by Dean Koontz
He pulled the sack open and slipped it over his head, tugged it around until the holes were directly in front of his eyes. He could breathe well enough, though the bag made the air smell like dirt and potatoes. Bending stiffly, he looked at himself in a small, cracked mirror which he had laid on his cot. Not bad. Not bad at all. Sinister. Frightening. He would give Kelly a real scare before he put a few bullets in the bastard's gut, a real scare indeed.
He took the sack off his head, folded it and tucked it in his trousers, inside his undershorts. He didn't want anyone accidentally uncovering the bag and remembering it later, after Kelly had been killed by a mysterious man in a mask.
The only thing he had to worry about now was when to do it. Tonight? No. Not yet. Give Kelly more time to show his cowardliness. It might even be a good idea to put it off as much as a week. Then, when he did kill the son of a bitch, General Blade would be even more disposed to treating the matter lightly. General Blade would see what a coward Kelly was, and he would be pleased to have Richard Slade in charge of the camp.
Smiling, Slade put the cracked mirror under his cot. He lay down and picked up the Army manual from the pasteboard trunk at the head of the bed, and he started to read by the shimmering yellow light of the single, tiny electric bulb.
* * *
16
The next morning, after Maurice reclaimed the equipment he had rented to them, The Snot said, "This conclusively proves that Maurice is in league with the krauts." He looked at Major Kelly, then at Beame, and he did not seem to understand that they wanted to beat his face to a pulp. Even the pacifist, Tooley, had confessed that, at times, even he wanted to beat The Snot's face to a pulp. Slade continued, "If we accept that we have a traitor in the unit, our morale will decline. But if we look outside our ranks for the culprit, our morale can be maintained and our field of suspects narrowed. And Maurice stands head-and-shoulders above all other suspects. He has access to German equipment... and you certainly don't believe those stories he told you about partisan work, about stealing the German equipment, laying ambushes for German patrols on other highways! How'd he really get those things? Hmmm?" Slade took their silences to mean they were speechless, utterly unable to imagine how Maurice had really gotten hold of those things. He said, "Suppose he was consorting with the Germans, selling them information in return for trucks, uniforms, and artillery? And then he was renting these same things to us in return for the backhoe and-and whatever else he could get, maybe the dozer the next time. Suppose that's what he's doing. You see, of course, what he has in mind, what his eventual goal is." Again, he interpreted their silence as sheer stupidity. He smirked, actually smirked, and said, "Maurice is establishing a small army of his own: trucks, artillery, construction equipment, guns, and uniforms. You mark my words. When he feels he has enough strength, he's going to declare Eisenhower a separate, free French nation!"
Major Kelly and Lieutenant Beame walked away from The Snot. They went to the bridge and stood looking it over, each afraid that he could not control his urge to pulp Slade's face.
Slade mistook their retreat for a concession to his point and their lack of response for a weakness of will that made it impossible for them to act. He called after them: "When the time is ripe, that village will secede from the rest of France! And when the war is over, they'll discover that backhoe and whatever else Maurice has of ours, and they'll say the United States of America urged the village to secede, that we meddled in the internal affairs of our great ally, France. It will be a black day for America's foreign image!"
Even down by the river, where the water sloshed over the rocks and pieces of bomb-blasted bridgework, Kelly and Beame could hear the lieutenant shouting. The major wished a few Stukas would make a bombing pass. On Slade. If he just knew who the traitor was, who was reporting to the Nazis every time the bridge was rebuilt, he would try to arrange just that, a bombing run on Slade. He'd station Slade at some lonely point, far away from the camp and the bridge, and then he would get the krauts to run a bombing mission on him: three Stukas. He would use four blue runway flares to mark Slade's position. If that worked well, then he'd try it with Coombs. And, most definitely, three Stukas with full loads. This would have to be a very final sort of operation, because he didn't want to risk a badly botched bombing and end up with another Kowalski on his hands.
PART TWO
Worsening
Conditions
July 15/July 17,1944
* * *
1
Sitting at the desk in his office in the HQ building, Major Kelly dipped his fingers into a tin bowl full of mud, smeared the thick slop on his head. It was cool and soft, but it stank. He massaged the gunk into his scalp in lazy circles, then scooped more of it from the bowl and repeated the process until his head was capped in a hardening layer of wet, black soil.
Major Kelly had been plagued by a widow's peak ever since he was a teen-ager and he had never once thought that it was in any way becoming to him. His mother said it was becoming to him and that it made him look sophisticated. So far as Major Kelly was concerned, it only made him look old and bald. He didn't want to be old or bald, and so he was always anxious to find some medication or process which would restore the hair around his widow's peak and make him look young again. He had tried massages and salves, greases and tonics, internal and external vitamins, less sex, more sex, less sleep, more sleep, sleeping with a bed cap, sleeping without a bed cap, washing his hair every day, washing it only twice a month, eating lots of carrots, eating lots of eggs, beer shampoos, standing on his head, prayer. Nothing worked. Now, Sergeant Coombs had mentioned the mud treatment, and Major Kelly was trying that.
He was desperate. Ever since they'd been dropped behind German lines, his hair had been falling out faster than it usually did, and his widow's peak was widening and deepening. In fact, he now had a widow's promontory, flanked by two enormous bays of baldness. If he didn't stop the erosion soon, he'd have a widow's island, encircled by gleaming skin, and then no one would love him any more. No one loved a bald man. Was Mussolini loved?
Ever since General Blade had called on the wireless more than a day ago and Major Kelly had learned of the possibility of the Panzer division moving his way, his hair had been falling out at an unprecedented and alarming rate of speed, like snow or autumn leaves. It fell out in clumps, in several twisted strands at a time, fell out when he combed his hair, when he scratched his scalp, when he turned his head too fast, when he nodded. He was even afraid to think, for fear his hair would fall out.
Major Kelly couldn't tolerate the prospect of baldness. He had known too many bald men-his Uncle Milton, a grade school teacher named Coolidge, a high school chemistry teacher, Father Boyle, and Sergeant Masterson in basic training-and he knew how cruel well-haired men could be when they talked about the baldies behind their backs. Chrome dome, skinhead, glass bean, bone head... The nasty names were limitless. Major Kelly refused to be known as Chrome Dome or anything similar. He'd rather die first.
Of course, he might. The odds on his living through this were damn slight, after all. If that Panzer division, complete with supply trucks and ack-ack guns and infantrymen, moved toward the bridge and stayed by it overnight, then Major Kelly wouldn't live long enough to have to endure any cruel nicknames. And that was exactly why his hair was falling out. He was worrying too much about the Panzer division, and his hair was falling out-and it was all a vicious circle.
He put more mud on his head. It stank.
He was still putting mud on his head ten minutes later when Nurse Pullit wobbled into his quarters wearing Lily Kain's high-heeled white pumps. Nurse Pullit was also wearing what was intended to be a beatific smile-which didn't look as good on the nurse as the pumps did. In fact, Major Kelly thought the smile was a leer, and he was immediately defensive.
"You've got to come to the hospital!" Pullit squealed. Pullit's red bandanna had slipped back, revealing a still predominately male hairline. "It's a real miracle! A real miracle!"
"What is?" Major Kelly asked, peering into his shaving mirror to see how stupid he looked with mud all over his head. He looked very stupid.
"Kowalski!" Nurse Pullit said, oblivious of the mud.
"Is he dead?" Kelly asked.
Pullit frowned, looking at Kelly's face in the mirror. "I said it was a real miracle!"
"Then he is dead?"
"No," Pullit said. "He's come around, and he's talking!"
Major Kelly looked up from the mirror, turned, and stared at Nurse Pullit. "Your bandanna's askew."
Pullit reached up and tugged it into place and smiled sweetly. Pullit could look exceptionally sweet, at times. "What about Kowalski?"
"He's talking, is he? What's he saying?"
Nurse Pullit pulled on a bee-stung lip. "We're not exactly sure about that. It's-it's strange. Tooley says you ought to come and hear it right away."
"He does, huh?"
"Yes, sir. He sent me to fetch you."
Reluctantly, Kelly got to his feet. A drop of warm mud slid down his forehead, down the length of his nose and hung there like a decoration. He followed Nurse Pullit to the hospital bunker, across the dried grass and dusty clearing, staying ten paces behind where he could admire the excellent slimness of the nurse's legs. The white pumps had done well by those legs. All that could improve on them now was a pair of stockings. Perhaps he could bribe the pilot of the supply plane and have some nylons flown in for the nurse. Pullit would appreciate...
He suddenly remembered who Nurse Pullit was: Private Pullit. He decided that, if in a moment of weakness he ever ordered and received those nylons, the best thing to do would be to use a pair of them to strangle himself.
In the hospital bunker where the three dim bulbs cast eerie shadows on the rough plaster walls, where the centipedes ran and water dripped steadily in the black corners, Kowalski was sitting up in bed, his eyes opened wide, his mouth loose. Liverwright, currently the only other patient in the bunker, was standing at the foot of the mad Pole's bed, holding his swollen hip, having temporarily forgotten his own pain, engrossed in the miracle of Kowalski. Lily Kain and Private Tooley flanked the Pole, bent towards him as if he were a wise man whose every word was priceless.
"Sir," Tooley said, looking sideways at Kelly, "you've got mud all over your head."
"I know," Kelly said. "I know." He looked down at the Pole. "What's this bag of shit been saying?" As he spoke, he scanned the ceiling for any nearby centipedes. He did not know why he feared centipedes so much, but he did. Maybe he was afraid that, if they fell on his head, they would kick around and tear out even more of his hair.
Obligingly, though he only addressed the air, Kowalski began to speak. Spittle collected at the corners or his mouth, dribbled down his chin. His lips were like two large, inflated rubber tubes glistening with oil. "Stuka bomber... in darkness... a power glide... concealed approach... people on the bridge... many people... bridge..."
Then Kowalski was silent once more. No one else dared speak, and when the silence was thick enough to cut, Kowalski cut it with a fart.
Lily looked up, lips puckered. Her freckles stood out like flecks of cinnamon on the soft golden tissue of a fresh-baked roll. Kelly wanted to eat her up. "What does he mean?" she asked.
"It almost sounds like a. warning," Tooley said. "As if he were just looking into the future, as if he wants to warn us."
"He's raving," Kelly said. "It's nothing more than that." He felt a new trickle of mud run down his nose, and he wiped it away as inconspicuously as possible.
"But if he's really-"
"First of all, no one ever goes out on the bridge," Kelly said. "You know that. So there couldn't be, as he said, many people on the bridge. The reason no one ever goes out on the bridge is because everyone's afraid of getting bombed." As Tooley tried to speak, the major waved him down and went on: "And the Stukas wouldn't make a special night mission of it. They always come in the daylight."
"If you're sure," Tooley said.
"You can take my word for it," Kelly said.
Kowalski fell back against his pillows, returning to his dumb trance, and crapped on the sheets.
* * *
2
On that night's edition of the Blade and Slade Show, the general told them they would probably come through this war without a single casualty in their unit-aside, of course, from Kowalski. And you never could tell when Kowalski might spontaneously reject the sliver of steel in his brain, thereby insuring complete recovery. That was what the general expected, he confided in Major Kelly: spontaneous rejection. He told the major that people were all the time spontaneously rejecting arthritis and cancer and other dread diseases. There were hundreds upon thousands of cases of spontaneous rejection in medical histories. Why shouldn't Kowalski, then, spontaneously reject his brain damage? If he could see his way clear in this matter, the general said, Kowalski would be doing the general a great service. He would, by spontaneously rejecting that sliver of steel, be vindicating the general's policy in this matter. With Kowalski cured in such a fashion, rescued from certain death, then none of them would die behind enemy lines, because this would be a good omen, a sign, a portent, an assurance. Again, the general promised the major that none of them would die in this war, for they were his favorite men, his own.
"Yes, sir," Major Kelly said.
"I love you guys," General Blade said, choking a little on the line-either because it was a bald-faced lie, or because he actually had deceived himself into thinking he loved them.
"Yes, sir," Major Kelly said.
"Kelly, if that Panzer division actually gets sent your way. if you have to fight those Nazi bastards, I want you to know one important thing. The men who die fighting to keep that bridge erect will not be dying uselessly. They will be dying for a cause, for Truth and Freedom. They will all be long remembered in the American history books and, no doubt, in the hearts of all mankind."
When Major Kelly delicately observed the discrepancy between the general's earlier assurances and his second speech about dying for a cause, the general said the Blade and Slade Show was over for another night.
They were one hundred and eighty-six miles behind German lines.
* * *
3
Several hours later, Major Kelly crawled up from the bottom to the top of the hospital bunker steps and looked out at the few unlighted buildings, the silent machines, and the flat black open spaces of the camp. "It's okay," he whispered. "There's no one around."
Lily appeared at his side, crouching on the steps. She was wearing her made-over fatigues, no shoes. "Are you sure?"
Kelly grimaced. "I'm sure."
"Are you really sure?"
"For Christ's sake," he said, feeling like a fool, "why don't you look for yourself?"
Lily moved up one more step and peeked out at the camp. It was dark and quiet, oddly like a motion-picture studio lot when the filming was done for the day. She tilted her head to one side, listening for footsteps, conversation, laughter... Nothing. "I guess it's okay."
"Of course it is."
"We better go before someone comes along."
Kelly took her hand, helped her up, and ran with her along the riverbank toward the slope by the bridge.
When Major Kelly had the urge to put it to Lily Kain- and, naturally, when Lily Kain was of the mind to have it put to her-he could not satisfy his desires in his own quarters. Major Kelly's quarters were in the HQ building, because the major had decided early to set a good example for his men by refusing to sleep in the bunker by the trees. The men did not know that the major's rejection of the bunker was more paranoid in nature than it was heroic. He feared being buried alive in the bunkers while he slept more than he feared being blasted to bits if the Germans should drop a bomb on the HQ structure. Therefore, he slept well and still managed to look like a hero to the men. Unfortunately for the major's love life, Sergeant Coombs and Lieutenant Slade also made their bunks in the HQ building, separated from the ma
jor's quarters by nothing more than a series of blankets strung on wire. If Kelly and Lily attempted to satisfy their desires in Kelly's quarters, Lieutenant Slade was certain to report them to General Blade, who might very well order the major castrated. Or worse. After all, this was fornication. Besides, the general wanted all the major's energies to be put into the maintenance of the bridge. Kelly also feared that Sergeant Coombs, in a position to watch and listen, might discover that the major was less of a cocksman than himself, and would thereafter be more difficult to discipline.
Lily, of course, slept in the hospital bunker, as did Nurse Pullit and Private Tooley. Kelly had considered the possibilities of the hospital as a temporary den of iniquity. If they pilfered the drug supply, they could put Liverwright or any other patient to sleep, and they wouldn't have to worry about Kowalski observing their love rites. Private Tooley would most likely be generous enough to take a long walk if Kelly threatened to beat his head in. After all, Tooley was a pacifist. But that left Nurse Pullit, and Kelly didn't think for a minute that Nurse Pullit would want to stay. He was afraid Nurse Pullit would say, "Put it to me, too!"