passed over or sent home. I didn’t tell you because I’m embarrassed to have lost my husband. I can’t imagine the future without him . . . And because telling you might make you feel sorry for me, which I can’t abide. I have never lied to anyone the way I’ve lied to you. I’m sorry.”
Gladys looks at Stephen, then Sarah. Jane can’t take her eyes off Helen. The pause is brief, but excruciating. It is Gladys who brings it to an end. She gets up, throws her arms wide open, and embraces Helen. “God,” she says. “That’s romantic.” Jane, and then even Sarah close in. Never before has Helen felt such a flood of feminine affection.
At last, Helen says, “Sarah should sing the song.”
“This is all very touching,” Stephen says. “But Helen is going to sing it. She’s improved more, and faster, than the rest of you. She’s a strong all-around soprano. And she has the kind of presence that song needs . . . As far as padding résumés is concerned, I think it’s safe to say we’re all guilty as charged.”
Helen is at once humbled and overwhelmed.
“All we have out here is each other,” Stephen says. “I need you to trust me. Let’s meet back here at thirteen-hundred hours.”
REHEARSAL SPACE ON ADAK is at a premium. Privacy, a quaint memory. Everywhere Helen turns men gawk as if she’s some sort of circus attraction.
She borrows Judith’s umbrella, grabs the sheet music, and marches out toward the hills wondering whether—despite Stephen’s glowing review—she’s about to let them down again onstage tomorrow night. Whether her father was able to wake up this morning and if the neighbors will be home if he’s forced to stagger over for help. If she’s wrong, and John’s not on this island, how is she ever going to find him? In search of answers, she only piles on the questions. All her research, plans, schemes, and lies have brought her to this improb
able place. She has no fallback plan. She must move swiftly, efficiently, make each hour count.
Helen trades the muddy road for the flat, sodden weeds until she’s well away from everything, save the wind. She stops, keeping her back to the tents and unwanted observers.
She spreads the sheet music between her fists. Rain taps the paper with a dissonant beat. Regardless, she lifts her chin and sings.
FIFTEEN
EASLEY TOSSES THE SKIS AND POLES INTO THE gully and considers their effect on the overall composition. The face of Uben Kubota rests directly atop the gravel, his arms outstretched as if to embrace the land. The stream washes over the left boot and calf. Suspecting the skis might be too far away, Easley scrambles back down a third time and kicks one closer to the body. It gives him a twinge of regret to leave the man this way, but there is little choice in the matter. It is his faint hope that it will appear as if Kubota slipped and fell to his death.
Over the past few days, the Americans have been hammering the enemy harder than at any time since Easley arrived over a month ago. Yesterday afternoon, and again today, the skies broke open with P-36s and B-24s spilling untold tons of explosives on the Japanese encampment. The intensity of the attacks is likely the only thing that keeps a search party from setting out in pursuit of Kubota. But now, the skies fall silent. Soon they will be coming for him.
So rapidly does the snow lose ground to the rain, it is difficult to remember its completeness the day before. On this, his second attempt to dump the body, Easley has been careful to haul it to the base of a cliff a full quarter mile toward the camp and away from the cave. It has taken several hours and all of his strength. He is soaked to the skin and shivering.
Easley returned the pistol and fur hat, and resisted the urge to take the coat—which is warmer and in much better shape than his own or Karl’s. He rifled through every pocket in search of a lighter and cigarettes. He found instead a flask of water, two wet and crumbling matches, a broken watch, a spare button, lint. He did take the scarf, gambling on the chance that its absence would go unnoticed.
