Showdown at Big Lake
Lawrence F. Farrar
The air felt unseasonably warm that late September morning in 1942. Eighteen-year old, Arvid Tillson hopped off his bike, put down the kickstand, and pushed open the door into Martha’s Cupboard Café. The only restaurant in town, it was where folks gathered in Brookville, Oregon (population 264), especially on weekends. Beer signs, Crater Lake calendars, win the war posters, and deer heads decorated the walls, and sawdust littered the floor. Oily cooking odors laced the air. Martha, a craggy, gray-haired woman presided like an army drill sergeant. She had done so from a grill behind the counter for thirty years.
Nearly 10:15; Arvid knew he’d be late. He had promised his older brother Zeke he’d meet him for something to eat at 10:00. Zeke’s fuse burned short and he’d probably have something critical to say about Arvid’s being late. He always did.
Four or five people perched at the counter and another ten or twelve occupied tables. The usual crowd of old timers who’d got through the Depression--lumbermen, ranchers, fisherman-- lingered over coffee and donuts (Martha fried her own). They were a sober bunch this day. They talked about how the war was going—not well. And now it seemed the conflict had come home right there to Oregon. Days earlier, a Japanese plane, probably launched from a submarine, had dropped an incendiary bomb that ignited a fire on Mount Emily. Who knew what might happen next?
On top of everything else, they’d just learned that Fred Wilkins’ boy, Chuck, had been killed with the Marines on Guadalcanal. They were having a tough time knowing how to handle the news. Only two days before, after receiving his draft notice, Chuck’s younger brother, George, had run off. Nobody knew where he’d gone. And nobody knew what to say to Fred Wilkins. It all seemed a damn shame.
One of the men raised his hand in greeting. “How you doing, Arvid?”
Arvid waved back. “Hi, Mr. Morton.”
Everybody knew Arvid and his brother. It was hard not to in a town so small. The boys’ mother ran the general store and served as postmistress. She had done both since her husband was killed in a logging accident years before. Arvid, tall and rangy, had attentive dark eyes. He kept his ash blonde hair trimmed short. He said he wanted to be ready when he was called to service—something he expected to happen any day. He also told folks he wanted to get into the overseas action before it was too late. And he wanted to get out of Brookville; that desire, however, was something he kept to himself.
Arvid made his way to a corner table where his brother sat polishing off his eggs and toast. Zeke downed the last dregs from his coffee mug, tilted back from the table, and issued a long, satisfying belch. He grinned. That was Zeke alright.
Harvey Bair, their sixteen-year-old neighbor also sat at the table. He’d tagged along after the Tillson boys ever since anybody could remember. He clung to them, especially Arvid, because they stood up for him against locals who teased him for being slow. Like the Tillsons, Harvey had on a ball cap, jeans, a sweat shirt, and work boots. Hollow cheeked, with bland, innocent eyes, he had crew cut, dark brown hair and was a bit stoop shouldered.
When Arvid plunked down in his chair, Zeke simply pointed at the wall clock.
“Come on, Zeke. Ma wouldn’t let me go ‘til I finished stocking shelves.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Arvid was the one person Zeke usually didn’t stay mad at. When others irritated him, however, he could display cougar-like ferocity. Nearly twenty, dark-haired, stubble-chinned, and heavy-set, he was quick to take offense, especially when someone asked why he wasn’t in the military. Most men his age in Brookville had already gone.
As soon as Arvid dropped into his chair, waitress Laverne Peterson came over to take his order. Clad in sweater and slacks, she was a young woman with blond, untidy hair. She had tried making it in Portland—and failed. Now she had come back to her hometown.
“What’ll it be, Arvid?” She slapped away Zeke’s wandering hand without so much as looking at him.
“Just coffee and a couple of those glazed donuts.”
Laverne cast a baleful eye on Zeke. “Why don’t you go join the army or something?”
She sauntered away as Zeke trailed her with his eyes. “Sweater really does her justice,” he said.
“Zeke, you never give up.” Arvid couldn’t help laughing.
Once Laverne vanished into the kitchen, Zeke changed course. “Everybody in here is going on about it,” he said.
“You mean that plane attack? All the customers in the store this morning were still talking about it, too. They were pretty nervous.”
News of the bombing on Mount Emily had rippled through the community for three days. Speculation rampant, people lived on the edge of anxiety. Rationality blurred by the morphine of hysteria, despite reassuring statements by authorities, they believed almost anything.
“Gimme one of those coffin nails,” Zeke said to his brother. He caught the pack Arvid tossed and lit up a Camel.
“That’s all I have. They’re getting hard to come by.”
Zeke took a drag. “Wouldn’t surprise me if there’s gonna be more attacks. They could hit us from their bases in the Aleutians. Maybe from secret airfields right here in Oregon.”
“Secret airfields? Where’d you get that? Probably just a one-time thing, anyway,” Arvid said.
He munched one of the donuts Laverne had delivered. Then, seeing his young friend’s hungry eyes, he passed the other one to Harvey.
“You think it’s a onetime thing, huh?” Zeke said. “Well, it could be worse than you think.”
“What do you mean?”
Zeke leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What would you say, if I told you a Japanese saboteur was probably hiding in the woods up at Big Lake? Right now.”
“I’d say you were off your nut.”
