Overland

by Graham Rawle

  “We’re all set, Mr Green. Going to Chicago.”

  Mr Green eyed her between the bars of his cage, saying nothing.

  “Yes,” said Mrs Ishi brightly. “Chicago.” Her voice betrayed a note of apprehension. “Kiyoshi will be here anytime now.”

  Forty minutes later they were still waiting when she heard footsteps on the path, but it was only the mailman. She got up to open the letter he had brought, reading the contents with a troubled look.

  Mr Green watched from his cage. “What is it?” he said.

  Mrs Ishi turned the page over to finish the letter before answering. The color had drained from her face.

  “It’s from my sister,” she said slowly. “Kiyoshi. He’s not coming.”

  Mr Green took a moment to respond. “Oh, no,” he said.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  GEORGE EMERGED FROM one of the factory hangars into a kind of goods yard. Fractured beams of light filtered through the camouflage netting overhead onto parked trucks stacked with pallets of steel rods and aluminum sheeting. After a frustrating twenty minutes looking for the way out of the plant, he found himself on the camouflaged runway: a straight, flat piece of painted tarmac that stretched out before him into the distance.

  Being on the ground, and therefore under the jurisdiction of the military, the runway pattern painting had been carried out by Colonel Lund’s men as part of the US Army’s practical rather than conceptual contribution to the Overland deception. To blend in with the surrounding landscape when viewed from the air, the shape of the landing strip had been interrupted by irregular painted shapes, both on and beyond its surface, to break the perceived visual border. Incorporating ideas already tried and tested in Europe—trompe l’oeil patches of black, green, brown, gray, white, and occasionally orange—were contrived to resemble fields, rows of houses, and areas of woodland. Additional roads and paths had been added using lengths of gray tarpaper or by burning strips of existing grass, which intersected the runway at unexpected angles to further confuse the eye. George had played an important part in drawing up the plans, but had never seen the finished effect. At ground level it was hard to picture how this might look from the air.

  Imagining a bird’s-eye view, George pictured his own tiny figure traversing the obscure two-dimensional reality, corrupting the intended three-dimensional illusion. Having crossed an orange grove by stepping across the treetops, he saw himself walking vertically up the front wall of a farmhouse, over its pitched roof, and onto the building’s painted shadow on the other side—all without breaking step. In the harsh sunlight, George’s own shadow would look like a length of black velvet attached to his heels, a theatrical effect borrowed from Peter Pan.

  George heard the low hum of an engine behind him. He turned, catching the suggestion of something gray looming in the distance. He continued to stare, unable to make out whether what he was seeing was some sort of approaching vehicle or merely the trees on the horizon appearing to shift in the undulating heat-haze from the runway. One second later, he realized it was an airplane coming straight towards him along the runway. Unable at first to gauge its tremendous speed, it was almost upon him before he instinctively dropped onto his haunches and covered his head. There was a deafening roar as the plane’s dark mass passed over him and he was dragged off-balance by the pull of the ground air beneath the aircraft. He extended an arm to steady himself, averting his face from its dusty wake. Once the plane had passed he straightened up to see the familiar silhouette of a P-38 Lightning banking to its right as it climbed steeply into the sky.

  The plane seemed to be circling.

  George looked up over his shoulder anxiously, as if being pursued by a bird of prey. He’d lost sight of the plane, but the snarl of its engines still rang in his ears. He decided to run for cover, gripped by the same panicky adrenaline rush of fear that, as a kid, would spur him to sudden flight: spooked while walking alone through a dark forest or graveyard, he would imagine he was being chased by some unknown sinister force, and bolt into the night like a pony with its tail on fire.

  There was no reason to suspect that the plane had deliberately tried to run him over—his own stupid fault for walking on the runway—or that it was intent now on hunting him down, yet George was still troubled by it.

  He left the runway, taking a path off to his left that led towards a gate between two yellow hedges. Were the hedges real or phony? He could no longer tell. Real, they looked real. Their color seemed too bright, but that’s nature for you. He made a mental note. He tried the gate, pushing and pulling, but it was either stuck or locked so he vaulted over it, landing clumsily on the other side. He paused to catch his breath for a moment, crouching by the gatepost and peering up at the sky.

