Overland

by Graham Rawle

  Dr Young jumped from his vehicle and rushed over, screaming as the car crept guiltily away. “You stupid, stupid idiot!”

  The cat continued to stare at the ground as though deep in concentration. Dr Young approached slowly. Dropping to his knees, he laid his hand gently on the cat’s side and stroked it a couple of times, as though this might offer it some measure of comfort. He winced, racked with sympathy for the poor animal. The cat tried to lick its lips, perhaps attempting to swallow. Another weak slabber of blood.

  Dr Young spoke soothingly. “It’s OK. It’s OK.”

  He took the blue bandana from his coat pocket and draped it lightly over the cat’s head, then got to his feet and returned to his car.

  With the cat’s face now covered, a couple of the soldiers felt confident enough to venture nearer. Dr Young turned, speaking sharply.

  “Don’t touch it. I’m a veterinarian.”

  The soldiers backed off, pocketing their hands.

  From inside the bus, the distraught Japanese boy looked on helplessly.

  Dr Young opened the trunk of his car and grabbed a battered black leather medical bag and returned to his kneeling place beside the cat. He opened a folding instrument case, took from it a heavy steel syringe and quickly fitted a needle. This he inserted into the neck of a small upturned bottle, drawing back the plunger to fill the shaft with clear liquid.

  He set down the bottle, pausing for a moment; his hand rested lightly on the cat’s side, stroking it along its length.

  “You’re a very brave girl. But I can’t save you. I’m so sorry.”

  Dr Young swallowed hard as he pinched the flesh between the cat’s shoulders. He inserted the needle and depressed the plunger.

  THIRTY-TWO

  IN OVERLAND A light mist had descended bringing an unexpected chill to the air. The lamps that had been put in place before the evacuation, which at night had previously given the town such a cozy, welcoming glow, now appeared bleak and uninviting. Without the vibrant community to reflect their spirit, the warmth seemed to have gone right out of them. One string of lights adorning the Orpheum theater had fused and burnt out completely. Now, under sombre starless skies, the neglected building loomed, gray and drab.

  The only movement in the forsaken town was the traffic system; its idiosyncratic programming, recently restored by George, so far unimpeded by any further natural disasters. The rumble and clatter now took on an eerie quality as the unoccupied vehicles continued on their pointless journey through the night.

  Jimmy was sitting up in bed. Barely touched by the moonlight that filtered in through the skylight above him, he stared vacantly into the gloom. All the other men in the barrack room were fast asleep.

  Increasingly troubled by compulsive thoughts of violence, Jimmy had become fearful of closing his eyes. During the day, providing he could avoid Swain and the other scaremongers in his platoon, he managed to keep these ideas largely in check by overriding them with more menial and immediate thinking, but at night, the demons resurfaced. The harder he fought to dispel them, the more invasive they became.

  He kept going over the words: killed in action. Which action? The telegram gave no details. Had Carl been killed in heroic combative action, or through the ill-considered action of raising his curious head above the parapet of his foxhole? How? Bullet? Bayonet? Grenade? Did he die instantly, or was there time to identify his internal organs as they spilled from the gaping wound in his torso: his spleen, his gallbladder, his lungs, his (shortly to cease) beating heart? Would he recognize them from the textbook diagrams of his high-school biology classes? Or had his face already been sliced clean off by a Japanese sword, now lying expressionless in the mud like a rubber carnival mask, his unspoken last words—Tell my kid brother not to be scared—still quivering on his lips? Where did the fatal bullet enter? His stomach? His groin? His ear? A bullet lodged in the throat? How would that feel? A sharp tightness of the larynx followed by a sensation similar to heartburn? Jimmy remembered having swallowed a glass marble as a boy. For a few moments, the object had stuck in his esophagus, hard, cold and choking. Was it anything like that?

  How did he face the end? Was he whimpering like a lost child, crying out for Mother? Carl, the big man, a coward after all, just like himself? Or did he die a hero’s death like the army would expect of him, sacrificing his own safety to save others in his unit?

