

# Day of the Bomb

### Steve Stroble

Day of the Bomb, Copyright c 2016 by Stroble Family Trust. All rights reserved.

Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com

This book is a work of fiction. All people, places, events, and situations are the product of the writer's imagination. Any resemblance of them to actual persons, living or dead, places, events, and situations is purely coincidental.

## Chapter 1

"FUBAR!" Fouled up beyond all recognition. "SNAFU!" Situation normal all fouled up. Can't be saying the real F-word or Mom will wash my mouth out with soap. Yeah, if Mom could only see me now. I had it all planned out, Mom. After the war ended I was going to introduce you to the Professor. You'd really like him. He's one of those college boys, real smart and all. He told me where the F-word came from...

The Professor materialized in his mind's eye.

"You see, PFC Dalrumple, back in ancient England they taxed married couples at a higher rate than couples that just shacked up. So folks would put signs on their doors that said: Fornicating Under Command of the King to get a lower tax rate. That's where the F-word came from."

"No kidding? You mind coming over to meet my mom after the war and tell her that? She'll never believe me."

"Be glad to."

Calling out to Mom when the chips are down. Jason Dalrumple had heard dying men do it on Tarawa, in the Solomon Islands, and the Philippines. He had even kept track of how many he had heard do so, as if being able to recite that bit of trivia qualified him to survive this war so that he could relate it to the folks back home. Besides, bouncing about in this warm water was as close a feeling to being back in his mother's womb he could fathom. So wasn't it natural for him to call on her? Only problem was that this amniotic fluid happened to be the largest ocean on Earth and home to those who would rather make a meal of Jason than reminisce about mothers.

He swallowed another mouthful of salt water. It burned every tissue it touched. Be glad to? How about being glad enough to come rescue me, Professor? I've been in the water all last night, you know. I'm not a squid like you are. I'm feeling pretty waterlogged right about now. At least the sun's coming up finally. If anybody can spot me, it's you. I'll even wave and yell as soon as I spot the ship.

***

"Ensign Rhinehardt!" The runner from the command deck shook the one he had been sent to retrieve.

"Huh?"

"Get up and get dressed, sir. The captain wants to see you ASAP."

"All right, all right." What now? The last time he called me in I had to explain what a Navy officer like me was doing hanging around an Army enlisted man. Good thing we're from the same town, sort of. Better get ready. How do I report in? Fred Rhinehardt, Ensign, 2...Wait a minute. That's how I report in to the Japs after we invade Japan. They got so many subs up there that they'll sink us for sure and I'll end up a POW. I better grab a cup of Joe to wake up or I'll mess up. Old man Uley doesn't like screw-ups.

As troop transport ships went, Ensign Fred Rhinehardt's was better than average. A veteran of dozens of island campaigns, she bore little in the way of battle scars thanks to ever-present destroyers and cruisers that protected her like big brothers watching over a little sister. Most of her damage had been inflicted earlier that year when a kamikaze plane dive-bombed into her deck, sending its Japanese pilot, eleven sailors, eight marines, and six soldiers to the hereafter. A grunt had pushed Fred to the deck as flaming metal fly over them, an act that forever changed the ensign's attitude toward soldiers. So far, one torpedo had dented her hull, a dud that found its resting place on the bottom of the Pacific. It now protected smaller fish that hid behind it as those higher up the food chain searched for them.

All other torpedoes fired by Japanese submariners had missed it due to her three captains' evasive maneuvers since December 7, 1941. Her current captain had sufficient motivation to stay afloat. If Captain T. A. Uley survived WW II, he could retire with thirty years of service and at last return to the hometown he had left during WW I to answer the call of "anchors aweigh, my boys, anchors aweigh..." His epiphany during military service occurred as he watched flyboy Billy Mitchell sink every target ship the Navy had lined up with bombs dropped from a propeller-driven airplane.

After that, Captain Uley wrangled his way onto an aircraft carrier as a junior officer. But his floating city went down to the bottom during 1943, with survivors of the sinking transferred to other vessels. His final ship during WW II would prove to be this transport ship, which was currently minus one passenger as of...That was the worst part of any "man overboard incident," when did the poor sap fall, jump, or get dumped over the side? If it were daytime, most likely he could be spotted and a rescue attempt made unless...unless the craft was part of a convoy steaming to some beachhead. If so, then the best that the one trying to keep his head above water could expect was a life preserver thrown over the side.

Good luck, good buddy, trying to retrieve any floatation device by swimming through wake after wake produced by a line of transports, cruisers, tenders, battleships, and maybe a carrier or two. Then again, it was not yet certain that Private First Class Jason Dalrumple had gone overboard. Maybe he had a hiding place where he slept off the homemade hootch that those dumb Army grunts could concoct out of sugar and anything that would ferment.

"Ensign Rhinehardt reporting as requested, sir."

"What took you so long, ensign? I sent Seaman Brueagard for you twenty minutes ago. Two minutes for him to get to you, five minutes to dress and go to the head, and two minutes for you to get here." He tapped his watch. "You should've been here eleven minutes ago."

"Uh, I swung by the mess for a cup of coffee, sir." His hand shook until the little that remained sloshed onto his shoes. "Oops. Sorry, sir."

"The captain in charge of the Army troops says one of his men is missing, PFC Dalrumple. You know, the clown you pal around with, the one who calls you the Professor."

"Jason?"

"When's the last time you saw him?"

"Last night at about 2200 hours. He said he was going up on deck for some air."

"Did he come back down below after that?"

"I don't know. I went to my quarters about five minutes later."

Captain Uley turned a chart so Rhinehardt could better see it. "Okay, we were about here at 2200 last night. He was reported missing at 0600 hours. So he went over the side somewhere between here and here." He drew a straight line between the two points.

"Sir, when I went out on deck I noticed we're still steaming the same direction as yesterday. Why haven't we reversed course yet to search for Jason?"

"Because of our orders. Something big is cooking. I don't know what it is but I think it has something to do with the invasion of Japan. In any case, when I radioed fleet they denied me authority to launch a search for your friend. The best they can do is a search and rescue by air using the flyboys." He handed the chart to his orderly. "Get this down to the radio room. Have them transmit these coordinates I marked off so they can pass them on to the flyboys. It's time for them to rise and shine and get in the air so they can search all day."

"But sir, we've covered almost 200 miles since last night. We need to turn around and..."

Captain Uley placed a hand on Rhinehardt's shoulder. "Son, once you factor in currents, tides, sharks, and whether or not your pal was wearing a life preserver, you're talking thousands of square miles. Worse than looking for a needle in a haystack, any day of the week, boy."

Rhinehardt slumped into a chair. His chin quivered as he fought tears meant to mourn the best friend he had had during three years of war. He wanted to protest his captain's assessment but could not. It was not a matter of rank as much as his thirty years at sea versus his three.

"Don't just sit there, boy. We've got work to do."

"Huh?" His daze removed expected military formality.

"Let's narrow down the search area for the Army Air Force boys."

## Chapter 2

### One Month Earlier, White Sands Missile Range

The voice counting down the minutes echoed from the test site's loudspeakers. "Countdown commencing. Twenty minutes and counting."

That's my cue. Exit stage right.

"Hey there, Mr. Freight. You gonna watch it from here, too?"

"Uh, sure, George. Just have to use the bathroom first."

"Okay. I got us two pair of dark glasses. Snatched them out of the box before everyone else took on off. How do mine look? Are they tight enough to protect my eyes?"

"They look perfect. Be right back."

"Okay. If we look out this window right here we'll get to see the bomb go off. I'll go ahead and pull us up a couple of chairs to watch from."

"The Gadget, George! There is no bomb, remember?"

"Oh, that's right. Sorry, Mr. Freight. I ain't too up on all that top secret talk."

"George, we're friends so don't call me Mr. Freight."

"Sorry, Mr. Freight, I mean Dave. It's just the way I was brought up. My daddy whooped our butts real good if we didn't say, 'yes sir, no sir, yes ma'am, and no ma'am' all the time."

"I need to go."

"I'll have your chair set up."

Now I'm way behind schedule. I thought that George would go off with the rest of those fools to watch the bomb go off. Oh well, when all else fails, improvise. Fifteen minutes left, if my watch is right. That's not enough time to line the walls of the supply closet now. That means the rays will get me. I better get moving. I'm down to fourteen minutes. I'll just sneak by him to the closet.

"How come you're crawling on the floor, Dave? You got another attack of the hemorrhoids again?"

"No, George. If you have to know, the rays that are coming out when that bomb explodes are harmful." He rose from his hands and knees and dusted off his pants as he sidestepped toward the closet.

"But then why everybody else be going down real close to where they gonna explode it at?"

"Because they're fools, that's why! And you're a fool if you stand over by the window. The rays will go right through the glass, then through your goggles, then your eyes straight into your brain! What are you going to do then?"

"My brain? You sure about that?"

"Yes. The worst-case scenario is that it will set off a chain reaction and destroy the earth. My best-case scenario is that the rays will fry anyone's brain that is too close to the blast. I told all those hotshot scientists who walk right by me day after day all about it. I told them how Tesla burned his hand fooling around with X-rays. And all about Hermann Muller's experiments way back in the 1920s that proved how harmful invisible rays really are. And...oh, forget it." He clutched the janitor's uniform.

"Nine minutes and counting."

"You hear that? There's barely enough time."

"For what?"

"To put on the tin foil, you idiot! Because you delayed me I don't have time enough to line the walls of the supply closet now. But I have a backup plan. Come on and follow me before it's too late."

"Okay."

"Here they are."

"Mmm, mmm. How many rolls of tin foil you got stacked up in there?"

"Ten. That's just enough for both of us. You in or out?"

"I don't know."

"Quit thinking and start wrapping the foil all around your body. That, plus the walls of the supply closet will stop at least some of the rays. It worked in Huxley's book."

"Tell you what. You go on ahead and wrap yourself up twice. I heard the scientists talking that this is gonna be one historic day so's I think I'll just mosey back on over to the window and watch it go off."

"Eight minutes and counting." The announcer's voice crackled through the speaker that hung next to the ceiling.

"But if it makes you feel better, I'll help you wrap you on up first. Sure can't be blaming you for being careful."

"Thanks, George. Hurry!"

Ten rolls of unwrapped and rewrapped tin foil later, George shut the door to the supply closet. "I'll be back to check on you once it's all over."

"One minute and counting. Fifty-nine, fifty-eight..."
Chapter 3

"Jason Dalrumple. Private First Class..." The words passed by swollen tongue, parched mouth, and raw lips beaten bloody by ten hours of nonstop slaps of seawater. "Forget it, Mr. Jap! I ain't gonna give you my serial number. It's so top secret that I can't even remember it!" He scanned the blue sky. "Sure could use some more of those clouds to block out the sun, Lord." He decided it was almost noon. "Like I was telling you, it's high noon! Time we had it out, Yamamoto. Just you and your sword and me and my M-1. It's right here somewhere." His hands clutched at salt water but brought nothing to the surface. His estimated time was off by four hours.

Twenty hours since his last food because supper had been skipped to practice the Professor's Method to win at blackjack followed by fifty-nine hands dealt and twelve shots of hootch drunk. The hootch was courtesy of the dealer who served it free of charge whenever a player won three hands. Any other drinkers paid two bits. Nasty hootch: raisins, canned peaches and fruit cocktail, and coconut juice set to cooking with a couple pounds of sugar. Jason had vomited part of it over the rail into the tossing water but the hootch that remained within him now served no purpose but to dehydrate and disorient him.

***

Army-Navy football games are nothing compared to an Army captain on the receiving end of a Navy captain laying down a barrage aboard the latter's ship.

"Where are they? I asked you to bring them to the officers' mess a half hour ago!"

"That's what's wrong with you swabbies, sir. You don't understand the Army's chain of command. I told my lieutenant who told his top sergeant who..."

"Get your troops on deck! Now!" Five minutes later Captain Uley addressed the two companies of soldiers who had irritated him since they had come aboard. Now his patience, which he claimed rivaled Job's, ended. "I'm Captain Uley for those of you I have not met. In all my thirty years of service to our country, I have never witnessed such a SNAFU as this. One of your men goes missing and he's floating somewhere out there." His palm swept toward the expanse of blue behind the ship's stern. "Now I realize most of you think the U.S. Navy is just a taxi service meant for nothing else than hauling you from island to island just so you can get your brains blown out by some Jap bullet. In any case, I don't have any time left for chains of command. Right now I'm in charge of this vessel and I'm ordering the men who played cards with PFC Jason Dalrumple last night to step forward. If they don't I am going to make every marine on this ship into military policemen. Their first task will be to search every one of your lockers, beds, duffel bags, and the uniforms you are wearing for anything I deem to be contraband. Their second task will be to make your life hell until I can finally deposit your sorry butts at your destination."

The Green Wall, Army style; the unwritten variation of the universally understood Code of Silence. Army, Navy, Marines, Coast Guard, Army Air Force members, enlisted and drafted, knew that code better than any of the tales of the two million court-martials that would take place during WW II. The only thing worse than being court-martialed was to rat out someone who would face justice military style. But one of the troops on deck that morning possessed enough contraband that he loved more than the code. He pushed one of the card players out of the ranks and toward the sweating, cursing captain. He was in the grunt's face before he could slip back into the empty space where he had stood.

"All right, soldier. Who are the other two? I know there were three of you playing cards with PFC Dalrumple."

With the jig up and the Code of Silence no longer guaranteed, two others joined their comrade in cards.

"Follow me. Carry on, captain." Captain Uley saluted the one who commanded the assembled men. "Dismissed." Accompanied by an Army lieutenant, he led the way to one of the few places the three soldiers had not yet stepped foot in on the transport ship – the officers' dining room. Once there, Captain Uley took the first man inside and had the other two wait in the hallway with a marine armed with a .45 and nightstick.

"Have a seat, corporal." Captain Uley pointed at a chair as he sat. "Your Lieutenant is here to ensure you are treated fairly. Since you outrank your fellow gamblers outside, I thought we'd start at the top and work our way down." He smiled. "Chain of command. Or as you grunts put it, hurry up and wait."

"Yes, sir."

"How many players were there?"

"Four."

"Just four the whole time PFC Dalrumple played?"

"Yes."

"Who won the most money?"

"Jason did. I've never seen anyone so hot. He cleaned me out."

"So after the game ended, you mugged him and tossed him overboard."

"No. Sure I was sore but not that sore." He stood and waved his arms. "You're just wasting your time with me."

"Simmer down, son. Do you know anybody else that might have rolled him?"

"No."

"One last thing. Which one of the four of you dealt the hands? Or did you take turns dealing?"

"None of us. It was some guy who just likes to deal but not bet money. He says he wants to be a dealer in Las Vegas when the war is over."

"What's his name?"

"I don't know. Some new guy I don't know."

"Dismissed. Send in the PFC on your way out." He turned to the lieutenant. "You know any troopers that like to deal blackjack?"

"Just one. Sergeant Winslow."

"Is he new?"

"No. He's been with us since Guadalcanal."

The second gambler proved to be the most nervous when undergoing questioning. He fidgeted nonstop. Only after his lieutenant offered him a cigarette did he stop drumming his fingers.

"Settle down, son. This isn't a court martial."

His boots stopped tapping the floor. "Thank you, sir."

"But there will be one if you lie to me, boy! Who won the most money in your card game?"

The boots started tapping out what sounded like Morse code. "That would be Jason."

"So after he cleaned you out you followed him up on deck, got into a fight, and he accidentally fell overboard. You got scared. Instead of yelling, 'man overboard' like we trained you to do, you hightailed it on back to your bunk and hid under your blankets."

"Huh? The last I ever saw of Jason he was talking to that ensign friend of his. The one he calls the Professor. He's the one you should talk to, not me. I didn't do anything."

"Who was the dealer for your game?"

"Sergeant Winslow."

"Thank you, send in the last man."

"Yes, sir."

The third soldier bumped into the table as he balanced himself on a chair against the rolling motion of the ship.

"Have a seat, private. You old enough to be in the Army? You look too young for it."

"My parents signed papers so's I could join up when I turned seventeen, sir. I'm eighteen now. I know how to fight. Just ask the lieutenant there. He'll tell you all about it."

The lieutenant smiled. "No doubt about any of that."

"I see. Well, it sure would be a crying shame for them to start getting letters from you from the prison at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. That's where they send all of you doughboys right? I remember a few from World War I that I personally had shipped there because they didn't want to follow my captain's way of doing things aboard his ship. You're a good fighter, huh? You're going to need to be one sharing a cell with some other soldier who went bad. Because based on what I know so far you'll probably get twenty, maybe even thirty years for being an accessory to PFC Dalrumple's murder." Captain Uley hoped his glare backed up his accusation, tossed out in hopes of ending this unscheduled ordeal.

"Murder? They killed him? I just heard Winslow grumbling and cussing that he was going to get his money back. That didn't make any sense because he was just the dealer and didn't place a single bet. You think maybe he fronted one of the other players some money? The rumor is that he's a loan shark. I heard he charges a hundred percent interest."

"That'll be all. Lieutenant, please go get Sergeant Winslow and bring him here. Have him bring some of the hootch he served last night."

"Have a seat, sergeant." Captain Uley studied the buck sergeant's beady eyes, which reminded him of the rattlesnakes he had shot as a youth on his grandparents' ranch. But this was one snake of more value alive than dead, at least when it came to retrieving the last man who went overboard. "Did you deal all of the hands for PFC Dalrumple's games last night?"

"Yeah."

"You'll address the captain as sir, Sergeant Winslow!" The lieutenant's face turned red. His spittle flew toward his trooper.

"Yes, sir."

"How many hands did he win?"

"Thirty six out of fifty-nine hands. I keep track every time I deal." He pointed at his head. "Obviously, he was cheating. No one wins that many times. I learned how best to spot cheaters because the casinos count on the dealers to catch them so they can toss them out on the sidewalk. That's where I'm headed before too long. Las Vegas, here I come, right back where I started from." He clapped his hands and rubbed them together.

"I have a witness that you served a shot of hootch every time a player won three hands. Let me have some of it."

He pulled a thin metal flask from his pants pocket and handed it to him. Captain Uley splashed a drop on his finger and tasted it. "About the strength of wine. How many shots did you give him?"

"Twelve. One for every three times he won."

"What size were they?"

"About a fourth of a canteen cup each time."

The captain turned to the lieutenant and asked for a conversion of the alcohol served by grimacing, shrugging, and holding his palms face up.

"That would equal about a bottle and half of wine, sir."

"Thank you. Okay. So the hootch that you gave PFC Dalrumple and the cards you dealt from the bottom of the deck to your partner Corporal Bittendorfner weren't good enough for the two of you cheating polecats to keep Dalrumple from winning. So maybe you drank a little too much moonshine and started thinking crazy, something that comes real easy to you dogfaces. Not that I blame you. You get to do all your killing up close and personal while us Navy boys get to sit back, relax, and blast the Japs to hell and back again with our guns miles offshore. You follow him up on deck and put a knife in him, take his money, and throw him overboard as shark bait."

"I don't know what you're talking about. You must've tasted too much of my hootch."

"Okay. You knocked him over the head, took his money, and then threw him over the side because he saw it was you."

"Maybe someone else but not me. Jason was a real first class dumb ass. He was waving his wad of dough around so the whole company could see it. Any one of more than a hundred guys besides me could've mugged him for it. Why are you picking on me?"

"So, in other words, you went up on deck just to knock him out and take the money. But he fought back and accidentally fell overboard. That's only manslaughter. Odds are you won't be executed for that."

Silence.

"I knew it!" Captain Uley jumped to his feet and pounded the table. "I've served on nine ships in my career and watched your type operate on two oceans. In my book you're nothing but a bunch of no good two-bit sharks just waiting for your next sucker to come along so you can take him for every cent he has." He leaned over the table until his face was a foot from Sergeant Winslow's. "Just tell me what time he went overboard so we can narrow down the search or they'll never find him, you idiot!"

Silence.

Captain Uley pulled his right hand back behind his head and made a fist.

"Go ahead and hit me. General Patton did it to one of his troops and they put his butt into a sling over it. At least you could get your name in the papers so's folks back home could read about you."

"Guard!" Captain Uley collapsed into his chair.

"Yes, sir?"

"Take this man to the brig and strip search him. Report back to me on how much money he has on him."

"Yes, sir."

"Let's go search his locker and belongings, lieutenant."

"So far, we've got nothing." Captain Uley pounded his fist into a palm bruised by similar repeated blows of the past seven hours. "Sergeant Winslow had three dollars and change all together. But his snake eyes tell me he's knows exactly when your friend went overboard."

Ensign Rhinehardt's Adam's apple bounced up and down. "What can we do now, sir? I'm more scared for him than I ever was about going down because of some Jap sub getting off a lucky shot at us."

"Pray, son, that either your friend drowned shortly after he hit the water or that one of the planes will somehow spot him."

***

Makata the tiger shark spotted Jason first during his second afternoon of his being adrift and feeling more like driftwood than a soldier. Such an odd shape of a man inserted in a life preserver reminded the shark of a meal from a year ago. That life vest had been uneatable but the flesh of what it supported had proved tasty. Jason's lack of food and water and the relentless sun combined with a hangover had dropped him into a never land of hallucinations. He had finished talking to his parents and was now speaking with his girlfriend Thelma, or so he imagined.

"Yeah, that's right, Thelma. Now that the war's finally over we can get hitched and you can have the kids you always talk on and on and on about. Maybe we can even buy that little place you like so much. Is it still for sale...What...Who bought it...Oh. I guess we'll just have to find another place, huh?"

The tiger shark could not hear the human's words but instead the conversations of a pod of dolphins passing overhead screeched into her brain as the growing pups in her womb demanded nourishment of any sort. Let the dolphins have whatever it is up there. There is always a dolphin calf or one that is old or sick at the back of their packs. She circled back for easier prey. Perhaps there might even be enough left over to share with brother and sister sharks once first blood is drawn by rows and rows of teeth.

From the southwest, a seaplane droned two hundred yards above the choppy waves. Pilot watched the water to his left. Co-pilot scanned to his front and the right. They were the only crewmembers so as to conserve fuel and lengthen their search time. Two large thermoses of coffee kept eyes from closing.

"Hey, there's something down there!"

"Where?" The pilot craned his neck.

"Three o'clock."

The pilot shifted his eyes to the blue skies to their front. "Okay. I'll do a 180 so we can take a closer look." He banked the plane to the right. After completing a long, lazy about face, he dropped the plane to fifty yards above the water. "Looks like a whole bunch of somethings."

The co-pilot focused his binoculars on what he had reported two minutes earlier. "Dolphins! A whole raft load of them!" He cursed.

The pilot shrugged and climbed back to 200 yards above the Pacific. He scanned the gauges. "We're down to half a tank. Time to head back to base."

"Yeah. I guess so. Too bad we couldn't find that sailor."

"The word I heard was that the guy was a grunt who went missing off of some transport ship."

"Oh. Maybe he should've signed up for the Army-Air Force instead. No way those Jap torpedoes or kamikaze pilots can get to you way up here in the wild blue yonder."

The pilot laughed. "Maybe so. But those Zeroes sure can do some damage." He ran his hand over the patched cockpit, which had been riddled by enemy bullets three times and then stretched his left leg, through which one of the bullets had traveled. Since then the leg either ached or throbbed, depending on the temperature and humidity.

At first Jason thought the seaplane was a bird. But when it passed overhead 800 yards to his left he heard its twin engines. Too weak to wave his arms, he yelled at his rescuers instead. "Hey! Over here! About time you flyboys showed up."

But the plane droned back to base, search and rescue slowly ending after two days of trying to spot a tiny dot in a sea of blue that stretched to every horizon. After the first three hours of staring at the water and listening to the engines' nonstop drone, even the best of searchers were lulled into a state of being semi-hypnotized. As the plane continued to shrink back to what looked like a bird, Jason ran out of time to curse, cry, or pray. Now he was in the middle of the dolphins' pod. One of its more inquisitive members bumped him with his long nose. The fins of his fellow dolphins terrified Jason.

"Ahh! Sharks!" Every story Jason had heard about the predators and the mangled remains recovered after one of their feeding frenzies paraded through his sleep-deprived mind. Some of the storytellers claimed it was better to take in lungs-full of water and drown than be torn limb from limb by razor sharp teeth. "Oh, God! Please let it be over quick!"

Fear, dehydration, and mania quickly exhausted the last of his reserves and he slipped into semi-consciousness. For the next hour, the most rambunctious of the dolphins played a game of water polo by using Jason as a ball. Their goal was a small island two miles distant; one that Jason would have passed by if not for the impromptu game. The dolphins decided the game was over when they left their unconscious ball 120 yards from shore. Three-foot waves pushed Jason onto the beach.

***

"You've got to snap out of it, boy! I can't have any of my crew walking around like zombies all the time. You'll either get yourself or the rest of us killed. It's been weeks now since you lost your best friend. War is nasty. I've lost more friends since Pearl Harbor than I have fingers." Captain Uley sat. "Coffee?"

"No, thanks."

"You gave that up, too? You still doing penance because you think your method of winning at cards killed him?"

"No. I guess coffee just doesn't taste as good anymore is all."

"I need your help, son."

He raised his head further. This was the first time in almost two years of service to Captain Uley that he had heard such a request, or from any superior officer for that matter.

"Yes, sir?"

"What do you know about atomic bombs?"

"Not a whole lot. I took physics in college. That professor lectured a lot about Einstein's theory of energy. He talked like he actually understood it. Einstein was his patron saint."

"Do you think the ones we dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki really did as much damage as the reports we've heard about? It doesn't seem possible for just two bombs to destroy two whole cities."

"I don't know. I..." He looked down at the floor again.

"Stay with me, ensign. No drifting off back into your dream world. In another couple of days we'll be docking in Nagasaki. I'm going to send you ashore to visit at least one of those two cities that we blew to kingdom come with those atomic bombs just so you can see what happened first hand."

"But why, sir?"

"Word is that they're going to be doing some more tests on atomic bombs now that the war is all over. They're going to need more than a few Navy ships for it from what I've been told by the Admiral. It would mean that you would have to extend for a while; my guess is probably for a year. Best I can tell it would be best for you to do it."

"Extend? Why me? I just want to go home. Isn't that all everybody wants to do now?"

"Ensign Rhinehardt, you're still a certified basket case. I've seen what you're going through happen to at least twenty of my men during this war. You need time to pull yourself back together. You're not Humpty Dumpty. You're a man. But you still are probably going to need a whole lot of time judging by the way you've been acting. You're even losing weight."

"I am?"

"Yes. Look, I'm telling you all this as a friend. I can't order you to extend but I think you really need to decompress slowly back into being a civilian. Lord only knows you're not meant to make the Navy a career. But to be fair I want you to see the aftermath of an A-bomb before you decide one way or the other on whether to extend."

***

Kong had been the first one to welcome Jason to Monkey Island. When he did, the rest of his troop screeched and hollered warnings to not get close to the species that had kidnapped their ancestors from lush jungle filled with many fruits and then abandoned them on this tiny island of sand and coral.

In the 1800s a Spanish galleon sailing from Mexico to the Philippines had made an unscheduled stop on the island to conduct a funeral. Diego Luis Salvador Esperanza Vargas' appendix had burst during the voyage. Try as he might, the ship's surgeon's operation failed to save him. Diego's wife Lucia blanched at the thought of her husband being buried at sea until the captain agreed to put ashore for a burial. "Oh thank you, captain! Now the fishes won't eat my husband." She left the two monkeys her husband had bought in Mexico on the island because, "they serve no other purpose than reminding me of my dearly departed Diego."

A male and female, the monkeys survived on the coconuts and breadfruit that grew high up in the trees. They formed a loose alliance with birds that nested in them. Together, they battled rats, the only other mammals that inhabited the island. Survivors, the rats would scale the trees in search of eggs, baby birds, and later on, baby monkeys to devour. But the growing band of monkeys hated the vermin and enjoyed knocking them to the ground. After high tides receded, the rats gobbled up anything edible left on the beaches. Always resourceful, the rats dug up Diego's corpse and feasted on it. Crabs that came ashore at high tide finished off what little the rats left.

Generations of monkeys later and two years before PFC Jason Dalrumple washed up on shore, a PT boat crew had been temporarily marooned on the island. A squadron of Japanese Zeroes used the PT boat for target practice until it ran aground on a reef a hundred yards from the nearest beach. The crew spent two weeks on the island before being spotted by a flight of P-47 Thunderbolts who were returning to base. What first drew the American pilots' attention was the lone Zero that was strafing the island. Two of the P-47s peeled off from their formation and approached the Zero from ten o'clock high and two o'clock high, the favorite tactic of their two pilots. Whenever they did so, the enemy aircraft in their sights was caught in a deadly crossfire and either ended up as a statistic painted on the sides of the Thunderbolts or if lucky, limped back to base.

After sending the flaming Zero into the Pacific, the two pilots buzzed the island to see why the enemy aircraft had strafed it. When the surviving PT boat crew waved from a beach, the two P-47 pilots dipped their planes' wings in response and radioed base to launch a rescue of the survivors. Later, one of the pilots died during the liberation of the Philippines, the other went to work for the airlines after the war ended and retired from the cockpits of Boeing 707s.

The monkeys on the island rejoiced at the rescue of the PT boat crew's survivors, who had overstayed their welcome by hunting down some of its inhabitants. Eleven of the monkeys died as hungry sailors shot them for the meat on their bones. That was why the remaining troop of simians chattered and screeched fiercely as Kong approached the waterlogged Jason, who lay unconscious on the beach and bruised from the dolphins' game of water polo.

One yelled at Kong in the language understood by their kind. The noise partially roused Jason. He thought he heard the monkey say, "Don't do it! He looks like those who killed and ate some of us. The two-legged creatures are worse than the rats."

Convinced he had been sentenced to a netherworld where animals ruled over humans, Jason let his head plop back on the wet sand and drifted back into unconsciousness. The monkeys continued their chatter.

Kong ignored them. Innately curious, he had to know if the human in their midst was alive and what treasures he had brought to Monkey Island. Kong noticed one of the man's pockets bulged so he slid his paw into it and retrieved $207 in U.S. paper currency soaked in saltwater. The bills tasted bland so Kong spit out what he had bitten off and took the money to the troop, which quickly tore the ones, fives, tens, and twenties into bits as they fought over the booty. Their pandemonium caused the invader to stir.

"Water...got to have water."

The movement and words caused the monkeys who had ventured within ten feet of Jason to scatter as they renewed their warnings to Kong.

Kong retreated five paces but the man's pleading expression made him linger.

"Water...water."

Kong understood the repeated word to mean breadfruit. So he scampered to the nearest tree, climbed it, and knocked a plump breadfruit to the ground. Then he rolled it to Jason's side. The fall had split the ripe fruit and the smell of the pulp wafted up the famished man's nose. He forced his body into a sitting position and scooped the mushy pulp into his mouth. Ten minutes later the only creature on the island willing to help him rolled a coconut to him. Jason smashed it on the largest rock within reach until he could drain its liquid through a crack into his parched mouth. Revived somewhat, he turned to his new friend and named him.

"Thanks, Kong." Jason finished breaking the coconut into pieces. He tossed a chunk to Kong and they gnawed at the white flesh of the nut. The monkey liked this human, the first who had not tried to shoot him so that he could be barbequed on a spit.

He chattered to his troop that this human was different.

Jason watched the monkeys communicating. "Yeah, you're Kong all right. The king of Monkey Island. So what's it like living here? Any friendly natives around, Kong?"

Kong cocked his head.

"You know. Me Tarzan. You Kong. Where's Jane?" Jason traced the outline of the female of his species.

Kong scratched his head.

"Never mind. I got to figure out how best to get off of this piece of rock." As Jason stood, Kong ran back to his own kind. "See you later, Kong." He waved. "Find water first." He repeated the Professor's words. "You can last for weeks without food but only days without water. Shoot, what I wouldn't give for a K-ration right now."

Ah, K-rations, color coded meals known the world over to GI Joes. Brown boxes were for breakfast, the green ones for supper, and blue boxes for dinner. Yummy for your tummy. That is if you're stuck on some island in the middle of the Pacific and they are the only food available. Take your pick: canned meat, biscuits, cereal bars, powdered coffee, fruit bars, chewing gum, sugar, cheese product, bouillon, candy. Yes sir, complete meals in a box with wooden spoons, water-purification tablets, can openers, cigarettes, and matches, what more could you ask for? The supper boxes even came with toilet paper. Did not need it too often though because the tropical heat dehydrated you so much that regular bowel movements became a thing of the past. Jason had considered writing the War Department to include laxative in the K-rations but his lieutenant had refused to find out the address of the Pentagon.

Walking the perimeter of the island took a half hour. During his trek, Jason spotted the hulk of the PT boat, abandoned after it had been officially classified as "not worth repairing" by a salvage crew sent to recover it. The sight of it removed only a little of the aloneness that he felt. If push comes to shove, I can use wood from it to start a big enough fire to bring a rescue ship or plane to save me. Tired after his hike and still hungry, he hunted for coconuts that had fallen to the ground. After finding and eating two of them, he sat down to "think this thing through." That was what Pop had always said: "Son, remember the four Ts whenever you get yourself into a fix. Think the thing through before you do anything dumb. If you don't, I can guarantee that you'll end up regretting whatever you end on up doing."

While in the water, Jason had mostly prayed for the first twelve hours. When the hallucinations set in he talked more than he prayed. Now he was no longer in danger of drowning, being eaten by sharks or barracudas or getting stung by jellyfish or devil rays but still had to be careful not to walk barefoot in the water because stepping on a stonefish could be fatal. That went for walking barefoot on the coral on dry land or in the water as well because the infections from the cuts would kill him also, only a lot more slowly than sharks, barracudas, or stonefish. His feet still protected by his boots, he reverted to thinking. As usual, he searched for a cause to his problem. How did I get into this mess in the first place?

Maybe it was the Professor's fault, him and his method of remembering which cards had been dealt from the deck of fifty-two. "If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is," Mom had always said. But getting to keep two of every three dollars won at blackjack and only paying the Professor one out of three dollars was a dream come true. Besides, he even fronted the initial gambling money from his bigger paycheck.

Oh, their relationship had all started out innocently enough. At first they just talked about the war. The Professor figured it would take "at least 500,000 and maybe as many as a million men to invade Japan. Look at how many it took to invade Normandy," he had said. "And that was just to finish off Hitler's armies. But these Japs are different. They don't care if they live or die. I figure at least a twenty to fifty percent casualty rate for us when we go ashore in Japan. They even got two-man mini-subs that are nothing more than oversized torpedoes. Lord only knows how many of those they'll throw at our ships when we get close to Japan."

Mini-subs? Ha? You Navy swabbies got it easy. Try coming ashore with us instead of sitting offshore in your nice warm boats with your warm chow. As usual, you Navy boys will be safe and happy as a clam watching all the action from what you call your battle stations. Oh, all right, I forgot. You take your lumps, too, I guess. Some of you poor saps have to drive the LSTs to take us and the tanks and the trucks ashore. Then there's your crazy pilots that fly off of the carriers. Those guys are nuts! Who ever heard of landing a plane on a flattop that's bouncing up and down and side and side, much less taking off from one? And don't forget the Seabees. Man, can those guys build things. I ought to know because my old man works construction. He wouldn't believe his eyes the way they throw up buildings and scratch out airfields on chunks of coral that don't look big enough for any plane to land or take off from. Invade Japan? It'll be the marines who go in first, as usual. Semper fi, first to die. Make the folks back home start to cry. Then us grunts will go in next singing:

Over hill,

Over dale,

The Japs hit us without fail

As the dogfaces go rolling along.

With a hi, hi, hee,

They kill us with glee

And banzai their way to glory!

Think this thing through. You were right, Pop. The more I think about it the less I like the sounds of it. Don't forget I enlisted the day after Pearl Harbor got blown to hell. We got guys back on that boat who've only been GIs for less than a year. 'Cruits is what we call them, short for recruits. There's got to be at least one of them willing to die in my place when we invade Japan.

Come to think about it, what about the Professor and those other college boys? They told him to finish up college first. That way he didn't have to put on his uniform until the summer of 1942. Me? I was on a ship headed across the Pacific by that time. Lord, have mercy; I can't even remember the names of all the islands we took away from the Japs. The worst of all was the Philippines. Too many damn civilians and prisoners of war that you had to be careful not to kill. How are you supposed to liberate an island as big as Leyte or Mindanao or Luzon when it's crawling with civilians? Oh, sure. They were sure glad to see us. "Hey, Joe! Hey, Joe!" That's all we heard for months and months. But the worst of it was seeing the dead prisoners there in Manila. No, I take that back. Even worse than that was the big POW camp north of Manila where they held all the American troops that survived after the Japs invaded the Philippines. The ones that survived? They looked to be more dead than alive to me. God, I still hate thinking about their stories about that death march from Bataan. If any of them fell down or lagged behind they stuck them with their bayonets or cut off their heads probably just to save bullets! From what I saw at that POW camp, there were more graves than survivors. You're right. Thanks, Pop. You told me life is all about being a survivor.

One of Mom's admonitions surfaced: "If you get in a fix, Jason, pray."

He prayed aloud, certain God was more likely to hear him. "Our Father, Who art in Heaven..." By the time he had prayed "Thy will be done..." he stopped. Wait a minute, is it God's will I die in this stinking war or that I survive it somehow?

A day and night of thinking slowly convinced Jason that any rescue of him would only serve to make him part of the invasion of Japan, which in turn might make him a part of a telegram sent back home informing his family that "We regret to inform you..." Or maybe they'll send out one or two guys in their Class-A dress uniforms to tell Mom and Pop in person. All that's left to do after that is to switch the blue star flag in the window to a red star flag. That way anybody passing by the house will know I'm not coming back.

No thanks, President Truman and Uncle Samuel. I think I'll sit the big one out. Let's see now. The Professor said it would probably take another year for the war to finally end. He turned and etched the date into the trunk of an eighty-foot tall breadfruit tree: 8/7/45. Tomorrow he would make a notch, followed by one for each succeeding day. When he reached four notches, on the fifth day he planned to scratch a diagonal line through the first four. On and on the notches would continue until...Let's see, what's 365 divided by five...He did the math by using the sand as a tablet and his finger as a pencil. Okay, seventy-three groups of five days and then I'll build the bonfire so they can come and finally rescue my sorry butt. Until then, it's me and Kong against the world. I've had a bellyful of killing Japs while they try to kill me back. I wonder if they ever get to feeling the same way about us?

He looked up at the cloudless sky. "Sorry, God. Guess I'm too afraid to really find out what Your will is."
Chapter 4

"...kechenoiah!"

Glossolalia, speaking in tongues. Mrs. Sally Rhinehardt was okay with it, as long as it was confined to the first century Christians uttering an unknown language. But today was September 1, 1945, for goodness sakes. And this was a memorial service for dearly departed PFC Jason Dalrumple, lost at sea in the Pacific sometime during the first weeks of August. No one was certain of the exact date back here at home because the military could be pretty tight-lipped about details that might endanger strategies, missions, and troops. "Loose lips sink ships," the poster downtown at the theater had read. The fact that Jason was dead and gone would have to suffice. Sally had heard stories about holy rollers, Pentecostals who supposedly swung from the light fixtures, rolled on the ground, and spoke in tongues, languages unknown to both speaker and hearer alike. The strange words just spoken unnerved her. Not only because they were unknown but also because she was unknown in this strange church.

I knew I shouldn't have come. I only did because Fred wrote that I should go and represent him. No one ever told me that they speak in tongues even at their memorial services.

Growing up in Kentucky, she had been exposed to Catholics, Hard Shell Baptists, Presbyterians, Methodists, and even snake-handling churches where one's faith was proven by the number of rattlesnakes one picked up during the services. But Pentecostals? "No thank you," had always been Sally's refrain. "They're just so boastful about their being filled with the Holy Ghost. They make the rest of us Christians sound like second-class believers in Jesus," she had said whenever the subject was discussed.

Sally scanned the pews for a familiar face and counted two she knew from the factory where all three worked. She stopped counting when the lady in front of her popped up like a clown released from a jack in the box. Sally's breath caught in her throat as she leaned as far back in her pew as possible to distance herself from the one to her front.

"Do not grieve for your son. Even now he lives." The jack in the box lady settled back into her pew.

A kind-looking woman who sat next to Sally reached over and patted her hand. "Don't worry, honey. That's the interpretation, dear," she whispered. "First the utterance in tongues, followed by the interpretation. Everything done decently and in order, just like the Bible says it ought to be."

Sally mouthed a "thank you" to her as the pastor continued his homage.

"Thank you, Lord. Yes, Jason Dalrumple lives on in heaven above where he dwells forever and ever in the presence of his Lord Jesus Christ." He paused. "Sister Gonzalez will now lead us in a final hymn." He nodded to the organist, who hit the first notes of What a Friend We Have in Jesus.

Sally waited in the pew for a few moments so she would be the last one to shake the hands of the family who stood by the door. At least that way I won't have to hang around very long and make small talk. Down the line she went, meeting Jason's parents, two brothers, and two sisters. Outside in the parking lot, she met Thelma Pollack, until now only a face from work.

"Don't you work at the factory, too?" Thelma asked.

"Yes. I thought I recognized you from somewhere. So did you know Jason?"

"Yeah. We were engaged." She shrugged and held up her unadorned left hand. "He never even got around to getting me a ring before he shipped out. Typical Jason. Where'd you know him from?"

"I didn't. But he was a real good friend of my husband, Fred Rhinehardt. They met on Fred's boat."

"The Professor? Yeah, Jason wrote me all about him. You had any lunch yet?"

"No."

"The Dalrumples invited me to the reception but I made up an excuse to get out of it." She sighed. "They even wanted me to stand in line with them and shake everybody's hand but I talked my way out of that too. Don't you hate funerals? They're too depressing."

"Why don't we go over to Tom's Diner? The food's not too bad."

"Okay. Mind if I catch a ride with you? Jason's brother brought me to the service but he's already trying to move in on me now that Jason's gone."

"Sure. Let's go."

Sally pointed at her 1933 Chevy sedan. A gift from her father, it was dented from a lot miles traveled on rough roads but reliable enough to survive parts shortages caused by war rationing. Thelma appreciated her deliverance from the Dalrumple clan so she offered to buy Sally's lunch. They ordered a basket of fried shrimp, a chocolate malted milk, and a soft drink from one of Thelma's pals she had met in high school.

"Sorry to hear about Jason, Thelma." The waitress shoved her pencil through her hair and onto her ear. "I was going to come to the service today but my boss wouldn't let me have the day off."

"That's okay, Wanda."

"Be right back with your order."

Thelma ate her shrimp plain; Sally drenched hers in catsup.