  Five hundred yards farther on, he came to a winding lane and a gray Buick parked at the curb outside a row of pretty cottages. Beyond the houses, the road disappeared into the shady depths of what looked like a hillside tunnel.

  George crossed the road to the car. He recognized it as his own, but he was puzzled to find it parked there since it was not where he remembered leaving it. He delved into his pants pocket and pulled out his car keys. Fumbling to find the right one, he heard the buzzing of engines overhead as they changed direction; he looked up, scanning the skies, but was unable to spot the plane’s position. Was it flying away or merely circling? Was it there at all? He tried his key in the car door, but couldn’t locate the keyhole. When he pulled the handle, he found the door was unlocked so he opened it and climbed in. Something about the car seemed unfamiliar. He reached for the starter button to discover that the dashboard controls were merely two-dimensional painted images. He ran his fingertips along their surface to test the illusion. The steering wheel was real, but fixed solidly in position; it wouldn’t turn an inch. He looked down into the footwell—no pedals. Perplexed, he climbed out of the car and saw that it was an obviously constructed wooden fake, just like the cars in Overland. Furthermore, now that he looked more closely, he realized that the nearby houses were fake too: fabricated from painted construction panels. How come he hadn’t noticed all this before? He presumed he must still be on the outskirts of Overland, yet he did not recall building, or even visiting, this part of town. Had he somehow strayed onto one of the film-studio backlots? Warner Brothers, maybe? No. It was more likely that the cottages and automobile had been put there by the military, adopting George’s techniques to enhance the concealment of the runway. Blurring the boundaries from both sides; no wonder he’d been fooled. Even he had failed to spot the tell-tale edge.

  The grass at his feet appeared to be genuine. He decided to make sure, bending to pluck a daisy growing amongst the blades of grass. Twirling the stem between finger and thumb, he touched its silky petals to his lip. Satisfied, he threaded the flower’s stem through his buttonhole, but he pulled too hard on it and the head fell severed to the ground.

  The sound of the circling plane returned. Feeling conspicuous, he ducked for cover under a nearby tree. He peered up through the leaves, but there was no visible sign of it. He had taken it for granted that, like the grass, the tree was real, but when he leaned against its trunk, it toppled and then keeled over, leaving him exposed to view from above.

  He ran from the stark sunlight into the cool gloom of the tunnel’s mouth, where he felt safer, calmer. He doubted now whether the P-38 had been after him at all. Probably just a test pilot carrying out checks on the latest output from the production line, hence the constant circling. He felt a little foolish about how he had reacted.

  The tunnel, he now saw, was more like a tree tunnel, where shimmering light filtered through a more or less continuous canopy of overlapping greenery. He looked down at his chest to see how the dappled sunlight was creating a natural disruption camouflage pattern, just like that printed on soldiers’ uniforms, which he imagined would render him indistinguishable from his surroundings. Ideal in combat, but here in the tunnel it occurred to him that any approaching vehicles might not be able to
see him. As a safety precaution he stepped to the side of the road and made his way along the bordering grass verge.

  Deeper into the tunnel, he found the hedgerows populated by an abundance of rich blooms: red roses, pink and white chrysanthemums, seemingly growing wild amongst the grasses and vibrant green leaves. The flowers looked almost too picture-book perfect, their arrangement too deliberate; George trailed his hand through them to reassure himself that they were real, but found he couldn’t tell the difference.

  TWENTY-NINE

  THE OTHERS IN Jimmy’s platoon had begun to decorate the inside of their footlocker lids with pictures. Some had family photos, there were pictures of guys proudly holding big fish, snapshots of automobiles, but the majority were saucy calendar pin-ups or shots of glamorous movie stars—Betty Grable, Veronica Lake, Rita Hayworth—a testament to their healthy male instincts. Jimmy saw an opportunity to create a little shrine of his own. He took an envelope of pictures from the bottom of his locker. One of the guys, Harris, had sold him a length of Scotch tape for a nickel.

