“I’m tired of considering guests! I’m sick and tired of everybody and everything! And besides, if you think that sheep dog’s got an appetite, just wait’ll you see Horne at the table. Anyway, he isn’t a guest. I’ve known him too long.” Melvin felt himself beginning to tremble; he walked quickly away from his father and stood looking out the window into the basement area-way, which was nearly filled with snow. It occurred to him that he and Horne could have remained at the naval base overnight; he was sorry they had not done this. He thrust his hands into his hip pockets and pretended to stare out the window, although there was nothing to see but a wall of snow outside the glass. “I’ll be all right in a minute if everybody will leave me alone,” he said. “It’s just that it seems like no matter which direction I turn there’s some kind of disaster. Either something’s happened, or is about to.”
“Yes, that’s true,” his father said. “I know the feeling. There’s no solution. All we can do is to make preparations as wisely as possible. As the saying goes, a stitch in time saves nine. Not always, perhaps, but in general it’s the truth. That’s the reason for the packages you were asking about.”
Melvin continued to look out the window. “Did you bring that stuff?”
“Yes. It’s everything you will need. It’s a gift from me. You know what happened in nineteen forty-one—the Japanese attack succeeded because the United States did not like to consider the possibility of war. If the country had been alert, prepared for a treacherous assault, it wouldn’t have happened. We’re in the same situation today in regard to Russia. It’s incredible so many Americans are blind to the obvious fact! A world-wide conspiracy to overthrow our government is being directed by the Kremlin. This has been definitely proved, I don’t know how many times. It’s beyond my understanding why so many Americans ignore this. How long are we expected to wait—until vehicles with the red star come rolling through our streets?”
“What do you recommend? It seems to me—”
“What do I recommend?” exclaimed Jake Isaacs. “What a question! Who’d listen to my recommendations? I could fly to Washington with a tape recording of the Russian plan of attack, but could I get by the receptionist? I’m a private citizen without a voice. I vote, I’m proud to vote, although my vote doesn’t change the situation. If anybody listened I would say, first of all, national security is of paramount importance. That would be my first recommendation. The employment of questionable individuals is certainly not in the best interests of national security. The standard for refusal of employment, or removal from employment, should be reasonable doubt as to the loyalty of the persons involved. Substantial defects of character as well as persistent and ill-advised associations should be taken into account. Any doubts whatsoever must be resolved in favor of security. Ah, lieutenant,” he exclaimed.
Horne stood in the doorway with an interested expression.
“Lieutenant, please give us your opinion,” Jake said, laughing gaily, with his eyes fixed on the campaign ribbons pinned to Horne’s blouse. “The question, in the simplest terms, is whether we shall continue to live in freedom or as slaves of the international Communist conspiracy.”
Horne was aware that his campaign ribbons were impressive; he unbuttoned his blouse, thrust his hands into his pockets, and slouched against the doorway. He remained silent for a while, frowning into space, but then said, “That’s very coincidental, sir. Yes, that’s a strange coincidence, because just about a month ago an old buddy of mine who has access to the USTEP files was telling me some extremely sobering facts.”
“I’m tempted to inquire,” Jake said, laughing. “Nothing confidential, naturally. Simply the nature of this material of which you speak. Pertaining to what?” he asked, looking eagerly from Horne’s face to the ribbons. “The extent of Communist infiltration, perhaps?”
“You appreciate that I can’t give out direct information, sir,” Horne began, and was ready to say something else, but did not have time.
“Of course!” Jake said, and stepped forward to touch him on the arm. “Excuse me. I’m afraid I’ve embarrassed you, lieutenant.”
“Not at all,” said Horne.
“You’re right, lieutenant—we can’t be too cautious. I’ve learned a lesson, thanks to you. I won’t ask another question! I’ve been of the opinion for some time that there should be an inquiry into the subject matter available in public libraries, to say nothing of university professors, guest speakers, and so on. In the libraries someone to supervise unobtrusively—proctors to record who is reading what. This would be invaluable when the emergency arises. It will simplify relocation of potential subversives as well as facilitating immediate imprisonment of traitors. It’s a privilege to have you here, lieutenant. You don’t know how much this means to me.”
