The survivor

by Robb White

  The chest was, apparently, the property of the medicine men, as it held cloaks made of bird feathers and strands from the palms, with terrifying wooden masks painted in vivid colors. Jason had tried on one of the masks and found that the thing fitted on his shoulders with peepholes for his eyes at the bottom of it, the face of the mask being two or three feet above him. Jason danced around awkwardly in the thing, saying, "Abacadaba. I'm putting a hoodoo on the enemy. Their feet are going to fall oflf right up to the ears."

  There were no natives on the island now, and Adam wondered if they had been killed or transferred to some other island, either in this atoU or some other enemy-held place.

  This was the largest island in the atoll, and Adam and the marines had been dismayed by what they could see of the other islands ringing the enormous lagoon. Sand spits. Small, yeUowish low mounds in the blue water of the lagoon. Barren, waterless, uninhabited, and uninhabitable.

  The two-hundred-yard-wide runway lay between them and the lagoon (and to where could they escape even if they could reach the lagoon's calm

  water? To the waterless and foodless sand spits?)

  One day Adam had wondered about escape by plane, and they had made their way to the downwind end of the runway, where they had seen high revetments half concealed in the jungle.

  The planes—there were nine of them—were the single-seater enemy fighters; "Zeroes" was the navy code name for them. Even if he could take off in one of them—and it would have to be alone, Adam had thought—what good would it do? The fighters had a range of about three hundred miles, and there was no land, of friend or foe, within three hundred miles of this island.

  "Ah hates to say it,** the Rebel now said, spitting out some rain, *lDut Ah thinks we all's in a little trouble. Ah do"

  Jason said, "Rebel, I know people who*d give a million dollars for a tropical paradise like this."

  "Then let 'em take my place," Guns said sourly. "Okay, you guys, I'm sacking out. Reb, you take the first watch, Jason the second, I'll take the mid-watch and you take the dog, Adam."

  This was another long, cold, wet, miserable night. Those asleep did not sleep well, for they were hungry, and more racked out from the ordeal than they thought, and more fearful than they would admit, even to themselves. And those who stood watch in the rainy daikness, standing against a pabn tree trying to hear anything moving through the rain, could not help thinking, in the darkness, that here on this island, trapped, they were going to end their lives. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a

  week, but certainly it would not be long. The worst part of those thoughts was that they, who had courage, who had strength, who had training, could not in any way prevent the taking of their Hves. Neither by force (against so many?) nor by guile (outwit hunger and thirst?) could they prevent it.

  There was no escape from this island.

  IN THE RADIO ROOM at the Submarine base at Pearl Harbor a chief radioman reUeved the heel-and-toe watch on the frequency assigned the boat on the Operation Moondance job. "Anything?^ he asked.

  "Nothing," the first class radioman said, taking the padded earphones off one at a time, sHpping them over the chiefs ears so that there was no span of time when someone was not listening on the Moondance frequency. The chief got into the high swivel chair, made a tiny adjustment of a dial, hs-tened, looked at the jerking second hand of the clock above him. It was ten minutes after eight in the morning. ...

  In the Personnel Office a lieutenant (j.g.), who wore glasses, came in and hung his overseas cap beside the white hats on the rack and sat down at his desk. In a moment a first-class yeoman came in and said good morning. The lieutenant (j.g.) said, "Anything?^

  "No, sir."

  The lieutenant (j.g.) took off his glasses and

  wiped them carefully with a white handkerchief and then put them on again. "Then you'd better pull the jackets of the crew, Bill"

  "I have, sir."

  "The oflBcers?"

  "Them too, sir."

  "What do you think? Should we go ahead with the telegrams, Bill?**

  "Get 'em typed up anyway, sir," the yeoman advised.

  "All right. MIA for aU of them."

  In the yeoman's office a third-class was already typing up the form telegrams: "The Navy Department with great regret informs you that your

  (son, father, husband, brother) is missing in action. ..."

  Another third-class came in, sailed his white hat at the rack, missed, picked it up, hung it up, looked at the third-class typing, and said, "You homesick or hung over?"

  "I'm typing MIA*s," the third class said.