"You're not from around here, huh?" Thelma drained the last of her soda.

"No. I'm from Kentucky originally. I just moved out here because a cousin told me there was work at the factory."

"Yeah. We got a lot of folks moving here for work once the factory got orders to supply the military. I sort of could tell by the way you talk that you weren't from around here. You going to be moving back home to Kentucky after Fred gets back from the war?"

"I don't want to. There's not much in the way of work there. Daddy's just a dirt farmer. Most of the boys in those parts work in the mines or the sawmills. At least they did before they all went off to the war."

"So, how'd you meet Fred?"

"I took a trip up to Ohio with my mom to see her folks. Fred was back home there on vacation from college. I met him at a dance. We started writing each other and got married before he left for San Francisco to ship out."

Thelma sighed. "Well, at least he's romantic. You're lucky. All the Dalrumple boys are sticks in the mud. I only dated Jason because he's a really hard worker. His brothers like to honky-tonk and fight too much. You like working at the factory?"

"Yes. All except for..."

"Darryl."

Sally laughed. "How'd you know?"

"He flirts with me too. Just like he does with most women. He's a jerk. He thinks he's God's gift to women. He's been that way ever since high school."

"Just between you and me, I complained to Mr. Monroe about Darryl and guess what?"

"What?"

"Darryl's left me alone ever since. He gives me the cold shoulder now, which is fine with me."

"You're kidding! I think I'll have a talk with Mr. Monroe during my next shift. Well, we best get going. I promised my mother I'd be home to help her fix supper. You like stew and biscuits?" Thelma placed a dollar on top of the bill.

"Yes. I sure miss my mom's cooking."

"You got some change for a tip? All I have on me is this last dollar bill."

"Sure." Sally tossed a dime and nickel on top of the dollar.

"Why don't you come along home with me? It's nice having someone to talk to. Real nice. I've been kind of lonely ever since Jason died. Him coming back here was what kept me going. I could use a friend like you right about now."
Chapter 5

For three years, Ensign Rhinehardt had spent more time on ships than on land. So going ashore, even on a conquered nation's land, was welcomed. Memories of the damage he had seen inflicted on islands by conventional bombing and shelling had convinced him that dropping atomic bombs on two cities instead of invading what would have been by far the most heavily defended island yet was probably the best choice that President Truman could have made. As he walked down the gangplank he wondered what FDR would have decided.

Once ashore, he met his driver and they drove from the harbor toward what was left of Nagasaki. At first, the ensign studied the occupation force of marines and army sent to ensure order while politicians and diplomats sorted out the details that accompany surrenders and treaties. But when he came within viewing distance of the epicenter of where the atomic bomb had exploded he started to wonder what the scientists back home had released.

"Sort of spooky, huh?" His army driver asked. "I got the same look on my face you have the first time I saw all the damage. But you get used to it."

The jeep could only penetrate the fringes of the destruction because too much rubble – chunks of concrete, splintered wood, and fused pieces of matter – still blocked many of the roads. So Ensign Rhinehardt asked the driver to park the jeep. He explored the remains of the city on foot while the driver stayed with the jeep and smoked cigarettes. By the time the ensign returned, a cluster of children had surrounded the jeep and driver. They begged shamelessly.

"Hey, GI, you got chocolate?"

"No, kid."

"Candy?"

"No."

"Gum?"

"Beat it."

"Cigarette?"

The flustered corporal flipped his half-finished stick of tobacco at the children's feet. They pounced on it and each other. The oldest, a girl, emerged from the pile-on smoking it. She blew a smoke ring at her benefactor.

"You nice GI. You come meet sister. You like." She shook her hips, which made those around her point and giggle.

The driver hopped into the jeep and started it. "What are you going to do with people like that? They're hopeless. I write home and tell my folks and girl but they don't understand. Where to now, sir?"

His passenger stared at him blankly.

"How about the hospital where they treat the survivors?"

"Okay."

At the hospital the driver went through half a pack of Lucky Strikes before his charge finally emerged from the building. "I was getting ready to send out a search party for..." He stopped joking as the ensign vomited on the jeep's front right tire and fender. The driver helped him into the passenger's seat. "Sorry sir, I..."

"That's okay. You have anything to drink?"

"Yes, sir." He tossed equipment around until he found a canteen behind the driver's seat. "It might give you the runs because you're not used to the water around here yet. But it's all there is." He handed the metal container to him.

After rinsing out his mouth, he drank slowly from the canteen as the jeep lurched into gear. "Any place else left to see?"

The driver backed up his jeep. "Yeah. Smitty's lab."

"Lab? Is he a scientist?"

"No, sir. He's just a jarhead photographer, but a really good one. I drove him around when he took photos of the city shortly after the bomb was dropped. He runs a photo lab."

Smitty was out on an assignment but his clerk proved helpful. "You're in luck, ensign. Smitty's the best photographer in all of the Marine Corps. You'll see." He handed him an eight-inch thick stack of photos. "I wouldn't be surprised if he gets a job with some big city newspaper or one of those weekly magazines when he gets out."

The jeep driver smoked his remaining cigarettes while he waited. When his passenger rejoined him there was no new vomit or apology for soiling his vehicle, only appreciation.

"Thank you, corporal." He held onto the windshield with his right hand to brace himself against the jolts as the jeep's tires hit potholes and debris.

"For what, sir?"

"For helping me understand what really happened here last month."

"Just trying to do my job, sir."

His passenger turned toward him. The ensign's smile was gone, along with a piece of his easy-going disposition. "Have you seen those pictures?" He jerked his thumb behind his shoulder toward the photo lab.

"Sir, I was there when he took them. I really don't want to look again." He threw the remnant of his last cigarette onto the street. "You got a cigarette I can bum off of you, sir? I'm all out."

"Sure." He handed him an unopened pack that he had planned to trade on the black market. "Keep them."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Tell me something. Those photos of the bodies that looked like burnt up marshmallows, were there many bodies like that?"

"Only close in where the bomb hit, sir. They were the lucky ones. You got to see the unlucky ones back there at the hospital. So far, they've taken hours, days, or weeks to die. God only knows how long it'll take the ones you saw in there to die. Who knows? Maybe months. Maybe even years. I try not to think about it."
Chapter 6

"Ah, comrade Yankhov, come in. Sit down."

"Thank you, comrade."

Major Tsavich lit a cigarette and sat behind his desk, which he used more as a pulpit than to do the piles of paperwork that were stacked high atop it. "Want one?" He reached across the desk so that three of the cigarettes protruded from their package.

"No thank you, comrade."

Major Tsavich studied his subject. Although she was a civilian, in his eyes that meant any such were even more under his control. Soldiers he simply ordered executed; civilians, well, they could be made to talk through "physical means of persuasion" that lasted for days if it was administered to his satisfaction and specifications. "It's a shame, comrade."

"What?"

"That you are just a scientist instead of a soldier."

"I can't help it. I was rejected from serving for the Motherland during the war."

"No matter. You serve Russia best as a scientist. That is why you are being transferred to work on the same kind of weapon that the Americans used to destroy Japan."

"What?"

"I need not remind you that your work is top secret. You can talk about it to no one other than your fellow scientists whom you will be meeting three weeks from now."

"But where..."

"That too, is secret. You will be told after you spend some time in Moscow getting acquainted with them. You will travel to your assignment together. In the meantime, I suggest you return home for a visit. It may be some time before you can visit there again." He motioned that the meeting was ended as he picked up his phone.

Return home? To what? First Comrade Stalin starves millions from my homeland to death. That killed off momma. Then he purges the officers' ranks of the army. That killed off cousin Alexi and Uncle Boris. Next he had his secret police shoot civilians, millions of them. I bet he only ordered that stopped because the army was running out of bullets and Hitler was making Uncle Joe sweat bullets of his own. So what does Comrade Stalin do? Sign a pact with the Fuhrer, just like that fool Englishman Chamberlain did. Let's see, who else died as a result of the war that Stalin promised us would never happen because of his wonderful diplomacy with the Nazis? Brothers Joseph and Yuri. Wasn't it enough to have Momma and Poppa name Joseph after you, Comrade Stalin? How nice of you to allow me to return home for a visit before I spend years helping to build our version of the atomic bomb, most of which will come from whatever we can steal from the Allies. I'll give you this much, Uncle Joe; you have the best spy network in the world. Hitler and his Gestapo and SS were a bunch of pikers by comparison.

The major's secretary disturbed Yankhov's thoughts. "Comrade Yankhov, here is your ticket. Your train leaves at 8:30 tonight. Have a nice trip." She lowered her voice as she handed over the ticket. "I've enjoyed working with you."

Arkhip Yankhov nodded. "Your assistance has been most appreciated, comrade." Arkhip wanted to hug the secretary but feared doing so. Oh, nothing would happen to Arkhip. She was too valuable a scientist. But secretaries are worth a ruble a dozen. Someone no doubt would see the display of affection and report it to the major.

He would put two and two together and conclude that at least two under his authority had greater loyalty to each other than they did toward Father Stalin and Mother Russia. Then his thought processes would begin to turn just as they did in the millions of party members who ran the USSR, each of them a miniature Stalin: Traitors who had hugged one another! But how great was their treachery? If Stalin had ordered the assassination of Trotsky while he was in exile in Mexico, then no enemy of the state can be allowed to remain free. Ferreting out traitors took the skill of the NKVD. Let them purge the less than loyal workers of our marvelous Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Now that the war is over surely there are enough bullets to spare for use on our own people once again. Such a shame! Why would anyone question our great all-knowing leader as Marx's vision of a world ruled by communism comes to fruition? Just look at how much our influence has spread now that WW II has ended. Oh, it was touch and go there toward the end. That crazy General George Patton wanted to battle us after he took care of Hitler's Wehrmacht, SS, and all those dumb countries allied with him and his doomed from the beginning Third Reich. But as usual, our fourth column saved the day for us, the useful idiots scattered throughout the Americas, Europe, and Asia who act as apologists for communism. Now there are our real comrades, toiling day by day in the newspapers, magazines, and on radio, at the universities and colleges, and every level of government, marching ever forward to deliver their countries over to us as well. Take your time dear useful idiots, it's no hurry. We have our hands full. How do we love the Allies? Let us count the ways. They gave us half of Germany, and all of Poland, Czechoslovakia, Romania, Hungary, Yugoslavia...the list goes on. How fortunate that we cut the deal for them while FDR was still alive. That gruff-looking Truman might not have been so generous. Wasn't he so very willing to use the atomic bomb on civilians? That's enough to scare us to ramp up our research for our own arsenal of atomic weapons. It was Kant and Nietzsche and all those wonderful German theologians telling the unwashed masses that "God is dead" over and over until they finally believed it. Now if Hitler had just been content to make the Fatherland Germany's God, he could have won, or at least still be fighting on instead of just a pile of burned bones after his followers burned him outside the bunker. But what does the Dumkopf do instead? He revives the paganism of Germany from long ago. Maybe he liked what Jung says about people being inherently religious – that you can take the people out of the religion but not the religion out of the people? Maybe Herr Hitler thought that if his pagan ancestors could defeat the Romans he could do the same by having his hordes of Huns swear allegiance to him instead of the Fatherland? Religion? The opiate of the masses as Brother Marx put it. Why is it that almost thirty years after our glorious revolution to overthrow the Czar that some still cling to their God and their Bible? Oh, well. Czar Nicholas' wife had Rasputin the mad monk so is it any wonder that some still cling to Jesus Christ instead of our centralized socialist state that dictates every part of daily life and death? Who knows? Perhaps a stay in Siberia will bring such fools to their senses.

Arkhip caught her train promptly at 8:30 that evening. She knew better than to tarry. The major probably had ordered at least one man to watch and see whether she did. Perhaps another would follow her home to make sure she did not disembark the train before her prescribed destination. Then a third would monitor her visit just to ensure where her loyalties truly lay. Can't be too safe these days. The word is that Uncle Joe, Comrade Stalin, has taken to sleeping in a different room at the Kremlin each night. Is that what happens when you rule as emperor for too long over a kingdom of your own making? Do you just become one of Shakespeare's sorry characters, perhaps Hamlet, Macbeth, or Julius Caesar? Truth is stranger than fiction. Look at Mussolini, hung upside down like an Italian sausage along with his mistress by his own people after they shot them full of holes. What ungrateful, unloyal citizens they proved to be. At least Il Duce made the trains runs on time or so they claim.

More of a time of closure than vacation, Arkhip's days spent at home passed too quickly for her, "just a slight parole from my life sentence in Uncle Joe's vast prison system" she said to her father when she was certain no one could eavesdrop. Poor Father. Ever since Mother's death he had begun a long, slow slide toward his own departure from this life for the next. Yes, he still clung to the God of his youth, though secretly of course. But now that his brothers and sons had been swallowed up along with the other tens of millions whom WW II had taken forever from Russia he seemed not to care what happened to him.

Arkhip extracted a last oath from him the night before she left for Moscow. "Promise me that you won't say or do something just so you can be a martyr." She cried when he nodded and gently said he loved her but loved Jesus Christ even more.
Chapter 7

Life had at last reverted into a routine for Jason at his new home on Monkey Island. The first two weeks had been spent settling in by building shelter and a small reservoir for rain water and cannibalizing the PT boat for usable materials. With no belongings other than his life jacket, waterlogged wallet, dog tags, and uniform to take care of, his life had become simpler but more complex as well.

He placed the jacket on a wire suspended between two trees to protect it from the rats, which loved to gnaw on any object that could be carried away in bits to feather their nests. Whenever Jason looked at the vest that had kept him afloat for two days, he thought of the Professor because he was the one who had convinced him to wear it at all times: "You see, Jason, when a ship goes down there might not be enough time to put your life jacket on and still make it off of the boat in time. Let's say some torpedo hits us at night. You're asleep in your rack. By the time you wake up, put on your vest, and head for deck, the ship has begun to list. You're fighting a hundred other guys to go through hatches and upstairs so some of you won't make it and go down with the ship. But if you wear it while you're sleeping, you're one of the very first ones up on deck. You jump overboard and have enough time to swim away from the ship before it blows up or sucks you under the water as it goes down. Captain Uley told me all about the time his carrier sank." Jason kept it nearby in case the kind of typhoon that could make an entire island disappear came his way. He figured Monkey Island was as risk of that because it was the smallest island he had ever seen in his years of traveling the South Pacific.

He was now grateful for earlier contacts with native Polynesians on other islands where he had gone ashore from his troop transport after they had been taken from the Japanese. One had shown him the many uses of breadfruit, including using it as caulking on boats. Remembering the Professor's admonition of "you're dead meat without fresh water," Jason had dug a shallow pit next to his lodging constructed of plywood from the PT boat and covered with palm branches sent to the ground during storms. His shelter was a lean-to propped up next to the trunk of largest tree on the island. He lined the pit with stones and filled the spaces between them with breadfruit caulking.

Whenever it rained, the pit collected enough water to usually last until the next rainfall. During dry spells, Jason drank water from coconuts. They and breadfruit quickly became the staples for his meals. After his diet proved too monotonous, Jason used another technique gleaned from a Polynesian. He dug pits along the nearby beach, lined them with rocks, caulked the spaces with his homemade goop, and waited for high tides. They delivered an assortment of fish. Because Rule Number 1 was to have no fire that might draw the attention of a passing ship or plane or native in an outrigger canoe, Jason cleaned the fish and cooked them on coral that absorbed and reflected solar heat. His days passed without incident. But the nights were altogether different.

Until now, Jason's life had consisted of the next landing. Forget all the previous ones. Only the next one mattered in the grand design of things because it might be your last if you were not careful. Now isolated with no invasion of Japan on his schedule to burden him, Jason found his repressed memories came to life nightly in his dreams.

The dreams were usually a variation on a theme: Up before dawn. Check your gear. Receive your ammo and K-rations. Clutch your M-1 and pile into the Higgins Boats or whatever landing craft the Navy had at hand. Listen to the final shells fly overhead as the battleships and cruisers rained down hell from heaven above on the Jap fortifications and pray that every last one of those explosive projectiles were direct hits because if they were not, there was always hell to pay once you hit the beach. Damn Japs. Sometimes they had guns or mortars that could put shells on you before you even made it to shore.

Worst-case scenario for that was the landing craft sinking and most of us drowning because our packs, boots, and uniforms were never meant for swimming to shore. Best-case scenario? The shell hits the landing craft and its shrapnel tears into one, two, who knows how many guys. Some die instantly. Others bleed out slowly even though the medics scramble to save them. The lucky ones get that magical "million-dollar wound" that is just serious enough to buy you a one-way ticket home. Oh, maybe it means going home minus a hand, foot, arm, leg, or part or your insides but at least you get to spend some time there instead of ending up buried on one of the worthless islands that the Japs are so desperate to die for and that we are willing to do the same.

So the scenes of yesterdays' battles played out nightly for Jason during his first three months on Monkey Island. Then they were magically replaced with memories of home – dreams of Mom, Pop, two sisters and three bothers. Wait a minute, what are you doing still alive, John. You're no longer with us remember? He had bought it as a waist gunner on a B-17 flying to deliver greetings to Herr Hitler and the boys in Berlin. The "Boxcar Express," that was what John had called it. "Those Messerschmidts come at us from every angle but we give 'em the gun. Truth is, the ack-ack from those monster German guns thousands of feet below us scare me worse than the enemy fighters."

The telegram did not mention if it was a fighter plane or artillery round that made John's plane explode over the outskirts of Berlin. Did it matter? According to one of John's buddies flying with the same formation, not one of the nine crew members were able to bail out of the two sections of B-17 left after the shell hit its fuselage. "It just sort of disintegrated once the fire hit the fuel tanks," he had said.

But one phantom from Jason's island landings remained – Private Robert Tinkermann, jerk extraordinaire. Because Robert's father had connections he could have kept his son from being drafted but he chose not to as a way to be rid of the spoiled brat he had helped to create. After years of little parental discipline, Robert grew to believe that the world revolved around him. As its supreme commander, he was naturally entitled to treat all who had the misfortune of meeting him as he deemed fit, at least in his own mind. He was the school bully, neighborhood bully, and family bully all rolled into one package of terror. Making the transition to Army bully had been effortless; his targets now wore green uniforms whenever he was not firing his rifle.

Killing Japs was not enough for him. He mutilated their corpses if they did not provide enough watches, rings, gold and silver fillings, and anything else of value. When the enemy was not available for him to vent his hatred, he spewed it on his fellow soldiers, especially Jason. Like most bullies, Robert could spot the most sensitive and vulnerable person in any group of people in any setting. Within his battalion that one was Jason. After learning that Jason had spent basic training at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, Robert had nicknamed him.

"So you went through Fort Leonard Wood? That makes you the peckerwood from Leonard Wood. Get it? Ha, ha, ha!"

No matter how Jason had tried to avoid his tormentor he always seemed to hunt him down. So when four rounds of machine gun fire tore through Robert's chest on some forgotten island, Jason celebrated his death. Inwardly, of course. He mourned every other brother-in-arms who fell during the war. But when it came to Robert, he gloated, rejoiced, and mocked the stiff body that would inflict no more pain. "Couldn't have happened to a more deserving person." Jason had muttered as he stopped in front of Robert's body, one of 49 lined up on the beach after the island had fallen.

But now the solitude of Monkey Island led to much reflection, which led to the conclusion that he was no better than Robert had been. So Jason held a funeral, complete with a cross anchored into the sand. He acted as minister as he prayed over the empty grave and released Robert to the state of "ashes to ashes and dust to dust." Afterwards, Robert no longer haunted his thoughts, whether Jason was awake or asleep.

By Thanksgiving week, Jason believed he had much for which to be thankful: he was avoiding the invasion of Japan, his tropical paradise supplied all of his needs except girlfriend Thelma, and Kong and he had become the best of friends. Why not? Robinson Crusoe had Friday. I have Kong. Now if I could only learn his language. I've figured out what most of his noises mean but it's a complicated language to learn to speak.

The monkey was adept at choosing the ripest coconuts and breadfruit and shaking them until they left their lofty perches forty to eighty feet above ground. Then the man always prepared enough of the fruits to satisfy both of their stomachs. Kong even developed a taste for the dried fish that Jason ate. And the rainwater from the reservoir was pure and delicious. When not eating, sleeping, or daydreaming, Jason talked to Kong. The monkey listened attentively. By Christmas Day, Kong had abandoned his troop for the camp of The Man Who Does Not Eat Us, his name for the strange human so unlike those who had preceded him on the island. The following day Jason included Kong in his first re-enactment of one of the hundreds of movies he had seen since five years of age – King Kong.

At first, Jason had watched the silent films from the balconies of the two movie theaters downtown. Then he befriended the projectionist at one movie house and watched at least one a week for free from the projection room. He learned that others considered the old man eccentric. After the "talkies" took movies to another level with sound, seven-year-old Jason watched Mr. Gentry become even stranger as he appeared to carry on conversations with himself. Only Jason understood that he was repeating dialog memorized from the films he threaded into the projector and then watched four to six times a daily for days on end until the next blockbuster or B-movie took their place. A mimic, Jason memorized snippets of dialog as well. Many scenes of the movies remained embedded in his mind, which proved useful for entertainment on Monkey Island.

"Okay, Kong. I'm part of the explorers and adventurers. We've been at sea for weeks looking for the mysterious island that's always surrounded by fog. We find it. But when we go ashore on Skull Island, the natives are restless. Their welcoming committee is not very friendly. That night back aboard ship the natives show up and kidnap Fay Wray. Of course I'm Robert Armstrong, her heartthrob."

Kong blinked.

"Okay, okay, you win. She's my heartthrob. I round up the boys and we go ashore to rescue her. We know something's fishy because the natives are up on top of this wall that's at least thirty feet high and divides the entire island into two. They're beating their drums and shouting, 'Kong! Kong! Kong!'"

At the sound of his name, the monkey flipped and landed at his friend's feet.

"We climb up on top of the wall to see what's going on. There's Fay tied to two pillars. And then..." Jason pointed at Kong, who did a back flip and then stood fully erect. "And then trees come crashing down and the entire island shakes under your feet, which are bigger than a man! Finally we see you, King Kong! The King of Skull and Monkey Island!" Jason beat his chest with his fists.

Kong copied the one trick he had agreed to learn and flailed away at his chest. He added grunts and screeches to embellish his role.

"That's it! You stomp over to the beautiful Fay who is screaming in terror. Beauty and the Beast! It's too much! We can't believe our eyes..." Exhausted, Jason fell onto the sand and rolled onto his back. Kong scurried over and hopped onto his heaving chest. "Boy, some of those movies really take it out of you, Kong. Just watching them was enough to do you in. Acting them out is a whole other story. Now I finally understand why actors make so much money. It's hard work."

Kong stood up and thumped his chest to let his former troop of monkeys know who was king of Monkey Island.

"You tell them, Kong. You're number one head honcho on this island." Jason pulled him onto his shoulders, Kong's favorite resting place.

Kong had grown accustomed to his easier lifestyle. He enjoyed not having to labor breaking open coconuts or catching and drying fish. His servant Jason did it for him. Having a constant source of fresh water and a warm, dry lean-to for shelter against the rains was preferable to shivering under palm fronds in trees that bent almost to the ground in the worst storms. Besides, this human took time to interact with him. Maybe the language barrier was insurmountable but a shared sign language kept communication between monkey and man at an acceptable level. The only direct contact Kong had with his kind was if females in heat came down out of the trees. Then he would gladly mate with them to ensure a lineage that would include at least one suitable heir to become Kong II. The only times he climbed trees was to harvest breadfruit and coconuts. Even kings have to supply something to their subjects in exchange for their loyalty, Kong concluded.

The next day Jason acted out Citizen Kane, then The Phantom of the Opera, Gone with the Wind, and My Darling Clementine on each succeeding day. He always used the monkey troop as outlaws in westerns and the opposing army in war scenes. This made them hostile because his finger guns and accompanying sound effects of "Bang! Bang! Pow! Pow!" reminded them of the PT boat crew shooting at them and the smell of the roasting flesh of parents, siblings, children, and cousins that they had consumed like rats. Surely any day now they would smell Kong's flesh once the human tired of eating fruit and fish.

The first showing of The Wizard of Oz four weeks earlier had had the monkey troop clapping and screaming for more even though they were relegated to playing the Wicked Witch's troop of flying monkeys. Today's repeat performance would be shorter because Jason lacked the endurance of putting on his ninety-minute version due to continued weight loss. He had grown weary of his two-part diet of fish and fruit and now consumed about 1,000 calories a day. His body had begun to metabolize fat, muscle, and bone as a result of no more K-rations.

Jason began the re-enactment with his favorite song, one he had first heard at age sixteen in the front row of the first run of the movie in his hometown; a song that now fed him enough hope that "somewhere over the rainbow" he would at last return home to greater happiness than three years of killing and dodging bullets.

Then, scene upon scene played out until he announced to Toto, played by Kong, "Kong, I don't think we're in the Pacific anymore." When Jason pointed at the monkeys watching from the trees, they tensed as they remembered their cue from a week ago.

"Kong! It's the Flying Monkeys! The Wicked Witch of the West sent them!"

The monkeys howled and jumped from tree to tree to simulate flight. After they had delivered Jason and Kong to the Wicked Witch, they settled back into their perches to watch the last reel. Before long, Jason's cries of "I'm melting! I'm melting!" as he shrunk into a heap brought total silence to birds and monkeys alike. Much too soon, Jason was clicking the heels of his boots and saying, "There's no place like home" over and over. He then lay on his back, stared up at the clouds drifting by against the bluest sky he had yet seen, and told Kong about "home."

"It's called Madisin, Kong." Kong lay down beside his human and used his exposed ribcage as a firm pillow. "Typical small town, about 10,000 people. I was born there in 1923. When were you born?"

Kong shifted his head.

"Guess it doesn't matter. Things were okay for us for the most part. Then that depression came along when I was six. People didn't have much use for Daddy's construction business after that so he had to let all his help go. That's when he started to use me and my three brothers as helpers. They're named Leroy, John, and Ed. You got any brothers or sisters, Kong?"

Kong yawned.

"No matter. One day, old Leroy, he's the oldest, asked Daddy how much he's going to pay us and Daddy says, 'same as I been paying you since you were born – room and board and the clothes on your back.' When Leroy started to grumbling, Daddy said, 'you don't have to stay on here, son. You can join the Army or that CCC of FDR's and see the world.' So Leroy joined up with the CCC. They sent home part of his paycheck all the time but Daddy stuck it all in his safe and gave all that money back to Leroy when he quit the CCC. Daddy wouldn't stick it in a bank because he lost money when his bank shut down after there was a run on it. Then I met Thelma at high school, at a dance. Those gal monkeys you chase after do for you what Thelma does for me, Kong? I bet they do. Guess you could say Thelma stole my heart."

Kong's snoring sounded like a "yes."

Jason laughed. "So we went steady. Then the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor up real bad. I went off and joined up the next day. I'm glad I did, I guess. Otherwise I wouldn't be here shooting the breeze with you, Kong. John joined up too. He liked airplanes so he went into the Army Air Force. Momma said she was glad I kept my feet on the ground. Leroy got a deferment from the draft because he moved on up to Detroit to work at some factory that builds tanks. Ed was classified 4-F because his joints are sort of twisted up and he's got flat feet. I got two sisters too, Alice and Wilma. They'd sure get a kick out of you, Kong. I'll introduce them to you after we get ourselves rescued off of Monkey Island. Let's see." Jason counted the groups of five notches in the tree that supported the lean-to. At first he had carved each notch before he went to bed each evening. Two weeks ago, he had begun carving them when he awoke each morning. He reasoned that if he had survived the night then the rest of the day would be easy. "One hundred forty days down and 225 days left to go." He shut his eyes and joined Kong for a nap.

Sleep was even more of a friend than Kong. It alone killed the loneliness, the guilt, the hunger, at least temporarily.
Chapter 8

"I ain't in no trouble, am I boss?"

"No, George. I just have a few questions is all."

"Okay."

"Were you here in the building with Dave Freight when the Gadget was tested?"

"Well, sir, that was almost a year ago. Let's see if I can recollect..."

"I'm not concerned any about you, George. It's Dave whom I'm worried about."

"I figured as much. Now you got me to thinking that what I say to you is going to get Mr. Freight in a pile of troubles, maybe even get him fired." He blinked and rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants.

"I know I have a reputation for being a hard task master. Please believe me that I'm only doing my job."

George sighed. "I reckon so. My daddy always said being a boss man ain't no piece of cake. And he bossed people at his restaurant back there in Texas until the day he died so he should know."

"Well?"

"Yes, sir. Me and Mr. Freight were both here when they blew up that bomb."

"Did he act strangely?"

"To tell a fact, he did act sort of strange thing that day."

"Oh?"

"Yes, sir. He didn't want to look off at where you were setting off the bomb at even though I had an extra pair of dark glasses for him to put on."

"So what did he do instead?"

"He hid himself in the supply closet so's the rays from the bomb wouldn't go inside him. I didn't think it was necessary to be doing all that. But then I looked at some movie called The Invisible Ray."

"The one with Boris Karloff as the mad scientist?"

"That's the one. The way his body soaked up all those invisible rays and then anyone he touched died made me start to thinking that maybe Mr. Freight is smarter than we give him credit for."

"Did he wrap himself up in tin foil to protect himself? That's the rumor I heard. Someone found the tin foil all wadded up under his desk."

George shifted in his chair. "Am I in trouble if I tell you I helped him to do it?"

"No, of course not. I'm only trying to get the bottom of all this is all."

"Yes, sir. I helped him wrap himself up in tin foil. You think it protected him from those invisible rays that came shooting on out from that bomb?"

"The results are not in yet on all that. But we have scientists studying the survivors of the blasts at Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Eventually we'll have all the answers. Researching something so new is not easy. It has to be done slowly if we're going to get it right."

George rose to go. "I sure hope they figure all that mess out before they do any more tests around here. I got a wife and kids depending on me. I can't be having no invisible rays make me to where I can't work and support them no more. I best be getting back to work now."

"Thank you, George." He waited until the janitor had shut the door before scribbling notes: June 3, 1946. Interviewed janitor George Seymour. He confirmed that he was a witness to technician Dave Freight donning tin foil day Gadget was tested, July 1945. Follow-up interview with Freight revealed... Anxious to fill in the blanks, he buzzed his secretary. "Miss Marpler, please locate Dave Freight and send him in."

"Yes, sir." She found Dave talking to George by the water cooler, their favorite meeting place. "Mr. Freight, the boss is waiting for you."

"Okay. I'll be right there." He turned and shook George's hand. "Thanks."

"But I thought maybe I got you into a heap of heartache. You ain't mad at me?"

"No. You told the truth. I couldn't ask for any more than that." Armed with knowing what his boss already knew, Dave settled on which role to play as he walked to his office. I'll give him the deer in the headlights routine. That'll make him happy. He loves to hunt. Pull out your rifle, boss. Here comes your trophy buck, all snorting and ready for your best shot.

"Come in and sit down, Dave. Please close the door."

"Thank you. I've been standing a lot today. My feet sure do hurt."

Probably from you standing out by the water cooler as usual. "Please relax. I just need to clarify some rumors that have come to my attention."

Dave stiffened and his eyes grew wide. "Rumors? Not about me."

"I'm afraid so. As usual, they took forever to get as high up as me. Did you stay here in the building when the Gadget was tested?"

"I had no choice. Look at what happened to Daghlian and Slotin. They got killed by the rays from the same radioactive material months apart. That stuff must last forever. They don't call it the Demon Core for nothing. I wouldn't be too surprised if something goes wrong with the bomb that that core wound up in."

"Their deaths were tragic, but they were both in direct contact with the makings of the next bomb. All of us were more than a sufficient distance from the Gadget when it exploded. None of us have died. We followed adequate safety precautions."

"Are you 100 percent certain of that?"

The boss sighed, placed his hands behind his head and feet on his desk and leaned back in his chair. For a final touch of removing all the invisible barriers that exist between supervisor and employee, he took off his glasses. The dark circles that had for the last three years given him the appearance of a prize fighter after a bad ten rounds in the ring had faded to a dull gray that at least somehow blended into his ruddy complexion. Quite a bit of hair had dropped off of his head during his five years of working to develop and detonate Earth's first atomic weapon. The few hairs that remained on the top of his head looked like antennas to Dave, antennas no doubt tuned into the collective unconscious defined by Jung. No use lying to such a boss. Dave's mother had told him of George Washington chopping down the cherry tree and that "honesty is the best policy." If President George and janitor George could be honest then so can I.

"Sir, with some of our scientists predicting that detonating the Gadget would have set off a chain reaction that would destroy the Earth, can you blame me for being careful? Sure, I was covering my own butt. But can you blame me?"

"Look, Dave. You know I'm a scientist by training. But the powers that be made me more of an administrator than anything else. So my job is to make sure that people like you do your job. My big worry is that your fears are hindering you from doing your job."

"Look at it this way. Maybe by protecting myself I'm healthier than the ones who went near the blast and then the detonation site afterwards. Maybe what they were exposed to has made all of them less effective." Including you, you big fat dummy! I bet the rays turned that pea-sized brain of yours into pea soup! Pretty soon green goop will start oozing out of your ears. Don't say I didn't warn you when they wheel you out of here on a gurney. He hid his thoughts with a smile so broad that it exposed his recent dental work; two fillings and a cleaning that had made his gums bleed. His boss grimaced at the still raw gums as he wondered if Dave liked meat cooked very rare and had eaten some for lunch.

"Dave, believe it or not, I'm on your side. Tin foil does not offer the protection that you think it does. Besides, it's totally unnecessary."

"Huxley, whose mind is greater than ours put together, said it did in his book."

"That one about tin foil hats keeping others from reading your thoughts and from projecting their thoughts into your mind? That's science fiction, with the emphasis on fiction. I sure hope you don't read too many of those kind of books or those crazy science fiction magazines and comic books. Next, you'll be telling me you believe that movie George saw about dangerous rays."

"The Invisible Ray? It was okay. I gave it three stars out of five. Hollywood is so hit and miss these days. They did a much better job with all of their takes on Frankenstein, the Wolfman, the Mummy, and Dracula. And now that the war's finally over with I'm hoping they will do some more science fiction. Lord only knows how much subject matter we're handing them on a silver platter by successfully giving the world the Gadget."

Feeling like when his car's rear tires became anchored in mud or snow, the boss reverted to a stiff formal posture, his desk now a barricade against what he thought to be the Three Stooges, Marx Brothers, and Laurel and Hardy all combined into one of his subordinates. "That will be all." He scribbled a concise summary and then asked his secretary to place a call to Washington, D.C. to his person of last resort.

"Hello, Tony? This is Joe down at Los Alamos in New Mexico...Just fine, thanks. Listen, I need you to send one of your boys down here...No, I already tried that. That's why I need your help...He can? Great. Listen, the hunting is fantastic down here. Can you get away sometime in the fall...? Great. I'll see you then. I need a break from this loony bin...I don't mean to complain but I think mine is loonier than yours, I'm afraid."
Chapter 9

"So what do you think of our asylum? Are the inmates running it?"

Arkhip shrugged. "I can't complain. At least I'm sheltered and fed and surrounded by some of the world's best minds. What more could I wish for?"

"Freedom?"

Typical German. Always wanting what he can't have. "Yes, Comrade Franz. Freedom would be very nice."

"Please don't be so formal. After all these months, can I not be Wilhelm and you, Arkhip? All of that saying comrade in front of our names is a joke."

"As you wish, Wilhelm." He had earned at least that much; the number tattooed on his arm was his reminder for life of his days spent at Treblinka. One of the few survivors by the time Russian troops entered the camp, Wilhelm had been sent eastward once his background became known. After all, such German scientists were spoils of war. If he were allowed to return to his native Germany then the Allies would surely snatch him and send him to America. Being a Jew, maybe he would someday relate to Herr Marx and Herr Lenin, Jews who had birthed their versions of the socialist utopia that controlled Mother Russia. But he had proven a disappointment. Having refused to work on Germany's program to develop an atomic bomb, he now provided the bare minimum of effort to the USSR's efforts to join the nuclear club. Such an ingrate. Had not Russian troops fought and died to liberate him from the Nazi death camp? Typical hardheaded, cold-hearted kraut, Arkhip had concluded. But a good source of information, nonetheless. "Have you heard anything new?"

"Evidently, Russia's spies are providing bits and pieces of data for us. I suspect it won't be too long before we're shipped off to build the bomb. Can't be doing it here, so close to the Kremlin." He pointed toward Moscow, twenty miles to the south. "Something might go wrong. Uncle Joe wouldn't like having Moscow getting radiated. Just the blast and cloud would make him wet his pants."

Arkhip could not stifle a laugh as she pictured the most powerful dictator on Earth with wet pants. "So true. We'll have to test it where it won't harm anyone, at least no Russians."

"The Americans tested their first bomb in the desert. The rumor I'm hearing is their next test will be in the South Pacific."

"How do you hear the rumors before anyone else?"

"First I must swear you to secrecy. Repeat after me. I, Arkhip Yankhov swear on my mother's grave not to reveal Wilhelm's top secret."

She took the oath. "Okay, I swore. Now tell me. Our allotted time for walking is almost over."

"I eavesdrop on the guards."

"But you speak only German and English. How could you..."

"And I understand enough Russian to get by. Listening to the Russian-speaking Jews at Treblinka taught me. They used Yiddish and sign language to explain any Russian word I did not know. But speaking your native language is too hard."

"You rat! All these months you've made me speak to you in German and English."

"It's been good for us. Our English is much improved and your German is much improved as well. My mother would like you for that even though you're Russian."

Arkhip shook her head. Despite their differences in religion, nationality, and background, they had become friends. And a friend while isolated in a compound was a valuable asset as they worked on what Comrade Stalin had dictated as the number one priority to keep America from bombing Moscow, Stalingrad, Leningrad, and every other sizeable Russian city just as they had Nagasaki and Hiroshima. "I think we should test the bomb in Siberia as close to the Pacific Ocean as possible."

"Why there? So they can send us to a nearby gulag if we fail or don't cooperate?"

"Every scientist knows the prevailing winds travel from west to east. That way the radioactive material kicked up into the atmosphere would mostly land on Japan, Korea, and in the ocean. A little bit would reach Canada and America. But even a tiny amount falling on them would please Uncle Joe."

"I hate to disappoint you but the rumor is we'll be setting up the test site to the south where it's much hotter. It seems that we're copying the Americans. But it makes sense to work in an area without severe cold and twenty feet of snow."
Chapter 10

"Where do these rats go, sir?"

Ensign Rhinehardt scanned his chart. "Over there." He pointed to a section of deck not yet populated by some form of four-legged mammal. Might as well call me Old MacDonald and this ship my farm. If Captain Uley had told me I'd be doing this, I would have never extended.

It took the sailors another hour to position the animals. The goats, tethered to racks, were left with bowls of water and piles of feed. Such provisions mystified one seaman. "Why bother with food and water, sir? Aren't they all going to die anyway?"

"I don't know. You'd have to ask the scientists back on ship and at base about that." Scenes of the victims of radioactivity he had seen in Nagasaki ten months earlier replayed in his mind like a B-movie starring some of Hollywood's army of lesser-known actors. "Maybe it's their last meal? You know, like what the condemned prisoner gets before they fry him in the electric chair." He walked the deck of the target ship a last time and inspected the pigs, goats, rats, and guinea pigs that were going to experience America's fourth atomic bomb explosion in a personal way. No protective glasses for these brave "volunteers" in the name of science. No safe distance from the blast either. That was reserved for those on the observation vessels that would sit far back from ground zero.

As their launch chugged back to their ship the seaman continued to question his ensign, who did not mind because he thought it to be a sign of respect rarely encountered during his time in uniform. "You think all this muss and fuss is worth it, sir? We already know what the bomb did to Nagasaki and Hiroshima."

"The ones who fight wars from some office in the Pentagon want to know just how an A-bomb would affect ships at sea. So first the Army brass and Navy brass fight over the details of the test for months and months. Then it's all downhill from there. It's like PFC Dalrumple, God rest his soul, used to tell me: 'To be a plumber you need to know two things, crap floats downhill and coffee break's at ten. To be a grunt you have to know two things, crap floats downhill and coffee break is after we hurry up and wait.' It's like that for the Navy, too. The head bone's connected to the neck bone. The neck bone's connected to the back bone..." He continued his song until he had reached the toe bones. "And that's you and me, seaman. We're just the toe bones putting test animals on a fleet of our ships and some Jap ships to see what the next A-bomb will do to them."

The seaman winced. "Actually, sir, I think you're a foot bone because you're an officer. Us enlisted are the toe bones. Maybe that's why so many of us get broken I guess."

The ensign smiled. "You got a pretty good head on your shoulders, sailor. You ever think of moving on up into the officers' ranks? That is, if you're still going to put in your twenty years of service so you can pull down a pension like you said before."

"I don't know, sir. I'd probably be a fish out of water as an officer. I'm all right with obeying orders. Giving them is just not too appealing to me. Besides, after my assignment in the Marshalls is up I'm going to transfer over to the Seabees. I love working with machines and tools."

"At least you'll be happy then." Happiness? How to measure it? Sally was anything but when Fred had extended "because I have to sort some things out."

"Things, what things are you talking about?" She had written back.

"I have to understand these new atomic bombs. Life will never be the same again for any of us." He had replied.

"Just as long as you don't hook up with some Hawaiian honey in a grass skirt, Japanese Jane, or Polynesian Pam," she had warned in the letter in which she finally relented.

Happiness? Just an illusion, that mythical pot of gold at the end of the rainbow just over the next hill because the grass is always greener in another place at another time under better circumstances, he finally had concluded.

A B-29 Super fortress dropped the bomb the next day. It exploded about 600 feet above the waters and in the middle of the ships anchored in Bikini Atoll. Because it was larger than the first one tested a year earlier in the deserts of New Mexico the observation ships pulled back ten miles from the blast's epicenter. Other bombers outfitted with cameras instead of guns filmed the blast. Drone bombers flew through the mushroom cloud to take readings. Based on data garnered from the aftermath of the bombings on Japan, scientists had determined the radioactivity levels would be lethal for any human flying aboard the drones.

Within hours, crews approached the ships that had not sunk or capsized. The ensign and seaman returned to retrieve the animals they had anchored to the deck of a ship that still floated upright.

"Okay, the scientists especially want the survivors, men," Rhinehardt said. "So be careful with them."

"So they can give them medals and then a burial at sea?"