Horne took a deep breath and for the first time the uniform hung slack around his waist. He screwed up his eyes and nodded. “I don’t know quite what ought to be done with subversives. It’s a problem, for sure. On the one hand, we’re supposed to allow free speech in this country. But on—”
“Free speech! Excuse me, lieutenant. I didn’t mean to interrupt. But aren’t you confusing the term free speech with treason? Naturally I don’t like to overstate the case, and frankly no one is more concerned than myself with the rights and privileges of the individual in a democracy. However, it goes without saying you cannot allow traitors to go around doing what they please. In that event they will soon have destroyed the very freedom we cherish and defend. Free speech, lieutenant—it’s a privilege to be earned. Or am I wrong?”
“No, of course not, sir,” Horne said, flushed with embarrassment. “I certainly didn’t mean—”
“I shouldn’t have interrupted. Excuse me, lieutenant. I know we agree. It was a slight case of misunderstanding, nothing more. I’m concerned about what’s happening to America, that’s the reason. We must have peace and security. Peace without security is the peace of a lamb in the wilderness. Pacifism never fails to be attractive to sensitive persons and nobody admires such people more than I. However, war is imposed by moral obligation as well as by military necessity. For peace we are indebted, not to pacifists, but to those who are willing, when inevitable, to risk the dreadful danger of war rather than to witness the destruction of those institutes and ideals which make peace possible. Excuse me for making a speech. If pacifists were given their way it is appalling to imagine the condition of mankind, enslaved by despots, divided by rival tyrants. In military service there is distinction and high honor, a fact our children are forgetting. It should be taught in school. There is no greater honor than to die in defense of one’s country.”
The sheep dog came shaggily trotting into the kitchen, peered through the hair covering its face, and in a berserk, good-natured manner started to bark.
“Be still,” Jake said to the dog. “Frankly, Melvin, I’m puzzled by your attitude. Communists have infiltrated our public schools and universities, propaganda floods the libraries, and it has been established definitely there are spies in the State Department. But you don’t care. Would you mind explaining why you don’t care? Is that asking too much?” With both hands pressed to his chest he followed directly behind Melvin who walked to the door of the bedroom, listened, and then knocked.
“Jo!” Melvin called. “You come out of there!”
“Possibly she’s asleep,” his father whispered. “Maybe you should knock again.”
“She’s not asleep,” Melvin said. “She heard me.”
“How do you know?”
“I can tell. She’s wide awake, lying there on the bed. She’s mad. She was crying a few minutes ago, but she’s mad now.”
“What makes you so sure? There hasn’t been a sound.”
“I don’t know,” Melvin said, “but I can tell.”
“Have it your own way. I was attempting to make a point when something interrupted. It’s this: I have no love for the Germans. However, we must admit they will be invaluable allies in the forthcoming
struggle.” He stopped, as though astonished by the expression on Melvin’s face.
“By the what?” Melvin asked. “What did you say? What was that again?”
“The forthcoming war between America and the godless despots of the Soviet Union. The German soldiers are excellent, everyone admits, in contrast to the poorly equipped, unimaginative Russians. Don’t you remember the remarkable advance of the German army in nineteen forty-two under extremely adverse conditions? They reached Stalingrad! Now, with American supervision, not even the Russian winter will stop them. This will give us control of the Volga and access to lumber and fisheries, which are vital to supply.” He coughed into his fist and continued to speak while walking rapidly around the apartment. “I shouldn’t say this, perhaps, but the lieutenant will be interested. A very close friend, whose name I won’t mention, whose sister-in-law is employed in the Pentagon, has seen with her own eyes a secret copy of a list, smuggled from the Kremlin, of ten American cities destined to be destroyed by the first wave of Russian bombers. Kansas City is on the list, in fourth place. Because of the stockyards. I can tell you something else: each Russian cadet is personally assigned one city in the United States. It’s an examination. He draws up the master plan for attack. It’s the final examination for a Russian military cadet. Copies of this plan are now in the secret files of the FBI.”
“I’m beginning to feel crowded,” Melvin said, turning around so quickly that his father stepped back in astonishment.
“Let’s ask the lieutenant for an opinion.”
“I don’t have to ask anybody for an opinion!” Melvin shouted.
