Hanging On

by Dean Koontz

  Kelly slapped his clothes, brushing off the chalky dust that made him look a bit like Boris Karloff as The Mummy. "That must be an exaggeration. This-"

  "Is the worst thing that's ever happened to me," Slade insisted, his mouth drawn so far down at the corners that his lips seemed in danger of catching under his chin. "It's proof the men don't respect me."

  Major Kelly was surprised by Slade's tone. It was full of human anguish, suffering, and sensitivity which Kelly had thought a pig like Slade would be incapable of. Incredibly, he felt a surge of compassion for the lieutenant. "Nonsense, Slade. The men do respect you."

  "No, they don't."

  "Sure, they do."

  "No," Slade said. "Behind my back, they call me The Snot." Shining tears hung at the corners of Slade's eyes.

  "Nobody calls you that."

  "Sure, they do."

  "Well, maybe they do," Kelly said. "But they mean it affectionately."

  "You're lying," Slade said, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "If they cared about me, respected me, they would have returned their questionnaires."

  Kelly suddenly realized that he knew nothing about the lieutenant. Though they had been together in Britain before D-Day, had surely exchanged past histories, the major could remember none of that. All he could remember about Slade was what he had discovered after they were dropped behind German lines... Furthermore, this eerie gap in his memory was not precipitated by his loathing of the man. Indeed, he realized he could not remember anything basic and personal about any of his men. Why? Why should he have forgotten all that was good to know about them-while retaining only the knowledge of their foibles and insanities? But he knew... It was not good to be intimate with war buddies. You could not afford to make friends. Making friends, you lost them... You had to know their foibles and neuroses, because you had to know how to protect yourself from them. Judging from the behavior of the men since the unit had been parachuted in here weeks ago, they too had come to understand the joys and benefits of friendlessness. They had escaped from the responsibilities of friendship, escaped into drinking, gambling, insanity.

  "What will I tell General Blade?" Slade asked, snuffling. "I'll be humiliated!"

  The trickle of compassion Kelly had begun to feel when Slade cried now swelled into a torrent. He put his arm around Slade's shoulder and began to walk with him along the service road, in the shadows of the pines and sycamores. "I'll talk to the men, Richard." It was wise to have no friends to lose to the war, but Kelly now saw there was a point where isolation and distrust were more damaging than valuable. "I'll make sure they fill out their forms."

  "Would you?" Slade asked, nearly quivering with pleasure.

  Kelly smiled. "Richard, we have got to be more open with each other. Any time you have a complaint, you come right to me with it. Don't let it fester." They went past a group of workers who were taking a twenty-minute lunch break, and Kelly gave them the thumbs-up sign. They looked at him as if he were an institutional case, but he failed to notice. He was brimming with camaraderie and compassion. "It's time we tried to know each other, Richard."

  "I do have another complaint," Slade admitted. "You want to hear it?"

  "Of course! Don't let it fester!"

  They left the service road and walked down the street that was parallel to the bridge road. Workmen were erecting several skinny outhouses and laying the platforms for nunneries and for a deaf-mute school.

  "Well," Slade said, "I think we should stop trying to hide from the Germans."

  "Oh?"

  "We should stand and fight," Slade said. He was encouraged by Kelly's attitude, by the major's arm around his shoulders. "It's cowardly to hide." Maybe Kelly had come to his senses and would act like an adult. Maybe there was no longer any need to kill him and assume command. "We should fortify the clearing and blast the hell out of those krauts. We have handguns. Maurice could supply a mortar or two."

  "A mortar or two."

  "I'm aware we'd all be killed," Slade said. "But think of the history we'll make! They'll know all about us back in the States! We'll be heroes!"

  Kelly stopped walking and dropped his arm from Slade's shoulder.

  Slade stopped a couple of paces ahead of the major. "Right, sir? Isn't it sick and cowardly to hide? Shouldn't we fight like men? Don't you agree?"

  Kelly sucked in a deep breath. "You're an asshole, Slade," he shouted, his voice growing louder by the word. "You're an idotic, simpleminded emotional and mental wreck!" He could not imagine how he could have forgotten the Slade who had shot that German soldier in the back of the head, or the Slade who thought war was glorious, or the Slade who read the Army field manual for relaxation. "You're insane, Slade! You're a monomaniac, a fiend, a myth-enthralled child, a monster!"

