The Cloud Atlas

by David Mitchell

  That's when you start digging. Down a story or more, depending on the soil and the weight of the bomb. When you're not digging, you're timbering, to keep the hole from collapsing. To prevent anything from exploding too soon, everybody's using special, nonmagnetic tools and wearing cloth shoes without metal eyelets and belts without buckles-or that's what they were always doing in the training films.

  Lit cigarettes are forbidden, obviously. They dangle from everyone's lips.

  When you've finally gotten the ugly squat cockroach of a thing all exposed, you climb-carefully-back out, and call for an officer. He dusts off his hands (he's been eating, watching, trying to radio someone who can tell him more about where this bomb came from). Then he grabs his tools and goes down, taking his knowledge with him.

  But you couldn't dig too many holes without learning a thing or two about bomb disposal yourself, and smart officers-older officers-always welcomed input from their crews.

  AUGUST 1944. A B-17 is returning from a practice bombing run in the California desert. The story goes that they had had a lousy day on the test range, missing targets left and right. Then again, they may have been just holding their skills in reserve, because they hit their last target dead-on.

  Officially, it was an accident. Unofficially, it was a miracle, because there's really no other explanation for a bomb falling into the middle of the Japanese-American Relocation Camp at Manzanar without killing anyone. It fell through the roof of a small building that was housing some recently arrived ceramics equipment. The equipment was destroyed-a true silver lining for internees who hadn't been looking forward to the prospect of the make-work pottery program, devoted to crafting lumpy ashtrays and bowls-but the bomb failed to explode. All five hundred pounds of it managed to drill through two packing cases, the pallet beneath, and continue on fourteen feet deeper into the arid soil beneath the floor.

  My Aberdeen classmates and I had the misfortune of being relatively nearby, stationed just south of San Francisco at Fort Ord, waiting to be dispersed across the Pacific. Someone somewhere looked at a readiness roster, realized he had a BD crew in his backyard, and sent us off to put our newly completed training to use. It must have seemed ideal. Give some new guys a real challenge, with relatively low risks: it was our own bomb, right? Something we knew inside out? And ultimately, what's the worst that could happen? Some trainees die, maybe take a few Japanese with them.

  Our detail numbered eight. A lieutenant, sergeant, plus six of us who didn't know any better, and so were excited, almost giddy at the prospect of our first real job. The lieutenant was young, but again, that was to be expected in our line of work.

  You did not expect the officer to be skittish, or for his eyes to be red-rimmed, even watery, but who knows where the lieutenant had been the night before. And you definitely didn't expect him to have a tremor in his hand, but no one else seemed to notice that, so I kept quiet. When it came time, after all, he'd be the one down in the hole, alone.

  The sergeant, Redes, was the oldest of the group by far. He had plenty of experience but wasn't much interested in sharing it. He had just rotated stateside from France, and would only snort and roll his eyes if you asked him about his time there.

  Before we arrived, camp security evacuated the affected area, save for a few internees left in our care, “in case there's any dirty work.” Sergeant Redes took one look at them and then ordered them to guard the area's perimeter. “For starters, don't let that security officer back in here,” he told them.

  The hardest part came first. It was obvious where the bomb had fallen-the partially destroyed building was a solid clue, even to guys as new at the job as we were-but it wasn't so obvious where the bomb was now. Inside, amidst the wrecked equipment, or burrowed in the ground well beneath? Ordnance locators detected nothing around the perimeter; the bomb had to be directly under the building. The lieutenant and Redes talked for a while, and then Redes came over to us. Clear out the pottery equipment, he said, but slowly. “Don't go banging around in there,” he said. “Pretend the whole building is a bomb.” Then he lit a cigarette, while we all stood and watched him. “We're going to do this today, girls,” he said, and stared at us until we moved.

  The work went slowly, even more slowly than the sergeant or the lieutenant would have liked, but since they'd told us to be cautious, they must have felt they couldn't rush us. Once we'd moved out all the equipment and packing material without finding anything, we tore up what remained of the floor. Still nothing. Glad to discover the building wasn't sitting on a cement slab, we started digging.

  We were at it for one hour, and then two, and when the third began, we'd lost almost all sense of the bomb-we were just here to dig, and keep digging until we were told to stop.

  Clink.

  I knew infantry guys who would always claim the bullet, or shell, or bomb that was actually going to hit you had a different sound, different from the bullets that whizzed by safely, I suppose. But in bomb disposal, there was only that one sound- clink, the sound of a shovel or pick gone too far-and if you herd it, you usually weren't around afterward to describe the experience in detail. Of course, the other reason you almost never heard it was because experienced bomb disposal men were more careful than I-probing first, then digging, probing, digging, never just diving in. I'd been probing, I promise. I'd been cautious.

  It wasn't that loud a clink.

  But this was a bomb that would not go off. It had fallen thousands of feet from a plane, it had broken through a roof and a floor and a mess of equipment for making pots, and it wasn't going to explode just because some trainee had nicked it with a shovel. It was designed for rough handling, after all-it had to survive transport from the factory, loading onto the airplane, and whatever rough weather the plane encountered.

  Still, a bomb's patience was usually about spent by the time guys like us found it. So after my clink, none of us breathed, none of us moved, and none of us said anything, until someone weakly said, Sarge…

  Redes was in the doorway above us before the sound had left the air. “Who's the dipshit trying to get us killed?”

  I suppose I could have put down the shovel and pretended it was someone else, but I was still motionless, scared.

  “Belk,” Redes said.

  “I was being careful, sir,” I said, though I wasn't sure I had been.

  “‘Careful’?” To our great relief, he started climbing down into the hole. He wasn't scared. “Jesus, Belk,” he said at the bottom. “ ‘Careful’? What do we say?”

  I wasn't smiling then, but I'm smiling now, because we said what Lily said.

  We said: careful and correct.

  Though Redes hadn't said much since joining our unit, he'd said enough that we knew this was a favorite phrase. I'd heard half a dozen instructors say it, but Redes made it his own through repetition and embellishment: you could be as careful as you wanted, he'd always say, but if you didn't follow procedures correctly, you could still blow yourself up-with great care. I should have been paying more attention. Watching the soil, stopping to test with the probe.

  “Careful and correct,” I said.

  “Correct,” Redes said. “Since you're the whiz kid, you've earned the prize of finishing this job off. The rest of you, out. Belk, finish exposing the bomb.”

  The rest of the gang climbed out, delighted to get away from the bomb and the sergeant's wrath.

  Sergeant Redes descended and watched me dig for a minute or two before he spoke. “I did the same thing, you know. ‘Clink.’” He looked up out of the hole and shook his head.

  I thought he would get mad if I stopped digging, but I did anyway. “Did your sergeant get mad?” I asked.

  “I was the sergeant,” he said. “Last day before I left France. Right in the middle of the town square. Ten yards, maybe, from the front door of the church, which was a thousand years old or something. Everybody from my lieutenant to the monsignor to some passing colonel looking on, watching the experienced sergeant do his
work. Clink”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. Same as here.” He bent down, ran his hands lightly over the bomb, and let out a long breath before muttering, “This is odd.” He studied it for a minute more, agreed with himself about something, and then said, “You know the lieutenant's got a sister?”

  I didn't, but I knew enough about army life to brace myself for something coarse.

  “Redhead,” he said. “So I hear. Showed me her picture, black and white. Pretty. I suppose the lieutenant's a little red up top, too.” He turned to look at me. “That's the thing of it. They were twins, he tells me. Boy-girl twins. Whaddya call that?”

  I shook my head, and he turned back to the bomb.

  “So she's a WAC nurse,” he said. “Was. Died Monday. Italy. Jeep. Land mine.”

  “That's-hard,” I said, and Redes waited for me to say something more, something adequate.

  When I didn't, he turned back to the bomb. “They're not giving him leave till the end of the month. That's hard. Now give me a hand here.” Redes had both hands on the bomb and was trying to roll it back toward him. We steadied it, and then he paused and looked out of the hole.

  “You're my best student, you know,” he said. “Or were.” He smiled. Then the lieutenant called his name, and Redes told me to wait. He climbed up to the lip of the hole and told the lieutenant that he needed just a few more minutes to finish clearing the site. Then he came back down to the bottom of the pit, excited.

  “So let's finish your training, whaddya think?” he said quickly. “What do we do next?”

  “We, well, let's see. I go and get a couple of sticks of C2 or C3, run some blasting wire back clear of the fragmentation zone, hook it up to the blasting machine.” I could see the little pages of my training manual flutter past in my head.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Redes said.

  “I'm sorry, the, uh, fifty-cap blasting machine,” I said. “I think.”

  “The what? Let's call it what it is, soldier. You're talking about the little box, with the plunger you push down and make everything go boom?” I nodded my head. “That's the hell box, right? Don't bother telling me they taught you something else in your fancy little school.” I nodded again. “Okay,” he said. “That's a lovely plan. But what's the problem with it?”

  I was still stuck on hell box, so his question caught me off guard. “Not enough wire?”

  Redes looked at me and then rubbed his hands together, slowly. “Right, not enough wire. Belk, there's not enough wire in the world for this job. The problem with that plan is, we blow this bomb where it is, we flatten the camp, which, since it looks like it's built with balsa wood, we could probably level with a couple of lit farts, for that matter. In any case, that all means we take care of the problem here.” He pointed to the bomb. “So let's get started. There's something extremely strange about this bomb. What is it?”

  I looked at it for a long time. It didn't look strange. It looked just like the bombs in the manual, markings and all. I shrugged.

  “Where's the fuze pocket?”

  I relaxed, glad to be back on familiar ground. This question was easy. Like most guys, I'd come into the bomb disposal squad thinking the business end of the bomb was always the nose, but that wasn't the case. Sometimes the fuze was in a cylinder, or pocket, embedded in the middle, as it was here.

  “Right there,” I said, pointing to the middle. “Transverse fuzing. German specialty.” Sergeant Redes looked at me and waited. I waited, too, pleased with my vocabulary. And then I gasped. “This is a German bomb, Sergeant? The Nazis are- Sergeant? Oh my God.” I was breathless; a German air raid over California?

  Only now did Redes look concerned. “Not so loud, Belk. You already tried to set the bomb off, let's not try to set the camp gossips off, too.” He squatted. “The truth-according to the lieutenant, who radioed the airfield-is that they've been using some captured Nazi ordnance out on the test range. Why waste good American ammo, and so on. Though the lieutenant doesn't quite buy that, and neither do I- for starters, they'd have the wrong damn charging shackles, though that's probably a good thing, because the condensers wouldn't-well. I'm guessing there's a pilot and crew who are going to have a hell of an interesting debriefing.”

  A German bomb. I stared at it. I read the papers; we had the Germans on the run. We'd landed in Normandy that June. We were going to win in Europe; I knew it. I thought everyone did. And yet here I was, in the middle of California, staring at a German bomb.

  “But this is good news,” said Redes. “Right? Because this is all I've seen for the past year or so, and it was probably all over your classroom, too, right?”

  It certainly was. I could see the training films in my head.

  If you had the right tool-and Redes did, I was surprised to see, a funny kind of two-pin wrench-you could unscrew the keep ring and access the fuze pocket. Then you could remove the fuze. You weren't quite done, of course. The fuze was its own kind of mini-bomb; screwed onto one end of it was a doughnut-shaped gaine, which was what provided the initial charge. Once you'd unscrewed the gaine, you could breathe a little easier. The fuze without the gaine was a like a gun without a trigger, and a bomb without a fuze was basically a mess of explosives in a handy carrying case. Dangerous, sure, but disassembled, you could toss the parts (maybe toss isn't the right word) into the back of a truck and cart it all off to some lonely pit and blow it up.

