Mr. Was (16 page)

Scud came alongside, grabbed Adamson's other arm, and we lifted the Nebraskan onto his feet. Once he was upright, Scud got right in his face.

“Leave it,” he said.

Adamson looked at Scud with an astonished expression on his face. “What's that?” he asked.

“Leave the damn gun and ammo. You're slowing us up, soldier.”

Adamson, who had served alongside Scud as an equal for six weeks before Scud had gotten his promotion, didn't like being talked to that way. “Uh-uh,” he said.
”Sir.”

Scud got so red in the face I thought he was going to bust Adamson one, but he managed to swallow it.

“Look,” he said, his voice strained, “if we're gonna get out of this mess, we gotta make some time.”

Adamson shook his head slowly. “We don't even know where we are.”

That was true. As far as we knew we were the only survivors from our platoon, and we were as lost as
you can get. The fact that we'd stumbled across each other in the jungle—I'd damn near shot Scud when I first saw him—was only slightly more amazing than the fact that we were alive. At least for the time being. We could hear the muffled sound of mortar fire, but had no idea how far we'd come or in what direction. We'd been walking, if you could call it that, for hours.

“We're gonna get out,” Scud said.

“Well, I ain't leaving Rudy,” Adamson said. Rudy was the name he'd given to his BAR. It was also, he told me once, the name of his dog—

(page missing)

—obvious to me that we'd headed off in the wrong direction, but Scud wouldn't admit it.

“It's an
island,”
he said. “There is no wrong direction.”

“This island's ninety miles long,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, well, we'd be out a here by now wasn't for Adamson.”

I looked back at the Nebraskan, who was trailing us by ten yards, still carrying the BAR and the pack full of ammo, muttering to himself. Adamson had been losing blood steadily, but he refused to stay put while we went for help. It might not have been so dumb, since the odds are we'd never have been able to find him—

(illegible)

—collapsed right at the base of the rocky outcropping. His eyes were open, but only the whites were visible. I shouted for Scud. I could barely make out his gray shape through the thickening rain, then I lost sight of him. I yelled again, staring at the spot where he'd disappeared into the tangled vegetation. Nothing. He was gone.

Now, I'm no hero, Andie. All the heroes I knew died back on the knob. And I might've run after Scud, leaving Adamson behind, but just then the damned Nebraskan's eyes snapped back into focus and he opened his mouth.

“Rudy?” he said. “That you, boy?”

His eyes darted around, then fixed on me, and he smiled. “Good boy,” he said, then his eyes rolled up again.

I managed to drag him out of the muck up onto the mossy boulders at the base of the rock formation. The outcropping jutted up about twenty feet from the jungle floor, and was about a hundred feet across. I could see, a few yards farther up the rubble-strewn slope, what looked like a cave. There was no doubt in my mind that the Nebraskan was dying, but I couldn't just leave him on that rotting jungle floor for the rats and the beetles. I had to get him out of the rain. A man should die dry, I thought, though I now wonder what difference it makes how wet you are when you die. I'm pretty dry right now, but I don't feel any better about dying.

I stripped off Adamson's gear, including his precious Rudy and the pack full of ammo boxes. I'd dragged him halfway up to the cave when a shadow detached itself from the jungle and plodded up the slope after us.

It was Scud. I hadn't been so glad to see him since the time the Gleasons chased me up the bluff road.

Scud slung the BAR over his shoulder, grabbed the ammo pack with one hand, and Adamson's right arm with the other. The two of us had Adamson up that slope in no time. The cave was only about ten feet deep, not much more than a hollow beneath a projecting shelf of rock, but it was dry, and for the first time since we'd entered the jungle back at Henderson field, I didn't hear the sound of rain falling on my helmet. We—

(illegible)

—woke up with a start, sat up, and grabbed my rifle. Something had jarred me from my dream, a beautiful dream but I don't remember it. I focused on Scud, who was on his belly at the mouth of the shelter looking down the barrel of the BAR.

“What's going on?” I asked. He cut me off with a hand motion. I listened. Faint Japanese voices. Scud crawled backward.

“Can't see 'em,” he said. “Passing by, maybe a hundred yards that way—” He pointed.

