Nightmare Alley

by Len Levinson

  New Guinea is home to many races and cultures. Natives share similar traits with African Negroes, Indonesians, Polynesians, Mongolians, and Caucasians. Links with Australian aborigines are not considered likely. Most natives are short, around five feet tall. Those living in the highlands are somewhat taller. Pygmies, known as Negritos locally, can be found in random villages all over the island. The local native population arrived by migration, but anthropologists have been unable to determine where they came from.

  Tribal leadership is usually based on age and achievement. Villages have populations ranging from fifty to three hundred persons. There is widespread belief in spirits, especially spirits of the dead. The practice of sorcery and magic is widespread. There is frequent inter-village hostility, sometimes leading to war. Sacrifices are commonly made to spirits, and incidents involving human sacrifices have been reported. Headhunting is common among some native tribes.

  Chinese, Japanese, and Western traders also live on the island in small numbers, despite an environment that is extremely inhospitable to those not born to it.

  Health conditions on New Guinea rank among the worst in the world. The anopheles mosquito is a dangerous and deadly carrier of malaria, and can be found in great abundance all over the island, particularly in damp areas. Dengue fever is a constant menace, and the quickly fatal blackwater fever exacts a heavy toll of human life every year. Amoebic and bacillary dysentery are constant hazards. Tropic ulcers can develop from a scratch. Other threats are hookworm, ringworm, scrub typhus, and the dread yaws. In addition to the above-mentioned terrible anopheles mosquito, there are millions of other insects on the island, including countless species of flies, leeches, chiggers, ants, and fleas. Numerous poisonous snakes make their home on New Guinea. It is believed that certain of the more remote native tribes still practice cannibalism.

  Craig Delane looked up, his jaw hanging open. Cannibalism? he thought. Malaria? What in the hell are the “dread yaws"? Groaning, he closed the encyclopedia, because he couldn’t bear to read any more. It was too awful. He didn’t want to go to New Guinea.

  Somehow I’ve got to get out of this, Delane said to himself. He had a rich father back in New York, and he thought he’d better call him and ask for help. His father was a banker and had a lot of connections in Washington. Maybe the right bribe to the right politician would pull Craig Delane out of the war.

  Delane stood and carried the book past ranks of tables where other soldiers read and tried to forget their troubles. He dropped the encyclopedia on the desk of the librarian, a WAC who smiled sweetly at him, but he didn’t even notice. Somehow he had to make a call to New York.

  I wonder what time it is in New York right now, he said to himself as he headed for the nearest door.

  A fog rolled in from the ocean, covering the Honolulu waterfront. Morris Shilansky staggered through the swirling mists, trying to catch up with Frankie La Barbara. Servicemen in uniform and civilian clothes crowded the sidewalks, while whores beckoned from alleys. Eerie halos of light surrounded street lamps, and music filtered into the street from innumerable bars.

  “Frankie!” Shilansky shouted. “Wait for me!"

  On the street corner ahead, a tall man lit a cigarette, cupping his hands around the flame of his lighter. The man turned and looked toward Shilansky. “Change your mind?” the man asked; his voice was the voice of Frankie La Barbara.

  “Yeah!” replied Shilansky.

  “Hurry the fuck up!"

  Shilansky hunched up his shoulders and ran toward Frankie La Barbara, but he was fairly drunk and bumped into a Marine in uniform.

  “Watch your fucking step!” said the Marine.

  “Fuck you!” replied Morris Shilansky.

  “Fuck me?” asked the Marine.

  He spun around and grabbed Shilansky’s shirt, which was made of cheap material, and it ripped.

  “You ripped my shirt!” Shilansky said.

  “I’m gonna rip your fucking head off,” the Marine replied.

  The Marine drew his fist back, his teeth bared in anger, and then suddenly his mouth and eyes closed, his knees sagged, and he dropped to the ground, revealing Frankie La Barbara standing behind him, wearing brass knucks on his left hand.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Frankie said.