That wise crack produced enough humor to deaden senses. The initial sights and odors of radiation burns and sounds of animals dying agonizing deaths had sent a couple sailors to the side where they vomited breakfast into the waves below. Especially pathetic was the billy goat that had butted some of the sailors during his stay on their ship and transport to his final berth. They had adopted him as a mascot and started a betting pool in his honor as to how many weeks he would live after the blast. Now he lay on the deck, still bound to the rack he had been tied to in the name of science. Gone was the spark of fire in his eyes, his feisty attitude that said, "I was drafted into whatever craziness you humans are up to but that doesn't mean I have to like it." His glassy eyes no longer radiated life or received images to transmit to his brain because he had been looking the wrong direction as the initial flash of the bomb lit up the sky.

"Looks like Horace isn't going to make it another day, boys," the sailor who had named him said. "Who was it that bet that he'd only live just one week?"

The keeper of the betting pool chart pulled it from his pocket. "That would be Fernandez. Hey Fernandez, how did you know to pick a week?"

The winner to be shrugged. "Lucky guess, I guess. Besides, I saw too many Japs die while I was there at Yokohama. You know, survivors from Hiroshima. I figured poor old Horace wouldn't do much better than they did."

"Well, you figured right." The sailor next to Horace gently shook the goat. "Horace just stopped breathing. That makes you $16 richer, you lucky dog."

After the surviving animals had been delivered to the team of scientists, Ensign Rhinehardt ate dinner with one of them. "I don't mean to be nosy, but can I ask you some questions? Or is what you guys are doing all classified?"

"Ask away. I don't know any top secrets. I'm too low level."

"I just don't understand why you need to put animals out there to get blasted by the bomb like you did."

"We need to nail down adequate data on the effects of radioactivity on living organisms. It's the best way to do it."

"But couldn't you do all that by studying the survivors in Japan?"

"We need some long term data. Because our test animals have much shorter life spans than humans we can extrapolate the data quicker, especially what kind of effects radiation might have on offspring. Our test animals produce babies much quicker and a lot more of them than the A-bomb survivors in Japan ever will."

"What?" He dropped his forkful of chipped beef on toast as he tried to keep his shaking tray from sliding off of his lap. "Are you telling me that radiation might affect the kids who are born to the survivors of radiation exposure?"

"Maybe. Nailing that down is the million-dollar question for us right now. Let's say a woman who survived Hiroshima has a defective kid somewhere down the line. What caused it? Did that same kind of condition that her baby has run in her family back for who knows how many generations? Or was her kid born all messed up because mama-san almost starved to death during the war? Or is because some of her eggs got toasted with a little bit too much radiation? The worst of it is that females come equipped with all their eggs at birth, thousands of them. That means even young girls that got radiated might give birth to a deformed kid years later. Or maybe it was papa-san's gonads getting radiated that makes him produce some defective sperm?" He shoved a spoonful of rice pudding into his mouth. "There are so many variables to filter through that it will take years before we know much of anything. Add in the language barrier. We use a translator to question mama-san and papa-san about their family histories. How much gets lost in the translation? A little? A lot? Or just enough to screw up our research? Like it or not, lab animals are a whole lot easier to work with. All the ones I've ended up dissecting just sort of seem to accept their fate. That's something I've only seen in about one out of a thousand human beings. We just plain bitch and complain and cry a whole lot more than any animal ever does."

The next day the ensign and seaman went aboard a ship that had tested at a dangerous level of radioactivity as part of a crew to try and scrub away the residue. Halfway through the task, the seaman decided to entertain his shipmates during a break. He began by clicking out a tap dance in front of his captive audience. As his toes and heels counted off a sixteen/sixteenths beat he improvised his song:

I'm Popeye the sailor man!

I sail on an old tin can.

I scrub the decks clean

Because I'm a U.S. Navy machine.

I'm Popeye the sailor man!

His impromptu entertainment brought forth cheers and jeers from the lower ranks and a smile to an ensign who was now counting the days until he returned home to Madisin and Sally.
Chapter 11

Jason first spotted the top layer of the mushroom cloud while he checked the pits for any fish left stranded in them after the last high tide. "Look over there at that, Kong! That's no thunderhead blowing our way. It's rising way too fast. Let's see just where that is on the map." He ran to the lean-to and retrieved the chart he had salvaged from the PT boat the previous summer. On it a seaman had penciled in the PT boat's location when it was attacked and disabled. Jason compared that mark with the largest group of islands that lay in the direction of the strange expanding cloud. "Looks like it's coming from near where the Bikini Atoll is at, Kong." Jason dropped the chart onto the beach.

Kong picked it up and carried it back to the lean-to. Lately, his human was careless, as if he expected to be leaving Kong Island any day now. It all had something to do with those strange marks that he daily carved into the tree. After safely storing the chart, Kong returned to his human's side. Jason still studied the cloud that had reached its apex.

"I don't like this one bit, Kong. That cloud looks funny." He sat down next to the monkey. "I don't ever remember any smoke that high up after we pounded all those islands with bombers and shells from the cruisers and battleships. You don't think...I sure hope not."

Scenarios that the Professor had offered began to play out in his weary mind: "The one wild card in ending the war is Russia," he had said. "They still haven't even declared war on Japan. I guess they decided to let us and the Brits take care of it. Besides, they're too busy taking over all those European countries. It's a long shot but what if Stalin decides to switch sides on us? What if he joins forces with the Japs? If he does we'll be back down here fighting in the islands again instead of invading Japan."

Jason shook his head and threw a piece of coral into the waves lapping at his and Kong's feet. "How many days do we have left to go before we get out of here?" They walked back to the tree that served as a calendar and he counted off his carvings. Then he returned to the beach and studied the cloud as it lost its mushroom cap and drifted toward Monkey Island. They sat back down on the sand.

"What should I do, Kong? You know I don't make any decisions without you agreeing. There's still about a month left before when I planned on setting the bonfire. But that was the plan for waiting out the invasion of Japan til it was all over but the crying. Judging by the size of that cloud over there either the Japs or the Russians and the Japs are busy duking it out with our boys. I sure hope the Professor was all wet about the Russians switching sides. What do you think, Kong?"

Kong shrugged his shoulders, one of the five gestures his human had taught him. The worry in Jason's voice troubled him. They sat for an hour while Jason tried to use his father's favorite piece of advice, the Four Ts, think this thing through. But the more Jason thought the more confused he became. Finally, he walked over to the huge mound of dead palm fronds that he had started to build a week ago. Satisfied that its five-foot height was adequate, he placed the wadded up chart under a corner of the fronds. Two pieces of metal salvaged from the PT boat during his first week on Monkey Island served as a makeshift flint. The first three-dozen sparks failed to ignite the paper but lucky number thirty-seven made a faint red glow on it. Jason blew softly until smoke rose through the carefully stacked material. Then he blew with all his might. The flames consumed the paper and sought out more fuel, which exploded into new patches of fire.

The fire panicked the troop of monkeys. They screeched to Kong that the human was going to cook him.

Kong shrugged at his estranged relatives and friends, as if to say, "Stop your jabbering. You're the ones who have gone human, not me. You worry even more than my human does. Go away and leave us alone."

Jason watched the clouds of smoke rise from what he prayed would the funeral pyre for his long isolation on Monkey Island. "It's not as big as that other cloud of smoke over Bikini Atoll way, Kong. But at least maybe it's big enough that someone; our guys, the Japs, Russians, or some native will see it. I sure hope it's our boys who show up. Lately I've been dreaming a lot about K-rations every single night. You'll love them, Kong. But I bet you'll love Mom's home cooking even better. I can't wait till we get back home."

***

The next day a C-47 flying from Johnston Island spotted smoke rising above Monkey Island. The embers left from yesterday's fire had allowed Jason to easily rebuild it with new palm fronds dragged from every corner of the island. A passenger who always hogged a window seat on every flight saw the smoke first. He ran to the cockpit and yelled his discovery to the crew.

"Hey, there's smoke off to the right, you guys. You think maybe one of our planes went down?"

The pilot banked the transport's wings until he and the copilot could see what their passenger was so excited about thousands of feet below them.

"I thought they cleared out all of the islands over that way for the atom bomb test yesterday," the copilot said. "Should I radio base?"

"From what I heard they only cleared off the islands over in Bikini Atoll," the passenger said. "If you flyboys don't radio it in right now, I'm going to report it once we land."

"Keep your pants on," the pilot said. "Please go back to your seat."

The mumbling passenger obeyed. As he shuffled down the aisle he pointed out the smoke to every other passenger. The cockpit's crew groaned at his antics.

"Don't you just love the ground pounders who earn their wings by flying shotgun?" The pilot pointed at the one who had upset what had been a routine flight.

"Captain, it can't hurt if I radio it in. You never know what it might be down there."

"All right, all right. Go ahead. It's been a long haul. I'm too tired for all this monkey business." Originating at Hawaii before stopping off at the short landing strip at Johnston Island, this flight was becoming a pain for him. All that the pilot wanted was at least eight straight hours of shuteye, his for the taking once they landed. Only the drone of the twin 1,200 horsepower Pratt and Whitney engines soothed his frayed nerves. Some passengers should come equipped with parachutes.

"Base, this is Charlie one four niner out of Johnston." The copilot radioed the tower that was their link to a safe landing.

"Roger."

"We've spotted smoke from an island where there's never been any before all the other times we've flown this milk run."

"What's your heading and ETA?"

The pilot had delegated all navigational duties to his subordinate. At least he's getting to strut his stuff. He smiled as his lieutenant made his calculations. A moment later the copilot transmitted the requested data and the only one staffing the tower answered.

"Acknowledged. We'll map the location based on your present heading and ETA. See you when you land in about 95 minutes."

***

The seaplane's landing 200 yards from shore created the most pandemonium Monkey Island had known since PFC Jason Dalrumple had washed up on it almost a year earlier. The sight of the two men who paddled the four-man raft toward shore pushed the troop of monkeys into frenzy as they showered their wrath on Kong.

This time Kong was speechless. He sought refuge at the top of the breadfruit tree that supported the lean-to. Its leaves and fruit concealed him but allowed a clear view to watch as the raft bobbed up and down over the waves. Why was Jason not hiding from the men? Didn't he like Monkey Island anymore? When the big bird had buzzed the island, Jason had jumped, waved, and yelled until it dipped its wings and turned to land. Why did the huge bird make him so crazy? As Jason pulled the raft to shore Kong spotted the .45 caliber weapon holstered to one of the new human's belt. When he recognized the thunder maker, the kind that had killed so many from his troop, he shrank further into his refuge.

"Welcome to Monkey Island!" Jason clenched the hands of his rescuers.

"Who are you?"

"PFC Jason Dalrumple."

"I'm Sgt. Muldooney. This is Corporal Exodus. He's a medic. Check him over, doc."

"Over here, Dalrumple." He led his patient to the shade of the nearest tree.

"So you guys have been fighting the Japs or the Russians and the Japs? I saw the clouds of smoke over that way." Jason pointed. "You guys must have opened up with guns from at least thirty ships from what I saw."

"Huh? Just how long have you been here, son?" Sgt. Muldooney plopped down next to the castaway. "The war's been over almost a year now."

Jason's head grew so light that he thought his brains had been replaced by air. "No. Invading Japan was going to take at least six months, probably longer than that. That's what the Professor said. He's an officer so he would know. A navy officer but they know the war just as good as the army ones do. Right?"

"Invasion? We never had to. Those A-bombs made the Japs see the light."

"A-bombs? What's that? Never heard of it before."

"His vital signs are okay." The medic placed his stethoscope into his pack. "You sure look like skin and bones, though. Like Sarge said, how long have you been stuck out here?"

Jason stood and led them to his shelter and pointed at the date he had carved during his first day on Monkey Island. His rescue team stared at each other and shook their heads.

"August 7, 1945? Well that explains it. You washed up here right before the bomb hit Hiroshima." The sergeant placed his hand on Jason's drooping shoulder. "Corporal, break out that K-ration we brought along and let him eat a bit before we take him on back to base."

His patient's vacant stare and silence convinced Corporal Exodus to open the box's main course, shredded stewed chicken meat in a broth that had congealed into thick greasy gravy speckled with yellow globules of fat. Jason swallowed the first meat he had tasted since going overboard from his transport ship. He jumped to his feet.

"Kong! I forgot that I promised that he could taste some real food first." He turned and cupped his hands. "Hey, Kong. Come and get it! You're going to love this chicken."

"Who's Kong?"

"My friend. He's going back to the States with me." He called again for his friend.

"Is that him?" The sergeant pointed.

"No. That looks like Screecher. He's Kong's friend and always yells at him. I've learned to understand their language."

The rescuers stared at each other and shrugged. Once again the sergeant placed his hand on Jason's shoulders. "We have to get going before it gets dark. It's dangerous trying to land or take off when it's dark in a seaplane. Real dangerous. Do you want to finish off your K before we take off?" He pointed at the can Jason held.

"Do you think he's scared? Maybe if you walk away for a little while, he'll come on out."

"I'm afraid we have to go now, boy. Maybe you can leave the ration for your monkey friend? I bet he'd like it a lot."

"But..." Jason scanned the trees a last time and cursed. "But I promised him." He dropped to his knees and placed the can of chicken on the rock he and Kong had shared as a table for hundreds of meals. After opening the can of fruit cocktail and unwrapping the chocolate bar, Jason placed them next to the chicken. Holding onto the bouncing raft's sides did not quell the sickness in the pit of his stomach. Halfway to the seaplane, he saw a tiny speck running up and down the beach. He pointed but the sergeant shook his head. Still in shock after learning he had wasted a year in hiding for nothing because of his fears, he turned toward the plane and tried to picture Thelma.

Chapter 12

The seaplane's pilot radioed Jason's request, as Monkey Island seemed to be swallowed up by the dark blue waters that surrounded it. Jason had searched it with borrowed binoculars as it made a final pass over the island and pointed to the group of monkeys gathered around the K-rations.

"One survivor recovered from island. PFC Jason Dalrumple. He has a request that you contact his girlfriend Thelma Pollack."

"Acknowledged. What's her address?"

"They need her address." The pilot held the microphone in front of Jason's mouth and waited until he had given it. "Did you copy?"

"Yeah. What should we tell her?"

The pilot repeated the question to his newest passenger and held the microphone in front of him.

"Tell her if she still loves me she needs to meet me in San Diego."

Laughter came through the pilots' headsets. "Wilco. Tell him congratulations from all the boys in the tower. You should hear them cheering."

The pilot gave Jason a thumb up and gunned the engines to their maximum RPMs.

An Army captain met the plane as soon as it pulled up to its berth. "I'm Dr. Hendrickson. I'll ride with you in the ambulance to the hospital."

More of a dispensary with a side room for patients who needed extended care; the hospital housed six, including its latest addition. One was there for sunstroke, another for a bad case of diarrhea, and three for malaria. All of them winced at the sight of Jason.

"You that guy that was marooned?" The one with the runs asked.

"Yeah. Is it really true the war's over? That's what they kept telling me."

"Man, how long have you been out in the sun? You're talking as crazy as Larry over there did when they first brought him in." He pointed at the sunstroke victim.

"Almost a year." Jason propped his feet on his bed's metal end. "When do we eat?"

"After we examine you." A doctor interrupted. "Corpsman, start an IV of saline solution."

"Yes, sir." The medic searched Jason's arm. "Sir, I can't find a vein."

"Try his hand."

"Yes, sir."

The needle burned as it broke through tissue. Once anchored in place by half a roll of tape, it fed the liquid into the patient who came to be nicknamed The Skeleton Man. After examining Jason's eyes, ears, throat, chest, heart, and abdomen, the doctor sat in a chair and recorded his findings on his chart. "They tell me you were stranded on the island for a year. What did you eat during all that time?"

"Coconuts, breadfruit, and fish, Doc. The only other things there were rats and monkeys but I didn't have a gun to shoot the rats and the monkeys were my friends so I couldn't shoot them."

"Your friends?" The doctor looked up from his note taking. "The monkeys?"

"At least Kong was." Jason described their first meeting and how Kong had abandoned his kind to live with him.

"So you talked to him a lot?"

"Yeah. All the time. Only problem was that I never really could learn monkey talk. But Kong understood me better than I did him. When do you think I can go back to Monkey Island to get him to take on back home? I promised him I would."

"We'll see about that. You just rest now."

The doctor went to a nearby Quonset hut that contained his office. It took a few moments of searching through a directory before he could find the name of a fellow doctor who specialized in psychiatry. A radio message brought the psychiatrist via airplane to examine Jason the next day. Dr. Hendrickson introduced them. "PFC Dalrumple, this is Dr. Zingler. He has a few questions for you."

"Hello, Doc. I'd stand up to salute you but they got this IV thing hooked up to me." Jason pointed at the drops falling from the bottle to the long plastic tube.

"At ease, soldier. So what can you tell me about your time on Monkey Island?"

Jason spent an hour detailing his two days in "shark infested waters" and how only one creature on Monkey Island had befriended him. Dr. Zingler took sporadic notes but mostly listened.

"Is there some reason you did not build your fire sooner so that you could be rescued?"

Jason stared at the ceiling. "You mind if I take the Fifth Amendment on that, Doc? About the only excuse I have is that after whoever it was knocked me on the head and I fell overboard and spent two days in the drink I wasn't thinking too straight. But seeing that big cloud above Bikini Atoll sure snapped me out of it. I was sure the Japs or the Russians and the Japs and us were going at it in a big way."

Dr. Zingler stood and stretched. His ten-hour flight had drained his body but Jason's tale was taxing his mind. "Are you sure you didn't see who it was that hit you on the ship before you fell overboard? Charges may still need to be brought up against whoever it was that assaulted you."

"I'm sorry, sir. I was pretty woozy from barfing over the side. Then when I felt the konk on my head I tried to turn around but the ship sort of pitched to one side and the next thing I know I'm hanging over the side. Whoever hit me grabbed me by the ankles and tried to pull me back up over the rail but I guess he just couldn't hold on."

"I see. Thank you."

"Sure thing, Doc. Thank you."

The two doctors walked to Dr. Hendrickson's cramped office. "What do you think?" He lit two cigarettes and gave one to his guest.

Dr. Zingler sighed and yawned. "Sorry. I didn't sleep too well on the plane last night. I'm not certain. He seems lucid enough to me. The ones who rescued him say they saw at least one monkey so it's highly unlikely that this Kong was just a hallucination of your patient's mind. It's why he waited so long to be rescued that still has me stumped though."

"Maybe he just wanted to be alone for a while. I've been on more than one transport ship. It's close quarters for even the officers like you and me. Plus he had spent years of island hopping enough to have had a bellyful of what the Japs dished out on every one of them. Maybe he just wanted a really long R and R?"

"Maybe." Dr. Zingler shook his head. "You know I was in Germany when we liberated Dachau and Auschwitz."

"Yeah. I remember you telling me."

"The worst of it is that Dalrumple reminds me of the better fed prisoners we found there, the ones who the S.S. guards used to pull the gold fillings out of the Jews that got gassed and then haul the bodies to the ovens to cremate them. How much does he weigh?"

"Today he was up to 101 pounds because we've been pumping IVs into him since he got here. And he eats about six or seven meals a day, even when they're just K-rations. You know how most patients leave part of their food on their trays?"

"Yeah."

"PFC Dalrumple doesn't leave a single crumb."
Chapter 13

Thelma was not the first one to read the telegram sent to tell her of Jason's resurrection. That honor went to the boy delivering it. His job did not pay much and tips were sporadic. But being the first to know of a far-away death, illness, or an occasional bit of good news made him a big shot, at least in his own mind, especially whenever he told others of a telegram's contents before the one to whom it was addressed had read it. After not finding Thelma at home, he decided "to go the extra mile" that his boss always preached and deliver it to her at work. When he arrived at the factory he spread the biggest news to hit Madisin since WW II had ended in the Pacific Theater of Operations.

"Jason Dalrumple's alive!" He announced to the first one he found on the factory floor. "Where's Thelma at?"

She was at the far end of the single-story building applying stain and varnish to finished pieces of furniture. Because Thelma took her job seriously, she did not notice how bit by bit the factory's din quieted as employee after employee stopped sawing, hammering, and upholstering furniture and instead relayed the news of the one who had gone from MIA to dead to alive and kicking. By the time that the delivery boy reached Thelma, 126 pairs of eyes were focused on her.

"Special delivery, Thelma."

She turned to see who had tapped on her shoulder. "Oh, Lord have mercy on me! Has something bad happened to Grandpa or Grandma?" She tried to conjure up her visit to their farm in the neighboring state last Christmas.

"No, ma'am." He shoved the telegram into her face. "It's good news. Real good news. Wait til you read it."

After she threw the telegram into the air and hugged its deliverer, the factory shook from its workers' cheers. Those who knew Thelma best crowded around her to join in her tears and laughter. The disruption brought the factory's owner from his office across the parking lot. Within minutes he was driving Thelma home. A half hour later he was taking her to the train station.

"You take as much time off as you need to," Mr. Monroe said. "We'll still be here when you get back."

"Thanks." Thelma studied the telegram. "You ever been out to San Diego, Mr. Monroe?"

"No. Not yet. You best check in with the USO once you get there. Explain your situation. They'll help you out."

***

While Thelma watched thousands of miles of the Midwest, Great Plains, and Southwest roll by her train window, Jason stared down at the Pacific, an ocean that seemed to last forever as he flew from the Marshall Islands to Johnston Island to Hawaii to San Diego. When his feet hit the tarmac in California, he fell to his hands and knees and kissed the hot concrete. He laughed at Thelma as she scanned the disembarking passengers.

"Thelma! Over here! Here I am!"

She spun around and gawked at the scarecrow of a man who held out his arms toward her. "Jason? Is that really you? There's not much left."

"In the flesh." He grabbed her. Lifting her off of her feet had been effortless as he had boarded the troop train in 1942 but now a hug sufficed. He stepped back. "How do I look? The docs said I put on five whole pounds the two days I was in the hospital. Once I get on back home to Mom's and your home cooking I'll fill back out in no time. I can hardly wait." He licked his lips.

Thelma hugged him again and lifted. "Jason, what happened? You're so light I think I just pulled your feet up off of the ground."

"You swept me off my feet, honey pie. Let's go get hitched."

But getting married on the spur of the moment in California proved impossible. Such unions might be available across the border in Nevada or Mexico, but not the golden state. Informed of the couple's frustration, an army captain that commanded the office that was processing Jason from life as an E-3 PFC to a civilian came to their rescue. "I know Mexico is just a stone's throw that way." He pointed southward. "But Nevada's a better place to spend your honeymoon in. As luck would have it, there's a clerk here due for a three-day pass that hits Las Vegas every chance he gets. I'll have him give you a ride there and back here. By the time you get back, we'll have all the paperwork ready with all of your back pay and you can catch the train back home. Unless..."

Jason gulped. Go ahead and let the other shoe drop.

His steel gray eyes bore into Jason's soul. "Unless you decide you want to take a burst of six."

"What's a burst of six?" Thelma's eyes rotated from captain to fiancé.

"Re-up for six years? I don't know, sir. I'm tired of war. It just sort of wears you out. If you live long enough to get through it that is."

"Son, now that we put the Krauts and Japs back in their place all we got to worry about are the Russians. But President Truman won't take any gruff from them no matter what Stalin says. I guarantee you that much for certain. Besides, where else can you put in twenty years and retire with a pension? How old are you, boy?"

"Twenty three, sir."

"How many years have you been in so far?"

"Four and a half, counting my time on Monkey Island."

"You see what I mean? You only need fifteen and half more years and you could retire at thirty-eight. Maybe get yourself a government job or buy a farm and work some more until your Social Security kicks in. Then you put up your sign that says, Gone Fishing. How about it?"

Jason cocked his head and pursed his lips. Thelma cleared her throat, elbowed him, and whispered, "No."

"Tell you what. Talk it over with your pretty wife on your honeymoon. Let me know what you decide once you get back. You need some dough for it?"

"Yes, sir. I haven't had any paydays for almost a year now. I don't know how much Thelma's has left after her train ride way out here."

The captain pulled out his wallet and counted out its contents, which he shoved into Jason's hands. "You can pay me back when you get the back pay you're owed."

***

"Boy am I glad you two showed up when you did. You were just in time." Corporal Lance Ivers pretended the steering wheel of his 1939 Oldsmobile was a pair of bongo drums. He tapped out a beat in time with the big band's song blasting through the car's lone speaker. "I was getting a case of cabin fever number nine back there at the base. Forget California." He started to sing. "Las Vegas here I come. Right back where I started from. Turn on your neon signs. Nevada here I come."

At McDonalds Famous Barbeque in San Bernardino, Lance ordered three burgers, fries, and sodas to go. "We can eat on the run. I don't know why they bother selling that barbeque. Their burgers are the best there are."

He pulled onto Route 66 and headed north to Barstow. After tossing the remnants of his lunch out the window, Lance continued singing along with every tune he could find as he turned the radio's dial. In Barstow, he topped off the fuel tank and bought six more sodas. He smacked his lips as he finished the first and tossed the bottle over the car's top and onto the sand next to the road's shoulder. "I can't drink beer because it makes me too sleepy. But that doesn't mean we can't sing that famous tune loved by sailors and soldiers everywhere, Ninety Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall." He elbowed Thelma in her ribs.

With the temperature at 109 degrees and body odors of the two next to her combining to make her carsick, Thelma climbed over the front seat and sought refuge in a nap on the back seat. She listened as the duo in front sang, sometimes sharing the lead vocals, sometimes harmonizing, but usually off key. The swaying motion of the car and monotonous lyrics first hypnotized her and then began to lull her to sleep:

Eighty-eight bottles of beer on the wall

Eighty-eight bottles of beer

Drank one down

Passed it around

Eighty-seven bottles of beer on the wall...

She drifted off to sleep at bottle number eighty-six. After the song ended, Lance turned to weightier subjects, such as life as a civilian. "I heard the captain giving you his spiel about signing up for six more years."

"Yeah. What gives with him anyway?"

"Who knows for sure? Sometimes I think they give out promotions to officers and NCOs who can talk you into re-enlisting. Not me, Uncle Sam. My time is up in 102 days and it's good-by Army Air Force and hello world. Lance Ivers is back in town."

"So where are you headed when you get out?"

"Back home of course. But just for a visit. My mom's been hounding me pretty regular like about spending Thanksgiving and Christmas back there."

"Where are you from?"

"Upstate Michigan. Right about where Lake Huron and Lake Michigan meet at. That's what I love about Route 66. You hop on it in Los Angles and it's a straight shot all the way to Chicago. Only four maybe five more hours once I hit Chicago and I'm home sweet home. But when I stay for just a while it's going to make Mom cry or mad or both at once."

"You sure your captain didn't talk you into re-upping? That guy is so good he ought to sell used cars."

"Nah. I'll be coming on back out here to Los Angeles in my civvies after I spend the holidays at home. I've never seen a place growing so fast. Every time I drive through it they got another subdivision of houses going up. And the women! Mama mia. Every good-looking gal seems to end up in Hollywood wanting to be the next Betty Grable or Lauren Bacall. Of course most of them won't give me the time of day when they find out I'm not in the movie business. But I'm thinking of becoming a hotshot agent. You know, the guy who gets those babes signed up with a big juicy contract at some movie studio, with a nice slice of it going to yours truly. God gave me the gift of gab. It would be a sin for me not to use it, right?"

"Whatever you say, chief." Jason used an opener to pry off the top from a soda bottle.

"You're religious, huh? I can tell."

"Well, I always went to church if that's what you mean."

"Yeah. I knew it all along. Every other couple I drove to Nevada to get hitched were always in the back seat practicing for their honeymoon. You and Thelma aren't like that at all. Sort of nice to see folks like you two. Here's to you." He lifted his second bottle in a toast and then bit the cap off.

At Needles they turned north again. By the time they reached Laughlin, Nevada, all three needed a bathroom break. Thelma also needed a break from the insanity that two short timers with little time left in uniform can produce. She pulled Jason aside outside of the restrooms. "Let's get off here."

"But I thought that you wanted to see Las Vegas."

"Maybe some other time. That long drive through the desert wore me out. That and all the crazy talk and songs you two kept on singing. Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall? You're like a couple of crazy high school boys all liquored up and you haven't even been drinking. I'm scared of what will probably happen if you're anywhere near him in Las Vegas. One or both of you will end up in jail for sure. Then we won't get back home for the wedding reception that our moms got all planned out for next Saturday. They're already plenty upset that we didn't want to wait to get married in Madisin."

Jason scratched his chin, a habit he had learned from Kong. If stopping off here made her happy, why not? His dad had always said, "Anytime you can please a woman, go for broke." So he walked over to their driver to explain the change in plans. "Is there any chapel here in town? Thelma's not too up on going all the way on to Las Vegas."

"Sure is. Hop in and I'll take you there in a jiffy."

The ceremony took twenty minutes, fifteen of which were spent waiting for another couple to act as witnesses to Thelma and Jason vowing to sail life's seas "in sickness and health, for richer or poorer till death do us part." The newlyweds then graciously served as witnesses for the ones who married after they did.

Attached to the back of the wedding chapel was a small house, home to Rev. and Mrs. Quantrum. A small sign at the chapel's front door told customers to ring the doorbell below it. Doing so set off a loud buzzer in the house and brought one of the two to usher the couple into the pews. So far, Rev. Quantrum had married 14,298 couples but business had dropped off since the war ended and the flow of those in uniform migrating through southern California slowed from a flood to a trickle. But there was always some couple eloping, divorcee marrying on the rebound, or other lonely souls in a hurry to tie the knot. The Quantrums closed the chapel for a two-week vacation annually. Otherwise it was open seven day a week, twenty-four hours a day, rain or shine.

After counting their remaining money, Mr. and Mrs. Dalrumple checked into a cheap motel that came furnished with a radio, fan, and roaches. Thelma screamed at them as she smashed any she spotted. Within five minutes her shoes' soles were covered with parts of their flattened corpses. After a year spent with monkeys, birds, and rats as his only neighbors, Jason only noticed the remnants of the insects his wife had crushed. Any that moved seemed natural. He was likewise oblivious to her complaints about "our sorry honeymoon." Her new husband tried to compensate by making love to her three times during their two-day stay in Laughlin. His efforts coincided with Thelma's cycle so that one of the millions of his sperm produced during those two days penetrated one of her approximately 70,000 eggs that she carried. But it would be a couple of months before her missed periods and morning sickness alerted Thelma to their honeymoon child.

Just as a good taxi driver should, Corporal Ivers arrived promptly at the wedding chapel after his two days and nights of gambling and carousing in Las Vegas. His downcast features betrayed his empty wallet.

"You look lower than whale crap," Jason said as Lance drove south toward Route 66. Unwilling to endure any more short timer fever, Thelma sought refuge in the back seat.

"You might say that. I went through my whole pay for the month."

"What did you play, the slot machines?"

"Nah. They're all luck, just like the roulette wheel and craps table. I stick with poker only. Now there's a game that takes real skill. Yes, sir. Give me three new cards, dealer, and get ready to ante up."

"What about blackjack?"

"Twenty-one? I tried it a couple times but kept right on losing. With poker I come back to the base with a couple hundred bucks sometimes."

"Oh. Then I guess you wouldn't be interested in the Method."

"Method? What's that? What gives? You been holding out on me or what?"

Jason spent a quarter hour outlining the Professor's way of winning at blackjack. Lance listened silently until Jason's retelling of his night of gambling before falling off the troop ship into the Pacific. Then he slammed on the brakes and the tires' skid marks snaked onto the road's shoulder as the car shuddered to a stop. He opened the door and began a war dance around the vehicle and its passengers, who stared at each other and him. An imaginary tomahawk cut the air as he hopped from foot to foot and yelled, "Hee hi ho, huh, huh, huh" over and over. When Jason poked his head out the window to say that Thelma was tired of sitting in the 101-degree heat, the fist holding the invisible tomahawk crashed into his skull. It bounced off of the window frame but no blood flowed.

"Ow. What did you hit me for?"

"Sorry." Lance rubbed his hand. "I always do my war dance with my eyes closed and didn't see your head. Man, it sure is hard. I sprained my hand when I clobbered you."

"War dance?"

"Yeah. My grandma was full-blooded Huron so I'm one-quarter Indian. My dance just declared all-out war on the casinos. You and your Method are going to get me the victory, pale face, because those dealers speak with forked tongues." He turned to Thelma. "Sorry about the hold up. You think you could drive while Jason and me play some blackjack in the back seat?"

"Anything to get this heap moving so we at least have some breeze." Thelma hopped out and slid into the driver's seat as Jason and Lance moved to the back seat.

Jason dealt four piles of cards: his, Lance's and two for phantom players. As the cards dealt face up appeared he explained how to calculate what cards remained in the deck. Six hours and 482 hands later, Lance had the Method memorized.
Chapter 14

Agent Bill Sampson, Army Counter-Intelligence Corps, always reviewed past assignments as he traveled to his next one. After starting his career as a flatfoot on the streets of Chicago, he had moved to the fastest growing federal bureaucracy, the Department of the Treasury, which was burdened with enforcing Prohibition throughout the Roaring Twenties and beyond. He became a legend of sorts, at least among moonshiners, bootleggers, and speakeasy owners as being fair and honest. Every bribe that came his way was rejected with, "I was going to let you off easy but since you think so little of my integrity that you want to buy me off, you leave me no choice but to throw the book at you."

Word spread that "whatever you do, don't ever try to bribe Agent Bill Sampson." Soon those who made, transported, and sold illegally manufactured alcohol began to ask agents their names. If the response was Bill, their wallets stayed in their pockets.

When J. Edgar Hoover took the helm of the Bureau of Investigation Sampson began to read newspaper stories of how the new federal bureaucracy was taking down gangsters, some one at a time such as John Dillinger, others a whole gang at once, such as Ma Barker and her boys. He transferred and became one of Hoover's agents. Of the eight presidents that Hoover served, Franklin Delano Roosevelt proved to be the most difficult.

Perhaps this stemmed from the different worlds that the two came from. Hoover was born into a family that prided work ethic above social status. FDR was raised as a child of privilege. To keep the bloodline pure, he married his distant cousin Eleanor. She did her best to ferret out the unworthy in their midst, labeling Whittaker Chambers with the snub, "he's not one of us" after Chambers blew the whistle on Americans spying for the USSR, some of whom she considered as "one of us."

While Agent Sampson was apolitical, Hoover and President Roosevelt were bureaucrats of Machiavellian proportions. But Hoover thought it only necessary to spy on those he deemed as threats to America, not those whom FDR deemed as threats to his New Deal, so the head of what was renamed the Federal Bureau of Investigation cared little about using his agents as the president demanded they go after his hit list of enemies. When FDR signed an order to send Japanese Americans to relocation camps in 1942, Hoover protested because almost all of those imprisoned were American citizens. Angry that such American citizens were being interred, Agent Sampson had decided he could be of more service to his country by ferreting out genuine spies working for the Japanese/German/Italian Axis.

So he had transferred to the Army Counter-Intelligence Corps. During the war he had assignments to atomic development centers in Washington state and Tennessee. This was the first he would visit the Los Alamos National Lab in New Mexico. He always left his family at home with only hugs and no explanation for his sudden trips.

"Daddy's job makes him travel," Mrs. Sampson told their children.

His flight aboard a DC-3 from Washington D.C. to Cincinnati to St. Louis to Oklahoma City to Albuquerque was long and boring but it gave him time to practice his assumed role for this assignment, an exercise he always did to be in character by the time he reported to his destination. He was now Bill Pryzinski, on his way to his new job at Los Alamos. The passenger next to him on the plane perked up at the mention of the laboratory. "Los Alamos? Isn't that the place where they blew up the first atom bomb?"

"I don't know for sure. I'm just a maintenance man. I just repair what needs fixing is all I do."

"Shoot, boy. The powers that be got you headed in the wrong direction. They should be sending you to Washington D.C. to straighten old Harry Truman out. From what I'm hearing he wants to keep on expanding FDR's New Deal. I'm not sure what killed FDR. Maybe it was his crusade to turn America into another USSR. Maybe it was his screwing those other women besides his wife Eleanor. Who knows? Someone needs to tell Harry he needs to keep a watch on those damn Russians. They already took over most of Europe. We're next on their list. What do you think?"

Bill nodded his head. "Can't argue much with all of what you just said. But you know how it is. They tell me to jump and I say 'how high?' So I'm headed to New Mexico. I just hope I don't end up like a Mexican jumping bean."

His seatmate extended a hand. "Name's Tony Rechlizo."

"Bill Pryzinski. Glad to meet you." He shook the sweat-covered palm. "First time flying?"

"Nah. I'm a veteran at this. Besides, I drove tanks all the way to Germany during the war. Blew those krauts to hell and back again. Flying is a piece of cake. Can I buy you a drink?"

"Thanks. Just a soda for me. Any alcohol really makes my gout flare up. Talk about painful."

"Gout?" He waved for a stewardess. "Bad news. My uncle has it too. His feet turn red and puffy if he drinks. Sometimes he can't even walk if he drinks too much." He smiled at the flight attendant. "Hi. A soda for Bill here and a whiskey for me." He turned back to Bill. "You sound like a Republican."

"I never bothered to register with any party. I just vote for who looks best. I was for Al Smith back in 1928 and 1932."

"So you're a Catholic like Smith?"

"Nope. My folks weren't church people except when someone got married or died. I go to church on Christmas and Easter when I can."

Agent Sampson stayed in character as he rented a car after landing in Albuquerque.

"Thank you, Mr. Pryzinski. Here are the keys. Your car is out the door to your right. It's the red Buick."

"Thank you."

Upon reaching Los Alamos, he reported in to his new boss, who greeted him with winks, smiles, and raised eyebrows. "How was your trip, Bill?"

"Oh, just a few storms here and there that made some kids need the barf bags. Other than that, it was okay."

"Well I hope you discover all the problems that need to be fixed." Wink. Smile. "There seems to be some loose screws here and there." Wink. "Especially around Technician Dave Freight's work area. Can't afford any loose cannons because of the sensitive nature of our work here." Smile. "I'm sure you can remedy that particular situation for me." Smile. Wink. "Please report any findings back to me immediately. I'm a hands-on supervisor."

"Yes, sir. I'll be sure to focus on Freight's work area."

That afternoon the supervisor introduced the temporary maintenance man at a staff meeting that included all employees, great and small. "This is our new maintenance worker Bill Pryzinski. I've instructed him to talk to you personally to have any repairs made to furniture or equipment. Unfortunately, I could only get headquarters to loan him out to us for a week at most so make good use of him while we have him. Welcome, Bill." He clapped until everyone joined him and Bill stood and waved his hand.

Early next morning, Bill stopped at Dave Freight's work area, a small desk located in the corner of a room filled with scientific equipment. "Everything okay here?"

Dave stood and scratched his head. "I can't figure it out. It's a good thing you showed up. It's been driving me crazy for months now."

"What?"

"My drawers are always sticking on my desk. Can you fix them for me?"

"Sure." He set down a toolbox and began to remove the drawers and stack them on the floor. "I see what you mean. This desk sure needs some work done on it."

"Looks like I'm just in your way. When should I come back?"

"Make it thirty minutes."

"Okay."

When Dave returned, Bill was sliding the last of the drawers back into place. "They work okay now?"

"Sure do." He demonstrated the results of his labor.

"Great." Dave shook Bill's hand. "Hey, since you're a stranger to the area how about if I treat you to dinner tonight in town? There's a little taco joint that I really like. You like Mexican food?"

Bill smiled. "To tell you the truth I never really tried it out before. But I don't want to trouble you any."

"Not in the least. Meet me back here at five. I always stop off somewhere to eat on the way home. It will be real nice to have some company for a change."

"Okay. See you at five then."

Rosarita's was a hole in the wall café where the namesake served as waitress, cook, dishwasher, and cashier. Because they arrived there before the blazing sun had set, Dave and Bill were the café's lone customers. A large fan circulated the hot air. Two flies rode its breeze as they waited for food on which to land.

"Not much to look at ambiance wise but the food's great." Dave shoved a crispy freshly fried tortilla chip into his mouth. "So, how long have you been a spy for the feds?"

"Huh?" Bill set his soda down so quickly that its carbonated bubbles stained the white tablecloth. "What do you mean?"

"I know the boss has me pegged as a whacko fan of science fiction who can't tell fantasy from reality. Little does he know my real love is mysteries. You know, Hammet, Gardner, and Chandler's stuff. I've read every one of their stories and seen the movies too. The radio dramas are best of all. But my real all-time favorite is Sherlock Holmes. Those tales taught me how to observe, how to deduce, how to size people up." He narrowed his eyes to a squint and moved them from Bill's face to his hands.

"Like me, for instance?"

"Yeah. My boss is very tight with the budget. No way he would ever spring any dough to have some guy come way out here to fix things up. No way. And you taking a half hour to fix my desk? A real maintenance man could have done it in five minutes, maybe ten minutes tops. You know what the clincher was?" He rocked his chair until it rested on two legs.

"I give up."

"Your hands." He pointed at them. "When I shook your hand today it was as smooth as silk. No maintenance man has hands like you do. The only calluses you have are probably the ones on your butt from sitting behind a desk most of the time. At least they let you out of your cage once in a while. Look at me." He tapped a fingertip on his chest. "Do I look like someone who's passing secrets on to Stalin and his boys?"

"No. Why would you do that? You're too honest." When your cover is blown, try to regain the person's trust, Bill's FBI mentor had said. Feed whoever pegged you as an agent just enough truth to get them to think you have their best interest at heart. "The way you talk I know there's no way you are a spy."

"Good. Now that we settled that, let's get down to brass tacks." He pointed at the tray of food Rosarita was lowering toward them.

Bill had the enchilada plate with rice and beans. Dave ate the daily special, a taco, burrito, and tostada, all of which he doused with hot sauce that made him swallow a pitcher of water before the meal ended. Once an agent's cover is blown, the best plan is "to drop back ten yards and punt. In other words, get away from the one who made you as quickly as possible." His mentor's advice echoed through Bill's head.

"I have to be getting back to my hotel." Bill pushed his chair back from the table.

"Not so fast. We still have a deal to make."

"Deal?"

"Yeah. I don't tell anyone who you really are and you get me transferred away from Los Alamos. A happy ending for everybody, right?"

"How am I going to convince your boss to do that?"

"I don't know but I do know you will. I need to be sent to one of those bases in the desert east of Los Angeles." Dave scraped the scraps from his plate and dumped the remaining tortilla chips into his doggie bag.

"Why there?"

"I really like the desert. Working here has made me fall in love with it."

"What makes you think I can arrange all that for you?"

"Because you're an honest guy. You tell my boss whatever about me. Tell him it's best for everyone if I'm sent there. I know he will listen to you, Agent Pryzinski or whatever your real name is."

Bill shrugged.

"Okay, okay, you win. I'll show you the real reason but you have to come to my apartment to see it." He pointed at Bill's plate. "You mind putting your leftovers in this bag? My dog gets really hungry this time of day." He stood and threw a $2 bill onto the table.