“They know we're here?”

“If they knew, we'd know it. By the way, Adamson's dead.” He said it the way you'd tell a guy his fly is open. I looked over at Adamson and of course it was true, he was quite dead. The flies were already clustered at his closed eyelids, waiting for the dead flesh to contract and give them access.

I don't know why I'm writing this. No one will ever read it, unless some Jap picks it up off my dead body. Is that you, Jap? Well you can take this notebook and shove it. You bastards are going to lose this war, anyways, I know, because I've seen the future. Let me ask you something, Jap. Do the words “atom bomb” mean anything to you? I'm—

(illegible due to deliberate pencil marks)

I think I'm getting delirious, Andie. All my life, until I got to this nightmare island, I thought of the Japanese as people who made nice cars and cameras. Now I think of them as vicious, evil beasts. That can't be right, can it? I mean, they're just a bunch of scared kids like me who wish they were back home. But how can you like someone who is trying to kill you?

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Scud. So Scud looks at his watch and says to me, “It's gonna be dark in another couple hours.”

“Is that good or bad?” I asked.

Scud shrugged. “They're moving away from us.”

Then I noticed that the top flap of my pack was open. The piece of oilcloth I'd used to wrap this notebook
lay on the rocks beside it. I looked around the shallow cave. There was my notebook, thrown up against the back wall.

Scud watched me make this discovery, his lips frozen into a hard, humorless smile.

“I had to have another look,” he said. “Couldn't believe my eyes the first time I read it. My good friend Jack.” He shook his head.

I didn't reply. What could I say?

“You know you ain't never going to see her again,” he said.

“We might make it,” I said.

Scud held his terrible smile, then crawled back to the lip and lay on his belly, staring out into the jungle for what might have been sixty seconds, though it seemed like days. I could no longer hear the sound of voices. I came up beside him and stared into the foliage, trying to make sense of it, but my eyes couldn't sort out the green scrambled mess. My mind was all knotted around Scud and you, Andie. I was in the middle of an island in the South Pacific, surrounded by Japanese soldiers, and all I could think about was Memory, Minnesota.

Is that stupid, or what?

“So what do you want to do?” I asked.

Scud turned his head and regarded me with what looked like distaste.

“I mean,” I said, “do you want to stay here the night, or move out now?”

Scud moved his head slowly back and forth,
as though marveling at my stupidity.

“I think we should move out now,” I said. “It's obvious we're near some sort of Jap supply trail. It's only a matter of time before another bunch comes by and decides to check out this pile of rocks.”

Scud said, “You can do what you want.”

I left my Springfield at the entrance and moved toward the back of the cave to get my gear. Something struck me on the back of the head. My face hit the rock floor of the cavern. I twisted away, instinctively bringing my hands up in front of my face, thinking that this was it, the Japs were on us, but it wasn't the Japs.

It was Scud. I saw his face, Andie, and my entire body went numb with horror. His lips pulled back from his teeth like a vicious dog, swinging his rifle like a club, slashing at me, keeping me off balance. It was not the Scud we know, Andie. I got one hand on a rock and threw it, hit him on the jaw. He dropped his rifle and staggered back, his cheek slick with red blood. I scrabbled across the rocks, trying to get to his rifle, but he was on me again, on my back, pounding the side of my head with his fist.

All the time we were fighting, neither of us made a sound. On some level we both knew that outside our little arena the jungle was listening, full of Japanese soldiers. Had it not been for that, I'm sure he'd have just shot me.

Maybe I'd've been better off that way.

His fist kept driving into my ear, I couldn't get him
off. Somehow, I got my feet under me and stood up, slamming him against the low ceiling of the cave. He fell, flat on his back, his head bouncing off a rock.

For a moment, neither of us moved. I was gasping for breath, trying to understand what had happened. Scud appeared to be out cold. I stepped over him to get his rifle, to make sure it was out of his reach. When he woke up, I wanted to be able to talk to him, and I figured it would be easier if only one of us had a gun. I wanted to explain to him about you and me, try to get him to understand that it was just something that
happened.