  Morris Shilansky looked down at the Marine, who lay on his stomach, blood oozing from a dent in the back of his head.

  “I think you killed him,” Shilansky said.

  “He started it.”

  Frankie grabbed Shilansky’s shirt and pulled him into the first alley they saw. They made their way past the garbage cans, and a black cat screeched as it ran in front of them. They emerged from the other end of the alley, looked both ways, and then turned left on the sidewalk.

  “Where we going?” Shilansky asked.

  “AWOL,” Frankie replied.

  “I know we’re going AWOL, but where we going AWOL?”

  “Where you think’d be the best place to hide?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Where is the one place they’d never find us?”

  Shilansky wrinkled his big nose and thought about it for a few seconds. “On a submarine?”

  “You dope—where’d we get a submarine?”

  “I dunno.”

  Frankie pulled Shilansky closer and whispered into his ear as they moved swiftly across the foggy street. “When you’re on the lam, the best possible place you can hide is a whorehouse!”

  A smile spread over Shilansky’s face. “A whorehouse?” “Fucking A,” said Frankie La Barbara.

  On a desolate country road ten miles from the post, Lieutenant Dale Breckenridge limped along, his uniform torn to shreds, bruises all over his body, and a big knot on top of his head. He was sure that his left ankle was sprained, and his right ankle didn’t feel so good either. His left shoulder was wrenched loose. Both his kneecaps were bereft of skin. He was a big fucking mess.

  I guess Utsler tried some real rotten shit on her, he thought, holding his ribs because he was certain at least one of them was broken. The bitch damn near killed me.

  He wanted to see a doctor immediately, but there were no hospitals nearby. No cars had passed him since he began his long trek back to the post, and he hoped to arrive at Headquarters Company before reveille, otherwise he’d be AWOL on top of everything else. Somehow he didn’t think he could make it. He felt too worn out and crippled.

  Boy, that bitch must really hate me, he thought. She sure had me fooled. I thought she wanted to fuck me, and instead she pushed me off a goddamned cliff.

  He thought of how beautiful she’d been, how her blond hair had glinted in the moonlight, how her fabulous boobs had strained against her blouse. I think I'm gonna stay away from women for a while. They can’t be trusted.

  He heard the faint sound of an engine behind him, and spun around. Sure enough, far in the distance he saw two headlights flickering Oh, my God, I hope they stop for me, he thought, holding out his thumb.

  The vehicle came closer, and Lieutenant Breckenridge moved toward the middle of the road so they wouldn’t miss him. He raised his hand high in the air and pointed his thumb back toward the post. “Please stop for me,” he muttered. “I don’t think I can go much farther on my own.”

  He thought he must look like a raggedy-ass bum with his clothes all torn and his face covered with bruises and scabs. Maybe it’d be an old farmer who was afraid to pick him up. Or an old lady who’d think he was an escaped rapist. The vehicle came closer and Lieutenant Breckenridge jumped into the air, waving his hands. “Stop!” he shouted, blinded by the headlights of the vehicle. “Please stop!"

  The vehicle slowed, and he could see that it was a jeep! The Army has saved me, he thought, stumbling forward. The jeep stopped and an MP wearing a white helmet and carrying an M1 carbine stepped down.

  “What’s the problem here?” the MP said. He had the three stripes of a buck sergeant on his sleeve.

  “Don’t you salute officers, soldier
?” Lieutenant Breckenridge snarled.

  “You’re an officer?”

  “You’re damned right I’m an officer.”

  The sergeant didn’t know what to do, because Lieutenant Breckenridge was a mess; but then he spotted the silver bars on Lieutenant Breckenridge’s collar and realized that he was indeed an officer. Snapping to attention, the MP saluted.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge returned the salute, although he felt as though his arm were going to fall off. “Take me to the post hospital right away!” he said.

  “What happened to you, sir?”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge hadn’t been able to think up a plausible story, because what could he say? He certainly didn’t dare to tell the truth. “It’s none of your business what happened to me.”

