by Graham Rawle
“No. Kay is not in camp.”
“I’m afraid she is. They came to take her from the factory.”
“Yes. But she escape.”
“Escape?” George looked around conspiratorially, hoping that no one had heard.
The woman lowered her voice. “She is hiding. I tell her, you must go underground. She say, no, not underground, overground.”
“Overground? You mean Overland?”
“Secret place. No one will find her. I don’t know where. But it has a beautiful lake.”
A few minutes later, the bus drew into the side of the road and George leapt out onto the curb.
Though the curfew put her at increased risk, when Kay had left Mrs Ishi’s the previous evening, she imagined that traveling on foot under the cover of dusk she could find her way back to the Lockheed plant unnoticed. What she hadn’t taken into account was that her journey to and from work had always been via the factory bus and she had never paid much attention to the route it took. Navigation was further hindered by the need to avoid main thoroughfares where she was more likely to have her papers checked. The side streets were generally darker and there was seldom any helpful signage. Consequently, her decisions tended to be based on intuition and erroneous guesswork. Before long she was hopelessly lost.
There were still people on the sidewalks, but she kept her head down, fearful of asking directions. She had all but given up hope when she finally spotted a familiar landmark. In the distance, she could make out the stubby tower and crossed sails of the Van de Kamp Bakery, its characteristic windmill shape silhouetted against the night sky and lit by a blue neon sign. It instantly became a beacon of hope since she knew Van de Kamp’s was not far from the factory. She headed towards it through the suburbs with renewed vigor. Though she lost sight of her target for a while when a fenced off railroad track forced her to take a detour, she eventually got there. Only then did she realize it wasn’t the Van de Kamp’s she was familiar with on San Fernando Road, but another branch in some unknown part of town. She had not realized there was more than one Van de Kamp Bakery. And now, inadvertently, she had taken herself even further off course. It was past midnight. She was frustrated and completely exhausted, having already spent the best part of the day walking in the hot sun. She finally decided to give up—at least until morning.
In a quiet church graveyard, she found a bench with wrought-iron ends and wooden slats shaped into a scroll. She couldn’t walk another step. She lay down with her head resting on her suitcase, her hat on her stomach, and fell almost instantly into a deep sleep.
She awoke next morning with a stiff neck, but feeling rejuvenated and more optimistic about getting back to Overland. She still had no clue in which direction she should be heading, but she had a hunch that she might be nearer now than she thought.
MEANWHILE A meadowlark that had landed in Howard Farmer’s field, presumably to investigate the crops, now found itself caught in the netting. It flopped around, flapping its wings trying to free itself, but in doing so one of its claws had become inextricably entangled. The panicked and exhausted bird would rest for a few seconds before making a renewed effort, but each time the struggle was in vain.
Inside the dark carcass of a Douglas C-47, the men were seated side by side on rough benches, fully kitted out in bulky jump gear, their arms folded across their reserve chutes. Towards the rear of the plane, the instructors were at the open doorway in the fuselage making their final checks and calculations. The sound of rushing wind mixed with the incessant rasping drone of the engines.
Jimmy stared at his feet, brooding on his predicament. Even if he got through today, it wasn’t going to end there. Before long, he would be forced to parachute into enemy territory and who knew what awaited him there? The jump was only stage one in a series of fatally connected and increasingly terrifying ordeals.
Sitting beside him, Swain, full of boisterous bravado, was oblivious (or just plain insensitive) to Jimmy’s mood. He turned his head this way and that, checking out the other men, looking for signs of weakness on which he might prey. He nudged Jimmy, shouting in his ear to make himself heard.
“Don’t look so worried. If your chute don’t open, just take it back and they’ll give you a new one.”
Big joke. Jimmy couldn’t bring himself to even look at him.
“Stand—up!”—the order from the jumpmaster, yelling at the top of his voice. The words came widely spaced, pronounced with equal emphasis.