I never got the chance. He wasn't out cold at all. As I stepped over him, his boot came up hard and caught me right in the crotch. I went down like a sack of grain, doubled over, my eyes squeezed shut. I opened them just in time to see that rifle butt coming at me. I didn't feel it hit, but I heard the bones in my face snap—and that's all I remember.

When I woke up it was pitch black, and I could hear the Japanese voices again. I knew, without being able to see, that Scud was gone. I lay in the dark for hours, Andie, with no company but the sound of incomprehensible voices filtering through rain, the pounding pain in my head, and the sweet, awful smell of Adamson's rapidly decaying body.

With the first light of morning, I dragged myself over to Adamson's BAR at the mouth of the cave. It may be that Scud left it for me to give me a tiny
chance at survival, but I think it more likely that he simply thought me dead and didn't want to carry it. I've got myself set up here with the gun, a half-full canteen, and this notebook.

The Japs have set up some sort of camp, I would guess about three hundred yards away. I can hear them, and I can smell something cooking. Sooner or later, they'll be here, Andie, and I'm going to kill as many of them as I can, but I'm going to die. I wish I could just explain to them that this isn't my war. Their war is lost, and they should all go home. We should all go home.

I don't think they'd listen.

One other thing. I mentioned that when I saw Scud's face, when we were fighting, it wasn't the Scud we know. I meant that literally. I don't understand it, and I don't see how it could be possible, but what I saw was not Scud.

It was my grandfather's face.

Here they come.

THE THIRD NOTEBOOK:

The following documents were found in a file folder glued to the inside front cover of a soiled, mustard-colored, clothbound three-ring binder.

—P.H.

r-82399

From:      LAZLO C. GROTH

To:          FILE

Subject:   Patient MZ-54764-8

Date:       8/12/43

The subject was first observed on March 21, 1943, on the island of Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands, raiding the garbage dump of a U.S.M.C. outpost near Henderson Field. He was naked, apparently searching for food. Because his skin had darkened from weeks or months of exposure to the sun, and because his face was severely disfigured, he was not recognized by base personnel as an American.

When challenged by guards, the subject fled. Several shots were fired, but the subject escaped into the jungle.

Six days later, on March 27, the subject was spotted again, this time by a platoon patrolling outside the perimeter of the base. After an extended pursuit, he was captured uninjured and delivered to the base hospital, where he was examined by Captain Zachary Pierssen, M.D.

According to Cpt. Pierssen's report, the subject appeared to be in a state of extreme dehydration. He had a damaged right eye socket, which had become maggot-infested. One arm had been broken and had healed at a peculiar angle. The fingers and palms of both hands were scarified, possibly
from contact with hot metal, making fingerprints impossible to obtain. (Captain Pierssen noted that he had observed similar injuries on soldiers who had gripped the hot barrel of a machine gun for extended periods of time.) Several of the subject's teeth were missing. He was delirious and unable to form sentences or understand simple verbal commands. Although the subject is believed to be one of the Guadalcanal MIAs, base personnel were unable to match him with any of the missing soldiers (MIA list attached).

After being hydrated, fed, and treated for his wounds, the subject quickly gained his physical vitality, but remained irrational. He was observed on several occasions calling for his mother. When asked who his mother was, he responded by screaming repeatedly. The severity and frequency of the patient's outbursts has since abated, but Captain Pierssen recommends the use of restraints during examinations and transfers.

On August 4, 1943, Patient MZ-54764-8 was transferred here, to Pearl Harbor Naval Hospital.

(signed)

Captain Lazlo C. Groth, MC USA

Chief Psychiatry Service

Pearl Harbor

r-82399

From:      LAZLO C. GROTH

To:          FILE

Subject:   Patient MZ-54764-8

Date:       8/19/43

During the initial examination, the patient remained in a rigid sitting posture, staring straight ahead. He was unresponsive to my questions, and as near as I could tell was utterly unaware of his surroundings. How much of this is due to his injuries and how much is a result of the high dosage of chloral hydrate he had been given remains uncertain. Although the patient appears to be passive, I have followed Captain Pierssen's recommendation and kept him in a straitjacket. At one point I was sitting behind my desk reviewing Captain Pierssen's notes when the patient suddenly spoke: