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 wal
ked 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.
Day of the Bomb Page 5