  “I’m afraid it is, sir. I’ll have to put this down on my report.”

  “I’ll tell you while we’re on our way to the hospital. Help me into the jeep, will you, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The sergeant grabbed Lieutenant Breckenridge’s arm.

  “Easy, there,” Lieutenant Breckenridge told him.

  The MP sergeant eased Lieutenant Breckenridge toward the jeep and helped him into the front seat beside the driver, who looked at Lieutenant Breckenridge peculiarly.

  “What’re you looking at, soldier?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Keep your eyes on the road!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The sergeant climbed into the backseat and stared at the big knot on top of Lieutenant Breckenridge’s head. “Back to the base,” he said to the driver.

  “Hup, Sarge,” replied the driver, shifting into first gear.

  The transmission made a clunk sound and the jeep drove off into the night. Lieutenant Breckenridge slouched in the front seat and tried to dream up a plausible story for the MP’s report.

  Pfc. Craig Delane stood in one of the phone booths in the telephone exchange, waiting for his call to go through to New York City. He’d been in the phone booth for ten minutes already, talking to a variety of operators and hearing buzzes, squeaks, and chirps in his ear while around him, in other booths, soldiers in uniform and civilian clothes also tried to make telephone contact with the outside world.

  Delane leaned against the wall of the phone booth and pushed his fatigue cap to the back of his head. He reached into his shirt pocket, took out a cigarette, and lit it up. Dengue fever, he thought. The dread yaws. Numerous poisonous snakes. Certain of the more remote native tribes still practice cannibalism.

  He heard a few clucks and clicks in his ear, and then a woman’s voice said: “The First Manhattan Savings and Trust Company.”

  Delane’s heart leaped in his chest. He’d gotten through! “Mr. Oswald Delane, please?” he said in a quavering voice.

  “One moment, please.”

  He heard another click and looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty in the evening on Honolulu, and a telephone operator had told him there was a six-hour time difference between Honolulu and New York City. That meant it was four-thirty in the afternoon there, and his father should still be at his desk.

  Another woman’s voice spoke into his ear: “Mr. Delane’s office.”

  “I’d like to speak with him, please. I’m his son Craig, and I’m calling from Honolulu.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Craig puffed his cigarette nervously as he waited. He could picture his father sitting behind his big oak desk, puffing a pipe probably, looking distinguished in his Brooks Brothers suit, with his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper mustache beneath his aquiline nose.

  The phone clicked again and then his father’s voice boomed into his ear “Craig!"

  “Dad!"

  “How are you, son?"

  “Not so good!"

  There was silence on the other end for a moment. “What’s wrong, my boy?”

  “Dad, you’ve got to get me out of the Army!” Craig Delane said earnestly. “I can’t take it any more!”

  There was more silence on the other end, then: “What in the name of Sam Hill are you talking about, son?”

  “Listen to me Dad: I can’t tell you exactly where I’m going, but I’m going back to the front again, and I’ve had enough of the war. Can’t you do something to get me transferred back to the States?”

  “Craig,” his father said sternly, “I can’t believe you’re saying what you’re saying. Why, we’ve all been so proud of you. Your mother and I tell everyone we meet about how you’re fighting the Japs and how you were in the middle of the big campaigns on Guadalcanal, New Georgia, and Bougainville. How can you quit just when the going is getting a little tough?”

  “Because I’ll probably get killed if I go back to the front. I’ve had enough of this goddamned war, Dad. You know people in Washington. Can’t you have me pulled back to the States, for crying out loud?”

  “No son of mine is a quitter,” his father said with a firm edge on his voice. “You’re letting your mother and me down.”

  “Dad, I’m going to get killed out there!”

  “I'll say to you what the Roman fathers used to say to their-sons: Return from the war carrying your shield, or being carried upon it.”

