Opening my eyes I expect to be looking down at a quiet landscape and not up into near total darkness, but I quickly realize that I'm not on the plane anymore. Where am I? Reaching my hand to my aching head causes beads of sweat to fall down the side of my forehead. Though I am achy all over my leg hurts more than anything else, a fact I can't quite explain. Squinting my eyes closed tightly I try harder to remember what's happened.
I've had another nightmare, but I only remember the terror not the content. Perhaps I am still trapped in the nightmare, believing I am waking up within it while I'm really fast asleep in my bunk at the barracks or in my own soft bed back in Pittsburgh. Is that possible?
I vaguely remember being brought to wherever I am by unfamiliar people. Over the next few seconds the memory of the plane crash resurfaces in my consciousness. The fire, the heat, the sound of metal scraping metal, a shift in the plane's descent, something sharp digging into my thigh, a terrible scream, the smell of burning…burning. I jumped not because I knew it was the right time but to avoid the flames.
But where am I now? I ask myself again.
Becoming gradually more aware, I pass my hand across my hip and down to my thigh. Even before I touch it I can feel heat radiating from the place that hurts so badly. I very gently press my fingertips against the taut skin and find that it's hot and dry. Sighing with frustration, I push the back of my throbbing head a little harder against the unyielding surface below me.
Not good.
Something cold suddenly grazes my other arm and causes me to roll abruptly to the left. The side of my injured leg makes contact with the ground unexpectedly. The pain of the contact rips through me immediately, and I shift back the other way, lift my head and shoulders off the ground, and bend at the waist in a failed attempt to stop the rising pain. Surprisingly, the only sound I make is a strangled moan. Then I fall slightly forward and sideways, but not as far as I know I should. Instead, I'm caught by a pair of arms draped in soft cloth that feels cool against my hot skin. I shiver.
"Stay still," a quiet voice suggests. "You need to rest." I do become still. How can I not? Moving takes my breath away.
The voice is familiar, but interpreting the words takes a moment because they aren't spoken in English. They're in Chinese. Why Chinese?
I hear a scuffling sound, feel the arms I'm leaning on give a little, and then sense that I'm being lowered down slowly. I glance up to see the silhouette of a girl's face. The back of my head comes to rest in her lap, and she shifts her legs underneath my neck and shoulder. I exhale slowly, still not quite believing that I'm not alone.
"Delly," I choke out. It's dark. I can't see clearly, but it must be Delly here with me and holding me this way. I settle against her gratefully. But when I look up again I can see the moonlight shine on my companion's face. She's not Delly, though her face is known to me. I try to place the familiar image.
Delly is beautiful, but this girl looks beautiful to me in a different way. I'm fascinated by her high cheekbones, smooth skin, and piercing eyes. I want to keep looking at her. Her gentle hand grazes my neck, the other one wrapped around me so that she's cradling me in her arm as I rest in her lap. Her arm can't quite reach around me, but she tries none-the-less. And it doesn't matter, I feel safe lying in her lap. I have to close my eyes as my senses become overwhelmed with both pain and pleasure. What an odd mix of feelings.
I curl into the girl despite not remembering who she is. The coolness of her body is soothing. I'm too hot and begin to pluck at the front of my shirt with my fingers. But they don't work as they should. I drop my hand beside my face in frustration, feeling helpless at my inability to perform such a simple task. The girl flinches but then quiets again. Then I feel her hand on my chest, her fingers moving quickly to loosen the first button on my shirt. I shudder when her fingers move to the next button in the near darkness. Once another is loosened the cool air of the cave washes over the overheated skin of my chest, finally bringing me some relief. The girl brings her hand back to her lap and picks up my hand before slowly entwining my fingers with hers.
"Katniss," I whisper, as the memory of the girl sharing the story of her nickname suddenly comes back to me. "You're not 'prickly,'" I add. She squeezes my hand in response.
But her reassuring presence doesn't stop fear from gripping me again. A sense of doom washes over me a moment later, and I find myself unable to avoid telling the girl everything that's running through my head.
"I had a brother who died as a child," I explain, "I have another brother too. He's still alive. He's in Europe now. In the army. So, at least I hope he's still alive. But my brother who died years ago, he got sick. Very sick," I ramble. "My grandfather said one day he'd just fall asleep and never wake up..."
I stop midsentence to look at the girl again. She stares back at me intensely, her face illuminated again by the moonlight.
"Wait," I say with a sigh. "You don't understand me, do you?" I ask her. Her bewildered expression tells me that she does't even understand my question.
"My brother died," I tell her matter-of-factly in Chinese. I can feel her tense her leg muscles under my head. "He didn't just fall asleep when he was dying. He couldn't breathe," I went on.
I've had dreams in Chinese, haven't I? Talking to her is something like that.
