Jungle of Bones Read online

  “What happened next?” Uncle Todd asked softly, as if taking a confession.

  “A twenty-millimeter shell exploded near me and it felt like a baseball bat hitting my leg. Another shell hit the oxygen and messed up some control cables. I thought we had been lucky until another shell came through the upper turret position and exploded. Killed Sonny. Never even knew what hit him. The tail gunner, Mosley, also got hit and bled all over everything. The navigator, Billy, had flak crease his arm — not badly, but it got blood all over his charts. Big Sam took a bullet in his shoulder but he wouldn’t quit flying. For forty-five minutes we lived in a madhouse of machine guns and explosions. I was up to my butt in empty shell casings, and we were getting hit hard.” Frank paused. “You know, I didn’t start out being much of a waist gunner — could barely hit the side of a barn with a stone. But when somebody shoots at you, your aim gets better really fast.” He laughed, but the laugh was shallow.

  “What happened next?” Uncle Todd asked.

  “About five minutes before we dropped our bombs, we took some flak that knocked out one of our engines and blew a hole in the side of our plane. Now we had a new enemy. That high in the air it was minus forty degrees outside, and our plane wasn’t pressurized. I felt a sting to my chest and looked down. Something had cut the front of my flight jacket open like a knife. Then I felt wet, like I had peed my pants. When I reached in to feel, my hand came out bloody.

  “Didn’t know how bad I was hurt because I was too busy firing my machine gun and taking care of everybody else. I do remember it hurt to breathe and my dumb right leg flopped around as I hopped back and forth. I must have been in some kind of shock because I don’t remember much pain at the time. Finally we heard the beautiful words ‘Bombs away,’ and we headed for home. I tried to look down, but the black exploding flak was so thick, you could walk on it. I heard later the bombing run was a success. Parts of that ball bearing factory looked like a moonscape.

  “By this time, another engine had been hit. With two engines out, a hole in the side of the plane, and the oxygen supply leaking, we had to leave the formation and descend. We were on our own. Our pilot, Sam, ordered us to jettison the ball turret that weighed half a ton. We needed the plane as light as possible to ever make it home.

  “Sam called on the intercom for everybody to check in. That was when he found out that Sonny had cashed in his chips. He also found out that Mosley and Billy had been hit, but for some reason I didn’t tell him I had taken flak, too. Maybe it was because he had getting home to worry about. I wasn’t bleeding out. I hopped around on my one good leg, and with some help from Max, the other waist gunner, we got Sonny pulled out of his turret. I popped open his seat parachute and covered him up on the floor. He was sure a mess to look at.” Frank grimaced as if in pain.

  “Are you okay?” Uncle Todd asked.

  Frank’s eyes had become wet. “The only thing that saved us that day was the weather. With two engines out, we fell behind our formation and we were sitting ducks. We flew through every cloud we could find, cloud hopping all the way back across France, and finally the enemy fighters quit chasing us somewhere over Belgium. It was easy to find our way home that day; we just followed the trail of burning B-17s and fighters lying on the ground.

  “We were barely holding altitude across the English Channel, plowing along at two thousand feet. We jettisoned our ammunition and anything else to lighten the load. We all had parachutes, but if we went down in the channel, we would die. The water would freeze us to death in half an hour. Lucky for us, none of us had to hit the silk that day.”

  Uncle Todd nudged Dylan and whispered, “That means using their parachutes.”

  Frank kept talking. “By now, Sam had radioed ahead that we had dead and wounded aboard. At the field, they shot up a red flare to tell the ground crews our bomber needed an ambulance. That day, they shot up a mess of other flares, too.

  “We came in low over the trees, smoke pouring from the engines. The bump of the landing felt like more flak exploding. Miss Audrey rolled to a stop, smoldering. I rushed to help medics get Mosley and Billy out. Then I helped put Sonny in a body bag to remove him. I got to feeling woozy from losing blood myself, but I made sure I was the last one to crawl out that day. Before I got out, I sat down and cried. I didn’t want the rest of the crew to see me cry. I was the ‘old man’ ’cause I was twenty-two years old, and I had to be strong for everyone else. I knew that day I was going to heaven.”

  “Why was that?” Uncle Todd asked.

  “ ’Cause I’d just made it back from hell.” Frank coughed hard. “That was Miss Audrey’s last mission, too. She had more than three hundred bullet holes, two engines had taken direct hits and lost their oil pressure, and half of her tail was blown off. That sweet girl gave us all she had. After that she was salvaged for parts. But to those of us who made it back alive, she will always be the gallant lady that took us to the Promised Land. Home!

  “That day we lost sixty bombers and over five hundred men. One of the saddest things I ever saw was the ground crews who stayed until after dark waiting for their crews to come home. The lonely ride back to their barracks when their planes and crews didn’t come back, that broke my heart.”

  “I hope they gave you medals,” Dylan blurted.

  “I received two air medals of valor and some other tin during the war. But the best souvenir I have from the war is my Purple Heart — and these.” Frank lifted his shirt to show a scar running the width of his chest. Then he bent forward and lifted his pant leg to show a twisted knee, distorted from operations. “I got these five hours before joining the Lucky Bastards’ Club. Thought I had cheated the devil. Wasn’t I lucky!”

  Suddenly Frank broke down into tears. As he sobbed, he was trying to hum a tune.

  “Frank, are you okay?” Uncle Todd asked.

  Frank coughed hard into his fist, then kept humming, forcing out the tune until he finished. Then he looked over at Uncle Todd. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice breaking, “That tune is part of the Air Corps’ song. The words are ‘We live in fame or we go down in flame.’”

  Uncle Todd stood and placed a hand on Frank’s shoulder. “You’re a hero,” he said. “A real hero.”

  Frank looked up, swiping at his wet eyes with the back of his bony hand. “It’s all gone now,” he said, his voice breaking. “It’s all gone, and soon I’ll be gone. The whole battle will be forgotten because there aren’t battlefields to visit in the sky. No foxholes six miles up. You can’t walk up a hill and say, ‘Here is where Frank Bower fought.’ The only people who looked up and saw the battle that day saw only parachutes, explosions, smoke, and flaming planes. The machine guns, the flashes in the sky, the roaring engines, all of it’s gone. It’s quiet now. The rain washed the sky clean. People forget.” Frank rubbed his eyes again. “I wish I could forget.”

  Then Frank turned and looked out the window, his eyes staring at another place in the universe, his thoughts as far away as the stars.

  Dylan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He wanted to leave. Uncle Todd stood and squeezed Frank’s shoulder. “Take good care of yourself,” he whispered.

  As Dylan and Uncle Todd left the room, they heard Frank grunt loudly. They turned and found him with his arm raised to wave good-bye. “I was one of the lucky ones,” Frank called.

  Because Dylan had no passport, Uncle Todd submitted an express application. While they waited, there were more shots and pills to take. Dylan couldn’t avoid the shots, but whenever he could, he spit the pills into the toilet and flushed them. The pills still made him nervous, and when the doctor asked Dylan if he’d been experiencing any side effects, like nausea, vomiting, or diarrhea, he knew he’d made the right choice dumping them. He still had no intention of going to Papua New Guinea. It didn’t make sense, going to some jungle on the other side of the planet to look for a bomber that probably didn’t exist, searching for dead people who were skeletons by now. Dylan secretly hoped his passport wouldn’t arriv
e on time.

  His feelings became confused. Half of the time he hated Uncle Todd. But then there were afternoons when the Corvette was starting to drift at forty miles per hour and he could keep the car under perfect control by playing with the gas pedal or tweaking the steering wheel. At those times he caught his uncle’s proud glances.

  And he would never admit it, but sometimes he wished he was back with his mom. He still blamed her for sending him out to this place, but her cooking was sure better than Uncle Todd’s. And talking to Uncle Todd was like trying to move a brick wall. Reluctantly Dylan admitted to himself that he shouldn’t have pushed his mom so much. But it wasn’t as if he had killed someone.

  “We’re leaving for PNG on Friday,” Uncle Todd announced on a Monday morning after their run. He held up Dylan’s blue passport. “And guess what arrived in the mail.”

  “Great,” Dylan mumbled. He scrambled to think. How could he get out of going to this PNG place? Maybe running away would be best. Anything would be better than going with Uncle Todd over to some jungle.

  “Have you finished reading Grandpa’s journal?” Uncle Todd asked.

  Dylan shook his head. He hadn’t read a word since getting off the plane.

  “You need to finish that before we get over to PNG,” he said. “We only have this week to get ready. Once we get into the jungles, there won’t be supermarkets or sporting goods stores. We’ll be joining the other members of our search team in Port Moresby, the capital of Papua New Guinea, and then going into some of the most remote real estate on the planet. Nothing there is a joke. Be stupid and the place will kill you.”

  Uncle Todd wasn’t one to lie, but with the cannibals and everything, Dylan wondered if he wasn’t exaggerating as part of his “scare Dylan straight” rehab program.