Zeke dropped his voice to a near whisper. “Well, I was pumping gas down at the station around eight. Norm Heegard stopped in after his milk run. He was all excited. Said his kid saw a dark-colored parachute late yesterday afternoon. I’m pretty sure it’s one of them.”
“You’ve been looking at too many of those government posters. They want you to think there are spies and saboteurs lurking everywhere.”
“Norm said the boy was sure what he saw.”
“Besides,” Arvid said, “the Coast Guard and the sheriff already announced there was nothing to what the kid said. He’s the same one who claimed last month there was a Bigfoot in their garden. It’s nothing but another rumor.”
“Well, they might just be covering up. They all said at first there was no shelling from that sub off Santa Barbara. Then they had to eat their words.”
“Oh, come on, Zeke. You gotta keep a lid on your imagination. Coast Guard’s had a hundred calls. People are just worked up. Jumping at shadows.”
“Also, could be some of them hid out when the other ones were sent off to those camps. Waiting to help some spy; or saboteur. Did you ever think of that?”
“You mean like Bobby Yamanaka? Or Steve Ito? I think it was rotten they and their folks had to get shipped off somewhere. Those guys were my pals. Now I don’t even know where they are.”
“Maybe not them. But some of those people sure looked suspicious to me. Why do you suppose they sent all the Japs away? Most of them didn’t belong in the States to begin with. Did you ever hear of a fifth column?”
Arvid rolled his eyes. Did his brother really believe this stuff?
“All I need to know is they came over here, got all the benefits, and then attacked us out there in Hawaii.”
Harvey, who’d said nothing, now spoke up. "Zeke says we ought to go after the spy ourselves. Zeke says . . .”
“Not so loud, Harvey,” Zeke raised a cautioning finger. “Some others might want to get in on this.” He turned to Harvey, “Here’s some nickels. Go pick out a couple tunes on the jukebox.” Newly installed, the music machine had become a big draw at Martha’s.
Harvey crossed the room, hesitated before the red, gold, and chrome juke box, and studied the selections. Then he deposited his coins and punched the required buttons. Soon Martha’s Cupboard Café filled with the strains of I Left My Heart at the Stage Door Canteen and Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.
Ball cap cocked on the back of his head, Harvey rejoined his friends.
“What do you mean? Go after somebody?” Arvid said.
“You heard me,” Zeke said. “From what Norm said, that parachute most likely came down by Big Lake.”
“So now you’re sure there’s a parachute,” Arvid said.
Zeke ignored the sarcasm. “We know that area around Big Lake almost better than anybody. And I’m tired of people making wise ass remarks just because I’m 4-F. Everybody knows I wrecked my knee in that ball game. And I’m sure as hell not gonna run off like George Wilkins.”
“Come on, Zeke. It’s a stupid idea.”
Zeke glowered. “You might think so, little brother. But I say we give it a try. Our contribution to the war effort, you might say.” Arvid knew that guilt about not serving gnawed at his brother.
Solemn as a deacon at Beaverton Presbyterian, Harvey monitored their exchange in enthusiastic silence. He wanted to be part of it.
“Like I said, the Jap’s gotta be up there around the lake. Somebody has to stop him before he does who knows what.”
“Come on, Zeke. Maybe the boy saw a weather balloon. Or the sun off a cloud. Could be anything.”
“Say what you want. First thing in the morning, Harvey and I are going up there. If you want to come along, that’s fine. Anyway, we’re going.
~ ~ ~
On Sunday, as the mountains caught the first shafts of the morning sun, Zeke postured with one foot on the running board of their rattletrap Ford pickup. He was impatient to set off.
Tires were rationed. Gas was rationed. But Arvid realized Zeke was determined to have his way. Their mother still slept.
“So, you’re coming?” Zeke said.
“Yeah. Somebody has to make sure you two don’t do anything foolish.” Arvid also felt drawn by the hand of curiosity. What if . . .?
Zeke gave him a dirty look. “Put your rifle back there.” He gestured to the truck bed. “I made some baloney sandwiches. In my rucksack. Got a couple canteens of water, too.”
Each brother had brought along a deer rifle and a few rounds of ammunition. Harvey, already sprawled in the bed of the truck, hefted his old 22. He’d ride in back like he always did.
They had put on wool shirts anticipating it would be cooler up by the lake.
“Wait a minute,” Zeke said. “There’s the Jenkins kid. He’s already seen us.”
The tow-headed twelve-year-old came scuffing along on the gravel road that passed in front of the Tillson place. “Where you going?” he said.
“Hunting,” Zeke said. “Maybe you can go with us sometime.”
“Yeah?”
“Right now, you can take our picture.” Zeke had taken along their mother’s Kodak, as he put it, to document the capture.
And so, weapons and toughest faces on display, the would-be vigilantes posted themselves beside the truck and posed for pictures.
Photos taken, Arvid cranked and Zeke started the engine. Harvey clambered back in the rear and the brothers settled into the cab. Zeke leaned out the open window and said to the Jenkins boy, “If you don’t say anything to anybody, we’ll take you next time for sure.”
He put the truck into gear, and they set out. After two miles on the gravel road, they turned off onto a badly maintained dirt logging road that led up the lake.
“You know, Arv, we’re just like soldiers going out on patrol. Sort of like Brian Donlevy in “Wake Island.”