Rosarita returned and snatched the payment. "I'll bring the change."

"No thank you." Dave stood and hugged her. "Keep the change. It was delicious as always."

"Thank you, David. Bring more friends next time."

"Okay."

The two diners walked outside into the 95-degree air, which was half illuminated by twilight.

"I'll say this much for you, Dave. You're a big tipper. I figure you gave her at least twenty-five percent."

Dave's apartment was a studio no larger than Bill's lodging at his hotel; his dog a Dalmatian who devoured the contents of the doggie bags in seconds. Afterwards Saturn lay at his master's feet. Bill kept glancing at his watch.

"I know you want to be going. It'll only take a minute. See that map over on the wall?"

"Yeah." Bill studied the two-foot by three-foot map of America's forty-eight states. "What's those pencil marks all over it for?"

"The wind patterns from Las Vegas to points north and east of it. I took a metrology class in college before I dropped out to work for the government."

"Why Las Vegas?"

"The rumor is that they're going to move the bomb tests over near Vegas. Obviously, anyone downwind from them is in danger once they start the tests up."

"In danger from what?"

"The fallout. At first I was only worried about the atomic bomb rays but I've heard the scientists talking about how all the dust and debris that gets kicked up into the air by the blasts might be harmful too. So far they're convinced that it gets dispersed enough that it won't harm anybody down wind. But I'm not convinced one bit."

Bill stood and walked to the map. His fingers traced the wind patterns as far north as Montana and as far east as Indiana and through states to the south of it to Louisiana. "Why do your wind patterns only go this far to the east?"

"My calculations are that that's as far as the real bad fallout will go."

"So why not get yourself transferred to somewhere along the East Coast then?"

"Because I've already absorbed God only know how many radioactive rays and breathed in and drank down who knows how much fallout. It can settle onto water supplies you know. Just to be safe I need to get to the west of Las Vegas."

"Why not Los Angeles? There are lots of defense jobs there. One time I took a vacation out there. It's got great weather and friendly people."

"Ha! That's a laugh. Come on. It's so big that that's one of the cities Russia will bomb if we ever go to war with them."

"But they don't have the bomb."

"Not yet. Give them some time. They will before we know it."

***

"But you've only been here two days, Agent Pryzinski."

At least he's still using my cover name. "Yes, sir. But I'm afraid this case is pretty cut and dried."

"How's that again?"

"First, Dave Freight is not a spy for Russia. Second, his beliefs are probably interfering with his work here at Los Alamos."

"I suspected it all along."

"But maybe his fears are valid."

"What? You believe what that nut case told you?"

"You're the scientist, not me. Just how harmful are the rays and fallout from an atomic bomb test?"

"Oh, no. Now I know he's won you over."

"No. Please just answer my question."

"We know for sure that anyone too close to the initial blast gets radiated enough to at least make them sick for a while."

"Or die? Right?"

"Yes. As far as fallout goes, I can assure you that radioactive material carried downwind from a blast is dispersed enough to render it harmless."

"Then why did they move all those natives away from Bikini Atoll before starting those tests?"

"Just to be sure. With the bombs getting bigger and bigger you need more of a margin of error. So what do you suggest I do about Dave? Please remain impartial, agent."

"If I were you I'd transfer him. But you have to do it in such a way that he doesn't realize you're on to how his beliefs affect his work."

"Huh? How do I do that?"

"One important thing he told me is that he loves the desert. Transfer him to one of those bases out in California in the desert to the east of Los Angles. That should make him happy, you happy, and everybody happy." He rose and tipped his cap labeled Maintenance. "I have to get going so I can catch the next flight out of Albuquerque."

Agent Bill Sampson remained maintenance worker Bill Pryzinski until he reached his home in the suburbs outside of Washington, D.C. He tossed his cap into the closet reserved for his aliases. Then he became husband, father, and dog, cat, bird, fish, and reptile owner, roles he preferred to undercover man.
Chapter 15

The band played When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again as Fred Rhinehardt's train pulled into Madisin. It was a makeshift group of Veterans of Foreign War members: a drummer and clarinet, sax, trumpet, and tuba players. Agreeing on what song to play took more than one vote, something engrained into the fabric of Madisinites.

Jason Dalrumple's great grandfather on his mother's side, Horace Azarton, had rallied neighbors to incorporate their tiny community in 1858. Most wanted to name their town Madison. Horace insisted on Jefferson. As the town's presumptive mayor, Horace only relented when he saw votes that might elect him slipping away. But not without sneaking in a misspelling on the document sent to the territorial governor. Intent on having the last laugh, Horace spelled Madison as Madisin, which he thought reflected the condition of those who preferred James Madison to Thomas Jefferson as a namesake.

"They're just sinners, so I wrote in Madisin when they weren't looking," he loved to brag of his subterfuge. As mayor he vetoed every attempt to change the town's name from Madisin to Madison. Eventually those who cared either died or moved away.

Defining the region around Madisin was also controversial. Some called it the Midwest, others the Great Plains, and a few the South, especially those whose ancestors who had fought for the Confederacy, proof enough for them that Madisin was a part of Dixie. Such were three-fifths of the band at the train depot and their preferred When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again carried the day. Not that Fred cared, he was happy to be home and meet his son for the first time.

Four-year-old Karl waved a small American flag. He knew that all the other kids had fathers; except for the ones the war had taken forever. But now that same war was sending his daddy home. He wondered if war would take his father away again as Fred lifted him in a bear hug and kissed his forehead.

"Welcome home, honey." Sally grabbed Fred. "I won't be letting go of you ever again."

Her emphasis on home told the returning hero that moving was not negotiable. For a year via letters he had fought, pled, cajoled, and reasoned that "my hometown of Boston has a whole lot more to offer." Sally had replied that if she could give up her native Kentucky then he could live without Boston. Besides, four years of living in Madisin had made her agree with locals that "if you stay a while, it just sort of grows on you."

The welcome home party for Fred was at the VFW hall, with the rental fee waived after he agreed to join the Madisin chapter. In attendance was the Rhinehardts' pastor, Rev. Lacharetti of the Madisin Community Church and the Dalrumples' pastor, Rev. Trueblood of the Full Gospel Evangelical Church. Strangers until now, the two sought each other out, mostly out of curiosity.

"Never thought they'd make more fuss over Fred's homecoming than they did Jason's," Rev. Lacharetti said.

Rev. Trueblood chuckled. "You don't know Jason." He described some of Jason's pranks before Rev. Lacharetti had accepted a call to Madisin. As their conversation spiraled into small talk Trueblood crossed the boundary that separates those of the same profession by "talking shop." First he probed. "So what's it like being the pastor at Madisin Community Church?"

Rev. Lacharetti gagged on the punch coursing down his gullet. "Excuse me. " He placed his empty cup onto their shared table. "Maybe an analogy would describe it best. I went to college and seminary and received my masters of divinity degree. First I served as an associate pastor at a large church in Detroit. Then I became head pastor for a congregation in Chicago. Somehow what I preached went over like a lead balloon. The Church by-laws called for an annual vote of confidence for the pastor. When the vote was 423 to 399 that I stay I took a smaller church in St. Louis. That lasted for five years. Then I came here."

"You like it here?"

"Yes and no. Having a congregation of only about a hundred is nice. The much smaller salary has drawbacks though. Just ask my wife."

"What do you think made those other churches lose faith in you?"

He smiled. "You hit the nail on the head. I taught them not to put their faith in me and our church and our denomination but to put it in Jesus and His kingdom instead."

"The kingdom of God instead of your denomination? Bet that went over like a fart in church at your denominational headquarters."

He laughed. "Yeah. You might say that. Anyway when it's all said and done, I went from the major leagues down to the minor leagues in twelve years. How about you?"

"I guess I'm a rarity. Madisin Full Gospel Evangelical has been my only church."

"Do they have votes of confidence on you?"

"No, thank God. Does your church here have them?"

"No. That's probably the only reason I'm still there."

When the party wound down Rev. Trueblood asked if his new friend could share any material on the kingdom of God. Something about the way Rev. Lacharetti used the term and talked about "the Lord" as if Jesus were a close friend intrigued him.

"Sure. Follow me over to my church office."

Rev. Lacharetti's office was about the size of the men's restroom at his church. Sometimes it smelled as bad when the humidity invaded it, producing mold and mildew, especially on the rows of books in bookcases that ran from floor to ceiling. He wiped some green and yellow growth from the binder that he pulled from a shelf. "Here it is. These are my notes from Professor Palmer's class at seminary."

"Matthew 6:33? He taught a whole class on one verse?" He pointed at the title on the notebook's cover.

"Seek first His kingdom and His righteousness." He handed the binder to him as if it were his most valued possession. "Don't read those notes unless you mean business with the Lord and are willing to have your life turned upside down."

***

A week passed before Fred's body adapted to the nine-hour difference in time zones. Hope lingered that Sally would agree to a loss of one more hour. He pointed at a map, his only ally.

"If I'm going to make a good living for us it would be a whole lot easier somewhere back on the East Coast."

"In other words, Boston. I already told you how much my daddy hated living in New York." Sally sat back in her chair and folded her arms. "There's no way Boston would be any better than what he saw on the streets of New York."

"Okay, okay. We could settle in a little town outside of Philadelphia in the farmland of Pennsylvania. You'd like those Amish farmers. Maybe that's better than Boston. Look at this map. It's only about 400 miles from Washington D.C. to Boston. In between them there's Baltimore, Philadelphia, Newark, New York, Hartford, Providence." He ran his finger along the map. "Hartford's the insurance capital. As I move up selling insurance that would be the best place to be."

"What's wrong with Omaha? They have insurance companies there. And it's only a day's drive from here."

Fred closed the road atlas. For the first time, he missed his authority as an ensign, of being able to issue orders. For a moment he was tempted to say that he should have stayed in the Navy because then Uncle Sam would decide where he and his family lived. But with Karl playing with his building blocks a few feet away Fred abandoned the argument. "I'm supposed to meet Jason for lunch. I'll be back later."

"Why don't you sell him some insurance? Him and all the other veterans. I read somewhere that there's over ten million veterans now that the war is over with. That's who you ought to sell insurance to. Veterans."

Her words echoed in his mind as he drove to Tom's Diner, known to regulars as Tom's Greasy Spoon. There the food was fresh, portions large, and prices reasonable, which made it the haunt of lower and middle class folks of Madisin. Those better off preferred the country club on the north end of town and it's eighteen-hole golf course.

Fascinated by numbers since age four, Fred decided to put them to work to determine his future. "Okay Sally, you think you're so smart?" He smirked at the photo of her and Karl that he had taped to his 1941 Ford sedan's dashboard. "If I sell a policy to Jason during lunch, we'll stay here in Madisin. If not, I'll spend most of my time out on the road until you cave in and let us move back East."

Random chance? Statistical probability? Dumb luck? Fate? Divine Providence? Take your pick. You set the odds, Sally. But I'm rolling the dice. You better not have loaded them by praying about this. That's not fair.

Sally was one of those wives convinced that the hosts of heaven, including their Creator, were on her side come hell or high water. God help any poor fool who thought otherwise. When husband or child or both proved unbearable she retreated to her prayer room, which was a walk outside weather permitting; if not, any available room that was unoccupied. There she stayed until she "prayed through and now I feel the Lord's peace no matter what happens." Fred had yet to decide which was worse, a hell raising Irishwoman who had tended bar such as his mother or one with a direct line to God such as his wife.

Jason Dalrumple also had forebears from the Emerald Isle and his impishness was in fine form as he held court at Tom's Diner. "About time you got here. The waitress was in a hurry so I ordered for you."

Fred's pants snagged on a spring protruding from the red vinyl seat as he slid into the booth. "I just need some coffee."

"Can't start the day on an empty stomach. Especially since we need to talk business."

"Huh?"

"You're number three on my list."

"What list?"

"The one I came up with while I was stuck on Monkey Island, the five things I needed to do once I came on back home. Marrying Thelma was number one. Taking over my dad's business was number two. Thanking you is number three. So thank you, Professor." He shoved his hand toward his chest.

"For what?" Fred lightly squeezed it.

"For saving my life. If it hadn't been for you I'd have gone up on deck without my life jacket and become fish food for sure. So thank you, Fred."

"Uh, sure." He blinked as the waitress set a platter of eggs, bacon, toast, and hash browns in front of him. Six buckwheat pancakes waited for Jason to baptize them with maple syrup and whipped butter.

"Let's pray. Dear Lord, thank you for this food and for Fred. Amen."

"Amen. I don't ever remember you praying before."

"I'm trying to walk the straight and narrow now. Dad said I need to get me some of that insurance you said you're going to sell because Thelma's pregnant."

"She is? Congratulations."

"Thanks. Anyways, when you get a chance come on over. I need to buy the most insurance I can but it's got to be cheap. Running a business is not easy. It ate through all my cash income last month. Between paying for FDR's New Deal and Truman's Fair Deal, I'm flat broke."

They talked of how trading a uniform and gun and ship for home and family was not as easy as they had thought it would be. Jason urged Fred to stay in Madisin.

"All your talk about moving off makes about as much sense as running your transport ship onto a reef."

"Why?"

"Everything you need is right here."

"Except customers. Selling insurance takes lots of prospects. I figure there's maybe fifty million of them living between Boston and Washington D.C."

"But here you're more centralized. It would only take you a day or so to drive to Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, Memphis, or Dallas. Sure the Twin Cities, Detroit, Cleveland, and Pittsburgh are a longer trip but you can hit them all on one long swing at once."

Fred stabbed his eggs with the fork. "Maybe so." He pushed the half-finished breakfast to the table's edge. "I've been wondering what's number four and five on your list."

"Number four is sort of personal." Jason stood and threw three one-dollar bills on the table. "As soon as I take care of it, I'll get back to you since number five involves you. I got to run. Mrs. Baker's roof is leaking again. I'm hoping she'll let us replace it. The shingles are worn clean through."

***

Pastor Trueblood made notes as he read the binder labeled Matt. 6:33. At the tail end of middle age, he needed lists to help him complete projects. He liked them to be short. The long lists handed to him by his board of deacons and wife wearied him. This list was titled Seeking God's Kingdom:

1. Use concordance to find references to kingdom

2. Mark verses referring to God's kingdom

3. Go back and read marked verses

4. Memorize and meditate on ones I don't understand

He was on step number four when a knock on his office door broke his concentration. "Yes?"

"There's someone here to see you."

He glanced at the appointment calendar that covered half of his desk. "But I don't have any more appointments all day."

"It's Jason Dalrumple."

His fists closed as the invisible vise tightened around his temples. "Okay, show him in."

Every church has at least one, the member who never climbs on board, gets with the program, and goes along to get along; the one who is a pain, who contributes little except a buck in the offering and his presence at every potluck, dinner, and wedding to feast on free food, the one who drives the pastor crazy. He reached for his bottle of aspirin and took two. At least the war seemed to have quieted Jason's rebellious ways to some degree. Oh well, time to put on the forced smile and pretend I'm glad to see him, he thought.

"Good morning, Jason."

"Hi, Pastor. Sorry to drop in like this but I got a feeling it's now or never."

"Please sit down." Rev. Trueblood turned sideways in his chair to hide half of the displeasure on his face. Give me Your grace, Lord. Please.

"I'll cut to the quick. I'm ready to come to the altar next Sunday. Anything I should do to get ready besides wearing my best suit?"

He spun his swivel chair to face the penitent.

"I know I was all wrong to plug up my ears so as not to hear your preaching all these years. I'm sorry, real sorry."

"That...that's okay. Why the change of heart all of a sudden?"

"Well, while I was off on Monkey Island I had time and lots of it. In fact, it felt like time stood still there most days. I got to thinking things through real good and came up with a list of things I needed to do after the war. Coming to the altar during your next altar call is one of them."

"Oh." Some of his meditation on the kingdom of God began to spill forth. "God's kingdom is eternal, Jason. Once you're born into it, there's no turning back. Ever."

"Oh. I don't plan on backsliding."

"If you ever do God will destroy your body to save your soul."

"Huh? You never said that before. Are you sure?"

He leapt to his feet. "Why do you tarry? It's six days away to next Sunday. You could die before then."

"I sure hope not. I haven't got to number five on my list yet and still need to buy life insurance."

"Today is the day of salvation!" His hands sliced through the invisible barriers. "Are you ready? Or are you just fooling around like you always do?"

"Sure. You're the preacher man."

For the next hour he flipped through the pages of his bible, stopping at each marked verse and reading it to the unexpected visitor. Jason listened. At times he nodded. When the bible closed Jason stood.

"I never heard you preach like that before. We best head over to the lake so you can baptize me right now. I'm through putting things off. Let's get moving. I got a roof to fix."

***

I know Sally won fair and square. But that doesn't mean I have to let her know she did. After a week of trying to manipulate her into letting him sign on with an insurance company headquartered in New York or Hartford, Fred chose an Omaha company, Heartland Mutual Insurance Company. So far he had met with his manager once.

Fred liked Glen Eckles. A delegater by nature, Glen gave all his agents the same introductory pep talk: "The fields are ripe for harvest, son. There has never been a greater pent-up demand out there. The depression is over. The war is over. Good times are really going to roll more than they did during the 1920s. Sure, things are touch and go right now. But by the time we hit the 1950s, look out! The factories aren't building tanks, planes, and ships any more. Now it's cars, appliances, radios, furniture, you name it. And our soldiers, sailors, and marines aren't carrying guns. They're civilians now holding hammers, wrenches, saws, or pens as they get us back to peacetime prosperity. Yes, sir. You signed on here at Heartland at the best possible time. Get out there and sell those policies. The first one is the hardest to sell. After that it's all downhill."

Having to report in to Glen only once a month had sealed the deal. Every other company Fred had interviewed with demanded more meetings. It was having a job with few meetings that had drawn Fred to the insurance game. After suffering as many as three a day during his Navy duty, he had come to hate them. Being on the road also attracted him. Sally had reluctantly agreed to that part of the deal "as long as you're home more days than you're gone."

Driving to Omaha took seventeen hours from Madisin. To save the cost of a hotel room, Fred left home at 8 p.m. so he could arrive at Mr. Eckles' office by 2 p.m. the following day. His secretary's startled expression told Fred that he should have at least shaved.

"Come in, Fred. How was the trip?"

"A long one, sir."

"Sit down. And please dispense with that sir business. We're all on the same team around here."

"Yes, sir. I mean..."

"So, what's your game plan?"

"I wanted to hit my northern prospects before winter sets in. So I'm heading out to Indianapolis tomorrow. Then it's on to Columbus, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Detroit, Chicago, Milwaukee, Minneapolis/St. Paul, Des Moines, and Kansas City."

His boss traced the itinerary on the map in front of him with a red pen. "Great. We don't have many policyholders in those cities. It's virgin territory you're looking at. Where are you going after that?"

"I'll hit all the smaller towns and cities closer to Madisin through the winter. In late March I want to swing through Tulsa, Oklahoma City, Dallas/Ft. Worth, Houston, New Orleans, Mobile, Montgomery, Birmingham, Memphis, and Little Rock."

"I'll draw that spring trip in when you report back here before you take off on it. Here. Take this along."

Fred took the large empty envelope labeled expenses.

"You put every receipt for gas, food, lodging, phone calls, and so forth in there. You'll need expenses to claim against your income or else you'll be in the poorhouse after you pay your taxes next year."

Fred shifted his weight until the chair creaked. "Is there any way I can get an advance?"

"No. Sorry, but when we tried that too many of our salesmen gave up before they ever paid it back. It's sink or swim, boy."

"But..."

"There's no ands, ifs, or buts, in the insurance game. If you're alive and kicking, you need one of our policies. If you're dead you better have enough of a policy to at least pay to bury you. Now who have you got lined up to meet in all those cities?"

"I contacted VFW posts about speaking at them."

"Good. If anyone knows about life and death, it's VFW members. One last thing. The road is tough. I did it in a big band during the 1930s."

"What did you play?"

"Trumpet. On the road you learn to improvise. We slept on the bus most nights. About every third night our bandleader put us up in a motel. He told us to take a bath when we checked in and another one when we checked out so we smelled good for that night's concert and the one the next day."

"Was the money any good?"

"Nah. Only the big boys such as the bands run by Goodman, the Dorseys, and Miller made good money. They made a lot of dough off of their records, too. We were a one-hit wonder."

"One-hit wonder?"

"You know, we had only one record that did well. Funny thing was some big time songwriter didn't put it together. We did. One night we were playing this dance hall in Colorado on our way back from playing the clubs out in California. In between numbers our drummer started beating out a crazy 7/8 beat. Then the bass player started in thumping on the up beats instead of the downbeats. I figured what the hell? So I start to play some riff I had picked up in some jazz club in Los Angeles. The other horns latched on to it and away we went. You should've seen our bandleader. He had told us to take a break and was out front smoking a cigarette. He came flying back in waving his arms for us to stop playing. He had this set list. Every night we played the same songs in the same order. Talk about boring. The only time the list changed was if he brought in a new hit from one of the really popular bands. So he's madder that a wet hen at us until he notices that the place is jumping. All night it had been dead but as soon as we cut loose everyone in the place was on their feet and dancing. So he starts acting like he's the one that wrote the song. I about fell out of my chair when he hopped on this old piano sitting off stage and started pounding away on it. We backed off and let him solo. It was the only time I ever saw him smile while performing. Then he stayed up all night writing out all the parts for all the instruments. He drove the bus straight through to Chicago so we could record it. It was the only record that got much airplay for us and we cut at least two dozen of them. But by four months later it wasn't getting played much anymore on the radio or jukeboxes. So we went back to being strictly bush league. That's what a one hit wonder is. Don't be a one hit wonder, Fred. Learn to improvise."

"Yes, sir."

Six hundred miles of mostly cornfields and hog farms, Fred's first stretch of road from Omaha to Indianapolis allowed him to conjure up ways to improvise on a trip that had depended on at least a $200 advance. Without any advance, I'll be out of money by the time I hit Cleveland. That reality set in when he stopped for gas five miles west of Des Moines. There he overheard a couple of gas jockeys as they filled gas tanks.

"Yeah, I'm going to hit the road next summer."

"What in? Your old heap of bolts probably won't make it past the county line."

"I'm going to hitchhike. I talked to some guy who passed through here last week. He said he made it all the way from New York to here on just $20. He just buys some gas for some of those who pick him up."

Fred picked up the next hitchhiker he saw, an old farmer whose "truck broke down so I have to get to town to buy a new clutch to fix it with." Just a "thank you" from him. But the third one given a ride proved to be a goldmine. He was headed to Boston and gave Fred $3, which filled the gas tank as thanks for Fred taking him as far as Indianapolis. There Fred spoke on the importance of life insurance to thirty-two veterans. Four bought term life insurance policies, which were in the mail to the Omaha office the day they were signed.

Improvisation became Fred's new game. Instead of motels Fred stayed at YMCAs or the homes of friendly VFW members in return for listening to their war stories. By the time he hit Chicago he had sold twenty-two policies. An honest man, he steered customers to term insurance. With its lower premiums and higher payout in case of death of the insured, he knew it would better provide for the beneficiaries. If someone was more interested in investments he sold them a whole life policy or annuity with the promise that "if you live long enough it will pay you dividends."

Some of those he gave rides to proved interesting; others a little strange, such as the one he picked up on the road that linked Chicago to Milwaukee. The man who appeared to be about fifty carried a rifle in a leather case and a history that bent his head toward the ground.

"I didn't know it was deer season here," Fred said.

"Who said it was?"

"Uh, that is for shooting deer?" He pointed at the weapon.

"Some times." He unzipped the case and pulled out the 30.06, complete with scope. "Fine shooting iron. Give me $45 and it's all yours."

"Uh, no thanks. Looks like rain or snow." Fred pointed at the clouds that covered the sky.

"It best be rain. Snow leaves too many tracks. I don't like people following behind me."

"Uh, how far you going?"

"As far as you are." His smile revealed two missing teeth.

"Well, I'm stopping off in Milwaukee. I have to speak to a group at a VFW chapter."

"What about?"

"Life insurance."

"Figures. All of you salesmen wear cheap after-shave lotion. The deer would smell you a mile away."

When they reached the city, the rider asked to be dropped off at the first pawnshop that he spotted. "They better give me a decent price. Here. I won't be needing these." He tossed a box of bullets onto Fred's lap. "Sorry but I don't have a dime on me to give you. My crop got wiped out by hail. That's why I'm selling my rifle. But at least you can trade them for a couple gallons of gas at a gas station out in the country. City folks won't want them. Sorry if I sound down. That's what happens when you lose your crop."

***

Business slowed for Jason as the weather went from autumn rains to winter snows. From now until spring most of his work would be fixing burst plumbing, repairing storm damage to storefronts or houses, and shoveling snow. To announce his seasonal service, he added Snow Removal onto the pieces of plywood attached to the bed and sides of 1933 Ford pickup. His dual signs now read:

Dalrumple Construction

And

Snow Removal

MObley5-8912

"It always get this slow for you every winter?" Jason asked his father during the extended family's biggest annual feast.

"Son, it's been nothing but slow since 1930."

"What's the deal that I have to pay Social Security tax twice for myself and then I have to pay it as the employer for anybody I hire?"

"Maybe now you can understand why I used you and your brothers as my hired help so much."

"Hired help? Leroy slapped his knee. "You never paid us one thin dime, Dad."

"I gave you room and board and..."

"The clothes on our backs." Leroy turned to Jason. "You need to move on up to Detroit little brother. I can get you on at one of the auto plants. The union boss loves me. Then you won't be worrying about running your own business, only about cashing your paycheck."

Thelma scowled at her brother-in-law. "We don't need the kind of help you like to hand out, Mr. Bigshot. You can keep Detroit and all it's big city ways."

Leroy held up his hands. "Still the wildcat you always were huh, Thelma? Guess they were right when they said a leopard can't change its spots. Go ahead and be a scab, Thelma. Work at that rundown factory making furniture. Maybe you can even build yours and Jason's coffins. You'll both be dying early deaths, I guarantee it."

"I'm not a scab." She shook a knife at him.

"Oh? Did old man Monroe finally let the union come in to his place?"

"We don't need them. He pays us a fair wage."

"Yeah, sure." Leroy impaled his quarter-inch thick slice of ham with his fork and waved the meat above the Christmas dinner table. "You're nothing but a piece of meat to him." He held the meat above his face and let the grease drip into his mouth.

"That's enough from all of you." Though sixty-three, the clan's mother still exerted control over her family, even if only when they gathered for holidays. "Land sakes alive. To listen to the way you all carry on you would think some of us are blood enemies instead of family. You know good and well all I ask from all of you every Christmas is to show up for dinner. That's all." She shook her finger at her three sons. "What are you always fighting for? Your brother must be rolling over in his grave having to listen to you fuss on and on."

One by one the brothers turned to the fireplace. Its smoking pine and cedar logs filled the home with a sweet fragrance as their sap boiled and melted. On the mantelpiece stood a lone photograph of John standing next to the B-17 that had served as his coffin. Ed, the youngest brother, pushed his chair back from the table and shuffled to his mother. He knelt and hugged her.

"Pay them no nevermind, Ma. They always did fight up a storm."

The wisdom of the simplest member of the Dalrumple clan calmed the tension and kept Jason and Leroy from trying to get the last word.

"Your mother is right, boys." Their father cleared his throat. "Just because we have axes to grind doesn't mean we have to bury them in one another."

The next day Thelma returned to Monroe Furniture. Five months pregnant, she now worked twenty hours a week. Her morning sickness and the fumes of the varnishes and stains applied to desks, chairs, dressers, and tables had driven her from the station she had handled for five years. She now sanded furniture until it was as smooth as she imagined her baby's bottom would be.

Her fellow employees had dropped from a wartime high of 137 to a force of fifty-nine. Some had joined husbands returning from the war and headed off to supposedly greener pastures than those of Madisin. Others had moved to where larger factories were transitioning to a consumer-based demand. Mr. Monroe's factory, started by his grandfather, had weathered the Great Depression. Weary with increasing complaints from his workers that a union was needed, he assembled his workforce on the factory floor after the whistle sounded that the day's lone shift had begun.

"Wonder if he's going to say Happy New Year?" Darryl spoke loud enough that half the workers heard him. "He didn't even say Merry Christmas to me on Christmas Eve."

"Who can blame him? You're just a Scrooge." The retort made Darryl flush with rage.

Monroe raised his hands for quiet. "No use in my beating around the bush. You all know that the union boys are back in town to get you to vote on whether to join. But now that our contracts with the Army have all ended I can't pay what they'll put into a union contract for even higher wages. I'd like to shift our products and get them into stores all around the country. But we can't compete with the bigger factories if I have to pay you all top dollar. My factory is just too small. So you're going to have to decide what you want. If you vote to go union I'm going to sell out to the first buyer who makes a decent offer. If you vote the union down, I'll make Monroe Furniture into an employee-owned company. It's up to you."

"It's a trick." Darryl kept mumbling his warning until the lunch whistle blew. Then he stood in line to use the pay phone at the edge of the factory's parking lot.

"Hello?"

"It's me. Darryl."

"Yeah? You got enough votes lined up for us yet? The vote is next week."

"We got trouble. Meet at Joe's Bar at 5:30."

"Okay."

Half honky-tonk and half lounge, Joe's Bar drew three sets of clientele. From Sunday to Thursday, lonely hearts looking for companionship trolled its dark booths. After high school football and basketball games, boys old enough to buy 3.2 per cent beer or those with fake IDs celebrated wins or bemoaned losses. Friday and Saturday nights a small band, either local boys or some traveling outfit, mounted the bar's small stage and sang about fighting, dancing, romancing, living, and dying. The bar's dark interior made it an excellent place for politicians and their supporters to transact deals. So Darryl deemed it adequate for the likes of Big Ben.

Ben was a union boss of the old school. He had cut his teeth organizing for his union in and around Chicago for the last thirty years. Now he was tasked with cracking the toughest nuts of all, factories in small cities, a job proving especially tiresome in Madisin.

"We got trouble." Darryl slid into the booth that served as Ben's office.

"The trouble is you. You've already taken a month too long to line up the votes for an election to set up a local." Ben's eyes narrowed.

"It's not me. Old man Monroe wants to make his factory employee owned."

Most of the beer in Ben's mouth sprayed outward and hit Darryl's face. The rest entered the pathway to Ben's lungs and choked him. Darryl wiped the saliva and foam from his hair, forehead, cheeks, and nose.

"I knew you were going to be upset. But just say it don't spray it."

"Upset? Not me." He stood and threw a quarter on the table. "The vote is next week. That gives you plenty of time to shake hands, grease some palms, break some legs, or whatever it is you do around this Palookaville to get people on the bandwagon."

"You're still going to help me out, right?"

"I got other fish to fry." He glanced at his diamond-studded watch. "I'm due in Saint Joseph tomorrow morning. I'll just barely make it if I leave right now. I'll be back here if we win the election to help you set up local 582. If you lose..." He shrugged and gestured a thumb down.

Darryl stared at the quarter, empty beer bottle, and wet tabletop. Every other time they had met Ben had bought him a beer and talked about the Cubs, Bears, and White Sox. To bolster his swagger before he left he ordered one of his own and drained it in two gulps. Copying his mentor, he tossed a quarter onto the table and strode out into the twilight. He did not notice the car that followed him from the bar's parking lot to his home until it pulled in behind him in his driveway.

"Who's there?" Shielding his eyes from the car's high beam headlights, he walked to the driver's side. "Oh, it's only you."

"Didn't think this day would ever dome, did you?" Jason stepped from his car and leveled a .45 on Darryl's midsection. "Come on over here, Fred." He handed the gun to his sweating friend. "If he goes for a gun or knife while I search him, shoot him. Fred here is none too happy with your chasing after Sally while he was away during the war." He pulled a .22 pistol from Darryl's waistband. "Ooo...look at this little pea shooter of yours. What Fred's holding shoots a slug twice as big as this thing does." He handed it to Fred. "Okay, Fred. Just in case I didn't find some other weapon Darryl might still be hiding, now you can shoot him with both guns if he pulls anything out."

"What are you going to do? I was only joking around with Sally. I didn't mean anything by it."

"Yeah, sure. Just like you didn't mean anything when you starting acting sweet with Thelma."

Darryl held out his hands as if he were pushing against a wall of glass between him and his captors. "Now that's a whole different ball game, Jason. You two weren't even married yet so Thelma was fair game."

"You skunk. You were married." Jason shook his head. "To poor little Nancy. She's a saint and you're a devil. She's at choir practice tonight, right?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Now let's mosey on into your garage. Can't be having the neighbors calling the cops to come and break up the match."

"Match?"

"You and me. Fred here is the referee just to be sure you don't hit me below the belt or kick me, you snake."

They shuffled through the side door of the garage. Darryl pulled the string attached to its lone source of lighting, a fifty-watt bulb.

"Okay. Here's the rules." Jason backed into a corner of the dusty concrete floor. "Ten rounds but no bells in between rounds. Two minutes per round times ten means twenty minutes of nonstop beating, punching, and dodging each other's fists. No kicking, scratching, clawing, or biting allowed. Any questions?"

"Just one. Are you crazy? You still look like a shrimp from being stranded on that island. I outweigh you by a good fifty pounds at least. I'll clobber you. It's like a heavyweight versus a welterweight."

"So what? It'll be my 144 pounds of pure muscle versus your 200 pounds of pure fat. The bigger they are, the harder they fall." Jason turned to Fred. "Okay, ref. Start timing us at the sound of the bell."

Fred stared at his watch. "Ah... three, two, one, clang clang."

Seventeen minutes later the bare knuckled pugilists had retreated to their corners where Darryl was vomiting up the remnants of his dinner and Jason was rubbing two broken knuckles on his hand, injured during the first round when he landed a right hook to his opponent's jaw. For the remainder of the fight, he had punched away at Darryl's sagging belly. Its thick layers of fat cushioned every blow but sickened him enough to lose the hot dog, milk shake, and onion rings he had devoured before his meeting with Big Ben. Darryl had landed twenty-nine blows to Jason's head, which most of Madisin knew to be the hardest part of his body. Six of the punches had sent Jason to the concrete mat. But each time he arose before Fred's count reached ten. Neither fighter claimed victory. Hoping to settle the hostilities, Referee Fred proclaimed the match a draw.

"Well, have a good night, Darryl." Jason pulled on his shirt and left it unbuttoned. He took the .22 pistol and pointed it at Darryl's left temple. "I'm going to keep this puny little pea shooter of yours. If you go out tom catting around either Thelma or Sally ever again, I'm going to shoot you in the head right there with it, wipe off my fingerprints from it, and then put it in your cold dead left hand. The police will figure out that you shot yourself."

Darryl reached for a soda from the half empty six-pack carton on his tool bench. He popped its cap off with the bottle opener nailed to a stud. After using two mouthfuls to rinse the vomit from his mouth and throat, he sat on a stack of used tires. "Whatever you say, boss." He saluted. "You give more orders than old man Monroe and Big Ben put together."

"That's a good boy. Fred and me are going home to our wives now. We'll take showers to wash this little nasty incident off of us. I bet old Fred will hop into the sack and have some fun with Sally. Me? You whooped me so bad that I won't be having fun with Thelma for two or three days most likely. But you're still in good enough shape to get real friendly with that pretty woman of yours. So go and take a shower and treat Nancy like she deserves to be treated when she gets on back home from choir practice."

Darryl stared at the bantam rooster who did not know when to stay down or shut up.

"Keep it in your pants when you're away from home from now on. Some other man might shoot you if you don't. Not everyone is as forgiving as me and Fred are."

Jason asked Fred to drive down Shady Lane and to stop at the bridge built in 1908. At its rusty iron rail he dropped the .22 pistol into the river below. After making a slight splash, the weapon sank through eight feet of water and made a plume as it rested in the riverbed's soft mud.

"Let's go."

"Why'd you do that?"

"So I never do what I said to Darryl. He's one of those all or nothing types. If he can't get a union in at work he'll keep on badmouthing Mr. Monroe. Just because he didn't get to marry Thelma, he spends his nights chasing after other women. His type is never satisfied, no matter what." He pointed at the river. "This is our little secret."

"Okay."

"Good. Well that was number five on my list. Now maybe I can finally get back to normal living for a change."

***

The spring of 1947 came early to Madisin. Both Fred and Jason rejoiced as the days without snow on the ground outnumbered those with a white landscape. Their wives had a hallelujah breakdown as they celebrated the end of their husbands' months long cabin fever.

"I was beginning to think I wouldn't last the winter with Fred." Sally sighed. "All he did on days he couldn't hit the road was pace around the house like some tiger caged up at the zoo. Am I ever glad he's gone for three weeks. I was beginning to lose my marbles."

"Where's he off to?"

"Texas, Louisiana, Florida, Georgia, Alabama, Tennessee, and Arkansas. I'll give Fred this much. He sure knows how to line up speeches with VFW chapters. Afterwards he always sells at least one policy."

"You think you have it bad?" Thelma reached across the red checkerboard tablecloth and clutched her hand. "Jason is totally crazy."

Sally slowly pulled her hand free from her best friend. When Thelma winced, Sally patted her forearm. "Oh come on, Thelma. Anybody that calls Fred the Professor can't be all that nuts." She blinked as tears rolled down Thelma's cheeks. "Can he?"

"You have no idea what it's like living with him. Most nights he talks in his sleep to Kong."

"Kong? Who's that?"

"Didn't Fred tell you?"

"No. He never talks about the war. He keeps it all bottled up inside."

"Kong was Jason's one and only friend on Monkey Island. That's where I might as well be the way Jason pays me no attention all the time."

"I know he loves you. Look at how hard he works to take good care of you."

"That's just it. All winter long he was gone by seven every morning looking for sidewalks and driveways to clear the snow off of. Then he always went to Tom's Diner to eat dinner. He said the daily specials are just too good to pass up. Then he looked for odd jobs all over downtown. He got home for supper about 4:30 only because by then it was getting dark."

"At least he's not lazy. He reminds me of my daddy, the way he's willing to work any job that comes his way."

Thelma wiped her tears with her embroidered apron and sighed. "I guess you're right. I'd plumb go off the deep end if it weren't for you being my friend."

"Truth be told, I need you just as much as you need me. For some reason you're the only one I trust enough to talk about family. All my neighbors and the ladies at church gossip like a bunch of hens pecking some weak chicken to death. I'm not going to be pecked by them."

"It's no different for me. Old Mrs. Thorndike was wagging her tongue so hard after church last Sunday that I thought it might break off."

When the life inside of her moved Thelma grabbed Sally's hand and placed it on her womb. "Feel that? Mom says it's a boy for sure the way he kicks all the time."

Sally smiled as the tiny legs thumped against her hand. "I guess that means maybe mine is a boy, too." She patted her round abdomen with her other hand. "But all he does so far is make me throw up every morning."

***

Jason's daily habits appeared strange to more than just Thelma. No matter which job he worked – demolition, remodeling, new construction – he brought home every scrap of building material. His quarter-acre lot, which lay just outside of the city limits, now resembled a junkyard. Lumber of every size and length, shingles, bricks, and pipes and fixtures were all stacked in separate piles, which Jason considered adequate storage of salvage. Some citizens of Madisin did not. One such grievance was aired at a monthly city council meeting.

"Now that the snow has melted off all of Jason Dalrumple's trash is exposed." Mrs. Walengrad waged a forefinger. "You simply must cite him."

Mayor Chet Flingler, a voting member of the city council, grimaced and turned to the four seated beside him but none came to his rescue. "We've told you before, Mattie. The Dalrumples live outside the city limits. Madisin has no jurisdiction over their property. You have to take your gripe to the county."

"The county?" She abandoned the podium set up in front of the council for public input and marched to the long table that protected the council from her wrath. Her head spun back and forth as she made certain all five members paid attention to her every word. "The county seat is a good sixty miles from here. Why should I have to go all the way there when the problem is right in our own backyard?" Her forefinger jabbed at each member. The most timid one flinched and cleared his throat.

"I have to head over there on business next Tuesday, Mattie. I'd be glad to give you a ride."

For the first time since the gavel had signaled the start of the meeting, Mattie smiled. "That's more like it. At least one of you is civic minded enough to take pride in Madisin's outskirts. Mark my word. The way we're growing it won't be long before we incorporate Jason Dalrumple's property and far beyond it. Then you'll have to do as I say."

Fred often attended such meetings, more for business than civic reasons. Before and after them he would wander through the audience to "make sure all your insurance needs are up to date." Because he was driving home from his three-week swing through Texas and parts of the Southeast he had missed Mattie's fireworks. But Sally filled him on Mrs. Walengrad's campaign to beautify Madisin.

"Fred, you're the only one Jason listens to."

He gagged on his piece of toast. "To hear Jason tell it, he listens to Thelma nonstop."

"Very funny, wise guy. You are the only one he respects enough to take advice from."

"Oh? Then why did he only buy a $50,000 policy when I told him he needed a $150,000 one? Now that his kid has been born he needs that much. If Jason were to die today poor Thelma and Stanley would be hurting without his income coming in. Why's she have to nag him anyway? He works his butt off for her and Stanley. Isn't that enough? What do you women want from us?"

"I know he does. But it's like he's obsessed with working. Just like you are."

"Maybe working is good for him. Listen, I had it pretty damn easy during the war. None of the ships I was on got torpedoed and sunk. That kamikaze plane killed a bunch of men when it hit our deck but all I got was a few pieces of metal in my legs." He patted the scars left as reminders. "Jason? That poor fool landed on one too many islands, okay? How would you like to go ashore with shells and bullets flying so thick that if you stand up a second too soon or too late you're dead?"

Sally stared at the white-laced tablecloth. "Actually, Thelma and me think it was Monkey Island that made Jason go crazy. He was on that one for almost a year all alone."

"Monkey Island? He never even talks about it to me."

"He does in his sleep."

"Oh?" Fred put down his cup and leaned forward. "What's he say?"

"It's all crazy talk. Thelma says it sounds like he and Kong are acting out a movie."

He picked his fork up and sliced a link of sausage. "That's all? I thought maybe he was talking to some Polynesian babe that he had as a girlfriend there. Thelma should be glad."

She grabbed the large cloth napkin from her lap and hurled it at her husband. He ducked. Karl clapped at his parents' antics. "You make daddy look like a clown, Mommy."

Fred stood, retrieved the napkin, and handed it to her. "Got to get going. I have an appointment at Mr. Gilmore's office. He's thinking of offering his employees a health insurance plan. Lucky for him Heartland is expanding into other lines. Wish me luck."

Sally followed him out the back door to the unattached garage. "Please, Fred. Could you at least talk to Jason when comes over tomorrow to give us a bid?"