The men got to their feet, parroting the command in chorus as they had been trained. Now they were all facing the doorway. Jimmy, last in the line, could see only the backs of the other men silhouetted against the light. He felt trapped.
“Hook—up!”
“Hook—up!” The men hooked their yellow static lines onto the steel anchor cable above their heads, which ran the length of the plane. They took up the slack, as trained, making the folded loop known as a bight, which they dutifully clutched at shoulder height. Jimmy, more than a beat behind the others, stared at the hook in his hand. Once attached, he knew there’d be no going back.
“Check—static—line.”
“Check—static—line.”
He was still gazing at the hook when the jumpmaster snatched it from him and clamped it firmly onto the anchor, jiggling it to check it was secure. He shot Jimmy a stern look as he went back down the line, checking all the other guys’ equipment and scooting them along the cable like shirts in a Chinese laundry. Jimmy reluctantly looped his line into a bight.
“Thirty—seconds!”
“Thirty—seconds!”
It was all going too fast. Jimmy tried to think about something else. He stared ahead, fixating on Swain’s chute—the neat lacing and tight zigzag folds of his static line where it attached to his canopy cover. If it hadn’t been for Swain’s constant taunts while he’d been at Fort Benning, Jimmy might have found a path through this. But Swain smelled blood from the start and had never let up: goading him, poking him, shoving him—right to the very edge, just for the fun of watching him squirm.
No one heard the click of Jimmy’s switchblade over the din of the engines. Swain’s static line was only inches away. It would be a cinch to cut one of the loops. The knife was sharp; one swift tug would draw the blade clean through it without Swain feeling a thing. Was Jimmy fully aware of the consequences of such an action? Sure he was. The jumper’s weight pulling down on the static line was designed to rip open the threads, release the chute cover and deploy the canopy. Severing that line would cause a serious malfunction: the cover would remain in place and Swain would be wearing his chute all the way down to the ground, like a camper on a backpacking vacation.
But that wasn’t the plan. Besides, knowing Swain, he’d probably make it down safely on his reserve chute and then make a big deal about it, establishing himself as the daredevil hero of the day. Jimmy wasn’t prepared to let him have that. Better to let him jump and just hope he broke his neck on landing. He wouldn’t, of course. Guys like Swain never got what they deserved.
Then came the Stand in the door command.
Number one jumper stepped forward to hand his static line to the safety. The men shuffled forward to tighten the grouping. Jimmy felt the ripple of nervous apprehension running through the squad. This was it. Swain, all rubbernecking and edgy, was trying to see ahead of the guys in front. He was holding his static-line bight high like an Olympic torch.
Jimmy needed to get out of there, away from Swain, away from the army, away from the war. He needed to get home.
He hooked the blade of his knife into the folded loop of his own static line. Pausing for a second, not to think about what he was doing but to check that no one was looking, he sliced through the webbing as easily as if he was cutting himself a piece of apple. With that, he quickly pocketed the switchblade and re-looped the severed line so the jumpmaster wouldn’t notice what he had done. He stood holding the two severed ends tightly in his fist, like a magician performing a ro
pe trick.
Now he’d done it. Now he’d really gone and done it. No going back now.
Wait!
Wait!
Ready!
Ready!
Go!
The first man was out, the others were ushered quickly forward, the jumpmaster swiping their static lines to one side before shoving them ungraciously out the door like unwanted nightclub guests.
And before he knew what was happening, Jimmy was gone.
This was how Overland was originally designed to be seen: as if through the camera lens of someone flying at 3,500 feet. Jimmy had the perfect vantage point to study the topography below: a hazy pattern of fields, roads and buildings. The rushing wind punched up through his nostrils and into the back of his throat. It reminded him of his first time out on his motorcycle, gaining confidence, gathering speed, his eyes streaming, giddily choking on the suffocating rush of air.