  "Oh," the other one said. . . .

  In the Marine Corps Personnel Office a staff sergeant was eating out all hands. Usually he was a good joe, but this morning he was prickly. "The Moondance detachment had twenty-three people. WHiat have you chowder heads done with one of them?"

  "Honest, Sarge," the bravest corporal said, "the roster is two officers, twenty men."

  The sergeant leaned over the corporal's shoulder and looked at the list "Oh nor he said.

  "Gunny Gibbs. With that nose.'' He read on down the Hst, slowly. "Ezra Stiles? Stiles^

  "The Rebel," the corporal said.

  "Oh nor the staff said and read on. And stopped. "That kid, Jason. That kid saved my life on the Ridge."

  "MIA's, Sarge?" the corporal asked.

  In a fury the staff sergeant yelled. 'Who said they were dead? So MIA's, chowder head. And you'd better find that other guy or I'll have your stripe!"

  In the C.O.'s oflBce at Adam's squadron the CO. was on the phone with the oflBcer in charge of the BOQ. "Adam Land? I don't know where he is, nor when he's coming back."

  "What'll I do with his gear?"

  "Pack it," the C.O. said.

  *'Ship it home?"

  "I don't know. No, store it. I just don't know where he is."

  "A guy can't just disappear."

  "Adam Land did," the C.O. said. . . .

  In the oflBce of the Commander, Submarines, Pacific, an admiral stood at a wall mural of the whole Pacific Ocean area. Now he reached up and put a httle toy submarine with a magnet in it on the mural. He put it beside an island marked moon-dance. Then, below the submarine, he put a little sign: OVERDUE, presumed lost.

  The Marine Corps colonel watched him do this. *They were the best men in my outfit. Admiral."

  "It's been eight days," the admiral said. "There's nothing else we can do."

  "Another submarine?"

  The admiral shook his head. "If any of your people, or ours, got ashore, the enemy wiU be alerted now. A second boat wouldn't have a chance.- If they didn't get ashore . . . then the boat's gone, with all hands. We can only wait, Colonel."

  "Have you any idea what may hav§ happened. Admiral?"

  The admiral sat down and looked out the window. ^'We never do," he said. 'The boats go out there. Some come back. The ones that don't . . . well, they just don't come back."

  THE LONG NIGHT somchow ended. As the sun began to sift through the darkness, Adam went over to Jason, who was sleeping, sitting half slumped at the base of a tree, the rifle across his lap. Adam shook him by the shoulders.

  Jason came awake with the rifle in Adam's stomach. Then, as he slowly lowered the rifle, he drew in a long, slow breath and let it out as slowly. "Stand behind a marine when you wake him up, Adam," Jason said.

  Adam could still feel the sharp muzzle of the rifle in his gut. "Yeah," he said.

  They woke up the Rebel and Guns.

  The rain had stopped, but it was not important. The four men stood, with nothing at aU to do, in the low, thick mist the sunlight was pulling up

  from the rotted vegetation on the ground. The mist came only up to their shoulders.

  Guns looked slowly around at the jungle, the brightening sky through the high fronds. Then he said quietly, "I sort of wish I'd stayed with the others. In the boat.**

  Jason looked at him and said, "Yeah?^

  "Yeh,** Guns said. "The wa
r must be over for them by now. AU over. And they're better o£E than we are."

  Tou think so?" Jason asked.

  Guns swung his hand slowly around. "This place isn't big enough for us and them too. No matter what we do, we can't take 'em all. There'U be some left to get us. Just like the air in the boat —it's just . . . how long? That's all, how long?" Then he turned and looked at Jason. "I tell you one thing, Jason. They're not going to take me ahve. And if you've got any sense you won't let 'em take you ahve either."

  ^They're not taking me alive ... or dead," Jason said.

  The Rebel walked a little way in the mist and then came back. He stopped in front of Guns and looked at him for a moment. "Ah'm breathin', Guns," he said quietly. "In the boat, they're not breathin'. So now, we've talked aplenty." He swung around to Adam. "Any ideas, Adam?"

  "Fresh out," Adam said.

