THE GREASE MONKEYS ARE STILL WORKING ON OUR PLANES. MAINTENANCE IS A JOKE. THERE ARE NO HANGARS, TOOLS, OR SPARE PARTS. WE HAVE WHAT WE LANDED WITH. AS OF RIGHT NOW, WE ARE LOSING THE WAR HERE. IF WE FAIL TO STOP THE JAPANESE, THEY WILL TAKE OVER ALL OF NEW GUINEA AND THE NORTHERN HALF OF AUSTRALIA. THE ENEMY IS ONLY SIX MILES UP THE TRAIL FROM US. A SNIPER IS PROBABLY WATCHING ME WRITE THIS ENTRY. OUR SHIPS LOAD AND UNLOAD AT NIGHT, HIDING AT SEA DURING THE DAY. WAR IS TOUGH.
Dylan read several more entries before realizing that Uncle Todd was still watching him. “What are you staring at?” Dylan asked.
“I’m trying to figure out how somebody who has had everything handed to him on a silver platter could ever think the world owes him anything.”
“I don’t think that,” Dylan said.
Uncle Todd shrugged. “Something else must be getting under your skin, then,” he said. “You have a chip on your shoulder as big as a log.”
To escape Uncle Todd’s icy stare, Dylan looked back down at the journal.
JULY 1, 1942
STILL HAVE NOT FLOWN A MISSION. EVERY DAY WE TRY TO MAKE OURSELVES BUSY HELPING THE GREASE MONKEYS WORK ON OUR BOMBERS OR DIGGING OUR TRENCHES DEEPER. I WENT THROUGH MY SURVIVAL KIT YESTERDAY AND ADDED A FEW THINGS. I NOW HAVE A PISTOL AND PLENTY OF AMMUNITION, A SHARP KNIFE, GAS MASK, FIRST-AID KIT, MIRROR, MOSQUITO NETTING, FISH HOOKS, AND SOME EXTRA RATIONS AND WATER TO STORE IN THE COCKPIT IN CASE WE CRASH-LAND. THIS PLACE IS UNLIKE ANY I HAVE EVER SEEN.
THERE ARE NO BUILDINGS HERE AT JACKSON AIRSTRIP EXCEPT A SMALL TOWER THAT IS BEING BUILT. EVERYTHING IS DONE IN THE OPEN, RAIN OR SHINE, DAY OR NIGHT, SEVEN DAYS A WEEK. WE ARE NOW OFFICIALLY IN THE BOONDOCKS.
Dylan’s eyes had grown heavy and his head fell forward as he drifted into a deep sleep. Somewhere in the distance he thought he heard drum beats. He dreamed he had wings and was flying toward the sound. The drumming grew louder as he spotted smoke drifting upward like a ribbon of white from the jungle. Gliding closer, Dylan could see that the smoke billowed from a big fire. Tied to a pole and being roasted over the fire like a hotdog on a stick was a white-skinned boy named Dylan Barstow.
Dylan wasn’t sure he liked the taste of chicken anymore.
There wasn’t much to talk about as the Boeing 737 took off. This was only Dylan’s second ride in an airplane. His first had been when he was eight and his dad was still alive. They flew to Florida. While other kids enjoyed Disney World, his father, Sam, dragged him through mangrove swamps in the everglades looking for rare birds and alligators. And when they did go to an amusement park, it had to be Epcot, the more adult part of Disney World. At least they got to ride the Mission: SPACE flight simulator. Dylan had loved it. His mom screamed the whole ride and almost got sick from the G-force.
Dylan sat by the window and stared out at the shore of Lake Michigan passing under the wing. He fingered the journal as he stared out the window. He didn’t like reading about waking up with spiders, being attacked by the Japanese, and keeping the crew’s morale up, but finally, out of boredom, he opened the small leather journal to read more.
JULY 8, 1942
TODAY WE FLEW OUR FIRST MISSION. THE LANDING STRIP HERE AT JACKSON AIRSTRIP IS SCARY. IT’S LIKE LANDING AND TAKING OFF FROM A POSTAGE STAMP1. NOT A GOOD PLACE FOR AN OVERLOADED BOMBER WITH A FULL CREW. WE FLEW A BOMBING MISSION OVER LAE LOOKING FOR SHIPS AND ANTI-AIRCRAFT ARTILLERY SITES. WE BRIEFED OUR MISSION FOR 26,000 FEET WITH THREE OTHER B-17S. I THOUGHT THE HIGH-ALTITUDE COLD WOULD BE WELCOME, BUT IT WAS BITTER. MY OXYGEN MASK KEPT FREEZING UP. I FINALLY SWITCHED TO A PORTABLE FOR TEN MINUTES AFTER THE BOMB DROP. TWO JAPANESE ZEROS MADE A RUN ON US BUT WE HAD THE ADVANTAGE OF ALTITUDE AND THE SUN AT OUR BACKS. MY BALL TURRET GUNNER CLAIMED HE SAW SMOKE FROM ONE OF THE ZEROS BEFORE THEY TURNED TAIL TO RUN. SECOND ACE AND THE OTHER B-17S RETURNED WITHOUT DAMAGE. THINK WE KNOCKED OUT ONE OF THE AAA GUN SITES.
I UNDERSTAND NOW WHY THEY SAY, “NEVER PASS UP A MEAL, BECAUSE YOU DON’T KNOW WHEN OR IF THERE WILL BE A NEXT ONE.”
Reading the journal made Dylan think about his dad. Had Dad ever written a journal like this? Mom showed him the one letter, but surely there were others. Suddenly Dylan wanted to know more about his father. What had it been like in Darfur? Dylan clenched his fists. If he was still in Wisconsin, he could have asked Mom about it. That was where he should be right now. Not stuck on some airplane with his uncle, flying to Oregon. What else would Uncle Todd think of to make life more miserable than it already was?
“Stupid,” Dylan whispered under his breath, as Lake Michigan drifted away behind the wing.
They changed planes in Minneapolis and flew on to Portland. Uncle Todd had his car parked at the airport. Dylan hadn’t known that his uncle drove a red Corvette. It was an antique 1962 Vette with the old-style rounded headlights and Stingray back. It had a hardtop that could come off in good weather. Dylan tried not to show his excitement.
Uncle Todd caught Dylan staring and smiled. “Back in high school, you could buy one of these in cherry condition for less than two thousand dollars,” he said.
“How much do they cost now?” Dylan asked.
“I’ve seen them for way over fifty thousand.”
“Must be nice having money,” Dylan said.
“I’m surprised I still have a butt,” Uncle Todd said.
“What do you mean?”
“I worked my butt off earning every penny I ever had. That’s what makes it so great now. People who have things given to them never appreciate it.” When Dylan didn’t answer, Uncle Todd spoke again. “We won’t be leaving for almost two weeks. Maybe you can drive this thing before we leave.”
“No way — I don’t have a license.”
Uncle Todd grinned. “That didn’t stop you before.”
Dylan chuckled.
“I know where there’s an abandoned parking lot south of here. That would be a good place.”
“So how come you agreed to take me for the summer?” Dylan asked.
“Your dad, Sam, was my brother — it’s what he would have wanted.” Uncle Todd paused. “And I agree with your mom.”
“Agree with what?”
“That you’re a good person inside, if you ever take the time to find that person. Right now he’s buried under a pile of anger. You’re trying to prove something to yourself, and I haven’t quite figured out yet what you’re trying to prove.”
“I’m not trying to prove anything,” Dylan snapped. He hated being analyzed.
“Yes, you are. Just because Dylan Barstow says something with his mouth doesn’t mean tiddly-dink as far as the truth. You should know that by now.”
Dylan bit his tongue. His uncle was always so sure of himself. He had his own front he was keeping up for some reason. Why did he still live all alone and act like a drill sergeant?
They drove the rest of the way in silence. When Uncle Todd pulled up to his condo in Gresham, a town east of Portland, he revved the engine, then turned the key to OFF.
“Welcome to my world,” he said. “We get a lot of rain here. Today it’s sunny, so let’s make use of it. Grab your stuff and I’ll show you where your room is. Then we’re going running.”
“That’s all right,” Dylan said. “I don’t like to run.”
“Excuse me, did I say, ‘Can we run?’ Did I say, ‘Would you like to take a little jog, Your Royal Highness?’ Maybe we need to get something straight right up front. The reason you’re here is because you’ve been making bad choices. This summer I make the choices. Is there anything about that program that you don’t understand?” When Dylan didn’t answer, Uncle Todd added, “Let’s get you settled and then I’ll meet you down here for a run in thirty minutes.” Without waiting for an answer, Uncle Todd headed into the house, not even offering to carry Dylan’s heavy suitcase.
The run turned out to be more than a jog. They ran five miles, as if it were the Boston Marathon. “Why do we have to run so fast?” Dylan complained, struggling to keep up.
“Because if we wanted to go slow, w
e’d have brought wheelchairs. I’m almost sixty years old. What are you — a fossil?”
Dylan didn’t like being called a fossil. He ran out ahead of Uncle Todd until they returned home, where he collapsed on the grass. “Why do we have to go running?” Dylan gasped, breathing hard.
“When we get to Papua New Guinea, we’ll be doing some serious hiking. We won’t have time to get into shape then. You’ll be thanking me for this when we get there. We have exactly two weeks to get you as strong as we can.”
They headed inside and Dylan flopped onto the couch. He wouldn’t be thanking Uncle Todd for anything. He was still trying to figure out how to get out of even going to this dumb PNG place. He had yet to figure out any plan. Just being here with Uncle Todd was Dylan’s worst nightmare — his summer from hell!
“Go shower and get cleaned up. We’re going out for pizza,” Uncle Todd ordered.
“I’m not hungry,” Dylan said.
“And I’m not a giraffe. But we’re still going out for pizza. So, HOP! HOP!” Uncle Todd clapped his hands for emphasis.
Dylan wanted to scream as he shuffled slowly up the steps to his room.
He would never have admitted it to his uncle, but Dylan felt good for having run five miles, and he slept like a baby that night. He could have slept another five hours when he heard the dreaded “Wakee wakee wakee!” at six the next morning.
“We don’t have any plane to catch,” Dylan pleaded.
“No, but there is a new day out there waiting for us to get our butts out of bed. It’s already light out. If you beat me this morning, I’ll take you to Perkins for breakfast. I beat you, we come back here for some of my cooking. I suggest you try and beat me.”
In ten minutes, they were running down the empty street.
“Let’s jog to warm up,” Uncle Todd said, “and then we’ll see how fast Dylan Barstow can really run. Yesterday I took it easy on you.”
Before they reached the end of the block, Uncle Todd reached over and nudged Dylan’s arm. “Same route as yesterday, down around the park and then home.” He shouted “Go!” and quickened his pace.
There was no way Dylan was going to let this arrogant old man beat him in a footrace. It didn’t matter that he was a human bulldog. Knowing how he felt yesterday, running all out, Dylan paced himself, not even trying to get ahead of Uncle Todd. He could pass him anytime he wanted, but for now, let the old geezer think he was winning.
Soon they had rounded the park and were headed home. Dylan still hung back, waiting until he knew he could sprint to the finish. But as they neared home, Dylan realized he wouldn’t be sprinting anywhere. Just keeping up with Uncle Todd had become a struggle. By the time they were a block from home, Dylan’s legs felt like rubber. Still, he ran faster. Each pounding step felt like it was his last. At half a block he was even with his uncle. A hundred yards away, he was still even. Fifty feet away, they were running down the middle of the street. He closed his eyes and willed himself to run harder than he had ever run in his life. When he opened his eyes to angle up the drive, he was only inches ahead of Uncle Todd, but he was ahead!
Pumping his arms in the air, he collapsed on the grass. “I’m going to eat a whole cow at Perkins,” Dylan panted.
Uncle Todd smiled, gasping for air himself. He bent at the waist, hands on his knees, as he struggled to catch his breath. “Now that’s the Dylan I like and the Dylan I remember,” he exclaimed. He caught several more breaths, and then continued. “You ran smart, pacing yourself. I thought you would run like a bonehead and try to be ahead of me from the beginning, but you didn’t. And at the end, you had willpower. A lot of kids don’t. You made me proud, and now you don’t have to eat my cooking. You lucky stiff!”
For the moment, Dylan forgot his situation and grinned. He had just beaten Uncle Todd in an all-out footrace. He even got a compliment out of the old fart. His uncle extended his hand to help him up, and Dylan allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.
Sitting in Perkins waiting for their orders, Uncle Todd folded his cloth napkin back and forth. “By the way,” he said. “If you want to call your mother, feel free any time.”
“Why would I want to call her?” Dylan said. “She’s the one that got me into this mess.”
“No, you’re the one that got you into this mess. Don’t blame her.”
“Whatever,” Dylan said.
“‘Whatever’ — you know what that means, don’t you?”
“What?”
“That’s code for ‘screw you.’ You’re telling me my words aren’t important.”
“Is there anything I can do that isn’t wrong?”
“It’s not what you do, it’s why you do it,” Uncle Todd said. After a pause, he continued. “Look, you can live, dress, talk, do anything you want, if it’s to be different. If you want to stand out, be comfortable, be noticed, be stylish, I’m okay with that. But from what I’ve seen, you don’t blow your nose without attitude. Escaping with your headset, wearing your pants low, saying ‘whatever’ — you do all of those things to thumb your nose at people and be disrespectful.