The dog sprang to its feet and resumed barking with an expression of enjoyment, looking first one way and then another to see who was impressed. Hephzibah strode back and forth with her hands clasped over her head. Horne had been listening uneasily, without attempting to speak, and gave the impression of straining, as though he had grown somewhat deaf.
“Open that door, Jo?” Melvin asked, rising on tiptoe. “I’m going to count, Jo. One. Two! Do you hear me? One. Two! Three!” and he pounded furiously on the panel. Then he stopped, breathing hoarsely. There was a crash on the other side of the door.
“She’s not asleep. She threw something at you,” said his father.
“I told you she wasn’t asleep.”
“She’s been in there a long time. Tell her to come out. I’m sure your guest would like something to eat.”
“I’m not really very hungry,” said Horne. “In fact, I was just about to leave.”
“Lieutenant, you can’t go! There’s something I want to ask your opinion about.”
“Why should she be mad at me?” Melvin asked. “I haven’t done anything.” He turned to the door. “Listen, Jo, I don’t see that there’s anything to be gained by acting like this. I don’t know what the trouble is, but let’s look at it logically.” There was a swishy noise, as though a garment had struck the door. The dog trotted up and sniffed around and looked at Melvin with the benign, preposterous expression of a simple-minded caveman, the tongue hanging out one side of its mouth. Melvin knelt and buried his hands in the huge puppy’s coat. “What do you think about?” he asked, and gently shook the dog. “Do we have similar problems? Suppose you were in my place, what would you do—everything considered? Tell me, what would you do? On the eve of Armageddon is it better to adopt the motto of the Boy Scouts, or gather up your courage and say no? That’s the question. You look so wise. You should know. What must I do?”
The dog studied him with deep affection.
“Well, then,” Melvin said, “tell me what they’re doing.” He pointed toward his father and Sam Horne.
The dog got up as though intending to have a look, but then sat down and wildly scratched its ear.
Melvin walked to the card table, where his father and Horne had just finished unfolding a large map of the world. The map had been printed and distributed by a veterans’ organization. From Russia a number of red arrows arched over the North Pole to major American cities. Smaller arrows spread across the North Sea to England and France. At the bottom, in red type, was the text:
One-two punch leads off with massive flight of Tupolev and Ilushin long-range turboprop bombers unloading A-bombs on U.S. plants and industrial complexes. Synchronized hail of torpedos on East and West Coast shipping from 300-strong submarine fleet. Communist underground erupts—sabotage with small atomic weapons, newer types of poison gases, midget nuclear explosives. Red bombers strike overseas bases, viz., Iceland, Greenland, Turkey and North Africa, with simultaneous assault on potential allies.
Horne grunted and scowled. He worked the stub of a cigar across his mouth and squinted at the map. On the breast of his green blouse the slim golden wings glinted in the candlelight. One of his hands was on the map, holding it flat—a blunt, used, positive hand, creased and stained by nicotine, with a thumb like a hammer and fingernails as flat and broad and limited as an array of chisels. His features, when he leaned over, slowly gorged with blood. Melvin no longer recognized him, but had the impression he had seen this man somewhere—in a newsreel, or on the cover of a magazine just after he had circled the earth in the latest bomber or testified before the Senate.
“They got a base in that area,” he muttered, pointing, “sure as God made apples.”
“We need more information, lieutenant. Latest reports indicate troops being massed along the border.”
Melvin looked at his father and was struck by the radiance in his eyes. There was no doubt that the possibility of another war fascinated him. Melvin turned away and wandered around the apartment, thinking deeply. Presently he found that he had stopped at the garbage can and was staring at the packages on the floor. The packages were neatly sealed and labeled. He picked up one and saw that it was a pint of chlorine. He picked up another and saw that it was a rubber sheet.
Just then the lights came on.