  Jimmy tried to imagine himself in such a role.

  Swain’s parachute caught on the tail wing of a Douglas C-47. All of his previous boorish bravado stripped away, he is blubbing like a baby. It’s up to Jimmy to rescue him. Selflessly overcoming his fears, he risks his own safety and manages to ease himself along the fuselage, his switchblade held between his teeth. Climbing onto the tail wing, he sees the tangled line and how he might free it. Swain’s pathetically pleading face looks up at him.

  He takes the knife and, momentarily overcome with hatred, jabs it upwards, thrusting the blade deep into the fleshy area under Swain’s chin. Yah!

  Jimmy was startled by the unexpected violence of his own thoughts. He could never do anything like that, yet it was a compelling image he could not suppress: Swain’s stupefied face with a knife buried in his jaw, clear to the hilt, his filthy drooling tongue permanently pinned to the roof of his mouth.

  Before he enlisted, Jimmy had seen motion pictures about guys joining the army. It all looked kind of like fun. As a new recruit he had expected to have to endure certain hardships—getting up at the crack of dawn, being shouted at by a strict drill sergeant, peeling piles of potatoes—these things had been routinely depicted in most of the movies. The message that came across was that it was tough being a rookie, but they were all in it together making the best of things, and forging lifelong friendships along the way. War was serious business, naturally, but the best of them rose to the challenge and everything came out right in the end. In You’re in the Army Now, there had been no suggestion that once posted overseas on front-line duty, Phil Silvers and Jimmy Durante might be torn apart by machine-gun fire or die a slow agonizing death at the unscrupulous hands of their Japanese captors. No telegram would be sent to their next of kin to say that they had been killed in action.

  In You’ll Never Get Rich, Fred Astaire turned up on Rita Hayworth’s doorstep looking neat and fully intact in his smart army uniform ready to tap dance his way to her heart. There was no question that he might be forced to do it with the side of his face missing, or with his intestines spilling out of him like a pile of butcher-shop trimmings.

  Jimmy took George’s switchblade from under his pillow. He could never imagine using it as a weapon, targeting a person’s vital organs—the aim to pierce or to sever something sufficiently to curtail its functioning. He pressed the button to release the blade, snapping it into position. It made a loud clicking noise, but nobody stirred. He looked across at Swain, still sleeping peacefully.

  He retracted the blade and slid the knife back under his pillow.

  Court was in recess. Jimmy, smartly dressed in his military uniform, was standing around in the lobby distractedly touching the knot in his tie. His gaze fell on nothing at all. When his eyes refocused, he saw Queenie coming towards him.

  “Queenie. What are you doing here?”

  “I heard you were home. I thought you might want to see me. I wanted to write, but no one knew where you were. I searched in vain.”

  In vain? Queenie’s words sounded like lines read from a movie script. Jimmy found himself playing his part in the stilted dialogue.

  “I was behind enemy lines. Communication was forbidden. Besides, I didn’t know how you felt about me.”

  “Truth is, I didn’t know myself until you’d gone. I didn’t realize how much you mean to me. So now I’m here to stay—if you want me.”

  “I want you, Queenie. More than anything in the world. But they’re trying to pin a tin can to my tail for what I did.”

  She looked longingly into his eyes. “I don’t care.”


  “Maybe not, but a lot of people will care.”

  “Listen. You’re a hero. Nobody’s gonna blame you for what you did to that Swain guy. He had it coming. Whatever verdict they reach in there, it’s for both of us—straight down the line. If they took you away from me now, I’d just die. I’d rather go to the chair with you than live without you.”

  Jimmy went off script. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. Did you say the chair? You mean the electric chair? They’re not going to send me to the electric chair, surely? This is just a reprimand. A court martial at worst … Isn’t it?”

  “Oh, hold me, Jeff. Hold me and never let me go.”

  “Jimmy.”

  “Huh?”

  “Jimmy. You said Jeff.”

  “Sorry. Hold me, darling. I never knew I could love a guy as much as I love you. We were made for each other. Like James Stewart and Carole Lombard. Even if we had a baby that was dying of pneumonia and a serum has to be flown all the way from Salt Lake City—even through this turmoil our love would never falter, would it?”

  “Never, darling.”

  “I can’t wait to start making babies with you.”

  “Me neither. You’re so beautiful.”

  “Well, let’s begin the beguine right now.”

  “What, here?”

  Queenie sat on a desk, her dress hiked up around her waist like in one of her cheesecake photos.

  She looked up at him yearningly. “Look, darling. I can’t help myself.”

  He glanced down and saw that she was naked there.

  “Oh, my word.”

  “Come to me darling. Kiss me.”

  Jimmy stumbled forward; Queenie’s legs parted and her arms enveloped him. Her breath was hot against his ear. The tip of her tongue slithered against his neck, making his scalp buzz with pleasure.

  For a moment Jimmy was in heaven. They surrendered to the moment as their passions rose.

  Through the misty euphoria of this blissful union, Jimmy became aware of a middle-aged couple dressed in black, standing at an adjacent table. The man had removed his hat and was nervously clutching the brim. Gradually their faces came into focus. Jimmy called out to them.

  “Mom, Dad. I told you to wait in the car.”

  But they didn’t appear to have noticed him. His mother looked pale and distraught. His father, whom Jimmy was somewhat surprised to see since he had been dead for two years, laid a consolatory hand on her shoulder.

  Right now he was caught up in the physical urgency of Queenie’s writhing pelvis. He stole another look and caught a thrilling glance of petticoat frill and pale flesh.

  His mother was edging forward as if to say something. Embarrassed, Jimmy tried to cover their nakedness while attempting an introduction—Mom this is Queenie. She’s my new …

  But the distraction of the consummation was too much. He screwed up his face, no longer able to conceal the sensations he was experiencing. “Oh God. I can’t help myself.”

  Jimmy woke. He was in bed, lying on his back. For a moment he was still, reorienting himself. The barracks. Dead of night. He swallowed, realizing what had happened. Did he cry out? Everything around him was quiet so he assumed he did not. He breathed in deeply, exhaled slowly and gently cleared his throat. He slid his hand under the bedclothes to confirm his suspicions, slowly raising his knees to form a tent with the blankets over his sticky groin.

  THIRTY-THREE

  LEFT UNATTENDED, THE sheep in Overland’s South Pasture had remained in the same position for four consecutive days. By late afternoon the clouds had darkened and the wind began to pick up. Some of the sitting sheep—that is, those without legs—started to quiver on the breeze. A sudden gust sent several of them rolling across the pasture like tumbleweed.

  The man at the bus depot was shaking his head.

  “The fairground at Pomona’s closed, Mac. They’re using it as a prison camp for the Japs.”

  “I know. Is there a bus that goes out there?”

  “A bus? No. Well. There is, there’s one loading up right now over there.” He pointed to the other side of the depot. “But you gotta be Japanese to be on it.”

  Crossing the depot, George found a line of Japanese laden with suitcases and other bundled goods waiting to board a blue and silver Greyhound. In the road just beyond it he noticed a man easing the edge of a shovel under what appeared to be a contentedly sleeping cat, which was stubbornly refusing to budge. Another man stood by, both hands gripping the open top of a grocery sack. It was only then George realized it must be dead.

  George approached the man he assumed was the driver, who wore a peaked cap and breeches tucked into his jackboots with a little black bow tie the same shape and color as his mustache.

  “Can you get me a seat on that bus?” asked George.

  “Sorry, pal. These are for transporting Japs. You’ll have to get a regular bus service.”

  “Yeah. Trouble is, there isn’t one.”