  His first was a snapshot of his mom posing in the yard. She stared dutifully into the camera, looking awkward and stiff, the long shadow of the unseen photographer prone on the ground like a paper silhouette. After some consideration, Jimmy returned the picture to the envelope; none of the other guys seemed to have pictures of their folks and he didn’t want to be seen as a momma’s boy. There was a picture of himself sitting astride his recently sold motorcycle. He studied it wistfully for a moment before taking a couple of pieces of tape to stick it up. Next he brought out a small box Brownie photo of his brother in uniform standing at ease in the front yard at home, legs apart with his hands behind his back, his pale face squinting into the sun. It was a picture Jimmy had taken just before Carl went overseas. The image was overexposed and thin, more so than he remembered it. Jimmy touched the picture’s surface, rubbing Carl’s face, as if the heat from his finger might stimulate the photo chemicals in the paper and bring his features back to life, but nothing happened. There were other pictures of home, which made him feel odd because it wasn’t actually his home anymore—not for much longer anyhow. His mom had decided she was selling up and moving back to Iowa to live with Uncle Giff. He guessed that with Carl passing and Jimmy moving out at the same time, she must have been feeling too lonely to live on her own. But where did that leave Jimmy? Homeless. He supposed the army was his home now, though he hated to think it.

  Next he brought out Queenie’s eight-by-ten photographs, choosing his favorite, the one where she was looking demure. Eisner, who was passing by, happened to see it.

  “Who’s that? Ginger Rogers?”

  “No.”

  “Barbara Stanwyck?”

  “No.”

  Eisner snapped his fingers. “I know. It’s that … what’s her name. Carole Lombard. She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  Jimmy sighed. “It’s not Carole Lombard and she’s not dead. Her name’s Queenie if you must know.”

  “Queenie who?”

  “Queenie Meyer.”

  Eisner was dismissive. “Never heard of her.”

  “You wouldn’t have. Not yet, anyway. She’s just getting started in movies.”

  “So she’s a nobody. Not bad though. How come you’ve got this pin-up?”

  “She’s my girl. Back home.”

  “Get outta here. She’s not your girl. You just picked up her picture someplace.”

  “No, I didn’t. She gave it to me.”

  “Horse hockey! If she’s your girl, how come she didn’t sign it for you, lay a few kisses on it?”

  Jimmy studied the picture, stuck for an answer. “I didn’t think to ask her.”

  “No. Because you’ve never met her. If you’re dating that broad, I’m dating Groucho Marx.”

  Swain walked by, catching wind of the conversation.

  “Dating what broad?”

  “Romeo here thinks he’s dating this movie starlet.”

  “Let me see.”

  Jimmy tried to put the picture away, but Swain grabbed the corner between thumb and forefinger and was yanking at it. Rather than let the picture get creased or torn, Jimmy reluctantly let go. Swain studied the picture, nodding.

  “Not bad. Not bad. Who is she?”

  “She’s a nobody,” said Eisner.

  Swain spotted the other eight-by-tens, snatching them from Jimmy’s locker. “Hey, what’s all this? Well looky here. Here’s the real meat, fellers.”

  The other men began to cluster.

  “Give those back. She’s not public property.”

  “You could’ve fooled me.”

  Swain flicked through the pictures: Queenie perched on a button-back couch, pouting coquettishly, her lacy negligee provocatively lowered to expose her bare shoulders and a little cleavage; Queenie looking sultry in a tight swimsuit and high heels, draped along the diving board of a hotel swimming pool; Queenie in a low-cut dress leaning alluringly towards the camera, her hands behind her head and her chest thrust proudly forward; Queenie perched on the hood of an automobile, with the hem of her skirt raised to facilitate the apparent need to adjust her garter.

  Swain became increasingly enthusiastic. “Holy jumping catfish.”

  The other men leaned in, lasciviously ogling the pictures. Swain took his favorite in both hands and held it to his nose, closing his eyes to breathe in deeply. He stuck out his tongue and slowly licked the glossy surface of the photo from bottom to top.

  Jimmy was revolted by the degrading assault and snatched the picture from him.

  “You dirty, disgusting …” He was speechless with indignation.

