Jungle of Bones

by Ben Mikaelsen

  Gene spoke loudly to Dylan as they rushed toward the airport. “I’ll get on the phone and see if I can arrange some pain meds in Port Moresby while you wait for the flight to Sydney.”

  Dylan answered with another grimace.

  The ride was short. Soon, Dylan felt hands all over him, pulling and shoving and lifting to move him somewhere else. “This is going to be a bit uncomfortable,” Allen Jackson said, helping to lift Dylan into a small Cessna aircraft. “There won’t be room to lie down. You might be able to stretch your leg out some. See you in Sydney.”

  When the small plane took off, there was only room for the pilot, Uncle Todd, and Dylan. “We might make it over the top of the peaks today if this weather decides to hold,” the Aussie pilot shouted at them as he banked the plane to the southwest.

  Dylan opened his eyes to look out, but then bent forward, hugging his leg to drive away the pain and keep from throwing up.

  “If you upchuck, you best be doing it into this bag,” the pilot informed Dylan, handing him a barf bag.

  Dylan wished he had been handed a body bag instead.

  Dylan remembered only portions of the next eight hours: bad turbulence flying over the Owen Stanley Mountains on the way to Port Moresby, clenching his teeth so hard his gums hurt, someone giving him a shot to ease the pain. There was another endless chartered flight to Sydney, followed by an ambulance ride with sirens and flashing lights. Dylan was carried into a hospital, where several nurses and a doctor examined him, then gave him another shot.

  Then nothing again.

  The next thing Dylan remembered, he woke up feeling drugged and fuzzy in a sunny, air-conditioned hospital room. All he had known for days was heat, mosquitoes, jungle, and pain. Now a television on the wall was broadcasting world news from CNN. He rested in a big, white, padded bed. All his pain had disappeared, and beside the bed sat Uncle Todd, looking tired and unshaven, with a grim stare.

  “What happened?” Dylan asked.

  “They operated last night,” Uncle Todd said hoarsely.

  Dylan looked down at his legs but couldn’t tell if his leg was missing because of the bunched-up covers.

  “What happened?” Dylan asked.

  “They saved your life,” Uncle Todd said, not offering to explain.

  Dylan didn’t like the tone of his uncle’s voice. He looked down again and tried to wiggle his right foot but still couldn’t feel movement. “Did they have to take my leg off?” he asked.

  Uncle Todd hesitated. “They said you were very lucky. If it had been one day later, they would have amputated. The way it was, they had to remove a lot of dead tissue. You’ll have a few scars and some recovery.”

  Dylan looked down and found the folded American flag from Second Ace still lying by his side. “Thanks for bringing that along,” Dylan said.

  “Don’t thank me,” Uncle Todd said. “You had a death grip on that thing until they put you under for surgery. What’s so important about that flag?”

  Dylan reached down and ran his fingers over the colored cloth, then shrugged. “Not sure — maybe because it was Grandpa’s. I never even met him except at family reunions when I was really small. He was just this weird old man. I never dreamed of all the stuff he went through.”

  “That’s the way all old people are,” Uncle Todd said. “Someday, you’ll be old and some young punk will look at you and think you’re just an old fossil and it’s darn sure going to burn your butt eight ways from Sunday. But you know what?”

  Dylan hesitated, then mumbled weakly, “What?”

  “You’re going to be so old you won’t be able to do anything about it except whiz in your pants because the nurse didn’t get to you in time.” Uncle Todd shrugged. “There’s really only one thing you can do about the whole thing now.”

  “What’s that?” Dylan asked.

  “Treat old people with respect. Pay it forward. Then maybe, just maybe, someday when you’re too old to hold back a fart, some young kid will respect you for who you are.”

  Big tears flooded Dylan’s eyes. “I’m just a screw-up,” he said, his voice close to breaking.

  Uncle Todd smirked. “If life ended today, I’d probably agree with you. But it hasn’t ended yet. For you, life is just beginning. Maybe this trip will screw your head on straight.”

  “It’s too late. I’ll be in eighth grade next year. You were probably at the top of your class and an Eagle Scout by my age.”

  Uncle Todd allowed a thin smile. “See, there you go again, feeling sorry for yourself and judging people without knowing the truth.” He pointed at the wrinkles on his own neck. “These aren’t wrinkles from growing old,” he said. “These are stretch marks left from getting my own head screwed on straight. By the time I graduated from high school, I had a rap sheet twice as long as yours. Your grandfather had the judge give me a choice — either go to jail or join the military. That’s when I joined the Marines.”

  “You didn’t join ’cause you were patriotic?” Dylan asked.

  Uncle Todd laughed. “I couldn’t have cared less about this country. Everything was a joke, until Vietnam. I still have questions about that war, but I will tell you this: When you see death, you grow up real quick and start to think. When I came back from Vietnam, I felt like the whole country was in a fishbowl and I was the only one on the outside. No matter what I had done, no matter how many lives I had saved, no matter how brave I was or how many medals I’d earned, the country ignored me. They ignored me and all the other soldiers who fought.”

  Dylan twisted at a corner of the bedsheet. “Does Mom know what happened to me?”

  “She had to give her permission for the operation. She’s plenty worried, but knows there wasn’t an amputation. She was . . .” Uncle Todd’s face took on a pained expression. “She said she was going to fly out here immediately. I had to practically order her not to. You’ll be here in the hospital a few more days, and then it’s time to go home. When you’re up to it, you need to call her.”

  “What can I tell her? That I screwed up again?”

  “Tell her whatever you want. I do know this — she’s never given up on you. You’re the one I’m worried about. You’ve already given up on yourself.”

  Three times a day, nurses changed the dressing on Dylan’s ankle. Twice a day, he took antibiotics, and this time he didn’t spit out the medications. By the second night, he quit having hot and cold flashes. Slowly his insect bites faded. What the hospital couldn’t treat were his troubled thoughts. Dylan hated closing his eyes, fearing he would wake up back in the jungle.

  Gene, Allen, and Quentin stopped in when they arrived back in Sydney. They had little to say as they surrounded the hospital bed. Dylan felt like he had let everyone down. The whole month’s trip had been changed now because of him. “I’m sorry for everything,” he kept saying.

  “Hey, you found Second Ace,” Quentin reminded him again.

  “You get well and let us know how you’re doing,” Allen Jackson said after being there only a few minutes.

  “I’ll call all of you,” Dylan promised.

  And then they left. The three planned on touring Australia for several weeks and returning to the US on their scheduled flight. By then, Dylan would be back in Wisconsin with his mother. Uncle Todd would be back in Oregon, no longer having to deal with his pain-in-the-butt nephew.

  “Did you call your mom yet?” Uncle Todd asked each morning and evening when he visited the hospital.

  “I’ll call her soon,” Dylan kept promising, still not knowing what to say.

  Finally he summoned the courage. He made the call one evening with Uncle Todd sitting nearby and staring at him intently.

  “Hello?” the distant voice answered.

  “Hello, Mom, this is Dylan.”

  “How are you?” she asked, her voice guarded.

  Dylan found it hard to talk. “I’m good,” he said. “I can’t wait to get home.”

  “The hospital says you’ll be out in a couple of d
ays, and then Todd said he’s buying you a ticket home on Wednesday.”

  “I kind of screwed things up over here,” Dylan said meekly.

  There was deafening silence on the phone.

  “I’m done being stupid,” Dylan said.

  “You always say that,” she said.

  “This time I mean it. I can’t wait to tell you everything that happened.”

  “I’m sure you’ll have quite a story,” she said.

  Dylan could tell from her voice that she still didn’t believe him. What could he possibly do to convince her that he had changed?

  “Mom,” he said. “I know that Dad leaving wasn’t because he didn’t love us.”

  “He never quit loving us,” she said. “But you’ve never believed that. Now I feel as if I’ve lost you both.”

  “You haven’t lost me,” Dylan said. “Not anymore.”

  She hesitated. “Listen, we’ll talk when you get back.” She spoke as if she wanted to end the phone call.