He hesitated as the wooden door swung open and its hinges groaned. The six-foot by six-foot piece of plywood missed Sally's head by two inches. "All right already. I'll do it."

Years later, Jason would swear that it was Fred's nonstop sales pitch that led to the fight.

"Now that you have a son you really need to raise your life insurance policy to $150,000, Jason."

"What for? I don't plan on dying any time soon."

"But what if you did? Your $50,000 policy would last Thelma and Stanley ten years at most. If you factor in inflation a $150,000 policy would take care of them for at least fifteen, maybe even twenty years if they live frugally."

Jason spun around and shook a tape measure at Fred. "Will you shut up? I'm trying to work up a bid, you ninny."

"Ninny? You're the ninny, you dumb bunny. This isn't Monkey Island; it's the real world. Grow up."

Jason shoved Fred. "Ha! Big bad Ensign Rhinehardt! You ain't nothing but a sissy. Look how long it took me to get you to go with me to take care of business with Darryl. All you had to do was be the referee. It was me who beat the tar out of him. I did it for both Thelma and Sally because you were too chicken, Momma's boy."

Fred pulled his right hand past his head as it became a fist. "I ought to..."

"Go ahead, Momma's boy. You ain't man enough."

Instead, Fred lunged at his tormentor and grabbed his neck with both hands. His vise-like grip stopped all air from reaching Jason's lungs. He fell backward, which pulled his attacker on top of him. By the time the scuffle's noise reached the attic and Tim Dalrumple and Sally, Jason had passed out. When they reached the fight Jason's face was shades of purple and blue. It took both of them to pull Fred off of Jason. Tim lifted his son to a sitting position and pounded on his back as Sally slapped Fred.

"I told you to talk to him, not kill him."

Fred's head bobbled. "Huh? What are talking about? I was just giving that Jap what he deserved is all. It was payback for all our ships his damn torpedoes sunk."

Sally threw up her hands and retreated toward the shade behind the garage. "You're crazier than he is." She screamed as tears soaked her cheeks. "Sometimes I wish both of you were still off somewhere in your uniforms. You men always got nothing better to do but fight and die. It was that way for my mom. Dad went off to two wars."

Jason's body convulsed as fresh air seeped back into his deflated lungs. "Is that you, Dad? What happened?"

"I was minding my own business looking at the attic with Sally when we heard something that sounded like two tom cats spitting and clawing at each other. So we hightailed it on down here and found Fred choking the life out of you."

"Oh. Yeah, now I remember."

"Did you start it?"

Jason turned away from his father's piercing brown eyes. "Uh..."

"I thought as much." Tim moved his son's head from his lap to the softness of Kentucky bluegrass and weeds. "Sally?" He walked over to the lawn chairs by the garage. Her face was buried on her knees. "I want to apologize, Sally. It was Jason's fault."

Tim's features looked blurry through the last of her tears. "Jason's fault?"

"Yeah." Tim squatted next to her favorite chair. "I'm afraid it's nothing new. The whole time Jason was growing up he would tease his older brothers until they would start wailing away on him. Looks like Jason never learnt his lesson, I reckon. Now that John is in heaven and Leroy is living up in Detroit Jason doesn't have anybody to try and get their goat. Looks like he tried to get Fred's goat for the first time today."

"But that still doesn't mean Fred should kill him."

"I know. Let's let them straighten things out while we go back up into the attic and figure out how best to make it into a bedroom for that little one you got tucked away in the oven." He pointed at her round midsection, which looked as if it carried a bowling ball.

She smiled. "Okay."

Tim hooked Fred's arm and dragged him to Jason, who was wobbling his arms as he stood. "Okay, Jason. Rule number one?"

"Time is money."

"Rule number two?"

"No fighting on the job."

"Good. I was afraid maybe Fred might have choked the little bit of wisdom out of you that I've spent decades trying to put inside your head." He patted his son's grass filled hair. "You two go on inside and have a cool drink of water and settle your differences. Then get your skinny little butt back out here and finish measuring up under the eaves like I told you to do."

"Yes, sir."

Fred waited until they were seated at the kitchen table before speaking. "I'm sorry, Jason. I don't know why I snapped like I did. I thought you were a Jap."

Jason rubbed the bruises on his throat. "It was because I tried to get your goat. Dad's right. I always was a troublemaker. I guess that's why I liked Monkey Island so much. With nobody else around I was able to stay out of trouble for a change."

The rest of the morning was spent with husband and wife trying to verbalize what they wanted while the two craftsmen listened, conferred among themselves, and envisioned whether their customers' wishes were doable. It was noon before Tim could talk them down to reality.

"Look, folks. If we take off the roof and put on a second story then we have to put a whole new roof back on."

"How much would it be?" Sally folded her arms.

Tim shrugged. "I can't give you an exact figure until I price out the lumber, shingles, wallboard, doors, and everything else. But it would be in the range of $4,000 to $7,000, depending on how many windows you want and how much of a pitch you want on the new roof."

"But $4,000 is more than Fred makes in a year!" Sally walked away from them and stared at the roof.

"Look, I know she had her heart set on having a bedroom and sewing room added on," Tim said. "How much can you afford?"

"Only about $1,500." Fred blushed. "With the new baby coming and all the tires and gas I buy to sell insurance we can't go any higher. Sally stuck it out the factory as long as she could but the doctor told us she might lose the baby if she kept working there. And she's staying home once it's born. Maybe we should just build one of those bomb shelters instead. At least I could dig up the ground for it."

Tim rubbed his chin. "No way you can put the new little one's crib in a bomb shelter. First things first. You all need more space, simple as that. There's only one way we could do it for $1,500 but it would mean keeping the old roof on. Nothing wrong with that though. The shingles are still good for eight, maybe nine years."

"Keep the roof on?"

"Yeah. We'd cut through the rafters a section at a time and raise the roof with jacks. Then we could support the raised section with three-foot long four by fours. After we get the exterior boards nailed off on the raised section we'll just move on to the next section and do the same thing all over again. Another thing is we won't put in the interior walls just yet. You can have just one big room until you're ready for the interior walls to be added later on. The rate you're going you'll probably end up with more than just two kids."

Fred shrugged. "You really think you can do it for $1,500?"

"Let me price it on out at the lumber yard. I'll call you back as soon as I can put the numbers down on paper."

"Okay. Thanks." Fred shook the contractors' hands.

"Sorry about getting your goat, Fred. I won't do it again." Jason stared at his feet.

"Thanks for not being sore about me choking you."

Tim waited until Jason had pulled his truck in front of the farmstead to invite him inside. Jason studied the forty acres of farmland that surrounded the house in which he had been born. "How come you don't have the fields plowed up yet?"

"There was a fog last night. That means there's going to be a frost in May, which means I won't be planting until after that frost which means I can let the soil sit and rest a spell. I'll plow it up the end of April."

"Oh."

Tim led his son to the nine-foot long dining room table and pointed at the map of the world spread out on it. "What do you see over that direction?" His hand swept westward from Wake Island and stopped on China.

"Monkey Island." Jason pointed at the specks labeled Marshall Islands. "Only they probably don't show it on here since it's so small. But it's right about there." His finger tapped where his dreams, night and day, took him.

Tim groaned. "You ever hear about living in the past?"

"Nope."

"Well, you got a real bad case of it."

"I do?"

"Yeah. Son, the war's over and done with. You best start thinking on the next one because most likely you could end up in that one too."

"What do you mean? I thought that United Nations they're starting up was going to stop all the wars."

"Fat chance. Look again." His hand covered China on the map.

"China? What they got to do with us?"

"Plenty. Look, they fought against the Japs for about ten years. Now some guy named Mao wants to take over. He's a commie. If he does take over he'll have a country that's been destroyed by war."

"That's his problem."

"Son, they got more people in China to feed than anywhere else. He's going to have to go in to some other country next door to him and make those folks hand over what they grow."

"You sure about that?"

"Who knows? All I'm saying is you could end up off at another war before too long."

"Sure hope not. There probably isn't any other place like Monkey Island for me to hole up in again."

"In the meantime, you best be watching your back."

"Huh?"

"The word's out that Darryl is still sore at you and talking about how he's going to get even with you."

Jason stared at the ceiling. "I don't know what he's talking about."

"How big is Madisin?"

"About 12,000 or so."

"Every town that size has one hobby that all its folks share, gossiping. You know that. Darryl talks about you when he's had one too many over at Joe's Bar. Wilbur heard it and told his wife. She told Darlene who told her husband who told me."

"Oh."

"Like I said. Watch your back."
Chapter 16

"I'm sorry sir, but without an appointment we can't let you in."

Dave Freight shrugged. "I understand." You bet I do. My boss back at Los Alamos probably got my name put on some kind of security risk list. Maybe...Ah, who cares? I'm hungry. He exited the office and trudged to the only road leading to and from the huge telescope.

A scientist going home after his shift at the observatory stopped to give him a ride down the windy road.

"You work at Mount Palomar?" Dave asked as he settled into the passenger's seat.

"Yeah. Where you headed?"

"To the first place with food. I'm starved."

"The Palomar Gardens isn't too far down the road. I can drop you off there."

To salvage what little remained of his expectations, Dave asked the driver what it was like to peer through one of the most powerful telescopes on Earth into the reaches of the universe. The astronomer's descriptions made Dave's soul hungrier than his body by the time he reached the Palomar Gardens and took a seat at its counter. He ordered a burger and soda for his empty stomach and a bit of conversation for his soul, receiving more than he had imagined possible.

"What's that thing?" He pointed at a photo pinned to a wall.

"A mother ship."

"A what?"

"You know. A big flying saucer."

"Looks more like a blimp to me." Dave stood and leaned closer to the photo. "Nah. More like a cigar than a blimp."

"I told you already. It's a mother ship. Nothing fake about that photo. I guarantee it."

"All right, wise guy. What exactly is a mother ship?"

"You know. It's the big flying saucer that carries all of the little flying saucers around. Sort of like an aircraft carrier up in the sky."

"Yeah? So who took the photo? You?"

"No, sir. Mr. Adamski did."

"George Adamski?"

"Yes, sir. You know him?"

"I never met him but I read an article by him about life on other planets."

"Mr. Adamski's an expert on that and flying saucers too."

"So is he around?"

"No, sir. He's up in Long Beach today getting ready for his talk tonight." He handed Dave a flyer. "That's the time and address. He can answer all your questions for you."

Dave bummed another ride as far as Temecula, where he caught the next bus for Los Angeles. The bus depot in Long Beach crawled with an assortment of humanity that made him wonder if he had touched down on one of Adamski's far-off planets that he claimed hosted life. Those who had recently come ashore or who waited to go to sea, drunks, prostitutes and their pimps, jazz musicians on their way to or from one of the city's clubs, and ordinary travelers bound for somewhere or nowhere in particular milled in and around the dingy hub for buses headed every direction except west. Dave hailed the first available cab.

"Where to?"

"Here's the address." Dave handed the cab driver the leaflet.

"Okay." The driver lowered the arm of his meter, cradled a microphone, and told his dispatcher their destination.

"So, how's tricks?"

"Huh?"

"You know. What's cooking?"

The cabbie flashed a smile of teeth so white that Dave thought they gleamed in the car's dark interior. "You don't have to talk that kind of jive with me, sir. Just because I'm a Negro does not mean you cannot carry on talking like you usually do. Besides, I'm no cool cat. If I get cut up or shot I'll bleed red blood the same as you."

"Uh, okay. That bus station back there always crawling with that many weirdoes?"

"They only come out at night, my friend. They only come out at night. The way you talk I can tell you're not from around here, especially with that accent. Where do you hail from?"

"The desert out past San Bernardino."

"I mean originally. Not many folks in and around L. A. were born here."

"Philadelphia."

"Philly? No lie? I grew up around Newark, New Jersey."

"You miss it?"

"Not really. Home's where the heart is like my old lady says."

By the time the driver dropped Dave at the meeting, cabbie and fare had become friends, strangers in a strange land who felt more at ease in the familiar territories of their youth than in what they agreed was the "land of fruits and nuts."

"Can you pick me back up in a couple hours?"

"Be glad to. See you then, my friend."

Dave checked his watch and smiled because he was twenty minutes early, time enough to meet the UFO cult's leading proponent. Inside the meeting room, rows of chairs held couples that seemed oblivious of each other or lone searchers for the truth. The most avid devotees orbited around a well-dressed man standing near the lectern. When Dave wandered into their periphery no one noticed him. All eyes focused on their prophet.

"Mr. Adamski, do you think they will reveal themselves to us soon?"

"It is only a matter of time. Now that they revealed one of their mother ships to me, even allowing it to be photographed, the time draws near for full disclosure."

"What else have they revealed to you?"

On and on the questions and answers flowed. At times Dave thought Adamski to be a slick politician, glib with answers. But on the whole he radiated a spiritual aura that Dave thought belonged only to priests, rabbis, and ministers. His angular facial features, perfectly combed silver gray hair, and well-cut suit qualified him as a leading character in a B motion picture, Dave concluded. He tried to latch onto the hodge-podge of mysticism, aliens, and flying saucers that Adamski spouted. Then someone asked the question most relevant for Dave.

"Mr. Adamski, are the aliens coming to Earth to warn us of a coming nuclear war?"

Dave teetered on the edge of his metal chair.

"Yes. And unless we heed their warnings, World War III may destroy the Earth."

Dave met Charles and his cab at the prearranged time.

"Where to now?"

"Back to the bus station, Charles. I have to be back to work tomorrow morning."

"Yes, sir." He pulled his cab into the traffic. "How was the talk?"

"Okay, I guess."

"Just okay?"

"I don't know. He answered every single question. Nothing seemed to stump him. It seemed too..."

"Phony?" You know, too slick?"

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"Driving a cab you get to see it all. I've driven big shots around and people so broke that they had me take them as far as the money they carried could and then they had to get out and walk the rest of the way. I felt sorry for them but I got to pay to rent this cab so on real slow nights I can lose money."

"What do you think about his spiel of life on other planets?"

Charles chuckled. "I don't have much time to be wondering about such things, what with a wife and four kids to take care of and all."

"You think he might be a con man? He seemed so sincere."

Charles laughed. "The best con men are. Like I told you, I've run all kinds of folks around in cabs for the last five years. I met some fancy dressed dudes who smuggle Chinese girls right off the boat into cathouses over around Chinatown. One time a coyote had me haul five Mexicans to some house way out in East L. A."

"What's a coyote?"

"The one that smuggles them over the border."

"Oh."

"You know who the biggest talkers are?"

"Who?"

"Those Hollywood people. I picked up a couple just a few nights back. They were all excited about working on a movie they said was going to be called War of the Worlds. Remember how Orson Welles panicked half of America when he did it on the radio?"

"Yeah. I thought it was really Martians invading Earth."

"You should've seen us." He slapped the steering wheel. "When we heard them saying the Martians had landed in New Jersey we ran and hid under our bed. It took Mama an hour to get us out from under there."
Chapter 17

Two-year-old Dan Rhinehardt and two and a half year-old Stanley Dalrumple struggled with the building blocks. After a few minutes they understood that the notched ends were meant to support the notched end of another log. A miniature cabin began to take shape. Their parents and Dan's older brother Karl were content to digest the Thanksgiving feast they had lingered over for an hour. The males sat by the radio and listened to a football game, the women sat with sore feet resting on recliners.

"One down, one to go." Thelma said.

"What do you mean? We have to feed them again after the game ends?" Sally pointed at those hypnotized by the play-by-play announcer whose voice grew loud with every big play.

"No. I was thinking of the craziness from now until Christmas. What's that I heard about Fred telling Jason that you're going to visit your folks then?"

Sally lowered her voice. "Fred still wants to move back East. I bet he's going to try to get my parents on his side."

In the insurance game for the past three years, Fred had mastered every selling technique and invented a few along the way. There was the cold call, in which he introduced himself to whoever happened to be seated next to him in a diner, in line at a checkout register, or shuffling out in a crowd from church, the movies, or sporting event. He always used a variation on a theme: "Good (food, merchandize, sermon, show, game)." If the stranger's response was neutral or favorable, Fred plowed ahead. "You know, good insurance is important also but you'd be shocked at how many die and leave loved ones behind who were depending on them. It's really sad." At worst one of Fred's business cards was passed to the prospect, at best an appointment was scheduled.

Using his tactics for a move he lusted after, Fred went deep as he tried to sell Sally on their need to relocate during the last hundred miles to her childhood home north of Lexington, Kentucky.

"Wow. This countryside all around your stomping grounds is beautiful."

"I know what you're after. You want to move back this way." Sally folded her arms. "Where is it this time? Baltimore or Boston?"

"Neither. Right here. I figure living close to one set of grandparents is important to our kids. I have to admit I was selfish to try and get you to move near my folks in Boston. Like Jason always says, 'I saw the light.' Kentucky is the place for us." He started to hum My Old Kentucky Home.

"But we've already set down roots in Madisin."

"Honey, the kids are still young enough that a move won't bother them. What do you say boys?" Fred glanced in the rearview mirror at Karl and Dan. "You want to move here near Grandma and Grandpa?"

Dan clapped his hands and Karl cheered. During their visit to Madisin last summer, their grandparents had loved them to excess, which made the 1275-mile roundtrip to visit them now worthwhile. "Yes, Dad. When are we moving?" Karl asked.

Fred smiled. Three to one so far, just need to get the in-laws to talk some sense into Sally. His wife shook her head and groaned. She knew her husband had already asked her father how much houses cost in Lexington. Fred's having tapped out the prospects along his annual northern and southern runs for new clients worried her. She knew he needed new territory. The population centers west of Madisin were few and far between. Those to the east of Lexington were a gold mine waiting for his sales pitch. That was what he now said to try and close the deal.

Desperate, Fred confided in his father-in-law Hank as they drove to the store nearest to the 100-acre Richmond farm. "I haven't told Sally this because I don't want to scare her but I'm afraid of what's going to happen to folks in Madisin once they start testing the A-bombs out by Las Vegas."

"Isn't that far enough away?"

"Depends on who you talk to. One of the scientists I met during the tests in the Marshall Islands told me he thought the radioactive fallout might be able to travel thousands of miles. Madisin is only about 1,000 miles as the crow flies from Las Vegas. At least if I could get her to move this far East we'd be further away from the test sites. He also told me that it looked like fallout could cause defects in babies born to mothers who are exposed to it. So far Dan acts normal but his friend Stanley seems to be slow in the head."

"Hmm. Tell you what. I know a feller who might be able to help us out. He lives over in Washington. Good thing you told me about this now. I can call him from the store's payphone. We're still so far out in the boondocks that we don't have one yet at the house."

Hank smiled as he told of his first meeting with Bill Sampson. At the time Bill was a U.S. Treasury Agent and Hank a part time moonshine runner during Prohibition. Being a fair-minded enforcer of the law, Bill had confiscated the bottles of illegal alcohol and let Hank go with a warning. During a second encounter the reformed Hank had bought Bill lunch. Addresses were exchanged and a long-distance correspondence begun. Both men liked such friendships, which provided for a relationship with less chance of it becoming strained than if they had lived nearby. During a recent visit when Bill had passed through Lexington as Bill "Barnes" on an assignment, the two had concocted a method for contact by phone. If Hank were calling for help with a personal problem, he was to say he was considering a visit to Washington "to see all the monuments."

"We were wondering about coming out your way to see all the monuments."

"I'm in the middle of something here," Bill said. "I'll call you back later." The second sentence was code for "I'll call you back in ten minutes." Hank enjoyed the secret agent routine.

"Okay." Hank sat in the chair next to the payphone. "Grab us a cup of coffee from the lunch counter, Fred. It'll be a while."

"Okay."

Bill told his wife and three children that he had to run to the store for "one last present." His children's' eyes lit up, his wife ordered him to hurry home. When the temperature dropped fifty degrees as he stepped from the entryway onto the brick walkway, Bill fished the stocking cap from his overcoat and pulled it over his ears. The nearest pay phone was four blocks away. By the time he reached it, his fingers were tingling.

What a hassle. There's got to be an easier way. Maybe so but Bill took no chances, especially when it came to his career. Cloak and dagger work glamorous? Hardly. Thankless was a better description. It meant watching your p's and q's twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He had no inkling of what Hank wanted to know but whatever it was, Bill did not want his superiors to know about it.

Maybe Beth is right. Maybe I am getting just a little bit too paranoid for my own good. But like I told her, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you.

He had no way to learn if his phone line at home was being tapped. But after too many years of surveillance duty as an FBI agent he was no longer certain of much of anything. Spying on those on FDR's hit list had left a perpetual bad taste in Bill's mouth. He had hoped that transferring to the Army's version of Hoover's bureau would be an escape from the worst years of a career that would last over forty years. Now, because of the whispered stories about the new boys on the block, the Central Intelligence Agency, all bets were off. If just half of what Bill had heard was true, he had reason to wonder if Standard Operating Procedure included the bugging of the home phones of agents such as he.

"Better safe than sorry," Bill's mother had instilled in her children. So here he was, freezing on Christmas Eve in a glass phone booth that blocked most of the wind but none of the damp cold that penetrated his bones. But Hank was a friend, which made him worth the drudgery of leaving the comforts only family and home can offer.

"Hello, operator. I need to place a long distance call to Blue Lick Springs, Kentucky. The number is..." His fingers shook as he unfolded the paper he had scribbled the number on and read it to the one connecting him. "Okay, thank you." He inserted enough quarters to cover the first three minutes. The phone only rang once at the other end.

"Hello."

"Make it quick, Hank. I left the house with just enough change for three minutes."

"Okay. I need to know how far any radioactive stuff will travel once they start testing atomic bombs by Las Vegas."

"Why?"

"Because my daughter and her family live quite a ways west of here."

"Hang on a minute." Bill removed the phone from his ear and cradled it in both hands as he shut his eyes. His mind traveled back to his assignment as Bill Pryzinski, maintenance man on temporary duty at Los Alamos National Laboratory. Before him sat Dave Freight and his dog Saturn, both of them stuffed with Mexican food. On the wall hung a map of America. Superimposed on it were wind patterns originating around Las Vegas, with the heaviest concentration of projected fallout ending...

"Bill, you still there?"

"Just a minute, Hank. Please." Bill yelled down at the mouthpiece. Ending at...The map came into sharper focus. "The worst fallout will probably travel as far as Indiana and the western parts of Kentucky, Tennessee, and most of Mississippi. Listen, that's just a guess, an estimate. And in no way is it from anyone official. And you did not hear this from me. If say you did, I don't know you."

"Right. Thank you, Bill and Merry..."

"Your three minutes are up, sir." The operator interrupted. "Please deposit another..."

"Merry Christmas to you, Hank. And you too, operator."

"Merry Christmas, sir. Goodbye."

The dial tone resonated down his ear's canal into his numb mind. As he hung up the phone Bill noticed his fingertips were blue. He rubbed his hands together, blew clouds of steam on them and shoved them into his pockets. It took twenty minutes before he found a store still open. Armed with three chocolate bars for his children and a half-dozen roses for his wife as final stocking stuffers, he ambled home. His thoughts alternated between fallout drifting from the deserts of Nevada as far as his suburban home or a Russian bomber getting through and dropping a big one on Washington. Those damn Soviets had stolen enough secrets that had let them join the nuclear club last summer. Suddenly the Cold War had become uncomfortably hot.
Chapter 18

"Happy New Year, Arkhip."

No response.

"I said Happy New Year, Comrade Arkhip." Wilhelm waved his palm in front of her face. Her eyes slowly focused on his distraction, flesh without a single callus or other evidence of manual labor.

"What?" I wonder how many calluses inhabit his brain.

"For the third time, Happy New year." He toasted her with his glass of vodka.

"Happy New Year." She continued to stare out of the window at the stars to the north and wondered if her father was doing what they had on holidays when she was a child.

"And that is the Big Dipper and that..." Her father had pointed at planets and constellations as her gaze followed.

"Arkhip, this is the fourth New Year's party I have attended with you. With each one you have been more sad that the last one. Why? What troubles you so?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"What is wrong?"

"What is right?"

"We finally got an atomic bomb to work."

"And for that I should be happy?"

"At least the fallout is not raining down on your countrymen."

She sighed. "No. Just the Chinese comrades right next door to here. And that nearby village also. Maybe Comrade Stalin considers them a threat too. He might as well. He fears everyone else."

Wilhelm studied his empty glass. "I wish it were schnapps instead. I've served the Russians for five years now and still am not used to your vodka."

"Served them?" Arkhip turned to glare at him. "You're their slave, Wilhelm. Nothing more, nothing less."

"That makes me your slave then. You are Russian."

"In name only. You wish you had a drink from your homeland. I wish I had my father..." Her eyes scanned the room for eavesdroppers. One reveler seemed close enough to spy on them so she lowered her voice. "I wish I could leave this country, once and for all. I would do anything to be able to do so."

"Even marry me?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"My usefulness is coming to an end here. I'm a theoretical physicist. Now that we have set off our own atomic bomb, what need is there for me? Do they want me to reinvent the wheel?"

"Do you really think they will let you return to Germany?" She scooted herself until her hips touched his.

"East Germany, yes. West Germany..." He shrugged. "I doubt it."

"That's still better than here."

"So you accept my proposal?" He reached out and squeezed her hand.

"I must be honest with you. I do not love you."

"Maybe we can marry as friends instead of lovers."

She laughed. "You Germans are so logical, even in matters of the heart."

He pointed to his forearm. "Ice water runs through our veins, right? Without your vodka Germans' blood would freeze in most parts of Russia. I am glad we wound up in this dismal republic. At least it's warmer here."

Arkhip's face darkened. "Yes. Better than Siberia in one of the camps like my father."

He pulled her hand onto his lap. Ever since her father had disappeared into the gulag, she had not heard from him, now a nonperson in a never-ending exile that few survived.
Chapter 19

Hundreds of folks turned out for Barney Tarrington's funeral, not for his sake but Mary's. If ever a couple proved the maxim that "opposites attract," they had. Barney had been a misanthrope, drunk, carouser, and wife and child abuser. Mary had loved her husband despite his sins, her children to excess, her neighbors as herself, and her country despite its faults. Those who knew the details agreed that she was one of those rare individuals with a heart of gold. So it was not surprising that three bachelors circled about her during and after the funeral service. The hens of Madisin clucked furiously.

"His body is not even cold in the ground yet and that hussy is already drawing men around her." The hens' self-appointed leader clucked the loudest. "Back in my day a widow mourned a good six months before any man called on her."

The flock gathered around, nodded, strutted, and pecked away at Mary's reputation. As Thelma walked by one of them gave her an update.

"Psst, Thelma." She grabbed Thelma's arm and pulled her toward their jealous gossip. "We were just discussing the shamefulness of Mary letting all those men gather around her."

"It's a lot more shameful when all of you get together to gossip," Thelma said. "All of you are like a bunch of vampires feeding off of other people's heartaches."

"Well, I never." The head hen stomped off toward her car and eunuch of a husband, who served as her chauffeur and butler instead of lover and friend. "I certainly know when I've been offended."

Thelma elbowed her way past those clustered about the widow and grabbed her hand. "Mary, I'm going to have you and your kids over for supper on Saturday."

"But there's too many of us for you to go to all that trouble."

"Shoot. It'll do me good to listen to someone besides Jason and Stanley for a change. All Jason does is tell silly stories to our son and he busts up laughing instead of eating." She stepped closer and whispered. "Jason is still going on and on about Monkey Island. It's making me crazy. Will you come on over? Please?"

Mary smiled for the first time since the police officer had knocked on her door with the news of Barney's last drunken driving misadventure. "Sure. We'll be there."

His wife's kindness toward Mary bothered Jason. What was he doing compared to her? How could he help Fred? After "thinking this thing through" he decided to work up enough courage to invite Fred when the next evangelist came to town. Summertime brought them to Madisin more than any other season.

***

With spring came Easter. As usual, the size of the congregations almost doubled at Madisin's churches on Resurrection Sunday. Pastors Trueblood and Lacharetti compared notes at Tom's Diner the following morning.

"It's amazing." Rev. Trueblood stared into his cup of coffee. "Every Christmas and Easter people come out of the woodwork. We had to set up extra chairs in the back yesterday."

Rev. Lacharetti's head popped about as if he were a clown ejected from a jack in the box. "The time I got most people at church was right after Pearl Harbor was attacked. But folks gradually tapered away as the war wore on. Got some of them back for a while after V-E Day and V-J Day though."

They talked on through breakfast. As they finished, Rev. Lacharetti grabbed the two checks. "I'll pay for your breakfast if you stop beating around the bush and tell me what's on your mind. I've known you long enough that it's plain as day that there's something cooking in that head of yours."

Rev. Trueblood blushed. "I guess you're not one to try and pull the wool over your eyes. Okay, here goes. I want to invite an evangelist for a series of meetings but my church board said I need to get at least one other pastor from Madisin to sit up on the platform with me. You know good and well because of what our church believes no other pastor will do it."

"I can't promise you anything but I'll try. First I have to run it by the board of elders. If they say okay, then I'll have to present it to the church membership at a voters' meeting." He shrugged. "Church politics as usual."

"Yeah, I know."

"I'll get back to you."

***

Rev. Lacharetti's seven elders unanimously endorsed his participation. The members agreed with a stipulation that stunned Rev. Trueblood.

"The members said that since all I'll be doing is sitting on my rear end, you are responsible for any who make a profession of faith in Jesus Christ during the meetings."

"But it's not done that way." Pastor Trueblood paced around his tiny office. "Churches who get together for evangelistic crusades always divide up the new converts."

"Well, you know what the seven words of a dying church are."

"We've never done it that way before." The two recited Pastor Lacharetti's favorite saying in unison.

The visiting evangelist, Rev. William B. Oxfort, arrived ninety minutes before the first 7 p.m. service was scheduled to begin. When the hosting pastors saw his vehicle, they considered it a miracle that he had made it on time. Steam spewed from the radiator of the dented black 1933 Oldsmobile. Rev. Oxfort walked past the two hands extended toward him and unlatched his car's hood. He shook his head after checking the engine block.

"Overheated on us all the way down here from Sioux Falls. Thought we might not make it. At least the block didn't crack." He grabbed a rag stuffed by the radiator to wipe the grime from his hands. "I'd like you to meet Charles."

A gangling lad of eighteen stumbled around the car's rear and grabbed the hands meant for Rev. Oxfort. "Pleased to meet you, sirs."

The next half hour was spent talking about the logistics of the three consecutive nights of meetings. Then the evangelist glanced at his watch. "Just enough time left to get prayed up. Please take me to a room where I won't be interrupted. Charles will sit outside the door to make sure I'm left alone. He'll knock on it as soon as it's time for the meeting. I need one of you two to lead those gathered in prayer that the Lord will bless it. Maybe you can take turns each night."

An hour later the evangelist climbed behind the pulpit and smiled at those who filled half of the church's pews. "Thanks for coming tonight, folks. I know you're all busy with lives way more complicated than mine so my assistant Charles will raise his hand a half hour from now to tell me it's time to shut up."

"Praise the Lord! Thank you, Jesus." The oldest man in attendance stood up and raised his left hand heavenward. "The mind can only stand what our bottoms can endure, brother." He patted his rump and sat back down.

"Amen." Rev. Oxfort opened his Bible and read, "In the beginning God created the heavens and earth." He shut the worn leather cover. "And ever since then His creation, at least Lucifer and his angelic followers, Adam and Eve and all those born after them have done their best to go their own way. Cain killed Abel. Descendants of Adam grew more and more wicked until they were full of evil day and night. But God in His infinite mercy spared Noah and his family when the flood covered the earth. Generations later Noah's descendants disobeyed God's command to fill the Earth and instead built their Tower of Babel so the Lord divided them by sending them many languages, which caused them to spread throughout the earth. Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, and Moses lived by faith and not by sight. The Israelites wandered in the wilderness for forty years before obeying God by entering the Promised Land. But then they took on the idolatry of the nations around them and demanded a king. God Almighty gave them the desire of their hearts but also sent leanness to their souls. King after king married heathen wives and adopted their false religions until the Israelites sacrificed their sons and daughters in fire to false gods. The Assyrians and the Babylonians invaded their land and carried them off into exile. God's people became ichabod, without glory."

He wiped the sweat from his forehead and removed his damp jacket.

"That is what the church in the year 1950 A.D. has become. We are ichabod, without glory. We spend our days dreaming of an escape from this life and its trials. We tell the eternal, omnipotent God to save us, bless us, prosper us, heal us, and send Jesus back to Earth according our timetable. We search for an Antichrist instead of bowing our knees to Jesus Christ. First we said the Antichrist was FDR, then Mussolini, and then Hitler. Now that they are dead and gone, some say Stalin is the Antichrist."

The most pious frowned or flipped through Bibles in search of verses with which they planned to enlighten this wayward evangelist.

"The Book of Hebrews says God the Father has spoken to us through Jesus. Before He ascended into heaven Jesus said all authority in heaven and on Earth had been given to Him. Then He commanded us to make disciples of all nations. I've been told there are over 150 nations presently on Earth. But the way things are going, folks; even America is no longer a disciple of Jesus Christ. Some say it's the communists' fault. Others say it's President Truman's fault. I say it is the church's fault. Because we are not the light and the salt Jesus told us to be, our land is drenched in darkness and our society has rotted to the core."

A high-pitched wail from a pew in the back of the church turned every head toward the one from which it emanated. It startled Mildred Schlosser, who jabbed her finger with a knitting needle and let out a lesser yelp as blood spurted on the sweater she was knitting. Ninety-two year old Grandpa Parksdale awoke from his nap. As an usher, any disturbance was his responsibility to control. By the time he reached the source of the continuing piercing shrieks, the twelve-year-old girl was flailing her arms and legs on the carpet of the center aisle. When he touched her forehead a deep guttural voice poured from the girl.

"Leave her alone. She belongs to me."

Two other ushers joined him. As the three tried to lift the girl, she began thrashing her fists and feet at their faces. One of them held her left arm and the other her right. Grandpa Parksdale sat on her ankles but was lifted up and down as if he were riding a teeter-totter. Rev. Oxfort joined them and spoke to the invisible one whom he discerned.

"Stop tormenting her, you evil spirit."

"I own her." The voice passing through the girl's mouth grew loud enough for every attendee to hear it. Mildred Schlosser fainted. "You have no authority over me. You didn't pray and fast enough."

"You lying spirit. None of that matters because Jesus prayed and fasted in my place. I serve Jesus Christ of Nazareth. By His death and resurrection I command you to leave her."

A final wail caused those nearby to cover their ears as the girl's body bent again and became still. She opened her eyes. "Where am I?"

"It's all right now." Rev. Oxfort helped her to sit down in a pew. "Do you want to know Jesus?"

Her eyes grew wider until more white than blue was showing. "But I already do. The angel came and told me all about Jesus wanting me to run away from home."

"What angel?"

"The one who talked to me through my ouija board. The angel said his name was Apollos."

"Did he tell you to do anything else?"

She glanced at her parents. "Apollos told me to take money from my mom's purse." She stared at the floor. "I only did it once. It was okay because my angel told me to do it, right?"

"What's your name?"

"Vickie."

"Well, Vickie, there are bad spirits who pretend to be good angels. They like to play tricks on people. Apollos is a bad spirit."

"I'm sorry." Her father interrupted. "It's all my fault. I gave her the ouija board for Christmas."

"Will you get rid of it?"

"Yes. Just as soon as we get back home."

Rev Oxfort stood and stretched his arms, weary from the daylong trip and hour of prayer. "Vickie, would you like Jesus to live inside of you and make your spirit alive?"

"But Apollos said I was bad and that's why I had to run away. He said Jesus would leave me if I didn't."

"Forget all about Apollos and what he told you. Just tell Jesus how you feel."

She uttered the kind of longing, desperate prayer that only one set free from darkness knows. By the time it ended, her tears were raining on the floor. The evangelist returned to the pulpit. Lightheaded, he grasped it for support.

"Sorry for the interruption, folks. Sometimes these things happen. Please listen carefully to these verses from Mark 16." He turned his Bible's pages. "Verses 17 and 18: And these signs shall follow them that believe; in my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; they shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover." He closed his Bible.

"Amen. Preach it, brother." Usher Grandpa Parksdale had decided not to return to his nap.

"Tonight, by the mercy and grace of God, a devil was cast out of young Vickie. It did not happen because of me or because I'm special or holy or sanctified. It happened because God ordained it to happen. I'm going to be as honest as I can with you, folks. The verses I just read said, 'they shall speak with new tongues.' I have prayed and fasted for years seeking that gift of the Holy Spirit but God in His wisdom has yet to give it to me. Truth be told, most of the sick people I ever laid hands on either stayed sick or ended up dying." He shrugged. "I can't figure out all of that." He pointed heavenward. "All I know is that I've got a million questions that I'm going to ask the Lord when He finally takes me home."

He then instructed Pastors Trueblood and Lacharetti and any elders from any church who were present to stand in front of the pulpit.

"Folks, I don't know all of your needs. But please come forward and pray with theses servants of the Lord." He pointed at those he had drafted. "If you can, come back tomorrow night. Bring a friend or neighbor if you can. Thank you."

On the road since 3 a.m., Rev. Oxfort collapsed into an empty chair behind the pulpit. Fred waited until those seated on his left had joined the crowd gathering at the front for prayer before quietly slipping out the door and walking to Jason's car.

What the hell was that all about?

Jason had pestered him for years to attend annual missionary conferences at the Full gospel Evangelical Church but this was the first evangelistic crusade he had been invited to.

I knew I shouldn't have come. Sally warned me how this church is just a bunch of holy rollers.

He leaned against the car's front bumper and waited for twenty minutes until Jason joined him.

"Sorry it took so long but I had to wait in line to get prayed for." Jason hopped into the driver's seat and started the V-8 engine.

Fred hung his head out the window so that the humid air could partially cool him.

"How did you like it?"

"I'm not even sure what went on back there." Fred jerked his thumb at the church. "What took you so long?"

"Like I said, I went up to get prayer."

"For what?"

"You got to promise not to tell anyone, especially Thelma."

"Okay. Whatever you say."

"I asked for prayer that I might could go back to Monkey Island."

"What for?"

"To get Kong and bring him home."

"That monkey friend of yours?" Fred slapped his knee and hooted. "You really are crazy like Thelma says."

"No, I'm not. He's the best friend I ever had. It was Kong who kept me going all that time I was stuck on Monkey Island."

"And all these years I thought I was your best friend."

Jason shrugged. "You're a close second. But Kong is still number one in my book. Don't feel bad. You're the best human friend I have."

After hearing her husband's version of the first meeting, Sally demanded that he take her and their children to the second one. Fred kept protesting even as he neared the church.

"I still don't see why we have to go."

"Because he sounds like a genuine man of God. The real deal. That's why."

Fred grumbled until he pulled into the church's parking lot. "What happened? Last night it was half empty. Tonight it's full." After parking a block from the church, he joined his family at the steps by the front door.

"It's full already." Sally crossed her arms. "I told you we should have left home earlier."

Fred spotted a fellow churchgoer from Madisin Community Church. "Hey, Ted. Where you going with your amp?" He grabbed a corner of the wooden box that housed two twelve-inch speakers. "Your band playing tonight?" He started his spoof of a recent Hank Williams' gospel song. "I saw the light, I saw the light...yee-haw! Praise the Lord and –"

"Nope. We're setting up some speakers in the windows to run the pulpit microphone through so people stuck outside can hear the sermon."

They stopped at an open window and balanced the amplifier on its sill. An usher closed the window to wedge it into place. While Fred helped carry another amp to a window on the other side of the church, Sally found a spot to sit in the shade of a weeping willow tree. She smiled when she heard a familiar voice.

"You brought the whole tribe out for the revival?"

"Thelma." Sally stood and hugged her.

"Guess you heard about all the excitement last night?"

"Yeah. From what Fred said it sounded like an old time barnburner of a revival meeting. I'm sorry I missed it."

"Better late than never." Thelma and Stanley sat on the grass.

"Where's Jason?"

"Inside. No way I'm sitting in that hot box of a church. When I went in it felt hotter there than out here. Must be because every seat is filled up. They even put the overflow up in the choir loft and chairs along the aisles."

When the message began Karl, Dan, and Stanley took turns pantomiming Rev. Oxfort. With only his booming baritone firing their imaginations, they stood and gestured as they had watched their pastors do every Sunday. Their mothers' warnings to behave went unheeded until Thelma grabbed Stanley and swatted his butt with her palm. His head jerked back and he gawked at her. She buried him in her breast and arms and whispered into his ear.

"Now you know better, Stanley. Just sit on my lap and listen."

Stanley obeyed by nodding off into a dream. He awoke as the call went out for prayer. To accommodate those outside, Rev. Lacharetti and Rev. Oxfort set up prayer lines on the east and west sides of the church while Rev. Trueblood and three elders handled the throng inside. Sally blinked when Fred joined those lined up in front of the visiting evangelist. Thelma elbowed her ribs.

"Looks like Fred is going to get prayed over."

"Yeah." She shook her head. "I don't believe it."

Neither woman could hear what was said. When Fred's knees hit the lawn, the women stared at each other. As he walked back to the shade where they sat Thelma jumped to her feet.

"Where are you going?" Sally pulled her arm.

"To get prayed for. I'm going to ask him to pray that Jason will forget all about Monkey Island. Anybody that can get your husband to pray has got the anointing for sure."

***

Fred had to readjust his sales route the following month because headquarters wanted him to attend a seminar in Dallas. Risk management was unfamiliar to many in his profession and everyone seated in the audience. But the instructor for the daylong class proved to be enlightening from his opening to his closing remarks.

"Risk. How would you define it?" He pointed to an attendee.

"Taking chances."

"How about you?"

A chief executive officer scratched his head. "Running a business?"

"Good. And you, sir?" He pointed to Fred.

"I don't know about anyone else but my life has been just one risk after another it seems."

"That's it!" the presenter danced a little jig. "Think about it. What if your mom falls or is in a car wreck while you're still inside of her? There's a chance you end up stillborn or are born premature and die hours or days or weeks later. Let's say you're just an average baby, pretty safe as long as a crib keeps you in line. But then you start to crawl, then walk. You're big enough to step outside into a world filled with risks." His eyes bulged.

A few laughed nervously at his imitation of a mad scientist. Others stared at one another.

"My job is to get you to think risk management six days a week, eight to twelve hours a day depending on how many you work. Take the rest of the time off or else you are at risk for a..." He motioned for answers.

"Ulcer."

"Heart attack."

"Going crazy." One of the two ladies in attendance said. "As a wife and mother and business owner I never get any time off."

The instructor walked to her side. "God bless you. Now here's someone headed for an early grave. Who can help her out?"

Fred cleared his throat. "She needs to delegate."

"Define your terms."

"You know. Find someone to run her business so she only has to be at her business one or two days a week."