“It’s not a movie, Zeke.”
“Shut up Arv. Don’t be a wet blanket. We just might have a real job to do.”
Zeke peered over the wheel, taking short, quick puffs on the last of Arvid’s cigarettes. Arvid knew Zeke acted this way when he was keyed up. Arvid looked out the window saying nothing. They rattled along for another forty-five minutes, the rutted road bounded on both sides by towering Douglas firs. They encountered no other vehicle. Although the sun shone brightly above, trees blocked the light and frequently immersed the road in gloom.
After another thirty minutes the road ended abruptly. A shadowed trail disappeared into the woods.
“The lake is up ahead. We gotta be careful from here on,” Zeke said. “If he’s out there he could be watching this road. Might know we’re here.”
“Yeah,” Harvey said, his face alive with excitement. “Could be a saboteur keeping an eye on us right now."
“He’s out there, alright,” Zeke said.
Arvid shook his head. “Okay. If you say so. Let’s get done with this.”
“Load your weapons and follow me.” Zeke raised his arm and delivered a hand signal straight out of one of the films he’d seen over in Beaverton. “And keep your spacing.”
Leaving the truck behind, rifles at the ready, they set out single file along the trail to Big Lake. Somewhere a stream gurgled in the undergrowth.
“Keep an eye out for a chute. Could be hanging up in a tree,” Zeke said.
From time to time they halted, stood motionless, and listened, silent as a covey of Trappist monks. Arvid told himself it was all a charade. Yet in the shaded forest the slightest sound commanded their attention. Startled by the rat-a-tat-tat tapping of an unseen woodpecker, Arvid experienced a sudden spasm of nervousness. What if Zeke was right? After all, the FBI had captured actual German saboteurs on the East Coast.
“Do you suppose anybody hunting him besides us?” Harvey whispered.
“Could be,” Zeke said. “But I don’t think so.”
“Probably too afraid,” Harvey added.
“Or too smart to believe there’s a saboteur,” Arvid said.
“Shut up, Arvid. You didn’t have to come, you know.”
They picked their way through fallen branches and squelched through standing water. A keening hawk circled high above as if monitoring their progress. After twenty minutes, they caught sight of the lake’s glimmering surface. Big Lake was, in fact, not big at all; a half mile long and a quarter mile across. Although it afforded good fishing, anglers preferred more accessible places.
When they reached the water, Arvid said, “Well. We’re here. Now what?”
“The way I see it,” Zeke replied, “he’d have a hard time getting around up there on the slopes. Probably worked his way down closer to the lake. There’s two campsites by the water.”
“So, you think your saboteur could be at one of those campsites?”
“Could be.” Zeke whispered so softly as to be almost inaudible.
“Yeah. Let’s sneak up on a campsite,” Harvey said, forgetting to keep his own voice down.
“We’ll work our way along the lake. Real quiet,” Zeke said. “Follow me.”
They found the going arduous and keeping quiet no easy thing. They traversed a brush-choked trail, a slippery boulder field, and steep slopes that plunged down toward the lake. Fallen trees and flooded potholes challenged them.
After a hard slog, the trio approached the first campsite with exaggerated stealth. Long dark shadows floated across the clearing which fronted on the lake. After careful surveillance, they concluded no one was there and stepped into the clearing.
“I’m hungry,” Harvey said. “Can we have one of those sandwiches?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Zeke put down his rifle and slipped off his rucksack. He retrieved a paper bag with sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. The weary threesome flopped down on the ground and plunged into their sandwiches, washed down with water.
Gazing out over the lake, Arvid said, “Don’t you think it’s time to go back? We haven’t seen anything.”
Zeke gestured toward the slope above them. “Probably up there right now creeping around in the brush.”
“Come on, Zeke. This has gone on long enough.”
“I’m tired,” Harvey said. “Can’t we just rest here a while longer?”
“Looks like you two are quitters,” Zeke said. “Maybe I’ll just have to go on by myself.”
Zeke got up, stretched, and walked down to the water.
“Well. What have we got here?” he said.
Their curiosity piqued, the other two picked up their weapons and joined him at the water’s edge.
Zeke pointed to a narrow strip of sand. “If that’s not a footprint, I don’t know what is.”
Sure enough, clearly outlined in the wet sand they could make out what appeared to be two boot prints.
“Could be anyone,” Arvid said. But the hairs on his neck rose like porcupine bristles and he involuntarily pivoted to scan the trees.
Save for their breathing, a quiet enveloped them, one so dense it seemed you could hear a leaf fall.
“I think we should go back,” Arvid said. “Tell the sheriff what we found.”
“A couple of footprints? They’ll just laugh at us,” Zeke replied. “I say we check out the other campsite. It can’t be far. If nothing turns up, we can head back.”
Without waiting for an answer, he shouldered his rucksack and picked up his rifle.
“Okay. But that’s it,” Arvid said.
The trail got no better, peppered with slick rocks, roots, and logs. The trees grew thickly, wet and black. For a time, a hazy sun sent gauzy rays down through the branches. But thunder rolled in the distance and the sky darkened.
“Damn. It’s gonna rain. We’ll get soaked.”
“It’s just water,” Zeke said. “Anyway, it’s not raining yet.”
As with the first, they approached the second campsite with stealth. Like the first, it revealed no immediate sign anyone had recently been there.
Once again, an oppressive stillness settled over them. As it turned out, shirts too heavy, all three perspired in discomfort. They stood together deciding what to do next. The expedition had gone on long enough; even Zeke agreed.
But Zeke suddenly, said, “I think I heard something. Up there.” He gestured with his rifle.
“I heard it too,” Harvey said. His eyes traveled to a mixed stand of cedars and spruce above the far end of the clearing. “Somebody is watching us.”
They had no doubt. They all caught the crackling and rustling movement among the trees.
“Maybe it’s a deer,” Arvid said. But, like his brother, he aimed his rifle toward the sound.
“Jesus. I don’t know any Japanese words,” Zeke said. “How can I tell him to give up?”
“Spread out,” Arvid said. “He can’t cover us all at once.”
They moved a few steps apart, their attention still fixed on the spot where they’d heard the noise.
“There it is again,” Harvey said.
“Gotta do it,” Zeke said. “Gotta take a shot before he gets away. They’re tricky.”
He raised his rifle and squeezed off a round. Spontaneously and in rapid succession, Arvid and Harvey joined in. Firing blindly, the trio puckered the woods with rifle fire. Bullets slashed through the undergrowth. Then they stopped.
The silence came again; and nothing happened.
“I think we musta got him,” Zeke whispered. His brow gleamed with sweat.
They waited, uncertain of what to do next.
Finally, Zeke said, “You two stay back. Cover me. I’m going over there.” He reloaded his weapon and then warily advanced toward the perimeter of the clearing. Arvid and Harvey tracked him with nervous anticipation until Zeke disappeared from sight.
A long moment passed.
Suddenly Zeke called out, his voice freighted with anxiety. “He’s not Japanese. Hurry.”
“What?” Arvid returned the call. “Who is it then?”
“My God. Get up here. It’s George Wilkins; and he’s shot.”
Arvid and Harvey raced up to where they heard Zeke’s voice. Just inside the trees, they found Zeke kneeling beside eighteen-year old George Wilkins who sat propped against a tree.
“Is he alive?” Arvid said. He was frantic. They all were.
“There’s lots of blood. Oh, God. Must have been a deer rifle slug.”
George began to moan. They’d never heard a human in such pain. Rasping and whining, he sounded like a wounded animal.
“It’s his arm. So much blood. Hard to tell.”
“I don’t know what to do.” Zeke seemed petrified, unable to function. “I don’t know what to do,” he said again.
Arvid stripped off his shirt, then his undershirt. He’d paid attention in his high school first aid class. He tugged back George’s sleeve and pressed the undershirt against the wound.
“Doctor. Want a doctor,” George mumbled.
“Can you walk?” Arvid said.
When George nodded, they helped him to his feet and then half-carried half dragged him into the clearing. They placed him on the ground and covered him as best they could with their shirts. Arvid resumed his pressure on the wound. “I don’t think it’s too bad. But he needs help.”
“Oh, thank God, he’s not killed,” Zeke said, awash in unchecked emotion.
Harvey fetched a canteen. “Here, George, have some water.”
George took a swallow. “Thanks. Why’d you have to shoot? I didn’t do nothing to you.”
“Why didn’t you call out?” Arvid said.
“Thought was the sheriff. Or maybe the FBI . . .” He closed his eyes and lay back.
~ ~ ~
“What the hell is going on here?” Those were Sheriff Barrett’s first words as he and his deputy, Pete Fletcher, set foot in the clearing. He quickly followed with, “Pete, get over there and see what you can do for the Wilkins boy.”
The Tillsons and Harvey Bair hung their heads and studied their boots. They’d known the gray-haired sheriff all of their lives. They were at once relieved and frightened by his arrival.
“When we heard the shooting, we got here as fast as we could. We’ll have a lot of questions. Right now, though, we have to get George down to the trailhead.”
Arvid finally mustered the courage to speak. “How’d you know we were here?”
“We didn’t. We were looking for George. His dad figured he might be up here. Came to the lake before when they had some kind of family dispute.”
“Then you weren’t after us?” Zeke said.
“Not exactly. But when we saw your truck, put two and two together. Martha’s waitress said she heard you talk about hunting down that supposed parachute jumper.”
“Got the arm wrapped. Bleeding’s stopped,” the deputy said. “I’m pretty fresh, Sheriff. Should I go ahead and radio in from the cruiser?”
“Yeah. Plan to take George over to the hospital in Beaverton. We’ll be along as soon as we can. Oh yeah, and let his father know we found him.”
“We didn’t know it was him,” Arvid said. “You have to believe us.”
“I sure as hell hope you didn’t know,” the sheriff said.
“Are we in trouble?” Harvey asked.
“Remains to be seen,” the sheriff said. “You fools charged out here half-cocked and nearly ended up killing poor George Wilkins. One thing’s certain. You boys are gonna have some explaining to do.”
“We didn’t know,” Arvid said again.
The sheriff simply shook his head. “Now, one of you on each side, prop him up. It’s going to take some time, and a storm is coming, sure as shooting. Let’s go.”
And so, the inglorious crew began its journey back the way it had come.
Far above them across the ridge line in deep and tangled woods a mortally injured man dangled helplessly sixty feet off the ground, his camouflaged green chute invisible from the air.
Lawrence F. Farrar
The air felt unseasonably warm that late September morning in 1942. Eighteen-year old, Arvid Tillson hopped off his bike, put down the kickstand, and pushed open the door into Martha’s Cupboard Café. The only restaurant in town, it was where folks gathered in Brookville, Oregon (population 264), especially on weekends. Beer signs, Crater Lake calendars, win the war posters, and deer heads decorated the walls, and sawdust littered the floor. Oily cooking odors laced the air. Martha, a craggy, gray-haired woman presided like an army drill sergeant. She had done so from a grill behind the counter for thirty years.
Nearly 10:15; Arvid knew he’d be late. He had promised his older brother Zeke he’d meet him for something to eat at 10:00. Zeke’s fuse burned short and he’d probably have something critical to say about Arvid’s being late. He always did.
Four or five people perched at the counter and another ten or twelve occupied tables. The usual crowd of old timers who’d got through the Depression--lumbermen, ranchers, fisherman-- lingered over coffee and donuts (Martha fried her own). They were a sober bunch this day. They talked about how the war was going—not well. And now it seemed the conflict had come home right there to Oregon. Days earlier, a Japanese plane, probably launched from a submarine, had dropped an incendiary bomb that ignited a fire on Mount Emily. Who knew what might happen next?
On top of everything else, they’d just learned that Fred Wilkins’ boy, Chuck, had been killed with the Marines on Guadalcanal. They were having a tough time knowing how to handle the news. Only two days before, after receiving his draft notice, Chuck’s younger brother, George, had run off. Nobody knew where he’d gone. And nobody knew what to say to Fred Wilkins. It all seemed a damn shame.
One of the men raised his hand in greeting. “How you doing, Arvid?”
Arvid waved back. “Hi, Mr. Morton.”
Everybody knew Arvid and his brother. It was hard not to in a town so small. The boys’ mother ran the general store and served as postmistress. She had done both since her husband was killed in a logging accident years before. Arvid, tall and rangy, had attentive dark eyes. He kept his ash blonde hair trimmed short. He said he wanted to be ready when he was called to service—something he expected to happen any day. He also told folks he wanted to get into the overseas action before it was too late. And he wanted to get out of Brookville; that desire, however, was something he kept to himself.
Arvid made his way to a corner table where his brother sat polishing off his eggs and toast. Zeke downed the last dregs from his coffee mug, tilted back from the table, and issued a long, satisfying belch. He grinned. That was Zeke alright.
Harvey Bair, their sixteen-year-old neighbor also sat at the table. He’d tagged along after the Tillson boys ever since anybody could remember. He clung to them, especially Arvid, because they stood up for him against locals who teased him for being slow. Like the Tillsons, Harvey had on a ball cap, jeans, a sweat shirt, and work boots. Hollow cheeked, with bland, innocent eyes, he had crew cut, dark brown hair and was a bit stoop shouldered.
When Arvid plunked down in his chair, Zeke simply pointed at the wall clock.
“Come on, Zeke. Ma wouldn’t let me go ‘til I finished stocking shelves.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Arvid was the one person Zeke usually didn’t stay mad at. When others irritated him, however, he could display cougar-like ferocity. Nearly twenty, dark-haired, stubble-chinned, and heavy-set, he was quick to take offense, especially when someone asked why he wasn’t in the military. Most men his age in Brookville had already gone.
As soon as Arvid dropped into his chair, waitress Laverne Peterson came over to take his order. Clad in sweater and slacks, she was a young woman with blond, untidy hair. She had tried making it in Portland—and failed. Now she had come back to her hometown.
“What’ll it be, Arvid?” She slapped away Zeke’s wandering hand without so much as looking at him.
“Just coffee and a couple of those glazed donuts.”
Laverne cast a baleful eye on Zeke. “Why don’t you go join the army or something?”
She sauntered away as Zeke trailed her with his eyes. “Sweater really does her justice,” he said.
“Zeke, you never give up.” Arvid couldn’t help laughing.
Once Laverne vanished into the kitchen, Zeke changed course. “Everybody in here is going on about it,” he said.
“You mean that plane attack? All the customers in the store this morning were still talking about it, too. They were pretty nervous.”
News of the bombing on Mount Emily had rippled through the community for three days. Speculation rampant, people lived on the edge of anxiety. Rationality blurred by the morphine of hysteria, despite reassuring statements by authorities, they believed almost anything.
“Gimme one of those coffin nails,” Zeke said to his brother. He caught the pack Arvid tossed and lit up a Camel.
“That’s all I have. They’re getting hard to come by.”
Zeke took a drag. “Wouldn’t surprise me if there’s gonna be more attacks. They could hit us from their bases in the Aleutians. Maybe from secret airfields right here in Oregon.”
“Secret airfields? Where’d you get that? Probably just a one-time thing, anyway,” Arvid said.
He munched one of the donuts Laverne had delivered. Then, seeing his young friend’s hungry eyes, he passed the other one to Harvey.
“You think it’s a onetime thing, huh?” Zeke said. “Well, it could be worse than you think.”
“What do you mean?”
Zeke leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What would you say, if I told you a Japanese saboteur was probably hiding in the woods up at Big Lake? Right now.”
“I’d say you were off your nut.”
Zeke dropped his voice to a near whisper. “Well, I was pumping gas down at the station around eight. Norm Heegard stopped in after his milk run. He was all excited. Said his kid saw a dark-colored parachute late yesterday afternoon. I’m pretty sure it’s one of them.”
“You’ve been looking at too many of those government posters. They want you to think there are spies and saboteurs lurking everywhere.”
“Norm said the boy was sure what he saw.”
“Besides,” Arvid said, “the Coast Guard and the sheriff already announced there was nothing to what the kid said. He’s the same one who claimed last month there was a Bigfoot in their garden. It’s nothing but another rumor.”
“Well, they might just be covering up. They all said at first there was no shelling from that sub off Santa Barbara. Then they had to eat their words.”
“Oh, come on, Zeke. You gotta keep a lid on your imagination. Coast Guard’s had a hundred calls. People are just worked up. Jumping at shadows.”
“Also, could be some of them hid out when the other ones were sent off to those camps. Waiting to help some spy; or saboteur. Did you ever think of that?”
“You mean like Bobby Yamanaka? Or Steve Ito? I think it was rotten they and their folks had to get shipped off somewhere. Those guys were my pals. Now I don’t even know where they are.”
“Maybe not them. But some of those people sure looked suspicious to me. Why do you suppose they sent all the Japs away? Most of them didn’t belong in the States to begin with. Did you ever hear of a fifth column?”
Arvid rolled his eyes. Did his brother really believe this stuff?
“All I need to know is they came over here, got all the benefits, and then attacked us out there in Hawaii.”
Harvey, who’d said nothing, now spoke up. "Zeke says we ought to go after the spy ourselves. Zeke says . . .”
“Not so loud, Harvey,” Zeke raised a cautioning finger. “Some others might want to get in on this.” He turned to Harvey, “Here’s some nickels. Go pick out a couple tunes on the jukebox.” Newly installed, the music machine had become a big draw at Martha’s.
Harvey crossed the room, hesitated before the red, gold, and chrome juke box, and studied the selections. Then he deposited his coins and punched the required buttons. Soon Martha’s Cupboard Café filled with the strains of I Left My Heart at the Stage Door Canteen and Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.
Ball cap cocked on the back of his head, Harvey rejoined his friends.
“What do you mean? Go after somebody?” Arvid said.
“You heard me,” Zeke said. “From what Norm said, that parachute most likely came down by Big Lake.”
“So now you’re sure there’s a parachute,” Arvid said.
Zeke ignored the sarcasm. “We know that area around Big Lake almost better than anybody. And I’m tired of people making wise ass remarks just because I’m 4-F. Everybody knows I wrecked my knee in that ball game. And I’m sure as hell not gonna run off like George Wilkins.”
“Come on, Zeke. It’s a stupid idea.”
Zeke glowered. “You might think so, little brother. But I say we give it a try. Our contribution to the war effort, you might say.” Arvid knew that guilt about not serving gnawed at his brother.
Solemn as a deacon at Beaverton Presbyterian, Harvey monitored their exchange in enthusiastic silence. He wanted to be part of it.
“Like I said, the Jap’s gotta be up there around the lake. Somebody has to stop him before he does who knows what.”
“Come on, Zeke. Maybe the boy saw a weather balloon. Or the sun off a cloud. Could be anything.”
“Say what you want. First thing in the morning, Harvey and I are going up there. If you want to come along, that’s fine. Anyway, we’re going.
~ ~ ~
On Sunday, as the mountains caught the first shafts of the morning sun, Zeke postured with one foot on the running board of their rattletrap Ford pickup. He was impatient to set off.
Tires were rationed. Gas was rationed. But Arvid realized Zeke was determined to have his way. Their mother still slept.
“So, you’re coming?” Zeke said.
“Yeah. Somebody has to make sure you two don’t do anything foolish.” Arvid also felt drawn by the hand of curiosity. What if . . .?
Zeke gave him a dirty look. “Put your rifle back there.” He gestured to the truck bed. “I made some baloney sandwiches. In my rucksack. Got a couple canteens of water, too.”
Each brother had brought along a deer rifle and a few rounds of ammunition. Harvey, already sprawled in the bed of the truck, hefted his old 22. He’d ride in back like he always did.
They had put on wool shirts anticipating it would be cooler up by the lake.
“Wait a minute,” Zeke said. “There’s the Jenkins kid. He’s already seen us.”
The tow-headed twelve-year-old came scuffing along on the gravel road that passed in front of the Tillson place. “Where you going?” he said.
“Hunting,” Zeke said. “Maybe you can go with us sometime.”
“Yeah?”
“Right now, you can take our picture.” Zeke had taken along their mother’s Kodak, as he put it, to document the capture.
And so, weapons and toughest faces on display, the would-be vigilantes posted themselves beside the truck and posed for pictures.
Photos taken, Arvid cranked and Zeke started the engine. Harvey clambered back in the rear and the brothers settled into the cab. Zeke leaned out the open window and said to the Jenkins boy, “If you don’t say anything to anybody, we’ll take you next time for sure.”
He put the truck into gear, and they set out. After two miles on the gravel road, they turned off onto a badly maintained dirt logging road that led up the lake.
“You know, Arv, we’re just like soldiers going out on patrol. Sort of like Brian Donlevy in “Wake Island.”
“It’s not a movie, Zeke.”
“Shut up Arv. Don’t be a wet blanket. We just might have a real job to do.”
Zeke peered over the wheel, taking short, quick puffs on the last of Arvid’s cigarettes. Arvid knew Zeke acted this way when he was keyed up. Arvid looked out the window saying nothing. They rattled along for another forty-five minutes, the rutted road bounded on both sides by towering Douglas firs. They encountered no other vehicle. Although the sun shone brightly above, trees blocked the light and frequently immersed the road in gloom.
After another thirty minutes the road ended abruptly. A shadowed trail disappeared into the woods.
“The lake is up ahead. We gotta be careful from here on,” Zeke said. “If he’s out there he could be watching this road. Might know we’re here.”
“Yeah,” Harvey said, his face alive with excitement. “Could be a saboteur keeping an eye on us right now."
“He’s out there, alright,” Zeke said.
Arvid shook his head. “Okay. If you say so. Let’s get done with this.”
“Load your weapons and follow me.” Zeke raised his arm and delivered a hand signal straight out of one of the films he’d seen over in Beaverton. “And keep your spacing.”
Leaving the truck behind, rifles at the ready, they set out single file along the trail to Big Lake. Somewhere a stream gurgled in the undergrowth.
“Keep an eye out for a chute. Could be hanging up in a tree,” Zeke said.
From time to time they halted, stood motionless, and listened, silent as a covey of Trappist monks. Arvid told himself it was all a charade. Yet in the shaded forest the slightest sound commanded their attention. Startled by the rat-a-tat-tat tapping of an unseen woodpecker, Arvid experienced a sudden spasm of nervousness. What if Zeke was right? After all, the FBI had captured actual German saboteurs on the East Coast.
“Do you suppose anybody hunting him besides us?” Harvey whispered.
“Could be,” Zeke said. “But I don’t think so.”
“Probably too afraid,” Harvey added.
“Or too smart to believe there’s a saboteur,” Arvid said.
“Shut up, Arvid. You didn’t have to come, you know.”
They picked their way through fallen branches and squelched through standing water. A keening hawk circled high above as if monitoring their progress. After twenty minutes, they caught sight of the lake’s glimmering surface. Big Lake was, in fact, not big at all; a half mile long and a quarter mile across. Although it afforded good fishing, anglers preferred more accessible places.
When they reached the water, Arvid said, “Well. We’re here. Now what?”
“The way I see it,” Zeke replied, “he’d have a hard time getting around up there on the slopes. Probably worked his way down closer to the lake. There’s two campsites by the water.”
“So, you think your saboteur could be at one of those campsites?”
“Could be.” Zeke whispered so softly as to be almost inaudible.
“Yeah. Let’s sneak up on a campsite,” Harvey said, forgetting to keep his own voice down.
“We’ll work our way along the lake. Real quiet,” Zeke said. “Follow me.”
They found the going arduous and keeping quiet no easy thing. They traversed a brush-choked trail, a slippery boulder field, and steep slopes that plunged down toward the lake. Fallen trees and flooded potholes challenged them.
After a hard slog, the trio approached the first campsite with exaggerated stealth. Long dark shadows floated across the clearing which fronted on the lake. After careful surveillance, they concluded no one was there and stepped into the clearing.
“I’m hungry,” Harvey said. “Can we have one of those sandwiches?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Zeke put down his rifle and slipped off his rucksack. He retrieved a paper bag with sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. The weary threesome flopped down on the ground and plunged into their sandwiches, washed down with water.
Gazing out over the lake, Arvid said, “Don’t you think it’s time to go back? We haven’t seen anything.”
Zeke gestured toward the slope above them. “Probably up there right now creeping around in the brush.”
“Come on, Zeke. This has gone on long enough.”
“I’m tired,” Harvey said. “Can’t we just rest here a while longer?”
“Looks like you two are quitters,” Zeke said. “Maybe I’ll just have to go on by myself.”
Zeke got up, stretched, and walked down to the water.
“Well. What have we got here?” he said.
Their curiosity piqued, the other two picked up their weapons and joined him at the water’s edge.
Zeke pointed to a narrow strip of sand. “If that’s not a footprint, I don’t know what is.”
Sure enough, clearly outlined in the wet sand they could make out what appeared to be two boot prints.
“Could be anyone,” Arvid said. But the hairs on his neck rose like porcupine bristles and he involuntarily pivoted to scan the trees.
Save for their breathing, a quiet enveloped them, one so dense it seemed you could hear a leaf fall.
“I think we should go back,” Arvid said. “Tell the sheriff what we found.”
“A couple of footprints? They’ll just laugh at us,” Zeke replied. “I say we check out the other campsite. It can’t be far. If nothing turns up, we can head back.”
Without waiting for an answer, he shouldered his rucksack and picked up his rifle.
“Okay. But that’s it,” Arvid said.
The trail got no better, peppered with slick rocks, roots, and logs. The trees grew thickly, wet and black. For a time, a hazy sun sent gauzy rays down through the branches. But thunder rolled in the distance and the sky darkened.
“Damn. It’s gonna rain. We’ll get soaked.”
“It’s just water,” Zeke said. “Anyway, it’s not raining yet.”
As with the first, they approached the second campsite with stealth. Like the first, it revealed no immediate sign anyone had recently been there.