  “Okay,” Dylan said. “I’ll see you.” Suddenly, tears flooded his eyes. He took a deep breath. “And, Mom . . . I love y —”

  Dylan heard a dial tone. Already she had hung up.

  He slowly hung up as Uncle Todd eyed him closely.

  “Mom said you’re getting me a ticket home on Wednesday,” Dylan choked.

  Uncle Todd nodded.

  “What are you going to do when we get back?” Dylan asked.

  “I think I’ll head back to Gresham the same day. I’ve got things to get done. I’ll fly as far as Los Angeles with you.”

  “I know it costs extra, but can I go back to Oregon with you before going home? I’ll earn the money and pay you back.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to see Frank Bower again.”

  “What for?”

  “I want to give him this flag.” Dylan held up the American flag that he still kept by his side on the bed.

  “I’ll give that to him for you,” Uncle Todd said.

  Dylan shook his head. “No, I have to give it to him myself. It won’t be the same otherwise.”

  Uncle Todd studied Dylan before answering. “Why you?”

  “I’m done being stupid,” Dylan insisted.

  Uncle Todd turned in his chair to face Dylan. “You know, I almost thought you were sorry before, too. When you first met Frank and he told you his story, for half a second I thought you had learned something. But then you were right back to complaining, feeling sorry for yourself, and thinking you were the center of the universe.”

  Dylan blinked back his tears. “I think Mom still thinks the same thing. So what do I do? How can I change if you guys don’t give me the chance?”

  “You’ve had a hundred chances. Maybe you should start by being honest. Not just with other people, but with yourself.”

  “And how will you ever know if I have?” Dylan blurted.

  Uncle Todd leaned back in his chair and gave Dylan a long, hard stare.

  Dylan met his stare, but not with attitude. He just wanted Uncle Todd to know he was a man and didn’t have to look down.

  Suddenly Uncle Todd slapped the arm of the chair and stood. “Okay, I’ll bite one more time. I’ll make the ticket so you fly into Portland overnight before going home. Please don’t make me sorry I trusted you.”

  Using crutches, Dylan left the hospital to spend their last night in Sydney at the hotel with Uncle Todd. Hobbling everywhere they went, Dylan looked around town a little, then they went out later for a big cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake. Every bite made Dylan remember the grasshoppers he had eaten just to stay alive. Never in his life had a cheeseburger tasted so good. Uncle Todd let him order seconds. He ate until he was absolutely stuffed.

  “What are you going to do with the rest of your summer?” Uncle Todd asked.

  Dylan answered without hesitation. “I’m going to do whatever I can to help Mom out. She doesn’t earn a lot, and I know she usually spends any extra money on me instead of herself.” Dylan paused and added, “And I will pay you back the extra flight cost of stopping in Oregon.”

  Uncle Todd laughed. “Well, you’re not even in eighth grade, so don’t expect to be pulling in the big bucks mowing lawns. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the extra airfare. Helping your mom sounds real good, but words are cheap. Let’s see if it actually happens.”

  “It’s as good as done,” Dylan promised.

  Dylan packed his backpack early the next morning. He was still taking his antibiotics and malaria medication, and would need to for some time. By mid-morning they had cleared customs and were in the air flying home. They flew on a Boeing 747, and the plane was huge. Dylan tried several times to start conversations, but Uncle Todd kept to himself, answering Dylan’s questions with only “Yup” or “Nope.”

  No matter what Uncle Todd had said about one more chance, it was obvious he had already written Dylan off as a loser. “Will you go back to see Second Ace sometime?” Dylan asked, trying one more time to break the ice.

  Uncle Todd just shrugged and said, “Who knows.”

  Dylan turned and stared out the window. “Who knows” was as bad as “whatever.”

  For Dylan, this trip to Papua New Guinea was like something out of a science fiction story. Less than two weeks ago, he had been flying from the United States, angry at the world, and never having met Allen, Gene, or Quentin. He hadn’t cared about a B-17 bomber called Second Ace, and he had resented being with his uncle.