"But that takes money to hire a manager." The woman turned toward Fred.

"At least you'll live longer. So what if you're poorer?"

As the day wore on, the instructor taught rudimentary principles of how to define risk for an individual, a family, a community, a nation, a small business, or large corporation. For the last two hours he taught them how to use risk management for their professions.

"Any insurance agents here today?"

Eight hands were raised.

"Good. From this day onward when you sit down with prospects, define the risks that they face. Tell a husband or wife how devastating their death would be to the survival of those they leave behind. If they balk, pull out actuarial tables and give them the lowdown. Say, 'you see sir, according to the table; men of your race typically live 63.7 years. But because you work in construction we have to factor in possible death due to accident. You live in a large city with a higher rate of auto accident fatalities. No offense but that beer belly you carry around also puts you at risk of earlier death.' If he still doesn't buy it, tell him how much life insurance you carry. People like dealing with those who practice what they preach." He paused. "Now if you're selling insurance covering a business, point out the danger from earthquake, flood, fire, labor strife, vandalism, tornadoes, forest fires, you name it, based on where the business is located."

By the end of the seminar Fred's notebook was full. His horizons seemed limitless when he called home from his hotel room that evening. "Honey, it was incredible. After what I learned today, there's no stopping me. As soon as I meet with my manager again, I'm going to ask him to move me into selling insurance to businesses. You know what that means, don't you?"

"No."

"That I can travel closer to home from now on."

Sally cried. "I sure hope so. We miss you too much."

Fred dreamed that he was with her later that night. The next afternoon he was four hours south of Dallas when a strange sight lifted his foot from the accelerator. On the shoulder sat the biggest motorcycle he had ever seen. It was missing the front wheel. A half mile later he saw its rider rolling the flat tire along the edge of the shoulder. Summer was in full force in Texas and the man stumbled among the heat waves radiating off of the pavement. Still feeling invincible from his newfound knowledge and reckoning such a needy soul as a small risk, Fred stopped thirty yards ahead of him.

"Need a lift?"

The man responded by pushing the misshapen tire faster until it bumped into Fred.

"Sorry, man." He held up blistered hands. "It's so hot I couldn't stop it before it hit you."

Fred helped him to load the chrome-rimmed wheel into the trunk. "That's okay. Let's get you to a gas station."

The cross that dangled from the rear view mirror returned to its pendulum like motion as Fred pulled into the traffic.

"You selling fire insurance?" The rider fished an unfiltered Camel from his vest pocket and lit it.

Fred turned so that one eye was on the road and the other on his passenger. "Not yet. But I'm planning on going into it. How'd you know?"

The rider poked the cross. "This."

"Huh? I think you pegged me wrong. I sell life insurance but want to move over to insuring businesses."

"Oh. You remind me of a holy Joe I knew in the war. I thought you stopped just so you can preach to me and sell me some fire insurance to keep me out of hell."

"Oh. Where were you during the war?"

"England mostly. We flew B-17s over Germany. Like I was saying, you remind me of Zach Malinsky. He was a waist gunner. Real holy Joe, always quoting the Bible. But some Messerschmidt pilot shot him up. He bled to death before we could him back to England. You in the war?"

"Yeah. I was on a transport ship in the Pacific."

"Navy boy, huh? Good gig?"

"Sometimes. What did you do?"

"I was a co-pilot."

"So where were you headed when you got the flat? San Antonio?"

He dragged deeply on his cigarette. "Maybe. Depends on what it's like down that way."

"You from Dallas?"

"Nah. San Bernardino. Didn't you see my colors?"

"Colors?"

"On my vest." He turned so Fred could see the logo emblazoned on his back. A leather helmeted skull grinned at him. "I'm part of the Pissed Off Bastards of San Bernardino."

"California? What are you doing way over here in Texas?"

"Don't you listen to your radio?" He tapped the dial on the dash that was numbered 530 to 1600. "North Korea invaded South Korea. It won't be very long before they start calling us veterans back to go over there to save the gooks, just like we had to save the French and Brits."

"You serious?"

"Serious as a heart attack."

Fear gripped Fred's stomach, the kind that had whenever Captain Uley had ordered a zigzag course to avoid being torpedoed. "So what's it like being in a motorcycle gang?"

"Club, man. We're not gangsters. We're a club."

"Sorry."

"It was okay at first. We were mostly veterans and understood each other. But then we split. Some of the guys broke away and formed a new club they call the Hell's Angels. Now that there's another war going all that doesn't matter much anymore. I got to find a place to lay low. You travel a lot?"

"Yeah."

"Any suggestions on where I can hide out?"

Fred's chin quivered. "You running from the law?"

"Let me guess. You read about how we took over Hollister and Riverside for a few days. Why's everybody so upset? Some of the rowdiest people weren't even from our club. The Market Street Commandos and the Booze Fighters were there too. Look, I'm just an average guy. I got an old lady and two kids. I just don't want to fight another war is all. One's enough."

"Why not?"

"You kidding? They'd probably stick me in a B-29 this time around. Sure, it's bigger and faster than the 17s I flew but the jets they got now can shoot down bombers like shooting fish in a barrel. No thank you. I watched way too many B-17s get blown to hell or go down in flames. You know what the worst part was?"

"No."

"Counting the number of parachutes that got out of those planes. I never counted ten chutes getting out of planes going down."

Fred's throat tightened. "But what if your wife gets the letter for you to report? What are you going to do then?"

"Nothing."

"But you'll be AWOL."

"Not if she never tells me."

"Huh?"

"This is between you and me, one vet to another." He shoved his hand in front of Fred's face. Its blisters caused him to shake it lightly. "Okay. If you rat me out now, maybe one of my brothers from the club will come looking for you. Or I might just look you up after I get out of Leavenworth. Comprende?"

Fred gulped as he redefined the risk of offering strangers with flat tires rides. "Yeah. I'm no dirty rat like Cagney says."

"I took off without telling my wife where I'm going. She's going to take the kids back to her folks' farm in Kansas. Since she's leaving no forwarding address, it'll take the military a while to track her down and send the letter to Kansas. But I told her I won't be in touch with her until the war is over. That way we're both off the hook."

Fred whistled. "I bet you're even going by a fake name."

"Nah. Then the military could throw the book at me for evading a return to duty. If I keep my real name and play dumb when they finally catch up to me, what are they going to do?"

"But like you said, they will find you eventually."

He crushed his cigarette in the ash tray. "Yeah, I know. But maybe not for a year. If I'm real lucky, maybe even two years. World War II only lasted three and a half years for us. I figure this one won't be any longer."

Dubbed a "hangaround" by the biker, Fred felt obligated to wait while the flat was repaired. His new acquaintance explained that to become a prospect would require a vote of the entire gang. Full membership could be bestowed only after Fred proved himself worthy during probation. The biker laughed when Fred said Sally would only allow his peripheral status of a hangaround to the Pissed Off Bastards of Berdoo.

As Fred dropped him off to reattach the repaired tire, he handed him a $20 bill.

"What's this for?"

"An evangelist told me I need to do two things if I'm going to live by faith: love God and love my neighbor as myself. You look pretty hungry."

The nameless biker smiled. "I knew you were a holy Joe."

***

For Ron Ohayashi, life had been a series of moves; as if perpetual motion would bring him justice he had been denied. Born in California's fertile San Joaquin Valley, he had worked on his parents' farm from age five to seventeen.

Then on November 12, 1941 the FBI stormed into Little Tokyo in Los Angeles and detained fifteen Japanese-American community leaders and businessmen.

"We teach the fundamental principles of America and the high ideals of American democracy. We want to live here in peace and harmony. Our people are 100% loyal to America." That Central Japanese Association's statement went unheeded. The fires at Pearl Harbor had barely been doused before local law enforcement and the FBI had rounded up 1,291 leaders of the Japanese-American community.

In February 1942 FDR's executive order banished Ron and 120,000 other Japanese-Americans to ten facilities that the President called "concentration camps." Most of the imprisoned were U.S. citizens or legal permanent resident aliens. When the young men of the camps were offered a chance to enlist in the Army, Ron volunteered. He spent most of his enlistment in Burma as part of the Military Intelligence Service interrogating captured Japanese soldiers, duty that saved thousands of Allied soldiers' lives.

After the war he and his family returned to their farm south of Stockton to try and "pick up where we left off." Strangers chased them from their land, fruit trees, house, and barn that they no longer owned. Such scenes with evil triumphing over good played out for almost every returning internee.

Ron's family sought refuge in the Florida panhandle, where the farmland was reasonable enough for them to start over. He first met Fred in the parking lot of a VFW hall after one of his speeches on life insurance.

"Mr. Rhinehardt, may I speak with you please?"

"Sure." Fred tossed his briefcase through his Pontiac's open window.

"Would you be so kind as to come to our home? My grandfather and father need some term life insurance that you spoke of."

"Okay. I'll follow you there."

"If I may burden you further." Ron bowed. "I walked here. May I ride with you?"

"Hop in. I have to be up in Montgomery by tonight. Let's get moving."

Fred's questions made Ron reveal his family's wartime imprisonment. Fred shook his head after listening to the saga. "That's a shame. You all got shafted six ways to Sunday."

"It could have been worse."

"Huh?"

"What if my parents had remained in Japan instead of coming to California? Then I would have been taught that the Emperor was God. Instead of fighting for America, I would have probably died as a kamikaze pilot or as a soldier in a banzai charge on some island."

Severed heads, arms, and legs and a burning Zero on his ship's deck flashed into Fred's mind. His hands shook the steering wheel so hard that the car swerved onto the shoulder. Tears flowed as the car rolled to a stop.

"Are you all right?"

He wiped the tears from his cheeks with his shirt sleeve. "Yeah. I'm sorry."

"There's a store up ahead. Perhaps a soda will help calm you down?"

Fred drove three hundred yards and parked in front of a small grocery.

"Once again I must ask you a favor." Ron handed him a dollar. "The proprietor does not like Japanese-Americans. He fought in the Pacific and still hates Japanese."

Fred sighed. Inside the store he found his and Ron's favorite bottled pop. As he placed them on the checkout counter, the burly tattooed owner nodded toward Fred's car.

"Who's the slant eye out there?"

Fred grabbed the change and bag with the two bottles. "A war hero! What he did during the war just might have saved your sorry butt."

Ron served as interpreter as Fred explained the value of term life insurance to his grandfather, father, two uncles, and six cousins. When the males of the clan balked at the sales pitch, Ron's grandmother brought out a cardboard box in which she had squirreled away proceeds from her produce stand for five years.

"I buy for." Her English carried such a heavy accent that Ron translated the offer.

"It's her inheritance for the women of our family," he said.

She bowed and refilled Fred's tiny tea cup. Two hours and a lunch later, Fred had completed the policies. By the time he was headed north to Montgomery, some of his favorite radio shows were beaming through his dashboard radio.

"Dun...da...dun...dun." The music faded. "The story you are about to hear is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent."

A half hour later he heard, "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? Ha ha ha...The Shadow knows."

As he pulled up to a VFW hall in Alabama's capital city, the William Tell Overture let him know that the Lone Ranger and Tonto were about to give outlaws and hooligans justice ex-Texas Ranger style. As he drove north after his presentation, he caught part of a baseball game and then the last half of an Inner Sanctum Mystery. A creepy voice wished him, "Pleasant dreams?" as he pulled up to a motel. These days Fred chose his lodgings based on which motel had the tallest television antennas. Judging by the fifty-foot height of this one halfway between Montgomery and Birmingham, he calculated that he should be able to pull in stations from both cities.

Still a rarity in Madisin, television was the one luxury that Fred allowed himself on his sales trips. He had just turned it on when his room's telephone rang.

"Hello."

"This is the front desk. Your wife is returning your call."

"Thanks."

"Hello, Fred?"

"Hi, Sally. How are the kids?"

"I got some bad news."

"Are they sick?"

"No. They're fine but you got a letter from the Navy." As she read it Fred stumbled over and turned off the Motorola twelve-inch black and white TV. "Are you still there?" She asked after reciting the name of the Navy Commander who had signed the document.

"Yeah. I'll start for home in the morning. I better cut my trip short." He spent hours staring at the cracks in the ceiling and the spiders who traversed them instead of watching the antics of the Aldrich Family, dancers cutting a rug on Arthur Murray's Dance Party, George Burns and Gracie Allen portraying the humorous side of marriage, or some other cut-up whose jokes were now meaningless for those called to fight to save a peninsula from communism.
Chapter 20

The Korean War began a pattern that United Nations' sanctioned wars continued far into the next century: America provided six times as many troops as twenty other nations combined to battle the North Korean and Chinese soldiers and USSR pilots flying MIGs, all of them intent on unifying North and South into one communist nation.

"Once a Navy man, always one." That's what Captain Uley had said during Fred's days of surviving WW II.

Somehow Fred no longer felt like one as he tried to readjust to uniforms, orders, salutes, and meetings. His new captain had spent WW II battling German submarines, destroyers, cruisers, and whatever Goering's Luftwaffe could muster. Captain Ickles considered the present war a mere flash in the pan. Commanding a supply ship was the icing on the cake in his estimation. He assembled his officers ashore at a Japanese restaurant to tell them as much.

"To an early end to this war." Captain Ickles lifted his glass of Saki as his third toast of the evening.

"Here, here." His executive officer bellowed.

Ensign Rhinehardt pretended to swallow his drink, which was the remnant of his first. Not much appealed to him about Japan, neither the food, alcohol, women, nor sights. If he never stepped ashore in Korea that would be to his tastes also.

Ferrying supplies from Japan to the aircraft carriers, destroyers, and other ships in the waters off of Korea seemed routine enough. North Korea had no navy and thus far the USSR had not provided any ships to the enemy. The main danger was the mines that floated in the waters surrounding the peninsula. Because their ship sailed at 2300 hours Captain Ickles broke up the celebration early.

"Back to the ship, men." He rose from the low lying table and stretched. "Don't want to be late."

Not until 0120 hours did Fred's recent diet awake him. He tried to walk the few steps to his room's head but the pain like a hot poker piercing his abdomen buckled his knees. He writhed on the floor until his groans roused his roommate.

"What's wrong, Rhinehardt?"

Fred clutched his stomach. "It hurts pretty bad."

"Sushi get to you?" He tried to lift him but Fred howled in pain.

"Man, you really are bad off. I'll fetch the doc."

But the ship's surgeon had eaten the same raw fish, which was now exiting his body. "It's coming out of both ends," he told Fred's roommate. "Go get a medic and bring the ensign to sick bay."

Before moving his patient, the medic poked Fred's right lower abdomen with his finger. When Fred screamed from the slight pressure, the medic shook his head. "Looks like appendicitis." He sent for a stretcher and helped carry his moaning patient to the small sick bay. Two others stricken by the raw fish sat on its cold metal floor. "Boy, you all must've eaten the worst fish around Yokohama last night. Counting the doc, that makes four of you so far. Either of you two hurting on your lower right side?"

They shook their heads.

"I'll be right back with the doc."

The medic supported the surgeon as they stumbled to the sick bay. Dizzy from his diarrhea and vomiting, the doctor pulled the medic aside after examining the sickest man on board. "You were right. It's appendicitis. But I'm so sick I can't hold a scalpel steady enough to operate in these rough seas. Go tell the captain we need to put ashore."

But by the time Fred was transported to an Army hospital on land the poison from his burst appendix had seeped outward. Peritonitis spread rapidly and he died two days later. They flew his body home on a C-54 transport so that family and friends could bury him in Madisin.

***

Sergeant Jason Dalrumple disliked his promotion because now he was responsible for a squad of soldiers instead of only ensuring his own survival. Its number varied from five to ten, depending on members killed or wounded and available replacements. Three raw recruits had reported to him for duty during a lull in combat.

"Welcome to Korea, boys," Sgt. Dalrumple said. "My job is to keep you alive. Your job is to keep yourselves alive. Your number one question is probably 'when do I go home?' I bet."

Two of them nodded as the third fiddled with his M-1 carbine.

"I thought so. You're lucky. They just dropped the number of points you need from forty-three to thirty-six. You get four points for each month of close combat, two points for duty in the rear echelon, and one point for duty in the Far East, such as Japan, Taiwan, or the Philippines. Once you hit your thirty-six points you are eligible to rotate back to the States. But sometimes some guys end up waiting longer for rotation. Any questions?"

"Is it always this cold?"

"Only in the winter. When you wake up at night shake your hands and stomp your feet to keep the blood flowing so you don't get frostbite. If you get frostbite you might get gangrene and the docs will have to chop it off."

The three settled into a defensive line, a series of hills and trenches facing two brigades of Chinese and one of North Korean troops, which waited until dark to attack. Soldiers of the first wave fell about one hundred yards from the line, from the second wave about thirty yards away. By the fourth wave of the seemingly infinite enemy a few were reaching their trenches. One of the new men panicked when his weapon jammed and he rose from his kneeling position. A bullet ripped into his shoulder and knocked him to the icy ground. When daylight came, Sgt. Dalrumple examined the wound as a medic removed the blood-soaked bandage and applied a fresh one.

"Went in and out." He patted the shaking soldier's helmet. "Worth a Purple Heart though. You'll be back in a couple weeks."

Aerial recon of the enemy's new position discovered reinforcements snaking toward their forward lines. Unable to respond in kind, the American commanders ordered their troops to regroup 1,000 yards to the south. By dusk Sgt. Dalrumple's squad had joined the rest of their company in a hilltop bunker abandoned by their battalion's commanding officer and his staff.

"Just like the Ritz. At least we got a view," the company's commanding officer, a lieutenant six months out of West Point said. "The enemy's going to have to climb this hill to get to us now."

"They got so many guys it doesn't matter, sir." Sgt. Dalrumple said what the other noncoms were thinking.

"I just got off the radio with Battalion headquarters. Enemy artillery blew up part of our ammo dump. The soonest they can bring us any ammo is tomorrow."

"My men are down to only about four clips each, sir."

The lieutenant turned toward the other sergeants."

"About three."

"Maybe five each."

"Six at most."

"How many BARs do we have?"

"Two."

"Put one on each end of the bunker. Tell the BAR gunners that no matter what happens they can't let the enemy outflank us."

"Yes, sir."

"Is the trip wire set up?"

"Yes, sir."

"How much fuel does the flame thrower have left?"

"Half a tank."

"Put him in the middle." He took off his helmet and pounded it on a wooden plank until some of the dried mud dropped from it. "I have three flares left. When I fire off the last one order your men to fall back down the hill toward the rear lines. Our orders are to hold this hill as long as possible. Dismissed."

The four sergeants went to their squads to pass along the orders as their commanding officer hunkered down next to the three mortars set up twenty feet from the bunker. He offered their crews gum and cigarettes.

"Fix your coordinates on the trip wire. Wait for my order to fire."

"Yes, sir."

The two-man teams set the short metal cylinders for a pattern that would saturate the area on both sides of the 100-foot wire with the thirty-one remaining shells, not enough to stop the thousands of troops waiting to climb the hill, only slow their ascent. Then they waited.

***

Hoping the imperialists would be numbed by cold and darkness into slumber or drowsiness, the Chinese commander of the battalions assigned to take the hill waited until 2300 hours to whisper the order to attack. A young North Korean rifleman's boot clipped the trip wire, which rang the bells attached to it. The clangs jolted the American commander from his half sleep.

"Fire at will!"

The first rounds from the mortars hit the bottom of the hill thirty seconds later. After two more minutes the last one sailed upward.

"That's our last shell, sir."

He fired the first flare. It drifted slowly downward, its tiny parachute granting maximum illumination. Sgt. Dalrumple groaned as the sweating private next to him stated the obvious.

"Good God, Sarge. They look like ants." He jabbed the barrel of his M-1 toward the shadowy figures.

"They're going to be crawling all over us if you don't start firing, troop!"

The bullets from the eighty-four carbines dropped the first fifty enemies to the ground but their lifeless bodies served as traction for the comrades who followed. As they sank into the mud the corpses proved less slippery than the gooey earth that half buried them. The BARs raked the flanks of the hill until their belts of ammunition were spent. By then the second flare had drifted to within twenty feet of the ground.

"Report!" The lieutenant ran from sergeant to sergeant.

"Ammo gone."

"Down to our last clips."

He pounded the helmet of the one with the flame thrower. Its forty foot burps of flame ignited the enemy closest to the bunker. Those with burning skin and uniforms rolled down the hill, taking down fellow soldiers like bowling pins. The lieutenant fired the last flare through the two-foot gap between frozen earth and the hundreds of sand bags that formed the roof. One by one, the sergeants ordered their men to retreat down the back side of the hill. Some of them slid. Others tumbled as they tripped.

Sgt. Dalrumple clutched the ankles of a bleeding man as a medic supported his shoulders. Halfway down the hill, Jason turned to watch the first shells from an artillery battalion two miles away hit the bunker, showering mud, sand, wood, and body parts on the fleeing Americans.

At last the bullets stopped whizzing by him.
Chapter 21

"Sally Crenshaw?"

"Here."

"Stanley Dalrumple?"

Silence.

"Stanley Dalrumple?"

"Huh?"

"Say here, Stan." Dan Rhinehardt whispered across the aisle.

"Uh, here."

Miss Lewis glared at the one she considered the worst student of her ten-year career as a teacher. She wrote a note to the principal and ordered Dan to deliver it. Principal Gossrite moaned as he read it. Then he dialed the Dalrumples' phone number and scheduled an appointment with Stanley's parents.

"It appears that there is a slight problem." Principal Gossrite's eyes danced between teacher and parents. "Miss Lewis feels that your son needs to transfer to a class better suited for him."

"What kind of class?" Jason stared at his watch. Every minute wasted here was money lost from the remodeling job where he would rather be.

"One for those who are mentally deficient," Miss Lewis said.

"You saying our boy is a retard? A throwback?"

"Here, look for yourself." She tossed a paper onto his lap. "I had the district psychologist test Stanley. His I.Q. is only 77."

"What does that mean?" Thelma studied the document.

"That he is minimally educable. Of the hundreds of students I have instructed, he is the worst one of all."

Jason shrugged. "Now I'll be the first to admit that he's a mite slow. But all he needs is to learn to read and write and his numbers. I can train him to make a decent living."

"I'm not certain he can learn."

Talking to her is like beating a dead horse. Jason turned to the principal. "What's your opinion?"

"I have to concur with Miss Lewis. State law requires children to attend school until age sixteen. You can either put Stanley in our class for mentally retarded children or the school at St. Anthony's or the one at Redeemer Lutheran."

"How soon do we have to decide?" Thelma asked.

"You have until Monday."

Jason stood. "We'll let you know by then. Meantime we'll keep Stanley home. Wouldn't want to inconvenience Miss Lewis with him anymore."

Her sniff complemented her smirk.

Thelma said that the "special class" was the best option so Jason visited the parochial schools by himself the next day. He liked the habits worn by the nuns at St. Anthony's School. "They're like their uniforms for the army of the Lord," he had told Thelma during breakfast.

Mother Superior Sister Teresa welcomed him. "The secretary said you are considering placing a child with us?"

"That's right. Stanley's in first grade."

"I don't recall seeing you at Mass. Do you belong to St. Anthony's parish?"

"No ma'am. We go to church at Full Gospel Evangelical but I was told you let people of other persuasions send their kids here." He stared at the linoleum tiles. "Uh, do you take kids that are slow?"

She stood and grasped the beads of the large rosary wrapped around the middle of her habit. "Yes. We have a few such students. But at times they feel left out. Especially as our children make their first Confession and Holy Communion and later on are confirmed. Do you think not being able to join the others in the sacraments would bother your son?"

Jason contorted his lips. "I really don't know."

"Please consider that before you decide." She handed him a folder. "Everything you need to register him is in here, including details of tuition. Now if you'll excuse me, we are having an assembly at nine."

"Okay." He stood and shook her hand. "Thank you." He opened the folder and read it as he walked to his truck. When he saw that tuition for non-parishioners was $10 more a month than for parishioners, he tossed the folder into the trash can in his truck's bed. He prayed before meeting Redeemer Lutheran School's principal but when tuition for it proved even higher than at St. Anthony's, Jason abandoned his hope of his son being educated "around normal kids."

The following Monday Stanley joined twelve other boys and girls from the school district who had also been labeled as mentally retarded. For Thelma the saving grace of the painful transition was Stanley's new teacher.

"She's as nice as Miss Lewis was nasty. You called Miss Lewis the Wicked Witch of the West. That means that Stanley's new teacher is Glenda, the Good Witch."

Jason grunted as he pulled the handle on his recliner. "I hope you're right. You and me can only do so much."
Chapter 22

Thanksgiving of 1955 was three weeks away but eight-year-old Stanley already gave thanks daily for his life, limited as it was at times. Most important of all, he had a dad. Best friend Dan Rhinehardt did not. Curious, Stanley had visited Fred's resting place at the cemetery on the east end of town. The headstone was ornate, complete with naval symbols such as anchors. Afterwards Stanley had walked the entire graveyard, stopping to pray at each grave that contained a father of those he knew. Those headstones mostly had the years from 1942 to 1945 etched into them.

Second on his list of things to give thanks for was the television set that Jason had bought last summer. Madisin now had a television station and the seventy-foot antenna that Jason had rigged next to a pine tree pulled in two other stations from two distant cities as well. He considered the antenna worth his investment as new programs went on the air that autumn: Gunsmoke, The Phil Silvers Show, Cheyenne, The Honeymooners with Jackie Gleason, The Mickey Mouse Club, and Captain Kangaroo, something for everyone.

With the set at his house only pulling in Madisin's lone station, Dan spent much time at Stanley's house, especially after school.

"What time is it boys and girls?" His favorite host asked.

"It's Howdy Doody time!" Dan and Stanley shouted at the flickering images of Buffalo Bob and his sidekick.

On his way home for supper after the show, Dan paused at the edge of the Dalrumple's property. "Guess I'll see you at school tomorrow."

Stanley fidgeted, a tic signaling his fear of rejection. "I need to ask you."

"What?"

"How come you're my friend? All the other kids just laugh at me and call me a retard or spaz."

Dan scratched his head. "I never got to know my dad much before he got killed in that war. But Mom says he always helped people out. Since I want to be like my dad I try to help people out too."

"Oh." Stanley rubbed his feet in the dirt until a small cloud of dust covered his shoes. "But do you really like me?"

"Sure. You know we're best friends. Remember how we made us into blood brothers last summer?"

"Yeah. But we didn't cut our arms like that cowboy and Indian did in the movie."

Dan pulled Stanley closer and whispered. "Pricking our fingers with a needle made enough of our blood come out seeing how we're just kids. Besides, if we cut our arms with a knife like they did in the movie we'd have ourselves a fearsome scar. Then everyone would know about us being blood brothers. This way we can keep it real secret, okay? Just you and me know about it."

Stanley smiled. "Okay. You think maybe I should help folks out like you do?"

Dan heard the distant call of big brother Karl, sent to find him. "Sure. Mom says the Bible says we need to treat other folks like we want to be treated. I hear Karl. I gotta go. See you later, alligator."

"In a while, crocodile."

After supper, Stanley stared at the ceiling from his bed and pondered his father's oft-repeated saying to "either fish or cut bait." After an hour, Stanley decided it was time to fish. As soon as he heard his father's snores, he dressed and crawled through his bedroom window. Because Pastor Trueblood often preached on "saving souls from the clutches of the devil" maybe his parents would understand his stealth after he rescued the most bound soul he knew.

It took ten minutes to walk to the last house along the two-lane highway where fields and woods replaced civilization. The small home was 200 feet from the road, its long dirt driveway overgrown with weeds. Stanley wondered why the owner had extended the highway's drainage ditch through the driveway.

Must be to make it harder for people in cars to turn off and help the devil's prisoner.

Stanley had met the chained-up boy only once. About his age, the boy had screamed whenever he saw someone walking by along the road's shoulder. Out scavenging for soda bottles with his wagon a week before, Stanley had heard the faint screams and investigated. He had promised to return with help.

That help was a file borrowed from Jason's toolbox. Stanley thought it would be of little use if the devil appeared. He had caught a glimpse of the huge cursing figure as he had crept from the property after his first visit. The devil had carried a pitchfork in one hand and blood red eyes in his head. When one of his hell hounds started yapping, the devil had hurled the pitchfork toward the direction the dog pointed. It had landed two feet from Stanley, who wet his pants. If not for the ten-gallon hat on the devil's head, Stanley was certain he would have spied his two horns. But those blood red eyes and pitchfork were proof enough; he was the devil and the boy was his captive waiting to be set free by the servant of the Lord, Stanley Dalrumple, who had returned per the boy's pleas.

He waited until he was under the windowsill before calling the prisoner's name. "Hey Leroy. It's me."

"I knew you all would come on back and fetch me. Hurry on up before my pappy comes back."

His pappy? Wow! The devil must've put a spell on him. Stanley climbed through the window and landed on the wooden floor with his hands and head.

"Oh, thank the Lord you came on back. How you gonna get me free like you promised you would?" He rattled his chain.

"With this." Stanley pulled the twelve-inch file from his pocket and started to etch a groove on a link of chain fastened to the leg of a rusty woodstove. He filed nonstop until a blister formed on each hand. "I got to go before the devil comes back and chains me up too. You're going to have to finish cutting through where I started. Once you get free go out to the road and go left. Run on over to my house. It's the green one. My mom will figure out what to do next. She's real smart." He covered up the partially cut link with a log. "Just don't let him see where you're cutting. I figure it's gonna take you a while to finish cutting it all the way through."

"Okay. You be the onliest friend I gots in this whole big world. I be obliged to you forever and ever. I been praying you all would come along for years."

"I'm going to skedaddle before the devil gets back and puts his pitchfork in me. He almost did the last time I was here. Don't forget. The green house."

"Good bye." He went to work on the partially cut link.

A day later, Stanley walked the road again in search of soda bottles. In front of the devil's house, he parked his wagon and jumped down into the drainage ditch. He tarried as he retrieved three bottles. Distracted by the playing of his role of passerby, he did not notice an approaching figure until it was thirty feet from him.

"What you doing on my property?" Gone was the pitchfork, replaced by a shotgun filled with rock salt.

"Just picking up pop bottles." Stanley held two of them above his head.

The devil jabbed his gun at the intruder. "You better git right now. And don't come back no more."

Stanley scrambled out of the ditch and grabbed his red wagon's handle. Several bottles bounced out of it but he did not stop running until he was home.

***

Five nights later, Jason heard someone pounding on the front door. He switched on the porch light and peered through a window at the small boy who kept glancing over his shoulder. Jason lowered his head to the brass mail slot. "What do you want this time of night?"

"Help me, mister. Stanley said to come over here."

Jason opened the unlocked the door and stepped back from the ten-foot length of rusty chain that dragged after the boy into his living room. "What the heck?"

It took a police officer fifteen minutes to arrive and almost that long to piece together the story told by Leroy and Stanley.

"What happens now?" Jason handed the cop another cup of coffee.

"I'm calling for backup. Then we'll go pay his father a visit. You think you can watch Leroy until we get the social worker over here first thing in the morning?"

"Sure."

***

The devil, alias Monroe O. Lithington, was certain that the police had arrived to shut down the still that he operated in the woods on the backside of his property. He sighed when the two lawmen explained their visit at 2:34 a.m.

Leastways they ain't here after my moonshine. He spent the night in jail and said little until he appeared before a judge the next afternoon. The Dalrumples and a reporter from the Madisin News were the only spectators. Leroy sat at a table with a social worker fifteen feet from his father. Judge Bellow read from the court docket.

"This is a preliminary hearing of Monroe O. Lithington on the charge of child neglect. In the interest of time, I would like the defendant to give his side of the story. Then we'll listen to his son. Any objections?"

The public defender turned to the social worker, who shook her head.

"No objections, your honor." She spoke for both.

"Good. Mr. Lithington, is it true that you chained your son to a woodstove and if so, why?"

The accused coughed and his voice quavered. "Your honor, I had no choice. I was fearing that Leroy's mama would come on back home and take him away once and for all."

"Where is his mother?"

"I don't rightly know. About six years back she runs off with some piano player. From what I be told he plays down around the Chtilin' Circuit."

"The what?"

"Chitlin' Circuit. That be all the dance halls and juke joints that be spread out all over everywhere in the South."

"Did she take the boy with her when she left?"

"At first. Then one day about five years back, she dropped him off. She said she'd be back for him but I ain't seen her no more since." He turned and pointed at Leroy. "I didn't mean him no harm. I just wanted to keep her from snatching him when I wasn't at home is all."

"I see." The judge turned toward Leroy. "Now it's Leroy's turn. Do you remember your mother at all?"

"Yes, sir. But just a little bit. Mostly I just remember one day she hugged me and told me to be good and she would be back to get me. I figured I must not have been good enough because she never came back for me."

"How long has your father chained you up?"

"He only does it when he be gone a spell. Like when he goes on off to town or out to work on the fields. He takes the chain back off when he be in the house."

"I meant how many years has he been chaining you up?"

Leroy shrugged. "Long as I remember for."

The judge sighed and stared at the gavel he had wielded thousands of times to maintain his sense of order. "Will you two please approach the bench?" When the social worker and attorney were two feet from him he lowered his voice. "Any deal you two can work out between you?"

"I'd like to keep Leroy at the children's home until we can investigate his home and their stories further, your honor." She tapped her crimson nails on the oak top of the bench, reminders of the blood she had drawn in other court battles.

"Meantime I request the accused be released on his own recognizance, your honor." The lawyer placed both his hands by the gavel.

"Very well." He waited until the two had returned to their clients. "Leroy Lithington is hereby remanded to the children's home. Monroe Lithington is released pending investigation of the living conditions at his home and verification can made of the mother's whereabouts so that custody can be granted to the appropriate parent. Court adjourned."

***

The lone detective from the Madisin Police Department stared at the teletype message from Mobile, Alabama. He tore off the sheet and walked across the street to the public defender's cramped office. The balding attorney stared at him over stacks of dusty folders. "What's up, Vic?"

"Remember the guy who kept his kid chained up?"

"Monroe Lithington?"

"Turns out his wife died in a car wreck about four and a half years back. The only ID on her listed a Georgia address so they never found out about her husband and kid."
Chapter 23

"Whenever a new agency starts up, get in on the ground floor." Agent Bill Sampson's supervisor gave this advice to two kinds of agents, those he liked and those he wanted to get rid of. Bill was the only one to follow it.

"I'd move on over to the Defense Intelligence Agency myself if I were younger," his boss said.

"Well, I figure I got another six or seven years before I can retire," Bill said. "Maybe the change will help me ease into my golden years."

"I hope so. Good luck."

***

With its Uniform Code of Military Justice and multiple chains of command, the military needed a separate intelligence entity to flush out any spies or traitors within its ranks. Such beliefs intensified at the DIA when an ex-Marine named Lee Harvey Oswald defected to Russia.

Bill did not know what to make of his new job. After comparing notes with agents at the FBI and CIA, he wondered if his move had been right. But when an organizational structure was cemented at the DIA his new supervisor squashed such misgivings with Bill's first assignment.

"Have a seat, Agent Sampson." He continued talking before Bill had settled into the green vinyl chair. "I have an important assignment for you. You're going to check out the bases in Southern California that are doing research and development. We've got to catch any more like that Oswald nutcase before they defect. The CIA handles all the hush-hush stuff over at the Nevada Test Site so that's out of our hands, at least for now. But I want you to assess the security risks there in California. Any questions?"

"Can I have a list of the personnel assigned to the bases?"

"Sure. My secretary will bring the lists to you."

Only one name jumped out from the lists, Technician Dave Freight. Bill jotted his name and location in a notebook and went home to pack.

LAX reminded Bill of a hornet's nest as he counted the dozens of aircraft arriving, departing, and sitting on the tarmac. His 707 was on time, nonstop from Washington, D.C. The expanding federal bureaucracy had enough of a presence in Southern California to merit its own motor pool of vehicles near the airport so Bill took the shuttle to it and checked out a 1961 black Ford two-door sedan. He found the 405 freeway and began winding through the concrete maze that connected L.A. with dozens of suburbs.

By the time he reached Whittier, the cool ocean breeze had died. Just west of San Bernardino the temperature was twenty degrees hotter than at LAX and the smog tasted nasty so he rolled up the windows and searched for a distraction on the radio. He found it on KFWB.

The disc jockey sounded like he was high on bennies or too many cups of coffee or both as he crammed his patter between the 45 rpm discs he played. Bill had promised his teenaged sons and twenty-two year old daughter to listen to top-40 radio at least once in a while "so you can dig us, Dad." He ignored the DJ's spiel and tried to focus on the music.

Elvis Presley's latest album was out and the song Blue Hawaii made him sound tamer than his days of dancing to the jailhouse rock after suffering a breakdown at a heartbreak hotel. The Marvelettes pled with Mr. Postman to bring a letter from lover boy. Harry Mancini's Moon River calmed Bill's nerves as he battled rush hour traffic but then Ray Charles' backup singers began calling him Jack and telling him "to hit the road." Jimmy Dean spoke more than sang about Big John, who was as bad as he was tall. Roy Orbison had two hits in the top 40, Candy Man and Cryin'.

Folk music was still popular and the Highwaymen harmonized about Michael rowing his boat ashore. There were songs about a water boy, a great imposter, an astronaut, an errant girlfriend named Runaround Sue. Moving one's feet was expected, according to the Bristol Stomp and Foot Stompin' (Part 1).

The station's signal was fading by the time Bill pulled into his motel's parking lot. He reviewed the hour of music he had endured. Out of fifteen songs, he had enjoyed three.

"Guess I'm just a hopeless square," he grumbled as he carried his suitcase to his room.

The window air conditioner lowered the room's sweltering temperature by only ten degrees so Bill swam laps in the 30-foot long pool. The remembered lyrics to Hit the Road Jack, Candyman, and Michael inspired him to finish forty laps. He was far enough out in the desert that only one of L.A.'s eleven television stations produced a decent picture on the room's 15-inch TV screen so he opted for a local station. He fell asleep during a movie from the 1940s and awoke the next morning as the station began its day with the national anthem.

By the time Bill reached the first installation on his list it was 8 a.m. and his stomach growled. He followed the directions of the MP stationed at the front gate and found a cafeteria that served eggs greasy, bacon burnt, and coffee strong.

One out of three is not bad. Bill finished his second cup of coffee and drove to the base commander's office. His clipped manner did little to hide his nervousness.

"DIA, huh?" The colonel studied Bill's I.D. card. "I heard about you guys." His voice went up an octave as each sentence ended and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. "What are you looking for?"

"This is just a routine inspection, sir." Bill employed his slow-paced monotone, which had calmed many such scared individuals during his long career with law enforcement and espionage. "We don't sweat the small stuff, Colonel."

"Well, I do. Now that President Kennedy wants us on the moon within nine years everyone is sweating bullets."

"I'll talk to you before I leave. You, know, to debrief you on any findings."

"When will that be?"

"Depends on if I find anything questionable. Then I have to dig deeper. If not, I'll be done by tomorrow."

Agent Sampson spent the morning checking the security for the base. Then he interviewed those who commanded the secret projects. Finally, he walked through the sites of those projects, occasionally talking to random workers. At 4 p.m. the next day he drove off of the base after assuring its commander that he "ran a tight ship."

The next military installation interested him for only one reason; it was where Dave Freight labored. After his initial inspection of the fort, Bill repaid Dave for the meal of Mexican food from fifteen years ago.

"First time I ever ate at an officer's club." Dave admired the white table cloth, bow-tied waiters, and fancy place settings.

"Rank has its privileges," Bill said. "I'm high enough up the GS chain to get me in here. So, what's with the beard?"

"My goatee?" Dave stroked the mostly gray hair. "Have to have it to be hep, man; a cool cat. You dig?"

"The only people that talk like that on the East Coast are beatniks."

"Ten-four, daddy-O. Beats are the coolest cats around. Too bad I can't take you to some of the folk clubs in L.A. They're really swinging."

"You still have your ear to the ground on what's going on?"

"You fishing for the unofficial jive? You know, the buzz on what's really going on down?"

"Yeah. I've been fed the official line for three days now. It's all sounding the same, whether it's Air Force or Army. I have a feeling the Marine and Navy bases will be the same too."

"I can dig it. Man, you need to be checking out those cats over at Area 51 in Nevada. What's going on down here in California is small potatoes compared to what's happening over there. Most of what we get here was developed over there. We just run the final tests before it goes operational."

"My boss said the CIA runs that show."

"All the more reason for a cat like you to be keeping them honest."

"About what?"

Dave glanced around the room. Because it was two days before payday, the club was mostly deserted as officers stretched the last of their monthly pay at home on meals of pork and beans or tube steak. He lowered his voice. "There's no way of knowing what all they're doing. A while back pilots flying near Area 51 that saw the new top secret jets being tested out of there swore they saw gorillas flying them."

"Those were just test pilots wearing masks. They were messing with the other pilots' minds."

Dave nodded. "That's my point. They're messing with our heads." He pointed at his and rotated his finger. "The stories I hear are that they've got access to alien technology from the crash at Roswell, New Mexico and are back engineering it."

"UFOs?" Bill began to regret his invitation.

"Uh huh. Only they don't know how they're playing with fire. Someday they're going to get burned."

"Huh?"

"This is totally off the record big daddy. Some cat in L.A. invited me to something he called a gathering. Turned out the cat was a devil worshipper and he was trying to get me to join up."

"But what's that got to do with –"

Dave held up his hand. "Don't get up tight, daddy-o. They had their meeting out in the desert somewhere. They blindfolded me on the way there and on the way back to L.A. so that I'm still not sure where it was we were at. Anyway, they drew this giant pentagram in the sand and started chanting all their hocus pocus spells. Pretty soon this great big blob of light comes up out of the sand. After about twenty minutes it took on the shape of a flying saucer and zoomed on off. Must have been going Mach-10 at least."

Bill rolled his eyes. "You smoke that marijuana that I read the beatniks like so much?"

"I have to take the Fifth on that. But I was stone cold sober when I saw it. Scout's honor." He held up the three-finger salute. "I never went to another meeting. Not this cat. From what I heard some of those devil worshippers use up all of their nine lives before their time. Scary stuff. The guy who invited me disappeared a few months later. Everything was still in his apartment. The cops are still baffled. They didn't believe my story either. Say, cool daddy-O, let's deep six all this cloak and dagger jive. You're cool even if you are a spook turning over rocks looking for threats to our country. Let's head on back to my pad and I'll spin you some really boss jazz."

"Uh, maybe some other time."

They parted company in the parking lot with Bill saying he needed to "hit the motel and write up my findings."