Glancing down at his chest, he saw the reserve chute’s ripcord handle. He wasn’t even tempted. Poor Oscar the para-dummy’s reserve was a fake; he never had any choice, but Jimmy’s fate was in his own hands now. He was going home. His chance to become a permanent Resident.
Would he be able to spot Overland—find the new patch sewn onto the patchwork quilt below? Adopting the spreadeagle position to reduce his fall rate, he had all the time in the world to search for the identifying edge. The wind flapped vigorously at the loose fabric of his jumpsuit. As per his training, he looked up to check his canopy, reassured to see there was nothing there—nothing but clear blue sky.
When he looked down again, he saw the ground rushing up towards him. He could make out neat rows of red-roofed houses, and a road with a daisy chain of circling cars and buses. There was a church and a tennis court with players in mid rally and, coming quickly into focus, a field of carefully arranged sheep.
THIRTY-FOUR
ON A TRANQUIL side street Kay came across an elderly lady tending to the flowers in her garden. She wore a wide-brimmed summer hat similar to Kay’s, except that hers was tied with a ribbon under her chin. It was still very early so there was no one else about. With her Chinese-ancestry story at the ready, Kay took a chance and went to talk to her over the picket fence.
“Yes,” the woman said. “There used to be an aircraft factory I think. Before the war. Quite a big one, but I don’t know what happened to it. They rerouted all the traffic in that area, a lot of the roads got closed—some kind of military security, I think. But there’s no factory there now. Guess they must have closed it down or moved it someplace else.”
“They can’t have moved the buildings. It was massive. The runway was maybe a mile long.”
“That’s right. I remember it. We used to be able to drive by it, but it’s not there now.”
“Can you point me to where it used to be?”
“I couldn’t say, dear. It was round here somewhere. I think there was a tunnel, but I can’t recall how you got to it. When they change the roads around, you sort of lose your bearings.”
Without Lockheed, Kay had no idea how she might get to Overland. The only point of access she knew was via the factory: through the hole in the tarpaulin lake or up the staircase and through the hatch. Obviously, Kay couldn’t risk going back to the factory itself; they would be on the lookout for her and in no time she’d be picked up and sent straight back to Manzanar. But if she could at least figure out where the Lockheed plant was, surely she would be able to find a way to get up to the secret town on the roof. It would be the ideal place to hide out—that perfect little cabin by the lake; she could be very happy there, living as a Resident and no one would ever find her. There had to be an alternative route to it; the equipment and materials to build the trees, the houses, the fields couldn’t possibly have been taken up through the tiny factory trapdoor. But nobody around there seemed to know where the Lockheed plant was, or if they did they weren’t telling. Military security perhaps—an official directive forbidding local residents to ever speak of it. Was the army worried that Japanese bombers might stop and ask for directions? Or had the camouflage been so effective that in making the factory disappear from everyone’s field of vision, they had also managed to erase it from their memories? Out of sight, out of mind.
Newtown was a suburb Kay had never previously visited, but which felt vaguely familiar to her. She was standing in the doorway of a store, wondering which direction to head in, when she found herself drawn to a poster advert in the window. Reach Out to Someone Special, it said. Yes. She would like to do that. Reach out and be touched. Even for a brief moment, just to feel that physical contact, the fleshy warmth of hand against hand, quite apart from any spiritual connection: the palmistry imprint of lifeline, heart line and fate line (or whatever those creases are supposed to represent), one hand echoing the fate of another. Without thinking, she lifted her hand and rested it gently on the glass, spreading her fingers, exactly mirroring the hand shape on the poster. Shifting the focus of her gaze she noticed that inside the store there was a countertop display stand of assorted roadmaps. She withdrew her hand and quickly stepped inside.
Behind the sales counter was an enthusiastic young man with thick greased hair, a hatchet-sharp parting. He was keen to offer the best possible customer service.
“A map of the local area? Why certainly, ma’am.” He briskly selected a Standard Oil street map of Burbank from a rack nearby, opening it out on the counter and pressing the folds flat with his hand. “This one’s right up-to-date. Shows all the local attractions: parks, movie theaters, shopping areas, that kind of thing. It’s fifteen cents.”
