Day of the Bomb (10 page)

“You that guy that was marooned?” The one with the
runs asked.

“Yeah. Is it really true the war’s over? That’s what
they kept telling me.”

“Man, how long have you been out in the sun? You’re
talking as crazy as Larry over there did when they first brought
him in.” He pointed at the sunstroke victim.

“Almost a year.” Jason propped his feet on his bed’s
metal end. “When do we eat?”

“After we examine you.” A doctor interrupted.
“Corpsman, start an IV of saline solution.”

“Yes, sir.” The medic searched Jason’s arm. “Sir, I
can’t find a vein.”

“Try his hand.”

“Yes, sir.”

The needle burned as it broke through tissue. Once
anchored in place by half a roll of tape, it fed the liquid into
the patient who came to be nicknamed The Skeleton Man. After
examining Jason’s eyes, ears, throat, chest, heart, and abdomen,
the doctor sat in a chair and recorded his findings on his chart.
“They tell me you were stranded on the island for a year. What did
you eat during all that time?”

“Coconuts, breadfruit, and fish, Doc. The only other
things there were rats and monkeys but I didn’t have a gun to shoot
the rats and the monkeys were my friends so I couldn’t shoot
them.”

“Your friends?” The doctor looked up from his note
taking. “The monkeys?”

“At least Kong was.” Jason described their first
meeting and how Kong had abandoned his kind to live with him.

“So you talked to him a lot?”

“Yeah. All the time. Only problem was that I never
really could learn monkey talk. But Kong understood me better than
I did him. When do you think I can go back to Monkey Island to get
him to take on back home? I promised him I would.”

“We’ll see about that. You just rest now.”

The doctor went to a nearby Quonset hut that
contained his office. It took a few moments of searching through a
directory before he could find the name of a fellow doctor who
specialized in psychiatry. A radio message brought the psychiatrist
via airplane to examine Jason the next day. Dr. Hendrickson
introduced them. “PFC Dalrumple, this is Dr. Zingler. He has a few
questions for you.”

“Hello, Doc. I’d stand up to salute you but they got
this IV thing hooked up to me.” Jason pointed at the drops falling
from the bottle to the long plastic tube.

“At ease, soldier. So what can you tell me about your
time on Monkey Island?”

Jason spent an hour detailing his two days in “shark
infested waters” and how only one creature on Monkey Island had
befriended him. Dr. Zingler took sporadic notes but mostly
listened.

“Is there some reason you did not build your fire
sooner so that you could be rescued?”

Jason stared at the ceiling. “You mind if I take the
Fifth Amendment on that, Doc? About the only excuse I have is that
after whoever it was knocked me on the head and I fell overboard
and spent two days in the drink I wasn’t thinking too straight. But
seeing that big cloud above Bikini Atoll sure snapped me out of it.
I was sure the Japs or the Russians and the Japs and us were going
at it in a big way.”

Dr. Zingler stood and stretched. His ten-hour flight
had drained his body but Jason’s tale was taxing his mind. “Are you
sure you didn’t see who it was that hit you on the ship before you
fell overboard? Charges may still need to be brought up against
whoever it was that assaulted you.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I was pretty woozy from barfing over
the side. Then when I felt the konk on my head I tried to turn
around but the ship sort of pitched to one side and the next thing
I know I’m hanging over the side. Whoever hit me grabbed me by the
ankles and tried to pull me back up over the rail but I guess he
just couldn’t hold on.”

“I see. Thank you.”

“Sure thing, Doc. Thank you.”

The two doctors walked to Dr. Hendrickson’s cramped
office. “What do you think?” He lit two cigarettes and gave one to
his guest.

Dr. Zingler sighed and yawned. “Sorry. I didn’t sleep
too well on the plane last night. I’m not certain. He seems lucid
enough to me. The ones who rescued him say they saw at least one
monkey so it’s highly unlikely that this Kong was just a
hallucination of your patient’s mind. It’s why he waited so long to
be rescued that still has me stumped though.”

“Maybe he just wanted to be alone for a while. I’ve
been on more than one transport ship. It’s close quarters for even
the officers like you and me. Plus he had spent years of island
hopping enough to have had a bellyful of what the Japs dished out
on every one of them. Maybe he just wanted a really long R and
R?”

