The Wind Is Not a River

by Brian Payton

  “I am sorry we had to cut your schedule short. The men are so grateful—I am so grateful—for what you’ve all done up here. But as you can see, the ground is shifting beneath us. We should have gotten you girls out days ago. Now, what is it I can do for you?”

  “I am here to volunteer my services,” Helen declares. “I want to stay on, help out in the hospital. Please, hear me out. I’ve seen the load your medical staff is under. I’ve spoken with your head nurse, Lieutenant Mayfield, and she says she’d make room for me. I know I can—”

  He raises his hand, with a look of wide-eyed disbelief. “Pardon me, Miss—”

  “I am not a trained nurse, but I can assist. I can clean, make beds. I can help feed and change dressings.” She can hear her own desperation but is unable to stop. “Tell me your doctors can’t use an extra set of hands.”

  The rear admiral caps his fountain pen and sets it aside, ceremoniously. He presses his fingertips together and rests his elbows on the desk. Helen can see a twitch under his left eye.

  “I appreciate your eagerness to serve. But this is the front, and as you can plainly see, we’re not set up for civilians. They’ll welcome you with open arms back in Anchorage or Fairbanks.”

  Helen feels the blush rising in her cheeks, sees her anxiety register in his expression.

  “Wait a minute,” he glares at his watch. “Weren’t you scheduled to fly out, half an hour ago?”

  He reaches for the phone. She interrupts him with a fresh tactic: the better part of the truth.

  “You lost a plane on April first, en route back from Attu.”

  He puts the receiver down.

  “A PBY Catalina flying boat went missing that day with seven men aboard. My husband was on that plane.”

  He leans back in his chair, reconsidering the problem sitting across from him.

  “You have him listed as Lieutenant Warren Easley, RCAF.”

  “Mrs. Easley.” His tone is respectful, patient.

  “Like me, you’re not wearing a wedding ring, so I can’t tell whether you have someone back home waiting for you . . . Someone you love enough to make you do foolish, or improbable things.”

  “I did not know your husband,” he explains. “I am truly sorry for your loss. I can understand your desire to stay, but it’s simply not possible. I must—”

  “There was another crash landing back in January. Those men survived. And I know—”

  “Not another crash landing, Mrs. Easley. That was on Great Sitkin, the island you can see outside that window, twenty-five miles away. Not four hundred and fifty miles down the chain and under the flag of Japan. Your husband’s plane was seen falling into the sea some ten miles east of Attu. If those men somehow survived, you can bet we would have heard about it. The enemy likes to brag about this sort of thing. One of their radio operators speaks perfect English, with a Harvard accent. He taunts our pilots every time they approach Attu.”

  The room is no colder than any other on this island, and yet she is forced to grasp the arms of the chair to keep from shivering.

  The phone rings and he snatches up the receiver, leans forward on the desk.

  “I see,” he says. “No. That will be all.”

  He hangs up, then stands and straightens his jacket. He lifts his coat off the rack and pulls it around his shoulders. He extends his hand to her.

  “Please, let me stay.”

  “Mrs. Easley.”

  “Please.”

  “I would be greatly honored if you’d take my arm. Walk with me.”

  Helen is unable to move.

  He reaches for Helen’s coat, opens it wide to receive her. This act of grace allows her to find her legs, turn, slowly thread her arms through.

  He lifts his elbow and she places her hand in the crook of his arm. Together, they step outside the room. Past the clerk who looks up from behind his desk, out the door, and down the muddy track outside. Alongside bouncing and careening jeeps, and men roused with a newfound sense of purpose. He walks Helen past the barracks and the hangar where they performed, to the edge of the airfield, where returning bombers circle overhead. They approach the plane where Stephen stands smoking his pipe, chatting with members of the crew. Two men climb up inside the aircraft while another pair pull blocks from beneath the wheels. Rear Admiral Styles nods and shakes Stephen’s hand. He shouts something over the general roar. Helen cannot make out the words. She feels a hand placed gently on her back as he turns and walks away.