  The picture’s glazed surface had been dulled and made sticky by Swain’s saliva. Jimmy tried to wipe it off with his sleeve, but the fabric dragged on the wetted area. He gathered the pictures into a pile, stowing them in his locker and slamming the lid shut.

  Swain laughed at Jimmy’s prudish reaction.

  “Now don’t tell me that’s the first good tonguing she’s had.”

  Jimmy was too furious to speak.

  Swain turned away, clacking his sticky tongue noisily against the roof of his mouth as he considered the unusual aftertaste.

  That night, shortly before lights out, the men were preparing for bed: undressing, combing their hair. Swain sat on his bed in shorts and undershirt, one foot crossed over his knee, enabling him to pick the dirt from between his toes. Jimmy was already tucked up in the next bed, trying to concentrate on the book he was reading while Swain loudly held court over the others.

  “Once they know you’re gonna be in uniform, fighting overseas, most dames come across with the goods. You say, ‘Listen sweetheart, I’m off to fight in the war, serving my country, and I don’t know if I’ll be back. Give me something special to remember you by.’ And before you know it, their panties are off and they’re giving you everything they got. You’re the big hero, see, and they feel they owe it to you. It’s their patriotic duty, right? To comfort you in your hour of need.”

  Eisner was gazing longingly at a magazine cover portrait of Lana Turner. “My hour of need is right now.”

  The others sniggered.

  “Boy, this one girl I’d been swapping chews with, she was a real slinky piece of homework.”

  Jimmy turned on his side, trying to shut out Swain’s voice.

  “She was this bit player in the movies, you know, walk on parts, that kinda stuff. She thought she was really going places. Probably coulda been too if she’d taken the mattress route. Brother, was she stacked! For weeks she’d been getting me all hot in the zipper giving me the ‘Oh no, I’m not that kind of a girl’ routine. But once she knew I was off to fight … turned out she was that kind of a girl after all and, what’s more, she couldn’t get enough of it. I got so much comfort I nearly fell into a coma.” He adopted a silly, mewling feminine voice. “Oh, baby, give it to me again; I want something to remember you by when you’re gone. Well, I sure did that—with extra sauce on the side. Nex
t thing I know, there’s a letter and, naturally, she’s got one up the spout. She thinks this means we’ll get hitched and live happily ever after. As if. I never wrote back. That little romance fell apart like a two-bit suitcase. I mean, I don’t mind stirring the gravy, but I don’t want it for breakfast every day.”

  Jimmy snapped his book shut, unable to remain detached.

  “What a beautiful love story.”

  “What’s eating you?”

  “A little mean-spirited isn’t it? Abandoning your child.”

  “Keep your breeches on, Snow White. It ain’t my kid.”

  “Well whose ‘kid’ is it?”

  “Hers. I made no promises. She got herself knocked up, that’s her problem. It’s not like she’s my wife or nothin’. She’ll never track me down.”

  “So that’s it, you just give her the brush? Leave her to cope on her own?”

  “You got it, buster.”

  “You know what? You’re a bastard, Swain. A genuine twenty-four-carat bastard.”

  “Hey. Watch your mouth, Fairyboots.”

  “Ah. What’s the use?” Exasperated, Jimmy got out of bed and strode over to the other side of the barracks, feeling rather silly standing there in his undershorts.

  Swain threw open his hands in wide-eyed appeal. “What’s with him? What did I do?” The guys chuckled, but none of them wanted to get involved. The soldier in the bed near to where Jimmy was standing, a man with whom he’d had little exchange, lit a cigarette.

  “Forget about Swain. It’s all swagger. He’s just a dime-a-dozen chump.”

  Jimmy was still fuming. “Yeah? Well I hope that girl does track him down and I hope she’s got both barrels loaded. Some people are better off dead.”

  THIRTY

  QUEENIE HAD BEEN someplace, doing something—she couldn’t quite think what—and had come home to find her belongings, or somebody’s belongings, piled up at the foot of the stairs. It was not exactly Mrs Ishi’s house she was in; it was more like the apartment she lived in before that: the Rosary Hall Residence with that horrible landlady … what was her name? And yet these stairs were somehow different: cast iron with open treads like the staircase at the factory.