“Ah!” his father said, straightening up from the map. Seeing Melvin with the packages, he hurried over. “Now I have a chance to explain. I’m glad you’re interested. The government recommends one of these containers packed with emergency supplies for each family. Here, for example, you have a pound of raisins. And here you have sausage. Right here is evaporated milk. This is canned bread. Next, some tea bags. Pressed pork loaf. Vegetable juices. Various dried fruits. Here in this group are the utensils—bottle opener, paper plates, a refuse bag of sturdy material, a little measuring cup, and so forth. Over here I arranged the soap. DDT, and so on. Here are the household tools—a wrench, screwdriver, a very practical miniature flashlight, and this shovel, which is collapsible.” He demonstrated how to unfold the shovel, then put it down and held up some pamphlets. “These are published by the government. Be sure to read them. Next, I have here the official filing cards. They should be filled out in ink. Print, don’t write. Simply give the first name, middle name, and last name, the same as always. You’re familiar with this sort of card. Occupation, business address, and here’s the space for service preference. You write ‘Navy.’ The space for criminal record you leave blank.” He turned the card over. “Here we have the air-raid signals. A steady siren blast of from three to five minutes: Alert, attack probable. A wailing noise: Attack imminent. Take cover promptly. Crouch behind the bed facing away from the windows. It is very possible to survive. According to information in one these little booklets, in Nagasaki more than sixty per cent of the people a mile from the bomb are still alive. Some, of course, have died of radiation since the publication of these statistics, however think of the percentage: sixty! How many people know about that? We are apt to suppose everybody was killed. That is not true. Today thousands of people live in new houses where the old houses used to be, a fact I didn’t realize until reading this booklet.” He began to turn the pages, evidently looking for something, but was unable to find it and laid the pamphlet aside and began looking through another.
“Here, listen close. This will surprise you. Anywhere within one-h
alf mile of the center of the explosion, the chance of survival is one out of ten. Naturally such odds are not favorable, however listen to this—I am going to quote the exact words of the official in Washington. ‘From one-half to one mile away, you have a fifty-fifty chance.’ Did you know that? It changes the picture entirely. Now consider: exactly how much chance is there that the bomb is going to be dropped within one-half mile of this apartment? Very little, practically none at all. You have, therefore, a fifty-fifty chance, at least, if you obey instructions. Your chances could be much better.” He licked his thumb, turned a page, turned another, and another, frowning in concentration.
“I want you to listen closely. I am going to quote again—yes, this is the information here. ‘A modern atomic bomb can do heavy damage to houses and buildings roughly two miles away.’ We are aware of the fact. However, listen. ‘But doubling its power will extend the range to only about two-and-one-half miles. In the same way, if there were a bomb one hundred times as powerful, it would reach out only a little more than four-and-one-half, not one hundred times as far.’ How many people are aware of that? They say the new, improved bombs will kill everybody. That’s not true. The United States Government says it is not true. Look at this pamphlet! It is called ‘Survival Under Atomic Attack’ and is being distributed by the Office of Civil Defense. A wonderful piece of work, very well thought out. Nicely printed.
“To prevent blindness the government instructions are to bury your face in your arms for a period of ten to twelve seconds after the explosion. This also helps to keep flying glass out of your eyes. If you work in the open you should always be sure to wear full-length, loose-fitting, light-colored clothing and do not go around with the sleeves rolled up. Always wear a hat; the brim of the hat may prevent serious facial burns. Here is another fact I will read: ‘Naturally, the radioactivity that passes through the walls of your house won’t be stopped by tin or glass. It can go right through canned and bottled foods. However, this will not make them dangerous, and it will not cause them to spoil.’ This booklet has a great deal of useful knowledge. ‘Go ahead and use them,’ it says, ‘provided the containers are not broken open.’ That speaks for itself. As soon as you hear the siren, if there is no time to reach the basement—we are already in the basement, that’s true, excellent—simply close all windows and draw the blinds. Such precautions lessen the danger of fire sparks and radioactive dust. Keep at least one flashlight handy. There beside the pressed pork is the flashlight. Be certain not to strike a match after the attack because if the mains have been shattered—a very good chance this will be the case—you will have gas and oil fumes. A bad explosion could result. Also, an ordinary newspaper will protect you from radioactive dust or raindrops if you are out of doors. After getting up, however, do not forget to discard the newspaper, which will be contaminated. You should bury it. You have the shovel. Dig a little hole, bury the newspaper, and leave a notice to the effect. Inside the house, I don’t need to remind you, broken windows should be covered with blankets or pieces of cardboard because the bombers will probably come again, especially if the destruction has not been total.” He had been standing motionless while the words poured from his mouth. He wiped his lips with his handkerchief and continued.
The Patriot Page 47