  NINETEEN

  HIS FIRST POINT OF FOCUS IS THE MUZZLE OF A rifle. The rifle is trained down at Easley’s chest by what appears to be a giant. Thick neck, the bulk and build of a linebacker, eyes of Nordic blue. The soldier nudges Easley with the toe of his boot. He looks frightened, unsure of what to do. Easley rubs his eyes, blinks at the light, trying to get a read on how long he has been unconscious. An hour, perhaps two? His attention is drawn past the giant’s knees to the unbelievable sight beyond: men running across the grass, hauling boxes and guns. They yell and point and look in every direction. A shot echoes somewhere in the mountains.

  “Speak English?” The soldier holds the rifle straight, elbows out, in a state of readiness.

  Easley nods.

  “Where’d they go?”

  “The Japs?”

  The soldier looks over his shoulder. “I got a prisoner here!” he yells to the men behind. Then, reconsidering, asks, “You a prisoner?”

  Easley doesn’t know.

  The number of men who come running now is too large to count. The pairs of green legs surrounding him soon block out the land. Easley sits up and slowly raises his hands. The soldier lowers his rifle a notch and says, to no one in particular, “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

  Gunfire crackles down the beach. Men crouch and hold their helmets in place. When the firing stops, some of them jog away. Finally, someone says, “Search him.”

  “You hurt?” the soldier asks. “You look like shit.”

  Easley considers his own appearance: filthy beard, mangy hair, the thinness of his arms and legs. “My feet,” he says. “They’re pretty well shot.”

  The soldier looks at the mud-soaked and bandaged feet, then glances over his shoulder again like he should probably be someplace else. Finally, he says, “This is what we’re gonna do.”

  A soft-looking medic pushes past the linebacker. Soaked to the armpits, he must have just waded ashore. He appears as frightened and confused as the rest. Late teens, face plump with baby fat, cheeks of ruddy pink. He tells the others to carry on, which they do, then he pulls out his medical bag. He opens a fresh pack of gauze without giving much thought to the injuries. When he realizes that he’s getting ahead of himself, he looks at Easley’s feet—then sits back on his haunches.

  “What are you doing here? What happened to you?”

  “Better start with my feet.”

  The medic unravels the wool, then promptly leans over to retch. He heaves a few times, but nothing much comes up. Likely, he left his lunch back on the deck of his ship. He wipes his mouth, then looks round to make sure no one else has seen. “Sorry. I think I’m going into shock.”

  “Why don’t you sit down for a minute or two,” Easley says.

  The medic ignores this and quickly packs his bag. “Can you walk?”

  “Think so.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Can’t feel a thing.”

  “You shouldn’t walk. I’ll carry you.”

  The medic slings his bag over his shoulder and stands beside Easley. He doesn’t look strong enough to manage it.

  “Put your arms round my neck.”

  Easley does as he’s told and the medic scoops him up. It smells as if he’s bathed in fuel. The ease with which he’s being whisked away makes Easley wonder how much of himself he has left behind.

  Everywhere soldiers run and crouch, set up equipment in spongy rye. A gang tries to push a tractor out of the mud. It traveled up from the beach, then promptl
y sank under its own weight in the bog. Some men scan the hills with binoculars and rifles, others run between hills with pistols drawn, like clueless cops in a gangster film. Most wear thin jackets and leather boots—they haven’t dressed for the weather. Hundreds whisk past shouting, pointing, stumbling as the fog lowers down over the harbor. The medic stops, then yells to another man who comes rushing over directly. They each get under one of Easley’s shoulders and hook their free hands together to form a seat. Easley rides like royalty across the land.

  They travel along the beach near Easley’s cave. Ungainly boats beach themselves, then lower landing bridges down onto the sand. Men gush forth like blood from a new wound. Once ashore, they crouch with their hands out like wrestlers, ready for action. Easley fights to stay awake.