Dave smirked as he watched Bill's car turn off toward the row of stores and motel outside of the front gate of the base. He steered his 90cc Honda motorcycle toward home, a studio apartment sixteen miles from the base. The recently purchased cycle was his only luxury. Everything he could save from his paychecks went toward his ramshackle cabin in the mountains, his oasis on weekends and holidays and eventual refuge when the bombs started falling. His latest remodeling had included layers of lead attached to the cabin's inner walls. A warm sensation filled him as he reflected on its superior protective powers compared to the tin foil that had wrapped his body the day the first atomic bomb had exploded. His mind drifted to his favorite scenario.

They'll take out L.A. for sure. No loss there. Of course our B-52s and missiles will incinerate them right back. He chuckled. I knew my beatnik act would send Agent Bill whatever his real last name is running for cover.

***

When Bill returned to Washington, D.C., family life tempered his work life. His wife Karen said she had burned her candle at both ends for too many years in that tone of voice that makes husbands finally listen.

"I feel like I'm burning wick instead of wax," she said. "I can't go on."

Bill retreated to his sanctuary, a den populated by an aquarium filled with fish, snails, and plants; a cage with a family of parakeets; and a dry aquarium with five lizards that looked more like statues than reptiles. His cat and dog joined him, the former on his lap and the latter at his feet. They nuzzled him as he petted them. He pondered his dilemma for three hours before returning to his wife.

"I don't hit retirement age for another six years so I feel stuck."

"Can't you take some job where you don't have to travel all the time? The kids need you here. They need a full-time father, not some secret agent man who can't tell them a thing about what he does."

Bill remembered an unsolicited job that a former co-worker had offered three weeks earlier: "If you ever get tired of being an agent you can come work for me," he had said. "It would be a desk job with the Department of Agriculture, a boring routine compared to the DIA."

Better bored than having Karen crack up. He stared at her and wondered how many of the wrinkles on her face he had caused.

"I'm sorry, Bill. But everybody has their breaking point," she said.

"I know. I'll call Jerry about that administrator job, okay?"

Karen answered with tears and a smile that somehow washed away some of the wrinkles as the seemingly two-ton boulder rolled from her.

That left one unfinished task at the DIA for Bill, the report detailing his findings after visiting seven military installations throughout Southern California. Before, he had exercised deference in his reports. With nothing to lose, he put his true conclusions to paper for his first and last report for the DIA. It was thorough, twenty pages, but the summary was concise enough that his boss would read at least that much:

Summary

While the deficiencies and recommendations detailed in this report are important, a more pressing concern needs to be addressed. It is one that is systemic throughout America's intelligence operations. For the DIA, the main organizations in which our duties might overlap are the FBI, NSA, and CIA. This is so because while the FBI's scope is limited to domestic issues, and the NSA's and CIA's scope is international, the DIA's scope is both because we have military stationed in dozens of countries. If one includes the marines assigned to our embassies, the number of countries is well over 100.

For whatever reason, there is little to no cooperation among these agencies. Each one conducts surveillance and intelligence gathering but the data collected is not shared or given only sporadically to anyone outside of each agency. Call them empires, kingdoms, whatever, each exists to perpetuate itself by strict protocols against releasing that data. Simply put, the right hand does not know what the left hand is doing.

Not only is this ineffective, it is dangerous. Needless duplication of efforts is played out while genuine security threats to our nation go undetected. Thus far, we have dodged the bullet. But with more nations obtaining the atomic bomb and developing biological and chemical agents, we must change the way we operate. I recommend that liaisons be established between these agencies at every level so that a sharing of data can be continually maintained. If we do not, at some point we will sow the wind and reap the whirlwind.

Bill placed his report on his boss' desk before lunch on a Friday and left the building, never to return. Attached to the report was his letter of resignation "due to family matters." As was his habit, the agent in charge tossed the foot high stack of paper from his in basket into his briefcase and took it home. By 10:30 p.m. Saturday night he had reached and finished Bill's report and sighed as he read the attached letter.

Instinctively he knew Bill's summary was correct. But passing it on up the line would only create waves. As a mid-level administrator he daily had to "get with the program" and "go along to get along." Otherwise there would be no further promotions and he would languish where he was or perhaps be shipped off to some remote location as punishment. He detached the summary from the report, shredded it, and then used the long thin strips to start a fire under the cherry and oak logs sitting in the five-foot wide fireplace. He picked up that day's copy of the Washington Post.

Damn it all, they sure screwed up on that Bay of Pigs invasion. There are still stories about it months later. I bet heads are still rolling over at the Agency.
Chapter 24

Summer of 1962 offered hope. JFK had rebounded after deserting the invaders of Cuba. Now he had the country looking at the Moon and beyond. A pragmatist, he called for tax cuts in the belief that they would ultimately result in more tax revenues as the economy grew. Wall Street and Main Street got on board. Ike might have given security and started an interstate highway system that was connecting the nation; JFK presented Camelot, complete with beautiful wife Jackie and cute kids Caroline and John John. An understanding media swept any dark side under the rug, such as his sleeping with Hollywood starlets and gangster's molls.

Fantasy was also readily available to the masses via television. Walt Disney's Wonderful World of Color beamed it weekly into homes. Jason joked that for the Dalrumples it was the wonderful world of color in black and white. He fended off any requests for upgrades. "I'll buy us a color TV when they cost the same as black and white ones."

But seeing the Magic Kingdom in person was doable, Jason decided. To fund the trip, the Dalrumples had skipped vacations for three years. The money saved went in to a bank account they called Disneyland or Bust. When Stanley stepped up his soda bottle redemption efforts to contribute to the account, Jason decided to reward him.

"You can pick one friend to come on along with us to Disneyland, son."

"Really?" Now fifteen and possessing the body of a man but the mind of a ten-year old, Stanley appreciated any decision making delegated to him. "I want Dan to go along! Can I go tell him? Huh? Can I?"

"Sure."

Sally Richmond was unsure of the offer. Dan was fourteen and reminded her of Elvis' sneer and James Dean's cockiness. First she lay down expectations of perfect behavior from Dan. Then she talked to Thelma.

"You know I think Dan would be in reform school by now if it hadn't been for Jason being like a father for him since Fred died."

"Truth be told, I think Dan has helped Stanley be more than we ever expected. He's the only kid in Madisin that treats him like he's normal. He even makes Stanley forget he's retarded."

***

The Mother Road that stretched from Chicago to L.A. was no longer the most direct route for them to go to Disneyland. But it was the most scenic. They started to get their kicks on Route 66 when they turned south at Baxter Springs, Kansas.

Sometimes two lanes, sometimes four, the highway was being overshadowed and at times replaced by the interstates bit by bit. Because there were a lot of architectural oddities and scenery along Route 66 Mr. and Mrs. Dalrumple were entertained. Not so their son.

"Are we almost there yet?" became Stanley's refrain every ten miles until Texas. By then, Jason's exasperation had inspired Dan to invent games to distract Stanley from the never-ending road.

"Okay, now that we're in Texas we're going to count license plates from any other state, Stanley."

"Why?"

"For something to do instead of bugging your dad. Whoever counts up the most by the time we get to New Mexico wins."

"Okay." Seated on the left side of the rear seat, Stanley could usually spot the plates from oncoming traffic first. "California plate, one. Arizona plate, two."

Jason turned up the ball game on the radio to drown out his son's count. By the time they reached Kingman, Arizona the next day, Stanley was at 782 non-Arizona license plates. Dan lagged behind at 351.

"You see any motels you like?" Jason asked.

"They all remind me of the one we spent our honeymoon in. The roach motel." Thelma squirmed.

"Las Vegas is only a couple hours north of here." Jason elbowed her. "What do you say?"

Thelma studied a map. "But it's a hundred miles out of the way."

"It'll be our second honeymoon, without roaches. Come on. You only live once."

She shrugged, Jason smiled and steered the car northward. Stanley nodded off at plate number 795 as the sun set.

Their Las Vegas motel was on the strip, close enough to the big casinos that Jason could reach them on foot. He left the others to the pool and air conditioned room, welcome relief from the still warm air. At each casino, Jason walked to the blackjack tables and studied the faces of the dealers. In the fourth casino he found the one who had dealt him so many winning hands at sea during wartime. The ex-sergeant looked the same except for thinner and grayer hair and a paunch created by the alcohol drunk before and after every shift to calm his nerves and steady his dealing motion. Jason had grown a beard for two months and dyed his hair from blond to black the night before leaving Madisin.

"Have to look handsome for all those California gals," he had explained to Thelma. "Especially those movie stars."

She had laughed until tears formed. "A mask would work better."

Jason studied the players until a seat opened up for him after one of them ran out of chips. It took five hands before the Professor's Method kicked in and he began to win. The dealer pretended to not notice. As long as this guy's losing hands eventually outnumbered the winning ones, who cared? The other four players called out their requests after receiving their next two cards, one face down and the other face up.

"Hit me."

"I'll stay."

"Hit me."

"Hit me."

Seated at the end of the table, Jason mechanically counted off the value of the exposed cards according to the Method. "I'm good."

When Jason's hand of sixteen won the dealer started to squirm. He began to sweat when Jason shoved his entire pile of chips forward as a bet on his next hand. "The man is hot. Someone pour water on this guy. He's red hot."

Jason noticed the glance the dealer snuck at the player in the middle. He sighed. Some things never change.

Within a half hour, Jason's pile of chips was so large that he dropped half of them into his coat pocket. A small crowd gathered around the table and cheered each time he won. Finally, the dealer slammed the deck on the table.

"You're cheating!" He wagged his finger in Jason's face. "I've only seen one other guy ever win that many hands. "He...he..." The dealer bent forward until his eyes were five inches from Jason's. "It's you. I should've known. Security!"

The shouted command brought two beefy men in green blazers to the table. "What's the problem?" one asked.

"He's cheating." The dealer pointed at Jason.

"Actually, sirs, the dealer is dealing off the bottom of the deck to his partner." Jason pointed at the player in a baggy suit and half knotted tie. The accusation brought forth his stutter.

"I tol... told you to...to...to...to be ca...care...careful!" He stood and bolted for an exit.

One of the guards, a third-string tackle for the Los Angeles Rams who worked the casinos during the off seasons, tackled him halfway through the door. They tumbled onto the sidewalk. The second guard grabbed the cheater by the arm and dragged him toward an office. A pit boss motioned for the partner in crime to leave the table with him.

"Sorry folks. This table's temporarily closed down." He took the dealer for interrogation by the casino managers.

"The guy's a cheater!" The dealer yelled. "He cleaned me out on a troop ship during the war. I thought he was dead."

"Tell it to the boss."

Jason divided up his chips still on the table among the remaining three players. "Those two were taking you for a ride before I sat down. This should cover part of your losses because of those crooks."

As Jason walked away to cash in the chips in his pocket the growing crowd cheered and thanked him. His winnings totaled $372. He calculated that after factoring for inflation for the last seventeen years he had won back the amount lost when the monkey troop had torn apart his winnings from so long ago on Monkey Island. Putting the ex-sergeant and still crooked dealer out of business made him even happier. The extra money would allow him, Thelma, and boys to extend their vacation. "You only live once." He would repeat the phrase every time Thelma questioned his largess.

Once they had crossed the state line into California, Stanley abandoned the license plate game. Instead, he watched for every mileage sign and announced the remaining miles to Los Angeles twenty-nine times before his dad finally said, "We're here, Stanley. At last, thank God."

They toured Disneyland the next day. Jason bought four books of tickets for rides, handed them to Stanley and Dan, and ordered them to meet him at the front entrance at 8 p.m. The lines were long, so it took them all morning to ride to the top of the Matterhorn, travel aboard the submarine Nautilus for about the length of a football field under the sea, take the jungle boat on a safari, and hang onto a runaway ore car through gold mines once. They fought pirates in the Caribbean, flew flying saucers and rocket ships in Tommorowland, got sick on Mr. Toad's wild ride, and rode the monorail around the park's perimeter more than once. The rest of their day was spent firing pellet guns at the shooting galleries, watching shows, and stuffing themselves on sugary, fat-laced goodies. By the time they met Mr. and Mrs. Dalrumple at the gate they were too tired for anything else. It took Jason an hour to rouse them the next morning.

"Get up, you sleepyheads or you'll miss all the good waves those Beach Boys are always singing about."

"Huh?" Stanley rolled over.

"We're going to the beach."

Stanley grunted and Dan buried his head beneath his pillow. Breakfast partially revived them. Unfamiliar with the morning rush hour traffic, Jason abandoned the freeway after travelling five miles in stop and go traffic. The boulevards were less congested and they reached Venice Beach at 10:30. "Here's the plan." Jason grabbed Stanley's shoulders. "Your mom and me are going to take one of those tours to see where all the movie stars live up in Beverly Hills. We'll be back to pick you up for supper around five. Just stay next to Dan all the time since you don't know how to swim yet."

It was 84 degrees by 1 p.m. so they retreated to the shade next to a lifeguard stand. Stanley questioned his friend's behavior.

"Why are you gawking at the girls so much for?"

"They sure don't wear swimming suits like those back home." He pointed at the smallest bikini within sight.

"Mom says gals like that are Jezebels. I bet it was really her idea to go to Beverly Hills just so Dad wouldn't be staring like you are."

Twenty minutes later a girl who appeared to be their age walked by carrying an umbrella and beach chair. She dropped the umbrella at Stanley's feet.

"Oh darn it. It's so heavy."

"Let me help you out. My name's Dan."

Her smile sent a rush through his body. She led him to a spot twenty feet from where the foam of the waves retreated back to their source and instructed Dan on how to plant the umbrella in the sand.

"Well, that's that." He turned to walk back to Stanley, who was shaking his head by the lifeguard stand.

"Oh, please stay. I get so lonely out here sometimes. My name is Vicky."

Dan plopped onto the sand next to her chair. "I'm Dan."

"I know. You already said."

He blushed. "Oh. Yeah."

They made small talk for ten minutes until Vicky announced she was thirsty.

"I'll go get us some soda pop."

"Get one for your pal over there too. He looks lonely."

"Okay." He strutted back to Stanley and motioned at his bored friend.

"She's a Jezebel, Dan. I just know she's trouble."

"No way. She invited you over. She's the nicest girl I ever met. Come on."

The drinks were barely tasted when Vicky announced another request. "We should make these into ice cream sodas." She pulled a dollar from her purse. "Go get three ice cream cones."

When the boys returned, she showed them how to transfer the ice cream into the cups without spilling liquid or frozen treat. They laughed, enjoyed the breeze, and watched the surfers.

"You ever surf, Vicki?"

She stared at a line of five surfers catching a seven-foot wave. "No. But I'm going to learn someday when..." She sighed.

As soon as the sodas were finished the boys began to yawn.

"Guess we walked too much at Disneyland yesterday," Stanley said. "I'm sleepy."

"Why don't you both take a nap?" Vicki patted the shade behind her umbrella. "I'll wake you up later on."

The boys stretched out and let the sounds of waves and shouts and laughter of beachgoers lull them to sleep.

***

"Hey driver, I need to look up an old friend." Jason stood next to the one who had driven the busload of gaping, pointing tourists past the homes of the Hollywood elite. "His name's Lance Ivers. He's one of those agents who work with movie stars. You ever hear of him?"

What do I look like, Dumbo? A phone book? The driver tried to smile but instead gritted his teeth. "There's a book listing most of the agents."

"You got a copy?"

Do I look like an actor, bozo? "No, sir. I suggest you try the phone book. If you can't find him in the yellow pages try the white ones." He pointed at a phone booth where he had referred many customers.

***

"Wake up, you guys." Jason shook Dan and then Stanley. "We're having supper with an old army pal of mine."

"Huh? Is that you, Vicky?" Dan half opened and rubbed sand from his eyes.

"Vicky? Who's that?"

"She's a Jezebel. She put a spell on us and put us asleep and then took off with my watch and gold ring that Grandma gave me." Stanley shoved his hands under Thelma's nose.

She shook her head. "What about your wallet?"

Stanley paled as he patted his butt in search of a familiar bulge. "It's gone too, Mama. We've been robbed!"

Dan grunted as Jason pulled him to his feet. He groaned after checking his pockets. "My stuff is gone, too. I stuck it in my shirt when I went in for a swim."

"What did you lose?"

"My wallet and watch. We got to go find her."

Jason shook his head. "She's probably halfway to Mexico or wherever she holes up after robbing folks."

Dan scanned the beach. But only a few of the huge throng from earlier remained. "Guess you were right after all, Stanley. Vicki was a Jezebel."

***

Lance Ivers tried to cheer them up over a meal of burgers, fries, and chocolate milk shakes. "Happens all the time, especially in summertime. There are probably at least a quarter million tourists wandering around Southern California right now. Easy pickings for the grifters."

"Grifters?"

"You know, con artists. The girl that hit you probably works with an older man or woman. I bet she gave you knockout drops that she slipped into your drinks."

"But we were holding our own drinks." Dan protested.

"All of the time?"

"She sent us on off to get ice cream cones, remember?" Stanley blew bubbles into his shake through his straw.

Dan hit the table with his fist. "That's right. She was alone with our drinks for a while." He tossed his half-eaten hamburger into the white paper bag. For him the world had taken on a gray hue, even the golden arches that spanned the drive-in. "Mr. Dalrumple said you're a private detective like those guys on Peter Gunn or 77 Sunset Strip. Can't you help us find her?"

"Sorry, kid. L.A. is too big. Cons like her move around a lot. Tomorrow she'll be working another beach or Disneyland or some other place tourists go to. Besides, I don't come cheap. I have to charge $35 a day plus expenses. Can't afford charity work because business has been slow."

Dan did not finish his meal but kept muttering about "dumb L.A. crooks." Lance waited for a lull in the grumbling.

"Look, Dan. L.A. is like any big city. It has crime. But I can't let you go home on a sour note. How about I take you and Stanley surfing tomorrow?"

"Surfing?" Jason blinked. "Wow, what do you think boys? You'll be hot stuff back home when the kids find out."

"But I can't swim, Dad."

"I'll borrow a life jacket for you. Then when you wipe out your head will stay above water." Lance elbowed him.

"Uh okay. How do I wipe out?"

Lance chuckled. "You'll learn. It comes with the territory. How about you, Dan?"

"Okay, I guess. What beach you taking us to?"

"Huntington. It has better waves than where you were today."

Good. Maybe that's where Tricky Vicki will be at. I'd like to punch her in the face.

***

Jason spent the hour long drive to Huntington Beach grilling Lance about life in California while Thelma tried to convince the boys that "there are more good girls than bad ones" as they sat in the back seat of Lance's 1952 Ford Country Squire.

"I thought you'd be a hotshot movie agent with lots of beautiful movie stars by now," Jason said.

Lance shrugged. "I beat my head against the wall doing that for five long years. Listen; there must be thousands of kids who take the bus out here thinking they're going to make it in movies. Too many of them end up making skin flicks."

"Porno?"

"Afraid so. L.A. is passing up Europe when it comes to porn. So I switched over to being a private eye after being an agent didn't pan out."

"What about Vegas? Were you ever able to win using the Professor's Method?"

He laughed. "Every dime I won I would eventually lose. I'd drink too much, get tired, and count the cards all wrong. It got so bad I joined Gamblers Anonymous. Now my addiction is surfing." He patted the wood paneling on the outside of the driver's door. "How do you like my woodie?"

"Woodie?"

"Yeah. Surfers like either these or panel trucks to haul our surf boards around in." He turned up the radio and sang along. "Oh, yeah. My 409...my 409."

The song detailed a youngster saving his pennies and dimes to buy a car with a 409-cubic-inch engine. It made Jason think of illegal street races back home. Two songs later the Beach Boys were urging listeners to go on a surfing safari.

"Just why is surfing so big out here?"

"It's a lifestyle I guess. We dress alike in our baggies and sandals and shades, listen to the same music, and brag about our best rides on the biggest waves. You remember how beatniks talked about being hep?"

"Yeah." Jason lied.

"Well now surfers say hip instead. We have our own lingo: hang ten, shoot the pipeline, wipeout."

"You really think the boys can learn to surf?"

"Sure. Why not?"

At the beach, Dan begged off of taking a lesson by saying he needed to beachcomb instead. He then walked six miles up and down the sand looking for Vickie. Occasionally he spotted a girl with the same color of hair and build or one wearing a similar bathing suit. But each time he was disappointed as he drew closer.

Stanley felt a little safer after donning a life jacket. On his first ride he lay flat on the board and gripped it until his fingernails were covered with the wax Lance had applied to it that morning. Stanley was on his knees for the second run, with Lance standing behind him. When Stanley stood and kept his balance on the fifth ride, Lance slipped off of the board into the water and body surfed next to it. Stanley did not fall off until the water was only four feet deep. He bobbed to the surface.

"How'd I do? How'd I do?" Stanley sprayed salt water.

Lance swam over to him and grabbed his hand and held it aloft. "You're a natural, dude. A born natural. I didn't stay up like that until my twentieth ride." He removed a Saint Christopher's medal from his neck and placed it around Stanley's. "Don't ever take that off. Saint Christopher is the patron saint for travelers so us surfers adopted him for good luck."

Dozens of rides and rolls of film shot by Thelma later, Stanley said he was hungry so Jason treated all five at Lance's favorite seafood restaurant, where the clams were crispy and perch, sea bass, and abalone tender. Refreshed, Lance insisted that they attend a surf music concert.

"Dick Dale is incredible. Wait till you hear him."

The venue was packed with thousands of surfers, want to be surfers, and a few tourists. When the King of the Surf Sound hit his first chord of the night, Jason thought the dancers had ants in their pants. Some gyrated; others kicked out the latest dance steps. But most stomped their feet in four/four time with the drummer and bass player until the floor reverberated more than the amplifiers. Not much of a dancer, Jason ambled up to the stage to see how five musicians could create such a din. He blinked when he saw Dale playing left-handed and gulped when he saw that the thickest guitar strings were along the bottom of the neck – Dale was playing his guitar upside down.

With the music echoing the same sounds of the waves when he had surfed, Stanley slid onto the dance floor and replayed every pose and movement he had displayed on the surfboard hours earlier. Dancers cleared a spot for him and cheered his performance. The bravest copied his wild moves.

"What the heck are you doing?" Dan yelled into his ear.

"Surfing on land. Here's a wipeout." Stanley fell sideways and slid past a couple who leaped in the air as he slid under them. They hit the floor like a couple bowling pins, got up, and pretended to wipe out on the floor. Soon dozens of the dancers were wiping out.

"What on earth is happening?" Thelma was used to slow three/fourth time country tunes that required minimal movement on the dance floor.

"I don't know," Jason said. "They look like they're sliding into home plate on a close play."

After seven songs, Jason convinced Lance to take them back to their motel. "Sorry to be a party pooper," he said.

"That's okay. You lasted a lot longer than most do. Whenever my relatives visit they're beat after just a day at the beach."

***

The sports editor at the Madisin News welcomed the rolls of film from Thelma. In exchange for developing them, he obtained permission to run photos of Stanley surfing. With schools still closed for vacation and without his normal supply of stories and photos from his student stringers who covered football, basketball, track, wrestling, and baseball nine months a year, he chose the three photos that made Stanley look like a pro. The best one ran on the front page.

When school began the day after Labor Day, students who had never noticed Stanley congratulated and questioned him about his "surfing safari." That upset Jimbo McManey. Every school has at least one bully. But at Madisin High Jimbo had gathered a gang of three others to enforce his sadistic reign of terror. Beefy and slow-witted, Jimbo would be nineteen when he graduated in June.

"Hey, Surfer Joe!" Jimbo slapped Stanley's back so hard that his knees buckled and books fell.

"Hi...hi, Jim."

"So, you get it on with those surfer girls?" His three sycophants guffawed and hooted as their hero shoved Stanley's collar bones so hard that he bounced off of a row of metal lockers.

"Please stop it."

"Or what?"

Sixty feet down the hallway, Dan weaved around students and yelled at the tormentor. "Cool it, Jimbo. Leave him alone."

Jimbo spun around to see what fool dared to approach. "Ooo, I'm scared. It's big bad Dan Rhinehardt."

Dan picked up one of Stanley's books. "Let's go, Stanley."

"How come you have to babysit him, Dan? Is it time to change his diaper?" Jimbo elbowed one of his pals in the ribs. "Let's beat it out of here. These guys bore me."

Dan led Stanley onto the back steps of their school.

"Why is Jimbo so mean?"

"I don't know, Stanley. Some people in this life think their poop doesn't stink, I guess."

Stanley scratched his head. "Oh. I guess that means he's Mr. Perfect Poo-poo."

"Mr. Perfect Poo-poo? Oh no, I can't stand it." Dan laughed until his tears outnumbered his friend's.

***

Folks at Tom's Diner were acting strangely, Jason thought. They were hypnotized, with eyes focused on the 21-inch black and white television Tom had brought from home. The grim newscaster's updates were interspersed with footage of American naval vessels steaming around Cuba, showdown time as Castro had invited the USSR to install missiles capable of delivering nuclear warheads. Ninety miles from the U.S., Cuba's new arsenal frightened hundreds of millions.

"They should have taken care of Castro by helping those guys out at the Bay of Pigs." Dale Frump slammed his coffee cup down so hard that its saucer cracked. "If Kennedy had done that we wouldn't be here sweating bullets now."

"Shh, I can't hear." Frank Watson waved a hand at Dale. "Turn up the volume, Tom."

Tom obeyed. The set's sound drowned out every conversation. Jason sighed and carried his check to the waitress at the cash register. Somehow she punched the amount of the bill in, gave Jason the change, and said 'thank you' while facing the television.

At least she didn't pause for a tip like she usually does. As Jason walked to his truck he met Rev. Lacharetti, who was strolling to the diner.

"Morning, Jason."

"Morning. Maybe you can cheer up that bunch in there. It's all doom and gloom. Nothing but."

"I'll try."

Jason had hoped to start on replacing the roof at Louise Pinkroot's house that morning but she had decided that she wanted to "wait a spell. Just in case they bomb us with those missiles. Don't make much sense to fix my roof now if they do. That happens and I'll probably need a whole new house."

So he drove home and entered his basement. In it he had built for Thelma a storage room for her canned fruits and vegetables. From the outside it appeared nondescript – half-inch plywood walls, a hollow core door, dimensions of eight feet wide and twelve feet long. Two of its walls were part of the concrete blocks that made up the perimeter of the basement. Inside of it, shelves ran along the length of one wall that were stocked with dozens of jars of food.

Only a trained eye might notice that the inner length was shorter than the exterior. Jason found the hidden latch that hid the false wall at the end of the room, opened it, and peered into the two-foot deep cavity. He inventoried its contents: ten twenty-gallon buckets of water with air tight lids, a battery operated radio, two flashlights, a kerosene lamp, matches, eight dozen batteries, fifty boxes of ammunition, a rifle, and pistol. He wrote a note that the cans of beans, tuna, and tins of cookies needed to be replenished. He rotated those items to the kitchen twice a year to prevent spoilage.

He slid the false wall back into place and sat on one of the three lawn chairs. He had told Thelma that "I built it extra big so I can store the sleeping bags and lawn chairs in there too." Having passed that point in marriage where she no longer questioned his stranger actions, she had shrugged, even when he built walls of poured concrete after erecting the outer plywood shell. The reinforced concrete was hidden by the plywood on the outside and paneling inside. Positioned along one wall was a two-inch thick three-foot by seven-foot slab of metal that could be slid in back of the hollow core door and barred shut if...

If the big one went off as the Russians sent their missiles and bombers screaming to deliver their payloads on America. Jason thought back to the mushroom cloud he had viewed from Monkey Island.

The Professor had detailed the victims of atomic warfare he had seen in Japan and then explained that to survive a nuclear blast, the formula was TDM: Time, Distance, and Material. The radioactive fallout would decay to safe levels in weeks or months, depending on the total of bombs detonated. Distance was a crucial factor. The nearest Air Force Base to Madisin was 350 miles away and a likely target. Most important was the materials sheltering any survivors. The wood exteriors, plaster interior, and shingles of a typical home would block only a fraction of the radioactivity. A shelter underground was better; one in a basement behind concrete was best, he had told Jason. "Then the radioactivity has to go through the walls and floor first before it gets inside your shelter and you. Plus, it's not as visible to those who did not prepare and will want to join you."

The Professor had talked of having Jason build such a basement shelter for his family but before Jason could begin the project, both were shipped to the war in Korea. Afterwards, Jason instead built his. He told no one of the storage room's true purpose. Not even Thelma knew of the false wall that hid the secret cache of supplies. Jason had fabricated the backup steel door after watching how neighbors would behave during a nuclear attack on a Twilight Zone episode.

They should add people to that TDM equation. Yeah, TDMP. You never know what people might do. Jason left the basement and went to the backyard and stared at the overflowing pile of the debris from six months of jobs. He had sorted through a quarter of the bits of lumber, pipe, roofing material, and chunks of concrete when an employee from the Madisin Code Enforcement parked in his driveway.

"Howdy, Barney." Jason wiped his shirtsleeve across his sweaty face.

"You're still not done yet?" Barney waved his clipboard. "You've had a month since I cited you about that junk."

"Been real busy. I only got today off because Mrs. Pinkroot's holding off on her roof. She thinks the Russians are going to blow up her house."

Barney shielded his eyes from the sun and scanned the sky. "You think it's going to happen? World War III that is?"

"I don't know. Right now I'm more concerned about sorting through my pile here so you don't cite me again."

"Just haul it all off to the dump."

"Ha! Ever since Madisin incorporated out this way, I've been paying through the nose for the privilege of living in the city. First I had to hook up to your water and sewer lines. That costs me a whole lot more than my well and septic system used to. Then you made me take your garbage service. Only way I can get my money's worth for that is to feed what's left over after my jobs into my garbage cans, which are way too small. Hauling this stuff to the dump means I have to pay twice. It's just not fair."

"Sorry, Jason. Just doing my job. Mrs. Walengrad has been checking out every neighborhood for what she calls eyesores. She complains about your place most of all."

"That old witch?" Jason did his imitation of the Wicked Witch of the West, complete with cackling laughter. "That makes you one of her flying monkeys."
Chapter 25

Although the summer of 1962 had been one for the memory books, the summer of 1965 had proved unremarkable. The world had become a complicated and dangerous place, at least for young American men, with LBJ sending ever more troops to Vietnam. And if JFK could not survive an assassination then who was safe? The question ate at Dan. Stanley brought up issues closer to home.

"Here it is August already and we still don't got a job. Is your mom still pestering you too?"

Dan pulled the long stem of grass from his mouth and tossed it into the air. "Yeah. I keep telling her she needs to get me on at the factory but she says I need to be eighteen first."

"I'm eighteen and it don't help me out. Nobody wants to hire a spaz."

"Come off of it, Stanley. You got it made and you know it. Once you finish up your last year of school your dad will take you on. He can fix or build anything. He'll teach you how."

"I just wish they didn't make me do fourth grade twice. It makes me feel real dumb."

"Wish in one hand and crap in the other and see which one fills up first." He held up his empty palms. "Turn up the radio. We need some music."

Stanley fumbled with volume dial of his transistor radio until the disc jockey's voice carried over the calm lake to those paddling in canoes. The radio in one of the boats gave an illusion of stereo.

"This is Count Rockula on KHVV blasting away at you with 15,000 mighty watts of power. I can't get no...well, I'll let Brian, Mick and boys tell you all about it."

Keith Richards' guitar riff, which he claimed came to him in his sleep, introduced Satisfaction. The boys listened passively. It did not matter what songs Count Rockula played, his patter was always entertaining, even when a song was not.

He was typical of those of his profession, bouncing from station to station looking for a larger audience and bigger paycheck. His biggest salary had been at a popular station in Chicago whose wattage beamed it into seventeen surrounding states and Canada. But when he adopted Dr. Frank N Stein as his radio name, everything unraveled. First a publisher and then a movie studio claimed copyright infringement. So he suggested that he could instead become Count Rockula but his penchant for spinning records not on the station's playlist got him fired. Four months and twelve interviews later he landed in Madisin still muttering, "I could've been a contender." At least KHVV's program director did not restrict the playlist to the current Top 40 songs in the nation.

"You can play anything that's on this week's Top 100." He had explained to his new DJ. "But only one golden oldie an hour. If you give us good ratings you can stay."

That had been a year ago. With the British Invasion still swamping America's airwaves and record stores, the Count had plenty of songs to pick from. He extolled those from across the Atlantic as the Rolling Stones' song ended.

"Some folks say it's un-American to play songs by the British bands. But I say it's good because it makes all the American bands crank out better songs. Are you listening RCA, Capitol, Motown?" He rattled off eleven more record companies in five seconds. "Here's one by Sonny and Cher, Number One again this week, I Got You Babe."

The duo traded verses of their love for one another and harmonized that they had each other, puppy love supreme.

"Here's a song from someone from Sony and Cher's neck of the woods, L.A. It's Barry McGuire with a word of warning about an Eve of Destruction headed our way." Lyrics about overpopulation, racial unrest, nuclear annihilation, the war in Vietnam, and other issues left Stanley filled with fear.

"I don't like that song."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to die. That song makes me afraid I'm going to die."

"Don't worry about it."

"That's easy for you to say. I heard my dad telling Mom why I was born this way. He said your dad said that a scientist told him that when people get too close to where the atom bombs blow up they can have messed up kids like me. My dad said it's all his fault for staying on Monkey Island and letting the fallout from the bombs get inside him. That's why I'm a retard."

A block of commercials brought back a sense of normalcy.

"Okay. The time is 2:17, the temp is 92 hot ones with thunderstorms tonight and it's time for Count Rockula's Hot 14, my favorite tunes of the week brought to you back to back by Honest Sam's Autoland. Visit his lot on Second Street to see what he's got ready for you to hit the road in. SOS. SOS. The Beatles need your..." He let go of the turntable and it spun the 45 RPM vinyl disc.

"Help!"

John Lennon shouted his inner needs that he had scribbled on a piece of scrap paper while flying. He begged somebody to come to his aid, reminisced on youthful independence, and concluded that he could no longer go it alone. The song faded with the group's trademark "ou ou ouu," nonsense word fragments that meant nothing but said everything.

"Don't worry, Mr. Lennon, the Beach Boys have the help you need."

Organ chord progressions dredged from Brian Wilson's soul introduced the world to his fantasy land of never ending sun and surf and California Girls. No slackers, the boys layered their vocals with California cool as if to say that popular groups from Britain or anywhere else were just cheap imitators.

"All right. Here's a couple of white boys who sound like they're Negroes because they sing with soul, the Righteous Brothers and Unchained Melody.

A slow ballad of love so precious that the duo asked God to speed it "to me" seemed to last for ten minutes.

"Here's a folkie that saw the light and finally plugged his guitar into an amp. Thank you, Bob Dylan, for going electric."

Backed up by Mike Bloomfield's lead guitar and Al Kooper's melodic organ hesitating enough to build tension, Dylan spun a tale of a woman whose fall from grace left her willing to trade her body to survive. Reduced to life "like a rolling stone" she received no pity or redemption from Dylan's acerbic worldview. Hers was no eve of destruction. Self-destruction complete, she was banished to live among those whom she had despised.

"Ow! What a downer. How dark can you get? How about as dark as The Midnight Hour when the Wicked Wilson Pickett's love comes tumbling on down?"

A simple chord progression made complicated by drums and bass guitar going in one direction and the horn section in another, Pickett sang of how he was willing to wait for the midnight hour to meet the one he lived for.

"Now there's a tough act to follow. But Billy Joe Royal has to. If ever a song described Madisin, it's Down in the Boondocks.

The boondocks. For Madisinites, the boondocks were far out in the country, away from their fine metropolis. For a disc jockey used to Detroit, Chicago, and Dallas, it was Madisin. The song lamented about being put down because of being from the wrong side of town, which kept the poor boy from the rich girl he loved. Count Rockula meant what he had said about Madisin being the boondocks. Here he was stuck with poor gal KHVV when he lusted after a 50,000 watt station somewhere in New York or California. At this point he would even settle for WBAM, the Big Bam and its 50,000 watt transmitter in Alabama. Listening to Royal's plaintive country/rockabilly voice sent him into a fit of melancholy.

"Amen, Brother Billy Joe, amen. Down in the boondocks is no place for me. I'm not the only one that needs to get out of this Podunk. We all do. The Animals even wrote a song for us when they heard how bad we were feeling out here in the middle of nowhere."

Eric Burdon's vocals began a speech to his girl as drums, guitar, bass, and organ built to a crescendo until his band mates joined him on the chorus.

"We gotta get..."

Some songs hit a nerve for Stanley, especially those by The Animals. He leapt to his feet and imitated Burdon's posture as he had seen it on The Ed Sullivan Show. Blessed with perfect pitch, he hit every note as he sang along into his imaginary microphone.

"...outta this place..."

Dan nodded to the beat and gave Stanley a standing ovation as the song faded into the DJ's monologue. Why did he and Stanley feel more of a bond to Count Rockula, whom they had never met, than parents, teachers, pastors, relatives, friends, or classmates?

Must be because he's cool, Dan reasoned.

"We're on a roll now, gang. Here's another offering from jolly old England by the Yardbirds."

Electric blues as interpreted by dirty white boys, an opening guitar riff with just enough fuzz tone and reverb to let listeners know their music cut deeply, Heart Full of Soul lamented love lost with a vague hope she would take him back again.

"Yeah they may have a heart full of soul but the Godfather of Soul is here to tell you that Papa's Got a Brand New Bag." Count Rockula jumped up and performed every dance that Brown called out. By the time he sat down, his shirt was drenched with more than the summertime humidity.

"Phew. That song is a workout and half. This next one is dedicated to Francine from Tony. You Were on My Mind by the We Five.

Folkies that knew the times were changing, the group used a heavy bass beat to drive their tale of having troubles and worries and a heartthrob on their mind.

A little playfulness remained in the D J. It occasionally escaped through his cynical exterior. "Time for your history lesson on English royalty, boys and girls." He sang along with the first verse, which would cost him a $5 fine, almost a twentieth of that week's pay. "Hope I was in tune with Herman's Hermits, who think they're Henry the Eighth."

"Sorry, Count, but you were at least a half note off." Stanley shook his head and pointed at his radio.

"Here's some Ohio boys begging their girl to hang on."

Before he could sing along on the air, the engineer cut off his mike so the Count sang to an audience of one as he begged and wailed "Hang on Sloopy" over and over. "That was the McCoys, real down to earth boys who know how to make noise."

He grabbed his cola for a swallow of it to loosen his constricted throat. "Here's a dedication from Mary to Arnold. She believes in magic and is casting a spell on her guy.

The Lovin' Spoonful's Do You Believe in Magic? beamed the magic of young girls' hearts toward their boyfriends. But would they get the message?

"All right, folks, here's The Miracles with The Tracks of My Tears, which brings the Count's Hot 14 to an end, brought to you by Honest Sam's Autoland. He has a '56 Chevy for only $999, a '58 Thunderbird for $1299, and a '61 Buick with low, low miles for only $1599. Deal with Sam, all the rest are a scam."

After the news at the top of the hour, the DJ introduced a local band. "We have in our studios today The Reverberators. How's it going, boys?"

"Cool, man."

"Groovy."

"Boss."

"It's so good to be here. We—"

"Yeah. Okay. So where's your next gig at?"

"We're playing a back to school dance next Saturday."

"You guys seem to be getting pretty well known."

"Yeah. We play dances in the next state too now. We're on the road so much we need to hire us some roadies."

Meant as a boast, the mention of roadies made Dan jump to his feet. "Let's go."

Stanley ran after him to Dan's 1958 American Motors two-door sedan. "Where we going?"

"To get jobs."

Dan and Stanley pulled into the radio station's parking lot as the five Reverberators were exiting the concrete block building.

"Who's in charge?" Dan yelled as he slammed his car door.

The group's lead guitar player and manager stepped forward. "That would be me. You got a gig for us?"

"No. We're here to be your roadies."

"Huh? Look, I was only joking." He turned toward a station wagon crammed with drums, amplifiers, and guitar cases. The biggest amps were tied to the roof rack.

"You hire us and I can get you a trailer to haul your stuff around in. I know a man who will even put a hitch on your wagon for free." Dan pointed at its rear bumper. "You don't want your amps getting wet in some thunderstorm."

"Sounds good, Bobby. It's way too crowded in there." The drummer said as he pointed at the car and the rest of the band nodded.

The leader looked at the two applicants. "Okay. You get $5 each for each dance. But you have to load up the equipment, unload it and set it up and then tear it down afterwards. Deal?" He stretched out his hand.

"Deal."

As the new roadies drove home to boast of their jobs, the Count spun a new record for the first time. "Here's the Dave Clark Five's latest hit." By the second chorus, Stanley and Dan were singing along. Anything seemed possible.

"Catch us if you can..."
Chapter 26

Jason graciously lent his trailer to the neophyte roadies and welded a hitch for it to the band's station wagon. Logistics were dictated by Bobby so the roadies and rhythm guitar player traveled in the station wagon; the other members of the Reverberators arrived at show time in a car borrowed from one of their parents. The rhythm guitarist complained.

"You know why Bobby stuck me with you two guys?" Chris stared out through the window.

"No." Dan turned down the radio as they traveled to Joslinberg, a city three times the size of Madisin for a Battle of the Bands.

"Because we don't get along. He calls it creative differences. I say it's because he's a jerk."

"I think it's cause you can sing and he can't." Stanley nodded. "He don't harmonize too good."

Chris shook his head. "You have more talent than him and me put together, Stanley. Where'd you learn to sing?"

"I don't know. I just like listening to the radio and Mama likes listening to me sing so I've been doing it as long as I remember."

The tension between Bobby and Chris ended a week later during a rehearsal.

"You're not coming in on the down beat." Bobby yelled at Chris. "Let's start over from the top." He counted off a beat as Chris unplugged his guitar. "What are you doing?"

"Quitting."

"You can't do that. You're the lead singer."

"I'm tired of playing cover songs from the Top 40. I'm tired of you not letting us write our own songs. But most of all I'm tired of you. Good-bye."

The next hour was spent by the four remaining Reverberators arguing on who to get as a replacement lead singer. Then Dan and Stanley arrived to load the equipment for a dance that night. An earphone with a cord allowed Stanley to sing along with the muted radio in his jeans' pocket.

"Let's hire Stanley." The drummer pointed a drumstick at him.

"But he can't play guitar."

"We don't need a rhythm guitar. Terry's bass and my drums are enough rhythm."

"Okay, okay." Bobby shrugged. "Let's run through Louie Louie. Stanley, sing into this mike. Ready?" He counted off a beat and hit the song's first chord, which sounded like a cat's scream after having its tail stepped on.

After Stanley had hit every note perfectly, Bobby grinned. "I don't believe it. Stanley, you want to be our new lead singer?"

"I can't. I'm afraid of people."