  "I thought you wanted to be friendly," Slade said, his face ashen.

  "Fuck friendliness!" Kelly roared.

  "You were going to be warm and understanding."

  "Fuck warmth and understanding!" the major screamed, spittle flecking his chin. He stomped his foot as if he had just squashed those virtues under his heel. "I want to be cold, hostile, isolated! I don't want to hear your fucking complaints. You're a creep, Slade. Everybody loathes you!"

  "I'll get you for this," Slade said. "So help me-"

  "You're an imbecile, Slade!" Kelly screamed, red in the face now.

  Slade turned and ran, arms out in front of him like a comic-book character fleeing a grisly, risen corpse. The workmen stopped working to watch him go.

  "And another thing!" Kelly shouted, doubled over as if suffering cramps. "No more messing around with that questionnaire! We don't have time for that shit! We have four days! Four days, and we need every minute of them for serious business!"

  Slade scrambled over a slight rise, then down the river-bank, out of sight. He was probably just going to sulk in a patch of cat-o'-nine-tails. Dreamer that he was, Kelly hoped Slade intended to drown himself.

  Drained, Kelly turned abruptly and walked into Angelli and Pullit. Without a word of apology, emptied of words now, the major pushed past them. A dozen long strides later he stopped, turned, suddenly conscious of the anomaly he had just seen. Pullit and Angelli were walking hand-in-hand. Kelly remembered what Tooley had said: Angelli was romancing the nurse; he had fallen for her...

  "Private Angelli!" he called. When the loving couple turned, Kelly said, "Come here, Private." He hoped he sounded stern.

  Vito and the nurse exchanged a few brief words. He kissed the nurse on the cheek, and Pullit hurried off toward the hospital bunker.

  "Yes, sir?" Angelli asked, walking back to the major. He was not wearing a shirt. His slim, brown torso was sweat-slicked-and decorated with what seemed to be a fresh tattoo: two letters, N and P. They were done in blue and red, and they were so fresh that the swelling had not yet gone down.

  Kelly looked sideways at Angelli, as if he were ready to turn and run if the private made a wrong move. "Uh... what's this about you and Nurse Pullit being... well... having a-romance?"

  "Isn't she perfect?" Angelli asked, grinning winningly.

  Kelly winced. "She's not a she. She's a he. Angelli, what is going on here?"

  "I think I love her," Angelli said, as if he had not heard Kelly's news. Or did not believe it.

  "Pullit is a him," Kelly insisted. "Look, this is-sick. Vito, I know that some of the men have gotten strange since the pressure was put on, but this is too much. It's too far. You have to get over this."

  "I'll never get over her," Angelli said, dreamily, smiling just the way that Beame had smiled when talking about Nathalie Jobert.

  "Vito, we have four days or so to build this town. That means we need full and enthusiastic cooperation between us and the French. There are only three people who can generate that cooperation: Maurice, me, and you. I need you to keep the largest French work crew on the ball. And this morning, you weren't with them. You were romancing-Pullit."

  Angelli was hard-muscled, scrappy, not at all in lin
e with Major Kelly's picture of a pervert. Yet he sighed and said, "I wish I could speak French. It's the language of love"

  Major Kelly backed up a few feet. "Look here, Vito. I'm ordering you to stay away from Nurse Pullit. You will be severely punished, maybe even court-martialed, if you go near the nurse."

  Angelli's face fell. He touched the swollen letters on his chest. "But I might lose her if I'm not persistent."

  "Good," Kelly said. "Now, get back to your work crew. For Christ's sake, man, the Germans moved ten miles closer while you two were strolling around, holding hands, mooning over each other! Move your ass!"

  The labor strike came at four o'clock that afternoon.

  Major Kelly was up in the framing beams of what would soon be the second level of the rectory, inspecting the joists and the angle braces. Most of the men around him were his own, for this job required nearly all skilled labor. He was not, therefore, immediately aware of the cessation of work noises in the rest of the camp.

  Lyle Fark brought the news. "Major!" he called from the bridge road in front of the would-be rectory. "Major Kelly!"

  Kelly crawled along the grid of wooden beams and looked down at Fark. "What is it, Private?"