“Maybe.” Dr. Zingler shook his head. “You know I was
in Germany when we liberated Dachau and Auschwitz.”

“Yeah. I remember you telling me.”

“The worst of it is that Dalrumple reminds me of the
better fed prisoners we found there, the ones who the S.S. guards
used to pull the gold fillings out of the Jews that got gassed and
then haul the bodies to the ovens to cremate them. How much does he
weigh?”

“Today he was up to 101 pounds because we’ve been
pumping IVs into him since he got here. And he eats about six or
seven meals a day, even when they’re just K-rations. You know how
most patients leave part of their food on their trays?”

“Yeah.”

“PFC Dalrumple doesn’t leave a single crumb.”

Thelma was not the first one to read the telegram
sent to tell her of Jason’s resurrection. That honor went to the
boy delivering it. His job did not pay much and tips were sporadic.
But being the first to know of a far-away death, illness, or an
occasional bit of good news made him a big shot, at least in his
own mind, especially whenever he told others of a telegram’s
contents before the one to whom it was addressed had read it. After
not finding Thelma at home, he decided “to go the extra mile” that
his boss always preached and deliver it to her at work. When he
arrived at the factory he spread the biggest news to hit Madisin
since WW II had ended in the Pacific Theater of Operations.

“Jason Dalrumple’s alive!” He announced to the first
one he found on the factory floor. “Where’s Thelma at?”

She was at the far end of the single-story building
applying stain and varnish to finished pieces of furniture. Because
Thelma took her job seriously, she did not notice how bit by bit
the factory’s din quieted as employee after employee stopped
sawing, hammering, and upholstering furniture and instead relayed
the news of the one who had gone from MIA to dead to alive and
kicking. By the time that the delivery boy reached Thelma, 126
pairs of eyes were focused on her.

“Special delivery, Thelma.”

She turned to see who had tapped on her shoulder.
“Oh, Lord have mercy on me! Has something bad happened to Grandpa
or Grandma?” She tried to conjure up her visit to their farm in the
neighboring state last Christmas.

“No, ma’am.” He shoved the telegram into her face.
“It’s good news. Real good news. Wait til you read it.”

After she threw the telegram into the air and hugged
its deliverer, the factory shook from its workers’ cheers. Those
who knew Thelma best crowded around her to join in her tears and
laughter. The disruption brought the factory’s owner from his
office across the parking lot. Within minutes he was driving Thelma
home. A half hour later he was taking her to the train station.

“You take as much time off as you need to,” Mr.
Monroe said. “We’ll still be here when you get back.”

“Thanks.” Thelma studied the telegram. “You ever been
out to San Diego, Mr. Monroe?”

“No. Not yet. You best check in with the USO once you
get there. Explain your situation. They’ll help you out.”

***

While Thelma watched thousands of miles of the
Midwest, Great Plains, and Southwest roll by her train window,
Jason stared down at the Pacific, an ocean that seemed to last
forever as he flew from the Marshall Islands to Johnston Island to
Hawaii to San Diego. When his feet hit the tarmac in California, he
fell to his hands and knees and kissed the hot concrete. He laughed
at Thelma as she scanned the disembarking passengers.

“Thelma! Over here! Here I am!”

She spun around and gawked at the scarecrow of a man
who held out his arms toward her. “Jason? Is that really you?
There’s not much left.”

“In the flesh.” He grabbed her. Lifting her off of
her feet had been effortless as he had boarded the troop train in
1942 but now a hug sufficed. He stepped back. “How do I look? The
docs said I put on five whole pounds the two days I was in the
hospital. Once I get on back home to Mom’s and your home cooking
I’ll fill back out in no time. I can hardly wait.” He licked his
lips.

Thelma hugged him again and lifted. “Jason, what
happened? You’re so light I think I just pulled your feet up off of
the ground.”

“You swept me off my feet, honey pie. Let’s go get
hitched.”