  The pudgy medic and his mate lay Easley down in a cluster of litters and crates that form the beginnings of a field hospital, then they’re promptly sent away. A jolt passes through Easley’s body as he remembers the tea tin and the treasures it contains. Somehow, it got left behind where he fell.

  “My pack.” Easley nearly rolls over, struggling to get up. “I’ve gotta go back and get it.”

  “Lie down, buddy.” This senior medic looks to be either Spanish or Turkish, some class of Mediterranean. His beard can’t be much further along than a couple of days but is already coming in solid and blue. He seems to be in charge.

  “I need my pack.”

  “You’re gonna lie down.” The medic leans over a litter where another man winces in pain. Easley decides he’s Greek.

  “It’s all I’ve got.”

  The Greek calls another man over to help, then wipes his hands on his thighs. He gets up and walks over to Easley.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “John Easley.”

  “Rank?”

  He will no longer play his brother’s part. “None.”

  “POW?”

  “No.”

  “They do this to you?”

  He kneels down and grasps Easley’s thin arm, pulls up his shirt, runs fingers across the ribs inspecting his emaciated frame. “Sweet mother of Christ! How are you still alive?” he says. “When was the last time you ate?”

  “My pack. It’s got all my things. Things that don’t belong to me. Please. It’s not far.”

  “Lie down.”

  The Greek makes a pillow of an empty duffle bag and shoves it behind Easley’s head. He inspects Easley’s feet and recoils in disgust. Next, he reaches into a carton and pulls out a syringe and vial. He draws fluid through the needle then gives it a tap. He unbuckles Easley’s trousers and pushes him over on his side. A cold trickle of alcohol washes over his hip and where his ass used to be. The Greek rubs the site with cotton, throws it aside, then repeats the procedure again and again. Finally, he plunges the needle in. He hikes Easley’s trousers back up and says, “Get some sleep. We’ll have food here by tonight. We’ll get to those legs soon enough.”

  Gunfire in the foothills draws everyone’s attention, momentarily.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my legs,” Easley says. “My feet are a little numb.”

  “Sure.”

  “Promise you’ll get my pack.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “There’s cash. You can keep all the money. Please. Just . . . please.”

  The Greek tosses a blanket over Easley and walks away. Everyone scrambles and shouts. There seems to be no direction or plan. On the adjacent litter, a man mumbles the rosary. The rain starts up and yet Easley feels incredibly warm.

  WHEN HE COMES TO AGAIN, there’s a tent overhead and an Army major staring down into his face. The major looks impatient and exhausted. The Greek has hold of Easley’s wrist, reading his pulse. Easley’s eyelids droop again but the major shakes his shoulder.

  “Where are they?”

  The man means the Japanese. Easley strains to see through the billowing fog inside his brain. They were here, now they’re not. He recalls the figures traveling in a line up into the mountains.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you see them leave?”

  “No. But they must have known . . . you were coming. Saw some of them heading up into the snow . . . They were all . . . dressed in white.”

  “How long you been out here?”

  “Since . . . the first.”

  “Of May?”

  “April. April Fool’s.”

  The major trades glances with the Greek. “What did you tell them?”

  “Never talked to them. I was hiding in a cave . . .” Easley looks down but can sense nothing below his knees. It is as if his feet belong to another man. “I killed one,” he declares, glad of the chance to finally speak the truth. “Then I came to turn myself in, but they were already gone.”

  Easley can see out the front of the tent. It’s dusk now and the color has gone out of the light. The gunfire is steady and seems to be coming from the mountains, but he can’t be sure. The major appears suspicious, eager for much more information. Easley would start at the beginning, tell him every last thing, if he could only find the words.

  The major’s lips move, but Easley can’t make out what he’s being told. It’s as if he’s listening underwater. The major takes off his helmet, scratches his scalp, then covers his head again. As he speaks to the Greek, Easley watches their chins bob up and down until he can watch no more.