Once again, an oppressive stillness settled over them. As it turned out, shirts too heavy, all three perspired in discomfort. They stood together deciding what to do next. The expedition had gone on long enough; even Zeke agreed.
But Zeke suddenly, said, “I think I heard something. Up there.” He gestured with his rifle.
“I heard it too,” Harvey said. His eyes traveled to a mixed stand of cedars and spruce above the far end of the clearing. “Somebody is watching us.”
They had no doubt. They all caught the crackling and rustling movement among the trees.
“Maybe it’s a deer,” Arvid said. But, like his brother, he aimed his rifle toward the sound.
“Jesus. I don’t know any Japanese words,” Zeke said. “How can I tell him to give up?”
“Spread out,” Arvid said. “He can’t cover us all at once.”
They moved a few steps apart, their attention still fixed on the spot where they’d heard the noise.
“There it is again,” Harvey said.
“Gotta do it,” Zeke said. “Gotta take a shot before he gets away. They’re tricky.”
He raised his rifle and squeezed off a round. Spontaneously and in rapid succession, Arvid and Harvey joined in. Firing blindly, the trio puckered the woods with rifle fire. Bullets slashed through the undergrowth. Then they stopped.
The silence came again; and nothing happened.
“I think we musta got him,” Zeke whispered. His brow gleamed with sweat.
They waited, uncertain of what to do next.
Finally, Zeke said, “You two stay back. Cover me. I’m going over there.” He reloaded his weapon and then warily advanced toward the perimeter of the clearing. Arvid and Harvey tracked him with nervous anticipation until Zeke disappeared from sight.
A long moment passed.
Suddenly Zeke called out, his voice freighted with anxiety. “He’s not Japanese. Hurry.”
“What?” Arvid returned the call. “Who is it then?”
“My God. Get up here. It’s George Wilkins; and he’s shot.”
Arvid and Harvey raced up to where they heard Zeke’s voice. Just inside the trees, they found Zeke kneeling beside eighteen-year old George Wilkins who sat propped against a tree.
“Is he alive?” Arvid said. He was frantic. They all were.
“There’s lots of blood. Oh, God. Must have been a deer rifle slug.”
George began to moan. They’d never heard a human in such pain. Rasping and whining, he sounded like a wounded animal.
“It’s his arm. So much blood. Hard to tell.”
“I don’t know what to do.” Zeke seemed petrified, unable to function. “I don’t know what to do,” he said again.
Arvid stripped off his shirt, then his undershirt. He’d paid attention in his high school first aid class. He tugged back George’s sleeve and pressed the undershirt against the wound.
“Doctor. Want a doctor,” George mumbled.
“Can you walk?” Arvid said.
When George nodded, they helped him to his feet and then half-carried half dragged him into the clearing. They placed him on the ground and covered him as best they could with their shirts. Arvid resumed his pressure on the wound. “I don’t think it’s too bad. But he needs help.”
“Oh, thank God, he’s not killed,” Zeke said, awash in unchecked emotion.
Harvey fetched a canteen. “Here, George, have some water.”
George took a swallow. “Thanks. Why’d you have to shoot? I didn’t do nothing to you.”
“Why didn’t you call out?” Arvid said.
“Thought was the sheriff. Or maybe the FBI . . .” He closed his eyes and lay back.
~ ~ ~
“What the hell is going on here?” Those were Sheriff Barrett’s first words as he and his deputy, Pete Fletcher, set foot in the clearing. He quickly followed with, “Pete, get over there and see what you can do for the Wilkins boy.”
The Tillsons and Harvey Bair hung their heads and studied their boots. They’d known the gray-haired sheriff all of their lives. They were at once relieved and frightened by his arrival.
“When we heard the shooting, we got here as fast as we could. We’ll have a lot of questions. Right now, though, we have to get George down to the trailhead.”
Arvid finally mustered the courage to speak. “How’d you know we were here?”
“We didn’t. We were looking for George. His dad figured he might be up here. Came to the lake before when they had some kind of family dispute.”
“Then you weren’t after us?” Zeke said.
“Not exactly. But when we saw your truck, put two and two together. Martha’s waitress said she heard you talk about hunting down that supposed parachute jumper.”
“Got the arm wrapped. Bleeding’s stopped,” the deputy said. “I’m pretty fresh, Sheriff. Should I go ahead and radio in from the cruiser?”
“Yeah. Plan to take George over to the hospital in Beaverton. We’ll be along as soon as we can. Oh yeah, and let his father know we found him.”
“We didn’t know it was him,” Arvid said. “You have to believe us.”
“I sure as hell hope you didn’t know,” the sheriff said.
“Are we in trouble?” Harvey asked.
“Remains to be seen,” the sheriff said. “You fools charged out here half-cocked and nearly ended up killing poor George Wilkins. One thing’s certain. You boys are gonna have some explaining to do.”
“We didn’t know,” Arvid said again.
The sheriff simply shook his head. “Now, one of you on each side, prop him up. It’s going to take some time, and a storm is coming, sure as shooting. Let’s go.”
And so, the inglorious crew began its journey back the way it had come.
Far above them across the ridge line in deep and tangled woods a mortally injured man dangled helplessly sixty feet off the ground, his camouflaged green chute invisible from the air.