  He played along, packing everything on the list. But he also stashed away some candy bars and his headphones. A month was too long to go without music.

  “Make sure you seal your hiking boots with this oil,” Uncle Todd said, handing Dylan a small metal container.

  After Uncle Todd left, Dylan tossed the container in the waste basket. He still had no plans on going to this Poopu Guinee place.

  Like a clock ticking down on a bomb, each day was one less day Dylan had to get away from his uncle. Each night he lay awake in bed and puzzled over when and how he might escape before going to the airport. Finally, one night after midnight, he slipped out from under the covers and quietly pulled on his clothes. It was now or never. His bedroom was upstairs, like at home, but in the condo there was no porch roof to escape onto. Here he would have to sneak right past Uncle Todd’s bedroom.

  Carefully he eased open his door and tiptoed down the hallway. As he descended the steps, he froze each time his weight caused a creak. Finally he unlocked the front door and let himself out, leaving the door open. He paused beside the Corvette and glanced inside. It was too bad Uncle Todd hadn’t left the keys in the ignition. The old Corvette would be the ultimate getaway car. Who knew what sort of tracking devices his uncle had in the car, though. He’d be better off on foot.

  “Going somewhere?” a loud voice sounded.

  Dylan spun, discovering Uncle Todd standing in the shadows of the doorway.

  “Uh, ah, I c-couldn’t sleep,” Dylan stammered.

  “Must not be getting enough exercise,” Uncle Todd commented. “Go get your running shorts on. We’ll take a little run.”

  “That’s okay,” Dylan said, walking reluctantly back toward the porch. “Maybe I can sleep now.”

  “Put on your shorts and tennis shoes. I’ll meet you back here in two minutes.”

  “But it’s the middle of the night,” Dylan protested.

  “And now you have only a minute and forty-five seconds. Get moving.”

  Uncle Todd’s voice was absolute, with no allowance for discussion. Fists clenched tightly, Dylan returned through the front door. He turned sideways as he passed his uncle, making sure not to touch him, then he bounded up the steps. He seethed with anger as he changed into his running clothes.

  With darkness casting haunting shadows across the street, Dylan and Uncle Todd began their run. “Keep up with me,” Uncle Todd said.

  Instead of the normal run down to the park and back, Uncle Todd headed down side streets, keeping a blistering pace. When it seemed like they should be returning, they turned instead toward the downtown section of Gresham. The deserted streets and misty rain gave the night an eerie feel. Their muted footsteps sounded like drum beats in the night.

  After an hour of running, their pace slowed, but still Uncle Todd ran, not turning back toward home.

  Finally Dylan panted, “Are we running all night?”

  “We’re going to run until you’re tired enough to sleep.”

  Dylan’s feet hurt and his legs were cramped by the time they finally returned to the condo. The dim light of dawn had softened the darkness.

  “See if you can sleep now,” Uncle Todd said, entering the condo. “If you can’t, we’ll take another run.” He walked to his room without looking back.

  Dylan limped up the stairs, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw hurt.

  Uncle Todd never left Dylan’s side during the last two days. “You want to join me in the bathroom?” Dylan asked when his uncle followed him into the backyard.

  “Just keeping you honest,” Uncle Todd said. “Stupid time is over. Now you need to get your head straight and join the team.”

  The night before they left, Dylan lay awake in the dark, scheming. Without warning, the door to his room opened and Uncle Todd’s footsteps approached his bed. Dylan closed his eyes and pretended to be sleeping. The footsteps stopped, followed by a long pause, as if his uncle was thinking. Then Dylan felt the blanket being pulled up and tucked around his shoulders. Uncle Todd whispered, “There’s a world waiting for you, son, when you’re ready.” Then the footsteps retreated from the room.

  Dylan rolled over and stared intensely up at the dark ceiling. Outside, cars splashed through the rain in a steady rhythm. Dylan barely heard them. His eyes filled with tears and he rolled over and buried his head in the pillow.

  Not until they had gone through the security screening and customs in Portland and boarded the jet did Dylan finally admit to himself that he couldn’t avoid going on this trip after all. Maybe it would be okay. At least he wouldn’t be treated like a child who needed babysitting anymore.

  “We’ll be flying most of the next two days until we reach Port Moresby in Papua New Guinea,” Uncle Todd explained. “Then we’ll have two days of travel until we reach the Sepik River on the northeast side of the island. Another day up the river, and then we’ll be hiking our butts through swamps and jungles. I hope you’re ready for an adventure. One week from now, you’ll think you’re on a different planet.”