  The Tennessean was unnaturally agitated. "You've got to come down. That Maurice is losing his mind. He's called a labor strike!"

  Kelly just leaned out over the skeleton of the rectory and stared at Fark, unmoving, unable to speak.

  "Do you understand, sir?" Fark shuffled his feet. Dust rose around him.

  "A strike," Kelly said. "A work stoppage."

  "Yes, sir. He says his people aren't getting paid enough."

  "My people are not getting paid enough," Maurice said.

  He had gathered all one hundred French workers at the bridge. They were climbing onto the three flatbed German trucks which they now used to shuttle to and from Eisenhower. They were jabbering and laughing.

  "They've taken everything we've got. You've milked us dry already!" Kelly said, pulling on a pair of imaginary udders.

  "Not at all," Maurice said. "You still have a great deal which my people could use." He made a long face. "I have just realized how much you and your men have, and how little you are paying my poor people to save your skins. It seems I must now reopen negotiations if work on the village is to continue."

  "But what can you want?" Kelly asked. He was ready to give up anything, even the clothes on his back. "I'll even save my shit and package it as manure," he told The Frog. "Anything!" That imaginary thunder of Panzer-tread grew even louder, the thump of marching feet close behind...

  "If you can't see what is left for you to pay us with," Maurice said, scratching his hairy, bloated stomach which peeped out between halves of his shirt, "then perhaps you need some time to think." He turned toward the trucks, then back to the major. "And there is one other thing. Besides an increase in pay for my people, I want you to obtain for me a written guarantee from this Lieutenant Beame of yours. I want him to swear in writing that he will not attempt to court my daughter." Maurice hunched his shoulders and balled his fists at his sides. "I will not have my daughter used by a soldier."

  As the last of the Frenchmen got onto the trucks, Kelly said. "This is ridiculous. Look, can't you wait until we can talk-"

  Maurice was adamant. "I do not believe you will negotiate in good faith until you realize I am serious about this work stoppage."

  "You're wrong!" Kelly declared, throwing his hands up. "I'll negotiate in the very best of faith. I'll do anything! You can have my teeth for piano keys!"

  "I do not want your teeth," Maurice said. "You have much more to offer."

  "But what?" Kelly asked. "You've got two hundred bucks from each of us. And you're going to get a toll-booth-"

  "The very fact that you cannot imagine what to give us is proof that you will not bargain seriously at this time," The Frog said, turning, walking away, climbing into the cab of the first track.

  The three vehicles started up. Smoke plumed from the tail pipes.

  As the first track started for the bridge, Nathalie Jobert jumped off the bed of the last one and ran the few steps to Kelly. She grabbed his hands and held them tightly. "Monsieur, please do not hate my people because of my father. Do not even hate him. He is more bluff than fight. He will be back tomorrow, and he will help you build your village if you'll only give him the bulldozer and the shortwave radio. That is all he wants. In fact, he will not even hold put for that written guarantee from David."

  "He can have the shortwave radio," Kelly said. "But I don't see how I can give him the dozer. That's Danny Dew's virility symbol, and he won't take kindly to my giving it away. You know, I need Danny. I can't finish the village without him."

  "But the dozer and radio are all that will satisfy my father, Major." She let go of his hands and returned to the last track, which was waiting for her. She jumped onto the bed, sat with her long legs dangling over the lowered tailgate.

  "Anything but the dozer," Kelly said.

  She shook her head. Her black hair spread out like a silk fan, folded up. "I wish I could help. But that is all my father would take."

  The truck started away. It entered the bridge. Crossed the bridge. Went around the bend on the other side. Out of sight.

  * * *

  6

  "We should send a commando squad into Eisenhower tonight and kill that crazy frog bastard," Sergeant Coombs said.

  Major Kelly ignored the sergeant's suggestion.

  Instead, he gave the men a pep talk. And he tried to flog them into accomplishing their own work and that of the Frenchmen now on strike. He doubled job assignments. Mind racing feverishly, he looked for and found and implemented all tolerable shortcuts in their construction procedures. He cut the supper break down to fifteen minutes. He stalked from one end of the clearing to the other, doing his Patton imitation: badgering, cajoling, screaming, shaking his fist in the faces of the goldbrickers, joshing, berating, threatening...