  But you couldn't do any of that unless you removed or disabled the fuze, and only an officer could do that. Which is why I was surprised to see Sergeant Redes start in on the job, narrating what he was doing the whole time.

  “Say what you will about your Nazis, they build a good bomb. Don't repeat that, there's no such thing as a good bomb. And every now and then, they get sneaky. That's not good, either. But the thing is, they're well made”-here he strained with a little effort as he got into a better position-“for the most part. Built tough.”

  He fitted the spanner wrench to the keep ring. I swear I could see him tense and hold his breath. I was already holding mine. Then he did something incredible: he turned the wrench. The ring resisted. He put a second hand to it, grunted, held his breath again, tried again. This time, the ring scraped open an eighth of a turn. He exhaled and smiled. “No, she's not going to give us trouble. Normally, you'd give a listen, but we know this animal, right? Hell, I've worked on lots more German bombs than American ones.”

  “That's good,” I whispered, because that was as much voice as I could muster.

  “Well, we'll see.” He turned the tool again, and the ring scraped around a bit more. Finally, it began to move more freely. He turned it around and around until it was completely loose.

  Now I was really scared. Not just because the most dangerous part of the bomb was almost in our hands, but because what we were doing was clearly against the rules as I knew them. One, the officer defuses the bomb. Two, only one man does the job, to minimize potential loss of life. I looked up. What if the lieutenant decided to peer over the side now? I felt around for my shovel. I was just digging.

  Redes rocked back on his haunches for a second and surveyed his progress. “Now, American bombs. Fuze in the nose or the tail. Honest piece of business, for the most part. But you know what? I'm glad it's the enemy that's got to defuse them. Most of them, anyway.” He looked at me. “Belk? What's next?”

  “British bombs?” I squeaked.

  “My whiz kid,” he said. “No, what's next to do here?”

  “Call for the lieutenant?”

  Redes looked at me. “I thought I explained,” he said.

  I thought about the lieutenant's red-haired sister, tried to imagine what she looked like. His twin? I looked back up to the top of the hole, and then back to Redes. “Pull out, well, pull out the fuze,” I said, “and then call Lieutenant-” Redes shook his head. I exhaled. “Remove the gaine?”

  “Good boy,” he said. He leaned forward to look at it a little more closely. He s
hifted to the side a bit, and motioned me over. “Let's hope it's not damaged. So what you're going to do now-” The sound of the lieutenant's voice, angry, cut him off. Redes yelled up a quick apology, changed his mind about something, and turned back to me: “-is watch me work very quickly.” He slowly drew the fuze out of the bomb, found the gaine, unscrewed it, and delicately set it all beside the case.

  “You see all that?” he said. “Get a good look?” I nodded. “Because you're not likely to see that again, something that rare. A precision-crafted German fuze, just falling out of a bomb like that, the gaine spiraling off it. Damnedest thing.” He winked and then gave me a lift out of the hole just as the lieutenant looked over the edge.

  “What's the problem here, Sergeant?” The lieutenant looked worse than before, if that was possible. His face was drawn and pale, his eyes sad and angry both. I almost thought he was going to spit on me as I climbed out.

  “Well, sir, this is a funny one…” I heard Redes start to say as the lieutenant climbed down. I could hear their voices go back and forth after that, softer and softer, until I couldn't make out any words at all. Then it fell silent, and a long moment later, Redes's head appeared above the hole.

  He put on an angry face for me. “What're you doing here, Belk? Why haven't you cleared to safety? Lieutenant's in the hole.” He walked me back to where the group was waiting. When we were within earshot, he shouted out, “Nothing too tricky, boys, but the lieutenant's going to need a little time, little quiet before he's ready for us.” A couple of the guys exchanged looks. One went over to talk with the internees. The sergeant stared back toward the building.