  “Dad, are you crazy? This is no time for baloney! I don’t want to die! I’m too young to die! Get me the fuck out of here!”

  “How dare you talk to your father this way! You’re spoiling everything, Craig! We’ve all been so proud of you, and now you’re spoiling everything! I can see that the Army hasn’t changed you at all. You flunked out of college and now you’re trying to flunk out of the Army, but I’m not going to let you. You’re going to do your duty like any other soldier. No Delane has ever been a quitter. I’m not going to tell your mother about this call. I’m going to forget about it. Maybe you’re drunk—I don’t know. You’re certainly not in your right mind, but then, I don’t suppose you’ve ever been in your right mind. You’ve given your mother and me a lot of grief, young man, and we don’t want any more. Do your duty to your God, your family, and your country. Good luck to you. Do you need any money?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “As much as you can send.”

  “I’ll send you a check for one hundred dollars in the morning mail.”

  “Only a hundred dollars?”

  “You’re greedy. All you ever cared about was money, whiskey, and loose women. I’m ashamed of you, but you can redeem yourself by being a good soldier.”

  “You son of a bitch!” Craig screamed. “You want me to get killed so you can say you lost a son in the war! You don’t care about me! All you care about is your fucking reputation! Maybe if I get killed, your bosses will feel sorry for you and give you another promotion!”

  “I do believe you’ve lost your mind, Craig. I’ll speak with you some other time when you’ve found it.”

  Click!

  The connection went dead in Craig Delane’s ear. Craig was so mad, he wanted to tear the telephone machine off the wall and smash it over somebody’s head. His face flushed with anger, he pushed open the door to the telephone booth and walked through the corridor, passing rows of telephone booths full of soldiers. His hands were in his pockets and his cigarette dangled out of the corner of his mouth. That fucking hypocrite, he said to himself. That money-grubbing, phoney-baloney son of a bitch!

  Delane stepped outside and saw two MPs approaching the telephone exchange.

  “Take your hands out of your pockets, soldier!” one of them said.

  “Fuck you,” Delane replied.

  “What was that?”

  “I said yes, Sergeant.”

  “It’d better be yes, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “And take that cigarette out of your mouth when you talk to me.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  The two MPs passed Delane and opened the door to the telephone exchange, going inside. Delane put his cigarette back into his mouth and thrust his hands into
his pockets again, heading for his barracks, thinking about his father and mother and how much he hated them.

  Diane Latham stood in front of her mirror, brushing her hair before going to bed. She wore only her US Army–issue underpants.

  Her room was tiny, furnished with a double bunk, two dressers, a chair, and a desk. Her roommate wasn’t in yet, and Diane was glad to have some time alone for a change, because she was feeling guilty about what she’d done to Lieutenant Breckenridge.

  She thought she was justified but was afraid she’d gone a little too far. He might be seriously injured, lying at the bottom of the cliff, and maybe a mountain cat or a poisonous snake would kill him. But she’d been so angry. Lieutenant Utsler had treated her very crudely. He’d tried to put his hand up her dress as soon as they were in a dark corner, and she’d slapped his face. Lieutenant Utsler told her that Lieutenant Breckenridge had told him that she was an easy fuck, and that made her madder than she’d ever been in her life.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge may be a rat, she thought as she brushed her hair, but that wasn’t sufficient cause to injure him physically. Several times she’d thought of going back to see how he was, but she wasn’t feeling that sorry for him. He’d treated her worse than any other man she’d ever met in her life, and that was saying something, because lots of guys had tried to force her to fuck them, and many had told terrible lies, and the ones she’d given in to had come in her mouth, come in her hair, and treated her like shit the morning after.

  She really didn’t like men very much, and Lieutenant Breckenridge had been the last straw. All the anger and resentment of her short lifetime (she was twenty-three years old) had boiled up in her heart and she’d pushed the son of a bitch off the cliff. It would be terrible if he died there, but in a way he deserved it. No man had a right to treat a woman the way he’d treated her.