  "If we don't get our little religious community built before the Germans get here, we're finished," Kelly told them. "They have rifles, pistols, automatic pistols, cannons, ack-ack guns, grenades, submachine guns, mortar, flamethrowers, tanks... They'll grind us into fish meal. Any of you want to be made into fish meal? Huh? Any of you?"

  None of the men wanted to be ground into fish meal. They worked hard, then harder, and finally hardest.

  A three-man search party went looking for Lieutenant Beame when Kelly learned that the junior officer had not shown up at his work assignment after lunch. Beame was supposed to be guiding the blueprinting and initial construction of the church tower, a job only he or Kelly was qualified to do. But he was missing, and his men were idle... Half an hour after they set out, the searchers came back with the lieutenant. They had located him on a grassy knoll in the woods where he had been lying on his back, looking at the sky and daydreaming.

  "What's the matter with you?" Kelly demanded of Beame. "You're the only man here besides me who can do this sort of planning. You're the only other full engineer. I need you, Beame. You can't go wandering off into the woods-"

  "I can't stop thinking about her," Beame said. "Nothing else matters except her. And he won't let me see her..." He looked like a sad clown.

  "Who?" Kelly asked. "Who's he and who's she?"

  "Maurice is he. Nathalie is she. I love her, but he won't let me near her."

  "Love can get you killed," Kelly told him. "I order you to stop loving her. Get on the ball, Beame! Don't desert me now."

  Kelly also had to keep an eye on Angelli, who kept trying to sneak away to see Nurse Pullit. Vito was one of the few men quick and limber enough to slip around on high beam frames, troubleshooting connections and looking for flaws in supports and braces. He was vital, even when there were no Frenchmen for him to oversee. And now when their chances were evaporating like water in a teakettle, he was playing the love-sick schoolboy. Even when he was working, Vito was, like Beame, in such a state of longing th
at he could accomplish only a third of the work he should have done.

  When night came, they worked on, though they ordinarily would have stopped and called it quits until dawn. There was not much that could be done in complete darkness. If they used enough lanterns to throw sufficient light on their work, they risked becoming targets for Allied and German planes. Tonight, they compromised. Kelly allowed the use of half the lanterns they needed-which provided just enough light to attract the dreaded bombers but not enough to permit efficient labor.

  Finally, at 10:30, Tooley came to see the major. The pacifist was pale, sweaty, filthy, exhausted. His ropy muscles did not look so formidable as they always had before. His thick neck seemed to be made of rubber and was supporting his head with difficulty. "Let them stop, Major! For God's sake, be merciful!"

  "The Germans are coming. We can't stop. We're dead if we do!"

  Tooley shook his head. It was almost more effort than he could endure. "They're so tired and terrified of attracting night planes that they aren't getting anything done, anyway. And if you expect them to achieve anything tomorrow, you have to let them rest tonight."

  Kelly knew the pacifist was right. "Dammit!" He sighed. "Okay. It's all useless anyway. It's a fairy tale. It can't be real. Tell them to knock off. We couldn't finish it in time even if they worked twenty-four hours a day."

  By eleven o'clock, the camp was dark and still. Rushing silently westward, marshmallow mountains of cumulus clouds obscured the moon and stars. The shadows had all run together in one inky pool. A few tent flaps rustled in the variable wind which had sprung up halfheartedly from the east, and the crickets chirruped softly and intermittently in the nearby woods.

  Neither the wind nor the crickets was sufficient to rouse the men. Those not yet asleep soon would be, when weariness became greater than fear.

  The roof was off the main bunker, and none of the men could see much sense in sleeping in a roofless bunker. It would be like wearing a bulletproof vest made of cardboard, or like wearing cotton galoshes in a rainstorm, or like dating your own sister. Therefore, they had put up the tents, most of them precisely large enough to accommodate two men in complete discomfort, though a few-like Major Kelly's-were spacious. Because they were temporary and did not deserve much planning time, the tent rows were haphazardly drawn, an intriguing maze that confused and confounded everyone. The pegs were makeshift and poorly wedged, while the taut guide ropes made a treacherous tangle in the darkness. Still, the tents were better than the roofless bunker. As Kelly had said, "As long as you can't see the sky, you can pretend that you're shielded by sheets of steel. You can pretend the tent is made of heavy armor. You can trick yourself into sleeping better."