  Dylan looked over at his uncle in his all-tan hiking outfit and giant floppy brown hat. “We already have an alien being,” Dylan mumbled under his breath.

  As they settled into their seats, Uncle Todd reached into the side pocket of Dylan’s backpack and pulled out the small leather journal. “I want you to finish this before we land in Port Moresby.” He tossed it onto Dylan’s lap.

  Reluctantly, Dylan opened the small journal and began reading where he had left off.

  AUGUST 14, 1942

  I AM NOT SURE WHICH IS WORSE, BEING BOMBED OR BOMBING SOMEONE ELSE. THIS WEEK WE LOST THREE SOLDIERS WHEN BOMBS HIT JACKSON AIRFIELD. WE ALSO LOST EIGHTEEN CREW MEMBERS WHEN TWO OF OUR B-17S WERE SHOT DOWN, ONE BY JAPANESE ZEROS, THE OTHER BY ANTI-AIRCRAFT FIRE. WE CALL THE ANTI-AIRCRAFT ARTILLERY “ACK-ACK,” BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT IT SOUNDS LIKE. GETTING HIT BY ACK-ACK, I NOW KNOW, IS MUCH WORSE THAN HEARING THE SOUND. I HEARD THE DESPERATE CRIES OVER THE RADIO AS BOTH PLANES WENT DOWN. I WILL NOT SOON FORGET THOSE SOUNDS OF DEATH.

  I AM LEARNING ONE LESSON VERY WELL: TO KEEP MY EYES OPEN. YOU SELDOM SEE THE ENEMY THAT KILLS YOU. BECAUSE OF THIS WEEK, I HAVE TAKEN A SMALL AMERICAN FLAG AND TUCKED IT IN THE MAP BOX
BESIDE MY SEAT. I AM DETERMINED TO LEAVE IT THERE UNTIL I RETURN HOME TO REMIND ME ON EVERY MISSION THAT FREEDOM IS NEVER FREE. I BELIEVE NOW THAT FREEDOM’S WORST ENEMY IS INDIFFERENCE AND APATHY.

  MY MISSION HERE IN THIS MOSQUITO-RIDDEN, GODFORSAKEN PLACE IS NOT TO SIMPLY DROP BOMBS BUT TO STOP THE SPREAD OF TYRANNY. I DID NOT ASK FOR THIS DUTY, BUT I WILL NOT RUN FROM IT, EITHER. SOMEDAY MY CHILDREN AND THEIR CHILDREN WILL BE ABLE TO STAND PROUD WHEN THEY SEE OUR FLAG, AND MAYBE THEY WILL FIND IT IN THEIR HEART TO SAY, “MY DADDY, OR MY GRANDDADDY, FOUGHT TO PROTECT THIS FLAG.”

  Yawning hard, Dylan turned to the next entry.

  AUGUST 19, 1942

  T HIS PLACE WOULD SEEM TO BE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PLACE I HAVE EVER SEEN, WITH ITS SCENERY, EXOTIC BIRDS, PLANTS, AND WILDLIFE. BUT I QUESTION IF I WILL LIVE LONG ENOUGH TO ENJOY IT. IF I EVER GO DOWN IN THE JUNGLE, I DOUBT THERE WILL BE ANY SURVIVAL. THE FOLIAGE IS THICKER THAN YOU CAN IMAGINE. IT WOULD TAKE A HEALTHY MAN WITH A MACHETE A DAY TO GO A HUNDRED FEET IF HE LEFT THE BEATEN PATH. THE SWAMPS ARE EVEN WORSE, WITH WAIST-DEEP SLOP, BOGS, SLOUGHS, AND MUCKY TRAILS. THE MOUNTAINS ARE RUGGED PEAKS THAT CAN BE OVER TWO MILES HIGH AND HIDDEN WITH MIST AND RAIN. THEY SAY HERE THE CLOUDS ARE FILLED WITH ROCKS. IF THE ENEMY DOESN’T KILL YOU, THE LAND PROBABLY WILL. AND IF THE LAND DOESN’T KILL YOU, A THUNDERSTORM WILL PROBABLY RIP YOUR WINGS OFF.

  I NOW AGREE WITH THIS ASSESSMENT.

  By the time they changed planes in Los Angeles for the thirteen-hour flight to Australia, Dylan had read a dozen more entries that spoke of missions to bomb ships at Rabaul and other targets on New Britain, another island that was part of PNG. Dylan turned to his uncle. “All of Grandpa’s missions so far were from Jackson Airstrip in Port Moresby out to New Britain. How did he crash way up by the Sepik River where we’re going?”