  **Maybe we could build a boat," Jason said. *T read somewhere that that's the way these natives

  got here in the first place. They drifted here in boats."

  "The trouble is," Adam said, "the way we'd drift would be just deeper and deeper into trouble. They are on every island from here to China.**

  "We build a boat and then what?** Guns asked. "Do we carry it right through their hues and put it in the water and say taUyho? I teU you there's nothing we can do. Nothingr

  "We can keep breathin'," the Rebel said. "An* Ah'm tired of ham and eggs for breakfast. Think Ah'U have me a nice coconut for a change." He disappeared imder the layer of mist, searching the ground for a coconut.

  The mist burned oflF, the day went on. Now the strip of palms between the sea and the airstrip had become more famihar to them—it was their home. They were shadows among its shadows, movements with the wind, movements of the leaves above them. Here in this pale, hot, green place they were fairly safe.

  To Adam it was exactly the same safety a man has who is standing in front of a firing squad. You are safe . . . until the triggers are pulled.

  They were wandering in their green home, miserable and sick, hungry and defeated, alert for the sound of the enemy, but gradually almost wanting to be found—to end all this.

  And then they heard the music.

  ALONG THE EDGE of the runway tall, coarse grass -grew four feet high. Adam and the marines lay in this stuS. now watching the goings-on across the strip.

  A band, the musicians in white imiforms with bright-colored sashes, stood near the concrete control tower, their brass instruments glinting in the sunhght as they played. The music floated across to the men lying in the grass, but did not cheer them.

  From the barracks area now columns of men, marching, appeared and formed in ranks behind the band. The men were in field uniform, armed and carrying packs and wearing steel hebnets. The officers, however, were in white uniforms with sashes and sword belts, complete with swords. Adam could hear them barking orders at the men.

  "Maybe they're getting ready to leave. For good,** Jason hoped.

  "It's a parade," the Rebel decided. "In the middle of a war—a parade.**

  "What war?" Guns asked.

  The men across the runway relaxed now, but stayed in ranks.

  "They're waiting for something,*' Adam said.

  "For that old 'hup two three four,'" Jason said. "One thing, I'm glad to find out that the Marine Corps isn't the only outfit that marches around in the heat of the day, going nowhere, doing nothing."

  "Sloppy outfit," Guns growled, looking at the

  thousands of men in ranks. "Fd like to get hold of that bunch for about five minutes. I'd shape 'em up."

  "Listen!" Jason said.

  There was the soimd of heavy motors starting up, then idling back imtil there was a steady, level roar of them.

  "Sounds like it*s coming from that climip of trees," Jason said. *To the left of that gas dump."

  Out from under the trees a tank appeared.

  Jason whispered, "Look . . . at. . . that."

  From the clump of trees the tank emerged, a steel elephant rumbling out of the woods, the long-barreled turreted canon swinging stiffly from side to side, the clank of the tracks and roar of the motor coming loud across the runway. It was imbuttoned, the crew standing in the hatch.

  "Take a look at those ribbons," Jason said in disgust.

  The tank crew was wearing what looked like football helmets. And from the top of these helmets there were gaily colored, thin streamers of cloth streaming out in the breeze.

  "Now ain't that a real pretty sight," the Rebel said, as disgusted as Jason.

  "Oh, Mama, buy me one of those," Gims said, turning away from the sight.

  Behind the tank, field artillery appeared, then armored car and troop carriers. They formed a long line in front of the troops; then, one by one, the motors stopped.

  The marines and Adam lay in the grass, their

  uniforms torn by the coral of the beach and damp from the rain and sea, their faces stubbly with unshaved beards, their only weapons the knives and small-cahber guns of the enemy. They were hungry and weary, barefooted, bareheaded, infested and sick, lying in the grass looking across at their enemy.

  "If we could get that tank,** Guns said, lying in the grass looking at it.

  "Now that's the way to go home," the Rebel said. "Drive home in a nice tank. How far you think it is to Pearl, Adam?"

  "Too far for a bridge."

  Guns looked at them angrily. ^When are you guys going to get it through your thick heads that we aren't going anywhere? Everl But, get that tank. Open up with everything it's got. We wouldn't last long, but we'd take some of them with us."