  * * *

  WHEN EASLEY AWAKES AGAIN, a sudden movement catches his eye. A man picks up an empty wooden crate and hoists it high overhead, scraping the ceiling of the tent in the process. He carries the crate between rows of litters, then lands it in the mud next to Easley. In place of gloves, he appears to wear socks on his hands. Next, he makes a trip to the stove, returns with a steaming bowl, then sits down on the crate. With front teeth, he pulls the sock from his right hand then drapes it over his knee. The newly freed hand spoons up a mound of mush.

  At least one night has passed, of this Easley can be certain. The pain is now centered deep between his eyes. The light hurts, as does turning his head. The man scoops, then holds the spoon near Easley’s mouth and waits.

  “It’s my feet,” Easley says. “There’s nothing wrong with the rest of me.”

  Easley’s own hand emerges from underneath the blankets and reaches for the spoon. It is a struggle to sit up. The man sees Easley’s trouble and sticks the spoon in his own mouth. He quickly takes a second bite, sets the bowl on the ground, then wads a blanket behind Easley’s shoulders. Unsatisfied with the result, the man finds another blanket and props Easley even higher. He helps himself to yet another bite of porridge before Easley reaches up and grabs the bowl away.

  “You’re one lucky bastard.” Chapped lips, stubbled brown hair. Gray shadows below his eyes make him look like an addict. “Wounded get special rations. You’re classed as wounded.” He pulls the sock back over his hand.

  Easley takes a bite of porridge. Warm oats, sugar, salt, salvation.

  Although the headache does not abate with the introduction of food, Easley knows it is important that he finish. It is all he can do to remain upright.

  A grenade goes off in the distance. It is the first sign of war Easley has heard all morning—if indeed this is still morning. He turns in the direction of the blast, but the wall of canvas limits vision to a matter of feet.

  Easley’s new companion does not flinch, doesn’t seem to hear a thing. “How long you been here?” He retrieves the empty bowl, then pours a cup of water from a canteen. He hands it to Easley.

  “Month and a half, I’m told.”

  “And you weren’t captured.”

  Easley shakes his head.

  “You’re not military . . .”

  “Journalist, of a sort.” Overcome, Easley lies back down again.

  “That so. Well, have I got a story for you.” The man moves the crate closer to Easley’s head. “Tell them the Seventh Infantry Division trained in desert combat for North Africa, then got shipped to the opposite
end of the world. Tell ’em they gave us shitty clothes that don’t keep you warm or dry. Tell ’em they didn’t bring enough food and that no one seems to know what the hell they’re doing. But I guess nobody wants to read about that.”

  The Greek looks up from four litters away, bandaging another man’s head. “No one promised you a vacation. Spare us your complaints.”

  The man jumps to his feet. He snatches up the canteen and marches past a dozen other litters, out the tent and into the light.

  It is then Easley notices the corner of his pack peaking out from under his litter. There is a surge of elation, followed by a sudden drop as it occurs to him that he had forgotten Tatiana. Surrounded again by other people, he can no longer sense her presence.

  Easley closes his eyes to the rise and fall of adjacent conversations, the rhythm of boots passing by outside, the percussion of artillery fire in the mountains beyond. He falls into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  THE VERY GROUND betrays him. He remains stretched out, and yet levitates away from the earth. It is a struggle to open his eyes. When he does, he focuses on the inverted jowl of the same pudgy medic who first picked him up and carried him to safety. The back and shoulders of the Greek are visible down at his feet. In between, Easley sways on his litter. He is back outside again.

  The fog falls on his face in atomized mist. They are moving him someplace else, but where he cannot say. His stomach seems full, but the memory of porridge feels several days old. Another trick of the mind? Since his deliverance, Easley has felt himself continue to sink as his body grows weaker. The medic gestures with his chin and they set Easley’s litter on the ground, then quickly walk away.