“I dress and act a lot different than you, but nothing I say or do is meant to be disrespectful of you. I expect the same respect back. Maybe you got away treating your mom without respect. Now you’re on a different planet.”
“I don’t do those things to be disrespectful,” Dylan argued.
Uncle Todd shook his head and snickered.
“What’s so funny?” Dylan asked.
“You,” Uncle Todd said. “You think because your mouth says something, the whole world believes you. You’re so angry that everything you do is to show your contempt. Treat me that way and we have a problem. Understand?” When Dylan didn’t answer, Uncle Todd raised his voice and said, “Do the respectful thing and answer my question. Do we understand each other?”
People in other booths were now staring over at them. Knowing there would be no escaping Uncle Todd, Dylan nodded. He wanted to say, “Whatever,” but instead mumbled, “Yes.”
Each day with Uncle Todd became a bigger challenge. At home there had been a thousand ways that Dylan could get away with doing as he pleased. Here, he lived under a microscope. Every move, every word, every twitch of his muscles was analyzed. Dylan felt like a lab rat. And every morning they ran, even in the rain. Dylan made sure he beat Uncle Todd running. That was the single thing that brought him any satisfaction. But finally, even that lost its appeal.
One morning, a week after arriving in Oregon, Uncle Todd shouted “Go!” and sped up. Dylan didn’t respond. Instead he kept trotting along slowly at the pace they had warmed up at. Uncle Todd looked back but then kept running. Dylan hadn’t even reached the park when his uncle passed him, returning to the house. “See you at the house,” he called. “I’m cooking this morning.”
“Whatever,” Dylan muttered. This was stupid, running in the rain.
By the time Dylan returned home, Uncle Todd had breakfast fixed. “Let’s eat before we shower,” he said. “Breakfast is ready.”
Dylan slumped into a chair at the table, actually hungry.
“Here,” Uncle Todd said, placing burned toast and a bowl of mystery mush in front of him. The mush was some kind of white slop that looked like oatmeal but was more grainy. “What is this?” Dylan asked.
“Those are grits,” Uncle Todd announced proudly. “My favorite breakfast.”
Dylan knew better than to refuse the meal, but he had to swallow each bite quickly to keep from puking. If this was someone’s favorite breakfast, they were some kind of sick. Finally, swallowing the last gross mouthful of mush, Dylan stood. “I’m going up to shower.”
“You can shower after telling me you appreciated me making breakfast, and after taking this.” Uncle Todd handed Dylan another malaria pill.
Dylan lost it. “But I didn’t like the breakfast,” he snapped. “It tasted like crap!”
“Then say thank you out of respect. You don’t have to like something to be respe
ctful.”
Feeling cornered, Dylan finally mumbled, “Thanks.”
“Good,” Uncle Todd said. “After we clean up, let’s go drive the Corvette. If you’re still up to it.”
Dylan hid his excitement. “That would be okay,” he said, shrugging. “Won’t it be better if it’s not raining?”
Uncle Todd shook his head. “With what we’re doing this morning, rain is actually better for learning.”
Bounding up the stairs, Dylan pumped his fists with excitement. He was getting to drive his first Corvette. Before showering, he flushed the malaria pill down the toilet.
As they drove back toward Portland, Uncle Todd explained their plan. “The place where we’re going is a huge parking lot by a factory that has been closed down. Our car club has permission to go there. We’ll use pylons to practice maneuvering. Ever heard of drifting?”
“As in like a snowdrift?”
“No, as in like controlled power sliding with a car.”
Dylan shook his head.
Soon they pulled off the main highway and drove through an industrial subdivision for another mile. Finally they pulled up to a locked gate. Uncle Todd crawled from the red Corvette and unlocked the door.
“Is this legal?” Dylan ventured as Uncle Todd crawled back behind the wheel.
Uncle Todd nodded. “You don’t mind doing something if it’s legal, do you?”
“Just wondering.”
Soon they circled behind a big building with almost a quarter mile of loading docks. Except for a few phone poles, the parking lot was a huge open expanse of concrete. Already highway cones marked a large course. “Okay, let me show you what we’re going to do,” Uncle Todd said. “Start out slow and then go faster.”
“I’m not afraid to go fast,” Dylan said.
“You should be — that’s how people kill themselves,” Uncle Todd said, downshifting. “There’s no fools in this car, unless you know of one. First let me show you what happens if we do things wrong.”