  Jason sounded surprised. "You mean, just get in and start shooting?"

  "That's what I mean. Before they got the big guns turned around on us we could do some damage. Some real damage."

  Jason looked at Guns. "What for?"

  Guns stared at him. "What for? What are you in the Marine Corps for?"

  "I don't know," Jason said. "To win the war, I guess. But what good would it do to get in a tank and kill some of them before they kill us?"

  Guns turned over in the grass and said patiently, '*You miss the point, Jason. They're killing us now.

  Just as much as if they were standing here starting a trigger squeeze. Who wants to go slow this way, like rats or something? We're going anyway, so let's go fast and loud, and take some of 'em with us.

  "Sssh,** Adam said, raising his head to listen.

  Now there was a new sound. Adam twisted around in the grass so he could look up into the sky. "Betty," he said.

  "Your lil' or mind is wanderin*, son," the Rebel said. "You gotta watch that.**

  "Mitsubishi," Adam said, looking up.

  **What would you say the caHber is on that tank, Jason?" Rebel asked.

  "Big enough," Jason said.

  "A ninety-six dash four. I think," Adam said.

  "Big as one-fifty-five?" Rebel asked.

  "Naw," Jason said.

  "With two Kinsei Mark Fours," Adam said.

  "Those machine guns don't look so heavy, either," Jason decided. "Around twenty-millimeter."

  "They got a high rate, though," Rebel said, remembering the scream of those machine guns on Guadalcanal.

  "Yeah, they can pour it out," Jason agreed.

  "Fourteen-cyhnder, air-cooled radials. A thousand horses apiece at ten thousand feet," Adam said.

  "You're wanderin', boy," the Rebel said.

  "Seven-himdred-and-eighty-gallon tanks," Adam said.

  "What kind?" Jason asked.

  "At two hundred miles an hour, that's five hours * Adam said.

  "What are you talking about, Adam?" the Rebel asked, serious now.

  Adam sat up in the grass so he could watch the landing. He sent messages to the pilot—don't miss it, buddy. Come in smooth and easy and way down. Take it all, buddy. Use it all. Nice and easy now. Don't prang that lovely airplane.

  The pilot may have gotten the message, for he brought the big twin-engined plane down on
the runway with only a Uttle squeal of the tires, two little spurts of rubber burning before the wheels could start to roll. Nice landing.

  'TouVe got to hand it to them," Adam said. **They make beautiful airplanes."

  The marines watched the plane rolUng down the runway, then watched it slow and turn and taxi back toward the control tower.

  The band was playing. The troops were stiff and straight in ranks. The officers stood, waiting the command to draw swords.

  Adam looked at the lovely airplane, listened to it, wondered what it felt like to fly. Then watched as the engines stopped and the life seemed to drop out of it.

  Seven hundred and eighty gallons.

  "Admiral, or something," Jason said.

  Adam studied the Betty, now parked, engines stopped, in front of the control tower. The side door opened and a small group of men in blazing white uniforms began climbing out of it down a step-

  ladder arrangement from which gaily colored steamers blew in the wind.

  A truck appeared now, coming out of the tank park. It was loaded with fifty-gallon drums, and as the white-uniformed men moved over toward the troops, now at rigid attention, the truck drove up near the plane and men with long hoses climbed up on the wings of it.

  At first the idea Adam had seemed wonderful, but it didn't last long. All he had to do was look first at the thousands of armed troops over on the other side of the runway and then look at Gims, the Rebel, and Jason—and at himself. Four ragged, beat-up guys squatting in some tall grass. Once they showed their faces, every gun on this island would train on them, every man's hand would be against them.

  The idea was nonsense. And yet it persisted. The plane was there, beautiful in the sunhght, with the men in the truck hand-pumping gasoline into the wing tanks. Seven hundred and eighty gallons of it—a thousand miles through the sky, a thousand miles from this place.

  "It's not going to be here long," Adam said.

  "Probably the high brass out here to throw a brace into this outfit. He'll shake 'em up good and then fly away," Guns declared.

  The band was playing again and the flags were flying.