  The driver shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “Couldn’t I hitch a ride? It’s very important that I get to the Japanese assembly center at Pomona.”

  “How so?”

  George was thinking on his feet, but his hesitation seemed to go unnoticed. “I’m working at the camp as an administrator. On the clerical side. I should have been at work an hour ago. My car broke down. My boss is going to have my ass in the grinder.”

  “Oh. You work for the outfit? You ain’t army though?”

  “Not exactly. I’m more of a government administrator. You know, for the relocation.”

  “Well I guess that makes you one of the family.” The driver called to his partner who was sitting on a low wall, incinerating ants with the glowing tip of his cigarette. “Hey, Charlie. OK if this feller hops a ride to the center? He works there. His car broke down.”

  “So long as he don’t mind sitting with a load of Japs.”

  George caught the eye of a young Japanese man in the line.

  “No, I don’t mind … at all.” George looked away awkwardly.

  The young man spoke out. “What are you doing, working for these people? We are American citizens. We have constitutional rights. We—”

  The driver cut him short. “Hey, hey, hey. Butt out, Toto, while your conk is all in one portion.” He turned to George, with a congenial smile. “Come on, buddy. Climb aboard.”

  The young Japanese man glared at George. “You should be ashamed.”

  “I’m actually trying to help,” said George.

  “Yeah. Right. Help yourself.”

  The driver stepped in. “All right. That’s enough.”

  The young man grudgingly backed off. The guard put his hand on George’s shoulder, steering him towards the door of the bus. He grabbed the collar of a man mounting the steps, yanking him back into the line. “Outta the way. Make way here.”

  George climbed aboard.

  Most of the seats were taken. Japanese Americans of all ages, family groups, some standing, some sitting, all laden down with parcels, and suitcases, were trying to get themselves settled. Eager to avoid further hostility, George scanned the bus for a seat on his own, but there were none available; he was forced to share. A middle-aged woman dragged a small but heavy-looking suitcase onto her knees, leaving the seat beside her vacant. George made a beeline for it.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?”

  She said nothing, but bowed her head in assent.

  “I can put your case up on the rack if you like,” said George.

  “Thank you. I’m fine.”

  Out of the corner of his eye George saw a tear roll down her cheek. He tried not to look. The woman ran her hands over the suitcase, feeling its polished surface, its smooth edges. He sensed that this was all she had; everything else had been left behind. She stared straight ahead contemplatively and sighed. After a few moments she spoke.

  “You’re not Japanese.”

  George felt apologetic. “No. I’m not.”

  “Why you sent to prison ca
mp?”

  “I’m just hitching a ride. I’m looking for someone. A friend.”

  “What will happen to us? Where are they sending us?”

  “The county fairground in Pomona.”

  “I don’t want to go to a fairground. I don’t like fairs.”

  There was a beat before she spoke again.

  “What do they do with the animals?”

  George shook his head. He thought she was talking about animals at the fairground, perhaps confusing it with a circus. “Animals? They don’t have animals there.”

  “I know. Pets not allowed for Japanese people. They take away all the pets.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know. That’s too bad.”

  “What happens to them? Do they feed them? Look after them?”

  “I really don’t know, I’m afraid.”

  The bus started up. The woman looked out of the window. George tried to think of something to say, but came up blank. After a while, when they were heading through the suburbs, she turned to him.

  “You like fish?”

  He considered this for a moment, wondering where the question was leading. Slowly, he nodded.

  The woman unsnapped the catches on her suitcase and opened it.

  George recognized the design on the can immediately, the Japanese lettering, the leaping fish with its goggling eye. He turned to her.

  “Do you know a girl called Kay?”

  “Yes, of course. She stay in my house since she is fifteen year old. You know Kay?”

  George nodded. “And Queenie. From the factory.”

  “Yes, Queenie in my house also.”

  “They are my friends. I’m trying to find Kay. She was sent to a detention camp. I believe to the one we’re heading for, Pomona.”