But getting married on the spur of the moment in
California proved impossible. Such unions might be available across
the border in Nevada or Mexico, but not the golden state. Informed
of the couple’s frustration, an army captain that commanded the
office that was processing Jason from life as an E-3 PFC to a
civilian came to their rescue. “I know Mexico is just a stone’s
throw that way.” He pointed southward. “But Nevada’s a better place
to spend your honeymoon in. As luck would have it, there’s a clerk
here due for a three-day pass that hits Las Vegas every chance he
gets. I’ll have him give you a ride there and back here. By the
time you get back, we’ll have all the paperwork ready with all of
your back pay and you can catch the train back home. Unless…”

Jason gulped.
Go ahead and let the other shoe drop.

His steel gray eyes bore into Jason’s soul. “Unless
you decide you want to take a burst of six.”

“What’s a burst of six?” Thelma’s eyes rotated from
captain to fiancé.

“Re-up for six years? I don’t know, sir. I’m tired of
war. It just sort of wears you out. If you live long enough to get
through it that is.”

“Son, now that we put the Krauts and Japs back in
their place all we got to worry about are the Russians. But
President Truman won’t take any gruff from them no matter what
Stalin says. I guarantee you that much for certain. Besides, where
else can you put in twenty years and retire with a pension? How old
are you, boy?”

“Twenty three, sir.”

“How many years have you been in so far?”

“Four and a half, counting my time on Monkey
Island.”

“You see what I mean? You only need fifteen and half
more years and you could retire at thirty-eight. Maybe get yourself
a government job or buy a farm and work some more until your Social
Security kicks in. Then you put up your sign that says, Gone
Fishing. How about it?”

Jason cocked his head and pursed his lips. Thelma
cleared her throat, elbowed him, and whispered, “No.”

“Tell you what. Talk it over with your pretty wife on
your honeymoon. Let me know what you decide once you get back. You
need some dough for it?”

“Yes, sir. I haven’t had any paydays for almost a
year now. I don’t know how much Thelma has left after her train
ride way out here.”

The captain pulled out his wallet and counted out its
contents, which he shoved into Jason’s hands. “You can pay me back
when you get the back pay you’re owed.”

***

“Boy am I glad you two showed up when you did. You
were just in time.” Corporal Lance Ivers pretended the steering
wheel of his 1939 Oldsmobile was a pair of bongo drums. He tapped
out a beat in time with the big band’s song blasting through the
car’s lone speaker. “I was getting a case of cabin fever number
nine back there at the base. Forget California.” He started to
sing. “Las Vegas here I come. Right back where I started from. Turn
on your neon signs. Nevada here I come.”

At McDonalds Famous Barbeque in San Bernardino, Lance
ordered three burgers, fries, and sodas to go. “We can eat on the
run. I don’t know why they bother selling that barbeque. Their
burgers are the best there are.”

He pulled onto Route 66 and headed
north to Barstow. After tossing the remnants of his lunch out the
window, Lance continued singing along with every tune he could find
as he turned the radio’s dial. In Barstow, he topped off the fuel
tank and bought six more sodas. He smacked his lips as he finished
the first and tossed the bottle over the car’s top and onto the
sand next to the road’s shoulder. “I can’t drink beer because it
makes me too sleepy. But that doesn’t mean we can’t sing that
famous tune loved by sailors and soldiers everywhere,
Ninety Nine Bottles of Beer on the
Wall
.” He elbowed Thelma in her
ribs.

With the temperature at 109 degrees and body odors of
the two next to her combining to make her carsick, Thelma climbed
over the front seat and sought refuge in a nap on the back seat.
She listened as the duo in front sang, sometimes sharing the lead
vocals, sometimes harmonizing, but usually off key. The swaying
motion of the car and monotonous lyrics first hypnotized her and
then began to lull her to sleep:

Eighty-eight bottles of beer on the wall

Eighty-eight bottles of beer

Drank one down

Passed it around

Eighty-seven bottles of beer on the wall...

She drifted off to sleep at bottle number eighty-six.
After the song ended, Lance turned to weightier subjects, such as
life as a civilian. “I heard the captain giving you his spiel about
signing up for six more years.”

“Yeah. What gives with him anyway?”

“Who knows for sure? Sometimes I think they give out
promotions to officers and NCOs who can talk you into re-enlisting.
Not me, Uncle Sam. My time is up in 102 days and it’s good-by Army
Air Force and hello world. Lance Ivers is back in town.”