“Does it have the Lockheed aircraft factory on it?”
“Aircraft factory? Well, I’m not sure where that is, but I guess it will if it’s in the Burbank area.”
Kay studied the map. “It should be around here someplace.”
“I don’t know of an aircraft factory.”
“You don’t, huh?” Kay nodded knowingly.
“No, sorry.”
She was still scrutinizing the map when it occurred to her. Of course! They must have taken Lockheed off the map, hidden it as a security measure. That’s why it wasn’t there. She checked the front and read: Special notice. In cooperation with the United States military authorities, we have eliminated from this map all airports and military establishments which they have suggested.
“Do you happen to have an older map?”
“Like an antique?”
“Just a year or so old.”
“Hmm. Mr Voss, do we have any of the old stock of the local maps?”
Mr Voss was passing through, carrying a stack of calendars.
“Old ones? No, we sent ’em back.”
“Darn. Yeah. We sent them back. Sorry, miss.”
“Where would I get an old map?”
“Mmm. Could try the library.”
Though she felt it had taken her further out of her way, half an hour later Kay was in the reference section, poring over a large map that lay unfolded on one of the tables. Tracing the surface with her finger, she quickly located the Lockheed plant. She stabbed it conclusively with her forefinger, like a dart finding the bullseye.
George was having less success. He stood in front of a public street map, stroking his chin. He tilted his head, trying to establish his location. There was a big arrow telling him You Are Here, but he was none the wiser. The street names meant nothing without some sort of context, and the sign above the map failed to provide one: it merely said Town Center.
Ironically, the map was disorienting. But then down here George was finding many things perplexing. He felt his judgement shifting increasingly off kilter. Yesterday, he’d spent the entire day wandering around town, following one unavailing lead after another: a local aircraft enthusiast (who was not at home); a mailman who, he was assured, knew every factory in the area (except, it turned out, this one); and a genuine shepherd who, when described, purportedly looked exactly like Jimmy (but didn’t, and wasn’t). All of it h
ad come to nothing. It didn’t help that at one point George was so addled he couldn’t remember the name of the factory. Still, he wondered if, as a security measure, the locals had been instructed to keep quiet about it.
At the end of the day he had wound up in a cheap motel feeling groggy and confused. Did he have a fever or something, he wondered? Heatstroke?
He’d woken that morning, no nearer to locating Overland than he was when he first came here. It felt as though someone kept hitting a reset button. Each time he felt like he might be getting somewhere, he’d be forced to start over, feeling strangely like he was stuck in a dream from which he could not be woken.
To further confuse things, the motel he had stayed at looked disconcertingly like the Rest Haven Motel in Overland. He assumed he must have unconsciously copied the design; perhaps it was typical of all motels. But he noticed the same thing in other parts of the neighborhood—where things looked more like replicas or prototypes of Overland than original features of Newtown, or Burbank, or wherever the heck he was.
It worried him to think of Kay already being back in Overland, wondering where he was. Now all the Residents had gone, she would find the place deserted and would have no idea that he was on his way back to be with her. Would she wait? Without food, she would eventually be forced to leave. However would he find her then?
On the previous afternoon, he had entered the library hoping to find a pre-war map—one that hadn’t been censored. He was familiar with the practice known as map masking so he knew that areas of strategic military importance like the Lockheed factory would have been erased from all recently issued maps. But he had high hopes in the library when he found a three-year-old street map—until he unfolded it and discovered that a section of it had been crudely torn from the middle, leaving a large gaping hole. Not only was the aircraft factory missing, but so was the entire surrounding area. Ridiculous. If they were so concerned about security, why not simply remove the map from public access? Wasn’t the hole rather drawing attention to itself as having contained something target-worthy? He wondered whether the librarians were acting under instruction or had taken the task upon themselves on behalf of the US Department of Defense.