  Now it felt as if he had been through some kind of time warp. All of his experiences in the jungles of PNG already seemed like a dream or an experience from another lifetime. Had it all been real? What puzzled Dylan most was when he looked in the mirror. Who was that baby-faced punk kid he was looking at? Was he just looking at someone who would go back to being angry and doing stupid things, blaming everything on everybody else?

  Even Dylan didn’t know that answer for sure.

  During the flight, Dylan’s ankle ached. He swallowed the pills the doctor had given him to curb the pain, but they made him sleepy. He slept most of the way across the Pacific. When they landed in Los Angeles, he felt like a zombie. They had a two-hour layover before flying on to Portland. Still Uncle Todd gave Dylan the silent treatment, as if he were a criminal. Maybe going to Oregon before returning home was a mistake.

  By the time they arrived in Portland, they had been flying most of the last twenty-four hours. Uncle Todd opened the front door to his condo in Gresham. It was almost dark. “When do you want to stop by the nursing home to see Frank Bower?” Uncle Todd asked. “Tonight? Or tomorrow before I take you to the airport?”

  Dylan yawned hard. “After we get some sleep.”

  “Whatever you want,” Uncle Todd said. “That’s what you usually do.”

  Dylan knew his Uncle Todd had every reason in the world for not trusting him, but he wanted to explain that he had changed, and not just a little. He really did feel differently now about the world, and himself. But starting a conversation now would be like trying to light a match to look inside a powder keg. “How about tomorrow morning?” Dylan suggested.

  “I said whatever you want,” Uncle Todd repeated, heading for his room. “As long as it’s early enough to get you to the airport.”

  Still carrying his backpack and using his crutches, Dylan hobbled up the stairs to his room. As much as he had hated Uncle Todd’s constant lectures before they left, now it bugged him even worse to get the silent treatment.

  Dylan lay on the bed with clean sheets and no mosquitoes, listening to the many noises from the street. A car drove past with a radio blasting. Dylan didn’t like loud sounds anymore, but he understood them. Each sound he heard tonight he could place in his brain neatly and explain it. But then he remembered the jungle, lying under the damp moss, mosquitoes so thick he choked on them, suffering through sweats and chills, and hearing strange growls and screeches in the underbrush. Alone.

  Dylan felt as if he had a stranger’s brain in hi
s head. Who was it that was really lying here awake in the guest room of Uncle Todd’s small yellow condo? Before leaving the US, Dylan had needed to be in control. The angrier he became, the more he blamed others. The bigger the chip on his shoulder, the more attitude he projected. The more other people tried to help him, the more he laughed in their faces. But in the jungle, that control had disappeared. The more attitude he displayed, the more the world slammed him and tried to kill him.

  So now who was Dylan Barstow? What did he want to do? How would he act tomorrow morning when the sun came up? There had been something safe about carrying an attitude around. Dylan had loved the disgusted looks from adults when he wore his pants low. He felt in control when he thumbed his nose in someone’s face. Whenever he dismissed someone’s thoughts with a “whatever,” it did mean he didn’t care how people felt or what people did. If he was always angry, he didn’t have to look in the mirror and take responsibility. He had always been the center of the universe. Dylan Barstow’s universe.

  But now he felt like a fish that had been dumped from its fishbowl. Suddenly Dylan had discovered a world that wasn’t so simple — so small. No longer did things look so wonderful back inside the little protected world he had created for himself in Wisconsin. Dylan wondered what would happen if he quit thinking only of himself? What if he quit blaming his father for dying? What if he were to be respectful? Take the risk of being hurt again? Give up his attitude? Give up control? Then what?

  It would be like a fighter exposing his bare chest. People could make fun of him because he cared. People could hurt him. Friends might tease him. Not that he had any real friends — just other kids protecting themselves.

  Dylan clenched his fists under the covers. Dad had shown him many pictures of villagers crowding around the trucks where aid workers were handing out food. To Dylan, the people had seemed like animals, climbing over each other’s backs, shoving and pushing, fighting for little scraps of anything. He had blamed them and everybody else in the whole world for taking his father away. Dad’s death had hurt so very much.