Terry pulled off his sunglasses and positioned them on Stanley's face. "There. Now you won't see the audience."

"But...but I can still see."

Terry grabbed them back and stepped next to his dad's collection of paint cans, neatly arranged in a corner of the garage. He sprayed a fine mist of black paint from a can to coat the lenses and then placed them back on Stanley. "How's that?"

"I can't see."

"Great. Let's pretend he's blind like Ray Charles. We can lead him around by his arm."

Stanley made his debut fifty miles from Madisin in the next state. The band ran through their current set list for Jasonville High School's Junior/Senior Prom, playing covers of: Gloria, Time Won't Let Me, When a Man Loves a Woman, Double Shot of My Baby's Love, Dirty Water, Barbara Ann, 19th Nervous Breakdown, Fever, I'm a Man, See See Rider, Turn Turn Turn, Psychotic Reaction, Bus Stop, 96 Tears, Black Is Black, I Fought the Law, and some slower Buddy Holly, early Beatles, and Ricky Nelson songs for the slow dances. To Stanley, $20 for a couple hours of singing was a lot of money. He reveled in his new fame and fortune.

***

Jimbo stewed over Stanley's popularity until his envy turned to hatred. He waited until the object of his wrath was walking home from school to ambush him.

"Hey, Stanley. I heard your band is called The Retards now."

Stanley ignored him.

"Everyone knows Dr. Graves fixed your mom so she can't have any more dumb kids like you."

"Yeah? Who cares, Mr. Perfect Poo-poo?"

Jimbo turned to his hangers-on. "Mr. Perfect Poo-poo? What's that supposed to mean?"

Stanley ran home and asked Thelma what getting fixed meant. She blushed and told him to wait until his father came home. Jason sighed and made an appointment with Dr. Graves after he explained what getting fixed was but could not say why it had happened to his wife. He reminded Dr. Graves of his long ago promise.

"As I recall you said if I had any questions after Stanley was born I could contact you. Well, Stanley has one I can't answer." He poked his son's ribs.

"Why'd you fix my mama so's I can't have brothers and sisters like other kids?"

Dr. Graves stood and waddled to the front of his desk and perched on it so that he looked down on the interlopers. "I'll try to keep it simple for your simple mind. Lower class and poor people are overpopulating the entire planet. I suspected that you had a mental defect, which meant any siblings might also. I did the humane thing. Besides, she was bleeding internally. I had to remove her uterus or she would have died." A lie, the last two sentences caused his left hand to twitch.

Stanley blinked and turned to his dad, whose face was red and jaw clenched.

"Look, son. It's social Darwinism, survival of the fittest. I adhere to the science of eugenics. One of our founders, Margaret Sanger said it best; 'more children from the fit, less from the unfit.' Unfortunately, our movement has never taken hold like it should."

Jason's fingernails dug into the armrests of his chair. "So just because you think we're poor white trash, you fixed Thelma?"

"No. All that was just a distant secondary consideration, of course. Because of your wife's bleeding I had to operate." This time both hands twitched.

Jason left muttering and Stanley with his head bowed. Dr. Graves went to his files and fumbled through A to D until he located Thelma's. He added a notation to the April 12, 1947 chart: "Hysterectomy performed due to excessive bleeding." No sense in having to explain his actions to some medical board in case Jason or Thelma complained. After finishing that day's last appointment, he drove to Joslinberg to visit his son's family, especially its newest member. He loved playing the part of doting grandfather.

"And how is the little future Dr. Graves today?" He shoved his face into the crib until the eight-month old could touch it. "The future depends on you. Maybe by the time you are in practice, birth control will be mandated to be free by federal law and abortion will eliminate all the rest of any unnecessary babies that try to slip through the cracks. I'm counting on you, Grandson, to make a better world than the awful one I've had to endure."

***

Dan coughed nervously after Stanley told him of Dr. Graves' explanation. Theirs was a unique confessional, an old wooden dock that extended into Lake Madisin. "I've heard some stories about him."

"What?"

"That he does secret abortions for girls who get knocked up. One girl got some infection afterwards and almost died. They sent her to the hospital over in Joslinberg to cover it up so he wouldn't get in trouble."

"Oh. What's an abortion?"

Dan answered in simple terms.

Count Rockula's Top 40 Countdown, his weekly tribute to an ever changing order of songs, old and new, ended their conversation as Johnny Rivers' Secret Agent Man faded and The Beach Boys Sloop John B began. One of his favorite songs, Stanley sang along. Dan joined in on the chorus.

"Let me go home, I want to go home..."

Monday, Monday replaced the Caribbean mood with words about the day of the week that songwriter John Phillips said caused crying all day long. A full moon lit the night enough to cast shadows. The only sounds intruding on the Count's magic beamed by radio were the bass, bluegill, and crappie coming to the lake's surface.

"I guess we're lucky it's Friday and not Monday," Stanley said.

"Yeah." Dan tensed when a car squealed to a stop in the otherwise deserted parking lot. Its glass pack mufflers emitted exploding cherry bomb sounds that he knew came from only a handful of Madisin's cars, including Jimbo's 1957 Chevy. When he saw the silhouette of the parked car's jutting tail fins he grabbed Stanley. "Let's get out of here!"

They started creeping down the 100-fooot dock but a bulky figure blocked their escape.

"It's the retards, little Danny boy and big bad singer man Stanley."

A beer bottle flew by their heads.

"Cut it out, Jimbo." Dan tried to block the advancing hulk.

Jimbo answered by shoving him headfirst onto the wooden planks. As Dan regained his footing Jimbo sucker punched him. Dan crumpled and lay still. "Seven, eight, nine, ten. The winner and still undefeated world champion, Jimbo McManey!" Jimbo held his arms aloft and celebrated his imagined victory. He turned toward the one he had mocked since fourth grade.

Stanley stumbled as he backed down the dock. "You hurt Dan. He's not getting up."

"He's a pansy. Just like you."

"Leave me alone."

"Don't be a feared, matey. I'm just Captain Kidd, the nastiest pirate that sails the Seven Seas." He thrust an invisible cutlass at his prey.

"Get away."

"A feared of me saber? It'll only hurt a bit as I run you through."

Stanley's last backward step found air and then water. He thrashed at the dark water until it foamed. "Help me! I can't swim."

Jimbo grunted. "Don't look at me. I'm wearing my new madras shirt and penny loafers. I'll get pansy man to save you." He staggered to his car and grabbed a half full beer bottle from a rider and returned to Dan. "I baptize you in the name of the..." Jimbo poured the sudsy brew on Dan's face. "Get up. Dufus needs you. He fell in."

Dan moaned and crawled toward Stanley's screams. They had ceased by the time Dan dove into the chilly water. Madisin Lake's muddy bottom had sent a blanket of silt heavenward that covered Stanley like a shroud as he sank into it. The moonlight penetrated the murky liquid even less as Dan dove in and further stirred the water, hands searching for his friend. After five dives and finding nothing but tires, rocks, and fishing tackle that cut and poked him, Dan swam to shore. He ran to their bikes and hopped onto the faster of the two, Stanley's 3-speed Stingray. Legs frantically pumping, butt sliding up and down the long banana shaped seat, Dan pedaled to the nearest house, a half mile distant.

***

"Okay, Jimbo. Then what happened?" The detective looked up from his notes.

"I went back to my car and we drove off. I didn't see Dan in my headlights as we passed the dock so I knew he had gone into the water to get Stanley. You need to talk to him."

"Did you push Stanley into the water?"

"No way, man. I already told you so. Look, I'm missing out on the big wrestling tournament today because of you and your dumb questions. Coach is going to be plenty mad."

The detective scowled and told Jimbo to leave. A captain joined him in the lunchroom, which doubled as the interrogation room.

"What do you think?"

"Who knows? The three clowns that were with Jimbo are no help. One says he was passed out. Another said he was barfing his guts out at the lake. I believe it since they put away two cases of beer. The third said he was trying to help the sick one out. They're like the statue of the three monkeys; see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil."

"I'll recommend an inquest just so maybe one of them will remember something else."

"Yeah."

***

Two hundred seventy nine mourners gathered for Stanley's funeral, a large congregation for Madisin. Afterwards, Dan tried to comfort Thelma but she shook her head and excused herself as fresh tears fell. He felt isolated as others congregated in groups, mostly to speculate on "what really happened the night he drowned." If he approached any, they dissolved before he reached them.

Jason was tangled in a conversation with Madisin's mayor. When Jason motioned for Dan to sit down beside him the mayor winked and rose to press the flesh with those gathered.

"I'm glad you came over. You rescued me from Mr. Blabbermouth. He's always trumpeting on about his party. Your mom tells me you want to enlist after you graduate next month."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Did she tell you to talk me out of it?"

"No. She just asked me to tell you what being in the military is really like. That's all."

"Oh. Mainly I just need to get away from Madisin. I've been stuck here all my life."

"So that's it. You got Green Grass Fever."

"What's that?"

"It makes you think that the grass is always greener somewhere besides where you are."

"Like you wanting to go back to Monkey Island?"

Jason smiled like he did when he was down to his last checker piece or had been dealt a bad hand of cards. "Yeah. I guess so. You know what cured me of that?"

"No."

"The war in Korea. I saw too many men die that shouldn't of. There was this one officer who polished his helmet all the time until it gleamed. It reflected the least little bit of light. His men told him not to do it, that he needed mud on his helmet so the enemy couldn't see it. So one night there was just enough moonlight that some North Korean or Chinese sniper aimed five inches lower that that shiny helmet and killed him. If you want to go away so bad, do like your brother Karl and go off to college. Get yourself a student deferment to keep yourself from being drafted."

"Karl got through college on a Navy ROTC scholarship. Now he's on a ship in the Mediterranean somewhere. The only way I can go to college would be to do what he did, get a scholarship. But my grades aren't good enough."

Jason pulled a tattered newspaper clipping from his shirt pocket. "This is what Truman says about why he fired General MacArthur during Korea: 'I fired him because he wouldn't respect the authority of the President...I didn't fire him because he was a dumb son of a bitch, although he was, but that's not against the law for generals. If it was, half to three quarters of them would be in jail.'" He folded the paper. "You see, that's the attitude even more nowadays. Civilians like LBJ and Secretary of Defense McNamara micromanage the military. They're afraid to delegate anything anymore."

Jason accompanied Dan to the recruiter's office a week later as he signed up for a delayed enlistment. He made certain that the recruiter wrote 91A-10 in the field marked MOS on the contract. "We just want to be sure you don't write 11-B for infantryman by mistake, Sergeant. Dan here wants to be a medic."

The recruiter grumbled.
Chapter 27

Basic training for Dan was at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. His drill sergeants were lifers intent on instilling enough knowledge and commonsense into their charges to keep them from ending up as a statistic in the newspaper back home. The oldest had served in WW II; the youngest had one tour of duty in Vietnam and could not wait to go back there. He snickered at the latest cycle under his command.

"It's been said before by others but bears repeating. When you walked through that gate you became mine. I am your dad, mom, coach, priest, rabbi, minister, doctor, and the cop who busted some of your sorry butts. For the next few months I own you, body and soul. If you fail me, I will fail you and send you back a cycle so that another drill sergeant can make you into a soldier and keep you from coming home in a body bag."

That night Dan awoke at 1 a.m. to unfamiliar sounds. Down the long bay of two-tiered bunks he heard boys crying, praying, and mumbling in their sleep. Their tears were sometimes accompanied by the names of sweethearts or the word mom. From then on, Dan wondered what he had agreed to for two years.

"Once your name goes on that contract, there's no turning back. They own you." Jason had warned him outside of the recruiter's office.

Basic training proved to be that, basic. Chants were learned to memorize military tenets.

"This is my weapon." Hold up an imaginary M-16. "This is my gun." Point to below one's belt. "One is for killing, one is for fun."

They marched everywhere: to get their heads shaved, to take tests, to chow three times a day, to PT, to the range. At first the drill sergeants' calls were constant.

"Your left, your left, your left, right, left."

In time as marching skills improved that gave way to cadences that everyone chanted. There were ones about Vietnam and Charlie Cong, about mom and your girl back home, and about some scoundrel named Jody who at that very moment was stealing your girl away. The only day off was Sundays, when troops could visit a church service and relax. Mail call was always welcomed.

"Stewart."

"Here." He grabbed two letters and smelled them for any trace of perfume.

"McGinty...Abrams...Smith...Barker...Washington...Daniels...Rhinehardt..."

Dan's letter was from Mom. With no steady girlfriend back in Madisin, Dan heard mostly from her and Jason, although one girl from his graduating class wrote to say she way praying for him, especially if he went to Vietnam. After basic training came AIT at Ft. Sam Houston, Texas for ten weeks of training as a combat medic One of the first classes was an orientation. The E-7 promised little.

"Some of you will get lucky and sent off to Korea or Europe where you might work at a hospital or dispensary. Some of you smart ones enlisted and are going off to a V.A. hospital or fort near your home because you put that into your contract. But a lot of you are going in country to the wonderful Republic of Vietnam where you will apply first aid to the wounded. Since you made it through basic training I can call you men and soldiers. All the wimps, pansies, misfits, and rebels washed out already. So you are the cream. Now because you could end up in any number of situations we have to teach you a little bit of everything. You will learn to give shots, take blood, take vital signs, stop bleeding, treat for shock, start IVs, assist in births, and many other functions. At the end of each week you will take a test. If you do not pass the test you will be recycled back a week to another company. If you end up failing three tests you will be sent off to cook school or maybe learn how to drive a six-by truck capable of carrying tons of men and equipment. Some of you will be tempted to go AWOL. I advise against it. If you're gone over thirty days you become a deserter. Keep your nose clean."

Dan took good notes during the classes, which lasted eight hours a day, five days a week. He learned about cells in the human body, that a group of related cells is an organ and that skin was the largest organ of the body and most vulnerable organ in Vietnam.

"You will treat skin constantly if you go to Nam. There's jungle rot, trench foot, and jock itch to name a few common ailments there," an instructor said.

After being instructed on how to give shots and take blood samples, the fledging medics practiced on each other.

"Aspirate the plunger before you inject that dose to see if you hit a blood vessel." At the end of the session the teacher help up a syringe full of blood. "As you can see, sometimes you hit a vessel. You don't want to inject whatever you are giving directly into the bloodstream."

Grainy black and white movies broke up the seemingly endless lectures. In one, an army doctor delivered a baby; the mother was a nurse and his wife. Another film showed an amputation of a leg in a field hospital. A third was a portrayal of a rushed operating room technician who hurried through the pre-op sterilization process of his hands and forearms. Some of the remaining bacteria from the unwashed areas transferred to the patient's incision and entered his bloodstream. At the end of the drama, the post-op patient was shown hobbling on a cane, a casualty of the technician's incomplete washing.

Dan filled two notebooks and passed every test. Only one from his company went AWOL but turned himself in on the twenty-ninth day of his being absent without leave. The commanding officer in charge of the medic training praised Dan's company during graduation.

"Your company had the lowest rate of AWOLs and deserters so far this year. I know you will all continue to uphold your high standards during your duty with the U.S. Army."

Afterwards, Dan commented on how superior he and his fellow graduates were. A nearby chain smoker scoffed. "They give the same speech every time, Rhinehardt. Wise up." Private Catlin was one of those who had been given a choice by a judge, three years in jail or three years in the army. His jaded view of life had tempered Dan's fading optimism from day one of AIT.

With little left to say, the medics, a gold colored caduceus shining on each one's collar, departed San Antonio, most by plane or bus, the rest by train, car, and motorcycles for nineteen days of leave before having to report for duty, some at stateside forts, others to Ft. Dix, New Jersey for transport to Europe and the rest to the West Coast for travel to Korea, Hawaii, or Vietnam.

***

Having only one plan during leave, Dan decided to take care of business first, a thrashing of Jimbo McManey. Fat gone, muscles hard, testosterone at its peak, trained in hand to hand combat, Dan knew his mission required care. He had to catch Jimbo with no nearby spectators. After conking him senseless from behind with the blackjack he had bought during a weekend pass in San Antonio, Dan would tie up Jimbo in a place where he could be found naked; his clothes deposited in a trash can. Dan hoped the humiliation would haunt his enemy for life. Attacking Jimbo from behind was crucial. No sense in letting him know his identity, which would only ensure vengeance from Jimbo and his gang. Dan decided to study his prey to learn if his habits dictated any isolated times. First he went to the wrecking yard where Jimbo had worked when Dan had left Madisin.

"What are you looking for, son?" The yard's owner yelled at him.

"Uh, something fixable that will get me around."

The grease and oil stained man shook his head. "You're looking in the wrong section. These are the totaled ones. Follow me."

Dan obeyed. He pretended to scan the rows of wrecked cars but watched for the one he hated.

"Here you go. This section has mostly just front end damage or something that needs some body work."

"Thanks. Say, does Jimbo McManey still work here?"

The old man laughed. "Used to. Then he got arrested for grand theft auto. He's up at the state pen serving time."

"Oh." The anger seeped from his soul like steam from a pressure cooker that's been left on the stove too long. "Thanks."

Dan next paid Jason a visit.

"So how's Uncle Sam been treating you?"

"Okay, I guess. I have to report to Ft. Riley after my leave is over."

"Yeah. I figured as much. I went back and talked to the recruiter. He said a lot of troops are spending the last year or so of their enlistment in Vietnam. The way LBJ is going pretty soon they'll be sending troops right out of AIT to Nam."

In May 1967, Jason's prediction came to pass. Most of Dan's battalion at Ft. Riley received orders to go in country. He arrived at Travis AFB, California and within a day boarded a contracted DC-8. It stopped for fuel at Hawaii, Wake Island, and the Philippines. The nation of 7,000 islands looked like many sized emeralds sitting on a deep blue cloth.

"I never saw country that green." Dan pointed out the window as the plane banked right to descend into Clark Air Base on Luzon, the largest island.

"Get used to it. The Philippines is on the same latitudes as Nam so where we're headed is going to look the same."

The Viet Cong welcomed Dan's plane to Tan Son Nhut Air Base, near Saigon, with a mortar attack. As the shells exploded near the perimeter of the base Dan was more interested in the aircraft of every shape and size that were flying in every direction at various altitudes. After a week of processing, Dan reported to a fire base north of Saigon. He was relieved when another medic met him at the base's headquarters, a bunker surrounded by and buried beneath hundreds of sandbags.

"Rhinehardt?" He studied the new guy's name patch. "I'm Roscoe. Let's go."

Dan flinched and crouched at the sounds of artillery shells flying overhead.

"That's just the afternoon mail to the NVA and Cong out there." Roscoe pointed at the thick jungle that bordered the 1,000 meter clearing that surrounded the base. "Have to let them know we know that they're out there."

"So the platoon I'm assigned to has two medics?"

"Not for long." Roscoe fondled the necklace that hung about his neck. Most of its beads had been broken off; only about a dozen remained. "I'm short, eleven days and a wake up and I'm on a freedom bird back to the world. Well, here's home." He led Dan into a bunker filled with fourteen grunts, infantry who only counted one thing, the number of days left for each in Vietnam. Roscoe banged a greasy mess kit on a can of C-rations. "Listen up! This is your new medic, Dan Rhinehardt."

One of five poker players looked up. "Hi 'cruit."

"Okay, the card sharks are Lewis, Ben, Ed, Pete, and Mike." He turned toward another group, lost in a haze of whitish-gray pungent smoke and the sounds of Jefferson Airplane's Surrealistic Pillow thumping out of a small cassette player. "And that's Bernie, John, Chuck, Bill, Ken, Kevin, Al, and Junior."

Two of them acknowledged the new arrival with nods. The others did not lift drooping heads or focus bloodshot eyes.

"I guess the other two guys are out somewhere."

"Hey, I'm here." A figure rolled out of a bunk. "I'm Hank."

Dan shook the only hand that had been extended to him since leaving America. "Hi. Good to meet you."

Roscoe was all business, even as they went through the chow line and then sat on a mound of sand bags to eat supper. "Guess I should run down the slang so you don't get confused too bad. The word 'cruit is short for recruit, which is what we call all the new guys like you. A dust off is when you call in a med-evac copter. A klick is a kilometer. Sappers are VC with explosives strapped to their bodies. They try to get through the fence and then run to the ammo dump to blow themselves and most of the base up. The mama san and papa san run joints that GIs go to for booze, dope, and girls. OJs are marijuana and opium joints that come in from Thailand. They grow the poppies over there. Do not, I repeat, do not smoke anything with opium or heroin in it unless you want to get strung out." He stopped talking and shoved three forkfuls of beef stew into his mouth in rapid succession. "Ugh, tastes like dog meat again. The cooks must've run out of beef rations. Any questions?"

"How long are they going to call me 'cruit?"

"Until you do a good enough job patching somebody up. We're due to go out on patrol tomorrow so do your best work."

"There a lot of drugs here? I could barely see in the hootch because of all the pot smoke."

Roscoe choked on a string bean and then spit it at Dan's boots. "I forgot. You're from the Heartland. Not many drugs where you went to school?"

"No. Some kids took cross tops."

"You ever go down into Mexico while you were at medic school on the weekends?"

"No."

"Boy, you are green. Listen, there's every drug and then some floating around here. Our platoon is lucky. Sergeant Felder is cool. He looks the other way if we get high back here in our hootch. But he gets bent out of shape real bad big time if anyone brings any drugs out on patrol. He's tight with the C.O. and gets those ones shipped out of his platoon in a heartbeat. Believe me it is his platoon. I kid you not."

Dan met Sgt. Felder at 0700 hours the next morning during formation.

"So this is our new medic?"

"Yes, sergeant."

"Good. Specialist Fourth Class Drummer will show you the ropes on patrol, Private Rhinehardt. We leave at 1600 hours. All of you tear down and clean your weapons for my inspection at 0900. Dismissed."

The nineteen-man platoon shuffled back to their hootch. They knew if even one part was not devoid of dirt, sand, or any other foreign object, Sgt. Felder would lecture them while he watched them tear down, clean, and reassemble their weapons. Roscoe ran after his NCO.

"Sarge, you can't send me out on patrol. I only got ten days and a wake up left."

Sgt. Felder spun around and leaned toward him until his body tilted at a 30-degree angle. "Troop, I am infantry. I have been since the Korean War and will either die or retire as infantry. I am not equipped to give the new man on the job training as a medic that he needs. Without it one or more of my men might die. Do I make myself clear, short timer?"

The platoon filed through the lone gate in the base's concertina wire perimeter fence at 1602 hours. Hank walked point. The others believed he had a sixth sense of the enemy and obeyed whatever commands Hank issued, verbal or gestures.

"Either that or he smells them," Roscoe explained to Dan.

Neither medic carried the M-16s that the others held, fingers on triggers. Lewis also toted a sawed off shotgun strapped over his shoulder and Bill a mortar. Armed with .45s, the medics lugged forty pounds of lifesaving equipment, including IVs. No one spoke until they stopped after penetrating five klicks into jungle that blotted out the sky.

Sgt. Felder ordered them to bed down twenty meters from where they had congregated for supper. Those who acted as sentries watched for enemy and waited for their shift to end. Dawn never appeared soon enough. The platoon had travelled for half an hour the next morning when Hank spotted a trip wire. His hand signals sent the long line behind him diving for trees, bushes, rocks, anything that might protect. The first rocket propelled grenade showered Dan with dirt and shredded foliage. Roscoe laughed at his baptism.

"Welcome to Congville, 'cruit." When the enemy's fire came from all sides Roscoe stopped laughing. "Oh Jesus, please don't let me die. Not when I'm this short."

As Sgt. Felder radioed the enemy's position to the fire base, Bill lobbed mortars, their parabola flights calculated in his head and decimating the unseen enemy. The first screams for help convulsed Dan's stomach.

"Medic!"

"Let's go." Roscoe crawled snakelike toward the cries, Dan copying every move. He thought he was watching himself star in a B-movie.

Although the firefight lasted only five minutes before the artillery shells from the firebase routed the enemy, the platoon suffered four wounded.

"This is your final exam, 'cruit. Set up triage. Tell Sgt. Felder if you need a dust off."

Dan froze. Triage. How he dreaded the word. His mind backpedalled to the air-conditioned classroom he had sat in nine months earlier.

"When you got wounded you have to set up triage," the instructor had said. "That's where you put them in three spots. One is for those who can treat each other's wounds because they are not life threatening. The second is for those so severely wounded that they are dying no matter what you do. The third is for those who you can save."

One trooper was bleeding from an arm and a second from a leg wound. Dan tossed them two field dressings. "Put these on the wounds. I'll be back to check on you."

A third soldier had a sucking chest wound. Dan recognized it by the air bubbles escaping with the blood flowing from the bullet hole in his chest. The fourth soldier had massive wounds to his abdomen, noodles and ham he had eaten swimming among bloody intestines. Choking back vomit, Dan yelled at Sgt. Felder, who was still on the radio.

"Sarge, we need a med evac for these two now!"

He dropped to his knees and tore open two large field dressings and covered the exposed internal organs. "Roscoe, give him morphine."

His mentor injected two plastic ampules of the painkiller into the man's left thigh. Dan took a piece of thin plastic paper and slapped in onto the other man's chest wound. He wound the straps of the field dressing around his back and tied them tightly in a square knot. Bit by bit, movements and sounds returned to normal speed and volume by the time the two with severe wounds had been carried to a landing zone for the inbound copter, smoke from canisters marking it. Dan did not stop shaking until it lifted off with the ones he prayed would survive. An unseen hand squeezing his shoulder made him jump.

"Good job, Doc." Roscoe patted him on the back. "You're still a little bit jumpy but you pass."

They returned to the battle scene with the two who had helped them to carry the wounded to the landing zone. Because Hank had found a tunnel Sgt. Felder ordered a barf grenade tossed into the hole and for his men to spread out in a 360-degree pattern from the tunnel's entrance to watch for enemy using hidden exits. Four VC came up through a hole 75 meters from the entrance, all of them vomiting so hard that they crawled. When no more appeared, Sgt. Felder ordered a body count. The tally came in at twelve dead, four captured. Roscoe smiled for the first time since the platoon had left the safety of its base.

"Thank you, Jesus."

"Why are you so happy all of a sudden?" Dan asked.

"Because whenever there's prisoners, Sarge always has us head back to base so they can get interrogated right away by an ARVN soldier. Otherwise he would've had us go after the Cong that got away."

Having a headful of lifesaving techniques had been one thing; living in this surreal world of war where most of the enemies ever seen were dead was another. Dan thought their seeming invisibility to be their greatest asset and for his platoon, its sergeant. Back at base, Dan sought him out.

"Can I talk with you, Sarge?"

"Sure." He put down the weapon he was cleaning, an M-16 that the troop with the massive abdominal wound might never hold again. His sweat made his black skin glisten as he shook some of it from his bare arms. "Water comes out of us here faster than we can drink it." For the first time he smiled at his newest 'cruit.

"How have you stayed alive all the way through Korea and now Vietnam?"

Felder smiled. "My momma says it's her prayers. I say it's my hero."

"Hero?"

"Yeah, Willie Mays."

"Why him?"

"Because in his prime he was drafted into the Army and missed two seasons of baseball. Because of that he'll never break Babe Ruth's lifetime homerun record. I figure he'll end up only with about 650 homers."

"I didn't even know he was in the Army."

"He didn't make a big fuss; he just did his duty. So who's your hero?"

Dan pursed his lips. "My dad, I guess. He died in the Korean War."

"Army man?"

"Navy."

"Did he die in the invasion at Inchon?"

Dan blinked. "No. He got appendicitis. The infection spread too fast."

"I bet that's what inspired you to be a medic. So you could keep others from dying like your dad died. You did a good job out on patrol. Roscoe said so."

"Sarge, how long is this war going to last?"

"Forever, now that China's blowing up A-bombs too."

Dan only took one ride on a chopper. After a fierce fire fight on his twenty second patrol, he thought the dust off would be routine: load the one severely wounded who was bleeding from an artery onto it and wave goodbye. But the copter's pilot had other priorities.

"Get on board, doc." He yelled over the thump thump thump sounds of the spinning rotors.

"Huh? I can't leave my platoon."

"My medic is shot up bad. He and your wounded man might both die before I can get this bird back home. Get in now!"

Dan glanced at the crumpled figure behind the co-pilot's seat as the helicopter's gunner pulled him aboard. The wounded medic smiled weakly as Dan stretched him out on the cold steel of the bouncing copter.

"Thanks, man. I'm hit in my back. Can't reach it to stop the bleeding myself. I..." He passed out.

The gunner fired his last belt of bullets from his 50-caliber as enemy bullets ripped new streams of daylight into the fuselage. Twenty minutes later the air ambulance touched down at a field hospital and the gunner jumped out and kissed the ground.

The following month Dan took a three-day R&R to Hong Kong. He bar-hopped with a Marine that had flown there on the same plane from Saigon.

"Man, I don't know how much more I can take." Dan's fourth drink loosened the pent-up fear. The fifth bared his soul. "We got this new platoon sergeant. Sgt. Felder was cool. But this new guy..." He stared into the shot glass to conjure up more words.

"A by-the-book man more interested in body count than his own men?"

Dan looked up. "How'd you know?"

"Listen, kid, it's SOS all over. It's even worse in the Marines. Some of our sergeants and officers are so gung-ho that it's scary. Say, I know what you need." He handed Dan a cigarette.

"I don't smoke."

"This ain't no ordinary smoke."

"Opium joint? Man, that's addictive."

"Nah. I just put some heroin in with the tobacco. If you just smoke heroin, you can't get hooked. Besides, they invented heroin to help morphine addicts out. Best of all, no one can smell it."

"Really?"

Dan continued the habit once back at his fire base. He kept telling himself he would quit before going home. But then a VC mortar shell exploded ten feet from where was patching up a wounded comrade. The shrapnel embedded in him earned him an early end to his tour.

He was still fading in and out of consciousness as they loaded him onto a C-118 Air Evac bound for Clark Air Base, Philippines. Its four engines' drone drowned out most of the cries of pain from the patients lying on the tiers of litters, monitored continually by Air Force nurses.

"How you feeling?" The one assigned to Dan asked as he awoke from a morphine induced dream.

"Where am I?"

"On the way to Clark's hospital for surgery. Hang in there."

After ninety percent of the shrapnel had been cut out, Dan kept requesting more morphine for the residual pain. A doctor making his rounds shook his head as he read Dan's chart.

"You use heroin in Vietnam, son? You're getting enough morphine that you should be asleep or at least out of it right now. I think you already had a tolerance before you started getting morphine after your wounds."

"What?"

"I think you want more morphine because you're going through withdrawals from the heroin you used to use."

"I just smoked it so I couldn't get addicted."

"It doesn't matter if you inject it, eat it, snort it, or smoke it."

Five minutes later Dan was transferred to a ward set aside for addicts. Two of them helped him ride out his withdrawals, which lasted four days. Each afternoon a Red Cross volunteer checked on him.

"You're looking a lot better."

"Thanks." Dan took the magazine she offered. "Why do you do this? Things that dead for teens here on Clark Air Base?"

"I don't know." She shrugged. "Why'd you go to Nam?"

"Good question."

They laughed. Two days later Sandra asked him to a dance at Wagner High School, which mystified Dan. "I thought you had a boyfriend."

"He dumped me."

Dan's doctor agreed to a pass from the hospital "only because Sandra will be a good chaperone. No monkey business." He wagged a finger in Dan's face. "That includes alcohol."

The occasion was informal with music by Filipinos who called their band d'Sparks. Still on crutches, Dan hobbled into the dark concrete gym and shuffled more than danced to covers of the day's hits: the nonstop D-D-C-D bass line of Sunshine of Your Love, madness of the Door's When the Music's Over, and Blue Cheer's thunderous remake of Summertime Blues. He tried to thank Sandra for letting him relive his high school days as she drove him back to the hospital.

"You think we could do something together again?"

"I'd like to but I'm flying back to the States next week."

"But you'll miss your graduation with the class of '68."

A tear rolled from her eyes. "I'm pregnant. That's why my boyfriend dropped me. I'm going to live with my grandparents to have the baby."

"You going to keep it?"

"I don't know yet. Listen, before I leave I need to introduce you to my friend. She can show you around Luzon."

After having endured weeks of physical therapy and drug tests to check if he had returned to heroin, Dan welcomed the introduction to Sandra's friend. A dark-eyed, dark-haired Filipina whose bronze skin seemed to glow, she acted as his tour guide as she took him by bus to the history and nightlife of Manila, the mountains and rice terraces of Bagio, and the white sand beaches and crystal clear waters of Long Beach and San Miguel. By their third trip to Manila, they were in love. Now using a cane, Dan pointed it at the sign above a bar alongside one of Manila's side streets.

"Joe's Place. Sounds interesting. Let's check it out."

Inside, one wall was filled with photos, all faded. Dan blinked as he surveyed the faces of American soldiers who had fought during the Philippine War of Independence at the turn of the century.

"That's my Grandpa Hank!" He turned to the bartender. "You have a magnifying glass?"

The wiry man smiled as he passed one to him. "I bought it because so many have asked over the years."

"Thanks."

Dan studied the tiny print along the bottom of the photo. "It says H. Richmond's Going Away Party. That proves it."

Teresa squeezed his hand. "You know what that means?"

"No."

"Now you have to write your mother and tell her about it. And us."

Dan smiled crookedly and nodded. His letter home rambled but Sally cherished it:

April 29, 1968

Dear Mom:

Sorry it's been a while since I wrote. I guess I've been sort of busy. The last few months have been a blur ever since I almost got blown away. Things are going well with my PT. The therapist says my leg is getting stronger.

But the big news is that I saw a photograph of Grandpa Hank in a bar in Manila. It's called Joe's Place. What a coincidence. Now I wish he was still alive so I could talk with him about the P.I. This place is something else. Now I finally understand why Jason loved Monkey Island so much. These Pacific Islands are like paradise, especially compared to Vietnam and Madisin.

I guess the other news is I'm getting married. Her name is Teresa. Her dad runs a clothing factory and wants me to be his sales rep in the States. But I'll be staying here in the P.I. for at least six months. It'll take a while to get Teresa's visa. The Army liaison officer here at Clark is really cool and is setting up my discharge papers so I can get out here.

Love,

Dan

Sally cried as she read the letter. She smiled as she wrote her reply:

May 9, 1968

Dear Dan:

I'm happy for you and look forward to meeting Teresa. Remember Jason's friend, the private eye Lance Ivers that you met when you went to Disneyland?

About six months back he moved out here to Madisin. He bought forty acres out off of Turner Road. A couple weeks ago he asked me to marry him. Thelma said Fred would want me "to get on with my life" so I said yes. He's a real go getter and wants to build a warehouse on his land to import the clothes from your father-in-law's factory. Jason is drawing up the blueprints.

You discovered a skeleton in our family's closet there at Joe's Place in Manila. My daddy knew Joe, the owner of the bar. He met a girl there and got her pregnant the night before he shipped out but didn't find out about his daughter until years later. Daddy's Filipina daughter Cristina came to visit us in Kentucky after WW I when I was little. Then she moved on out to Hollywood and became a movie star. I hated the fuss Daddy made when he took us to see her movies so I sort of hated Cristina, even though she's my half-sister.

I never brought this up with Fred or you kids because I figured if Daddy wanted you all to know about it he would've told you. Now that he's gone I think you need to know. You see, Joe married Cristina's mother Maria while she was just a few months along with Cristina so he was Cristina's stepfather. We stopped getting telephone calls from Cristina when she moved back to the Philippines. But I think she might have inherited Joe's Place. Since she's my half-sister I guess she's your half-aunt.

Please go back there and try to find her. Tell her that her half-sister is going to honeymoon in Manila. Lance says he wants to check out that clothes factory and give your future father-in-law some ideas for a men's and women's line that he's cooked up. Jason wants to tag along to make a side trip to Monkey Island.

Love,

Mom

# Epilogue

It took an hour of pleading and bargaining before Jason found an islander willing to ferry him to Monkey Island for $40.

"When I described Kong to our zookeeper back home he said Kong sounded like a Spider Monkey," Jason told the impassive boat captain. "He said they can live up to forty years so there's a good chance Kong's still there waiting for me to take him home."

"They say it might still be hot with radiation so you have to go ashore by yourself," the sailor told Jason as he anchored his boat in the coral reef twenty yards from shore.

"Yeah, yeah." Jason waded the final distance to the beach where he had washed up on twenty-three years earlier.

Typhoons had altered its landscape somewhat; radiation from the atomic bomb tests had removed all of the monkeys and most of the bird population. Survivors, the rats now ruled the island, some deformed in the womb by the radioactivity.

It took Jason five minutes to find the remnants of his camp where shreds of his lean-to still clung to the breadfruit tree. He blinked when he saw that someone had continued to carve lines into the tree trunk after his departure.

"Kong..." He ran his finger over the smaller etches, meant to draw Jason back to the island.

He cried when under the lean-to he found a tiny skeleton with his watch draped about its neck bones, the timepiece Jason had given to Kong for Christmas, 1945. After burying his friend, Jason saluted the grave.

"You knew how to live, my friend. I wonder if you would want me worrying so much about the Russians and Chinese and their damn A-bombs. When I get back home you think maybe I should take apart my bomb shelter like Thelma keeps on nagging me to do? I knew I should've never shown her where I hide the food."

A gust of West wind loosened a breadfruit high above him. It landed at his feet.

He shook his head. As he waded back to the boat he wondered how best to dismantle his bomb shelter without Thelma taking credit that it had been her idea.

***

Arkhip kept saying, "I don't believe it," as she watched hammers, power tools, and bare hands destroy the Berlin Wall. After most of the USSR's republics had broken free from Mother Russia she talked of Kazakhstan for the first time since she and Wilhelm had left it.

"I wonder what the test site is like after so long."

"Go find out," her husband Wilhelm said. "You need to bury some ghosts that still haunt you."

So she travelled from the small town in East Germany where the two had lived after their usefulness to the Soviet atomic bomb program had ended in 1953. At least their four children could now live part of their lives in the freedom of a reunited Germany she thought as her plane landed in Akmola, the eventual capital of the newly freed republic.

The Kazakhstani official responsible for overseeing the former atomic test site was reluctant to let her go inside of it until she slipped him a 20-Mark bill. Then he smiled, nodded, and unlocked the door to her old laboratory. After her visit, he offered a side trip free of charge.

"Perhaps you would like to see the fruits of your labor."

"What?"

In response he drove her to a drab building in the city closest to the test site. He nodded at its door. "I'll wait."

The smell of the facility reminded her of the East German hospitals where her children had been born. She wandered its halls, occasionally peeking through open doors at patients whose only commonality appeared to be their grotesqueness. Before she could ask a nurse about them, she felt a tug on her shoulder.

"Arkhip?"

She turned and stared at a woman who looked about her age. "Yes?"

"It's me. The cleaning lady for your laboratory. Remember how I lived at the village near here downwind from your bomb tests?"

"Oh, yes."

She took Arkhip's hand. "Come. I want you to meet my granddaughter." She led the way into a room with six beds, occupied by children ranging from age one to seventeen. None responded to the visitors. "Here she is. This is Arkhip. We named her after you to remind us why she is here."

Arkhip dropped into the chair beside the bed and stared at what she thought to be a circus freak. When the large misshapen head turned toward her, the narrowly set vacant eyes blinked and a smile grew across the twisted cheeks above the missing chin. A low growl passed through the contorted lips and missing teeth.

"She's eleven now. She came here a few days after she was born."

Arkhip cradled her head with both hands and let her tears drop onto the one named for her. "Forgive me, Schatzi. Please forgive me."

***

Dave Freight carried the presents from his 79th birthday party into his trailer. After setting them down on the tiny kitchen table, he pondered the conversations at the party. Its attendees were all members of the Double Dippers Club, one retired from the military, another from state government, a third from local government, a fourth from teaching. Two others were like himself, drawing pensions after long careers in federal government. All seven also received monthly Social Security checks, which made them double dippers and "proud of it."

Two at his party were convinced that President Bush and company had planned or at least known that the terrorists would fly jetliners into the Twin Towers and Pentagon on 9/11/2001. Three other attendees thought the first two were "paranoid old farts in need of psychiatric care and medicine." One said he was not sure. But Dave had it all figured out.

"Typical bureaucracy," Dave had told the partygoers. "FBI agents in Arizona and Minnesota warned their superiors beforehand about the terrorists connected to the attack. But somewhere up the line their warnings died. Result? Thousands dead. It was the BIA, Bureaucracy in Action that let 9/11 happen."

Dave sighed as he stared at the inside of the metal dwelling that at times felt more like a coffin than home. No longer as concerned about atomic and hydrogen bombs, he instead believed other kinds of weapons of mass destruction now posed the greater threat. He wondered if he would be granted the grace of a natural death. It was either that or become a victim to this new millennium's evolving war of terror.

"I hope I go in my sleep," he said to his cat Fat Boy, who meowed in reply.
Acknowledgments

Thank you for taking the time to read this story.

Thank you to my wife Jean for her critique of the first draft.

Thank you to Gretchen Ricker and Ed Shafik for their insightful critiques of the first 100 pages.

Thank you to Maryann Miller for her helpful input on the final draft.

Thank you to James, GoOnWrite.com, for the cover design.

Books read for background:

Tales of the South Pacific by James Michener

The Rising Sun by John Toland

The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William Shirer

The Gulag Archipelago by Alexander Solzhenitsyn

An Illustrated History of the Horror Film by Carlos Clarens

The Western Films of John Ford by J A Place

The Great Films by Bosley Crowther

New Deal or Raw Deal by Burton W. Folsom Jr.

UFOs by Leslie Kean

Area 51 by Annie Jacobsen

The Redhunter by William F. Buckley

Growing up in the 1950s and 1960s was unsettling for me. In first grade, we practiced ducking under our wooden school desks "in case a big bomb goes off somewhere." Dozens of movies fed our imaginations as creatures mutated by atomic radiation stalked humanity: giant crabs, spiders, locusts, moths, or dinosaurs unleashed because of nuclear fallout. There was even a man who grew to colossal heights and a woman to fifty feet tall in other movies. Aliens from distant worlds came in UFOs to warn of Earth's destruction if we did not cease and desist from testing and stockpiling nuclear weapons.

During fifth grade, we talked on the playground about whether "those missiles in Cuba" would land where we lived. Backyard or basement bomb shelters became common. The fears seemed to peak in the 1980s until Mr. Gorbachev saw the handwriting on the wall and let the one in Berlin be torn down.

Emotions wrought by such times seemed to serve as an undercurrent as we grew up and became distracted by other realities of life. For me, trying to put such reflections down on paper seemed better suited to the world of fiction.

My hope is to convey, at least partially, the effects that The Bomb cast over billions during the last half of the Twentieth Century.

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