"We all tried to pretend everything was all right for as long as we could. We didn't want to upset my brother, but I think he knew. He was the one comforting us and talking about how we'd be fine if anything happened to him. You know? He comforted us," I tell her. "But at the end he couldn't."
Wait. I'm supposed to speak to her in Chinese. I forgot.
I'd unknowingly switched back to English while talking about the brother that I'd lost.
"Where are we?" I ask in Chinese.
Katniss rubs the thumb of the hand that holds mine against my wrist.
"In a cave," she answers. "We are hiding you."
"A cave," I repeat.
"Yes," she answers.
My heart races in my chest again.
Why am I not at home? Didn't I fly in an airplane somewhere? Is school out for Christmas?
I look up at the girl who is holding me so tenderly. I've been speaking to her in Chinese.
"In China," I say, letting out a breath and melting into her just a little more with the realization of just how far away I am from those I love. Still, I'm so glad she's here with me.
"I'm not my brother," I blurt out in Chinese. "It wasn't supposed to be this way, and I can't make anybody feel better."
Katniss lowers her eyes solemnly.
I bend my knee because it has grown stiff and I feel like I need to move it. As the agony of my mistake hits me the girl wraps my head and shoulders in her arms tightly, and she doesn't let go. I breathe through the pain and then straighten my leg, inch by merciless inch. Overwhelmed by everything that's happening to me I rock gently back and forth. It's comforting, like something from long ago.
My mother's arms. Sitting in a small rocking chair while I'm holding a book. A swing. The sound of metal scraping metal as the swing goes back and forth.
The girl finally loosens her hold a little as I start to relax again. I feel so close to her. I am so close to her while she leans over me like this. She brushes her hand through the hair just behind my ear, across my neck, and down my arm. Wanting her to keep touching me, I follow her hand with my own when it moves away.
"I don't want to be alone," I whisper before I can stop myself from saying it.
The girl's legs shake underneath me, and my chest feels unexpectedly full. I'm so lost, but I don't want to make this girl sad or afraid. Could what I'm asking of her be seen as using her in some terrible way? This kind of thing would be forbidden even at home. I can't imagine that it's acceptable here in China, but we aren't actually doing anything wrong. This girl is just trying to help me.
I reach out and touch her arm where it is wrapped around me. Her elbow is pressed tightly against her own body, and I can feel that she's shaking all over now. No, not shaking. It's more like a vibration. Maybe it's both. And then I hear her. She's singing softly.
Turning my head, I press my lips against her arm several times as I listen to her soft, sweet voice reverberate off the cave walls. I know I shouldn't kiss her, but these are kisses. I can't deny that. Emotions I never knew I had well up inside me. She continues to sing, and I listen as I nuzzle my cheek against her arm. I imagine pulling her down to me. At least I think I imagine it.
Oh, God I hope I'm not actually doing that. I'm not, am I?
She's not singing anymore. Right before the delirium pulls me under completely I feel her fingers brush my ear. Her lips touch mine. I sigh, let go of my hold on reality, and I sink back into unconsciousness.
/
India 1944 – (two months before the plane crash)
"You'll never get lost with Mellark as your navigator, that's for sure," our pilot, John, boasts. "Best B-29 navigator we've got."
I roll my eyes.
"You ever get scared going over those mountains, the Himalayas?" our newest crew member, George, asks. John doesn't answer.
"They call the mountain range 'the hump,'" I explain, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "I always feel better once we're past it"
"These B-29's…what're they really like? Do they have many problems?" George asks, trying yet again to engage John in conversation. The only comment John's made during the entire conversation with our new crewmember is the one about my navigation skills. I'm certain he's deliberately avoiding interacting with George.
John worries. Finding the idea of failing his crew completely unacceptable, he chooses to deny the possibility. Our lives rest in John's hands, especially as we fly over the Himalayas on our journey to the small bases in China. After a very brief stay at one of those bases we fly even further east. Some of our missions involve transporting supplies that will be used to fight the war in the Pacific. Others involve directly bombing Japanese targets. Once our mission is complete we make the long flight back, repeating the whole process in reverse.
At times I understand John's aloof attitude. When you are flying a plane and you are the only one aboard a mistake can easily result in your own death, but if you make a mistake flying a B-29 your whole crew can die with you. John takes that responsibility very seriously. I cover for his detachment, as usual. John says I can charm the fleas off a dog.
"Well, for a gunner like you the biggest risk is a fire control blister popping," I tell George. "With the pressurized cabin and the high altitudes you can blow right out of the plane if that happens."
He looks worried, and I can't blame him. Being assigned to a new type of aircraft is stressful after months of flying in something else.
"Just remember to wear your safety line. All the gunners need to wear them," I add.
He nods.
"They've done some good work toward improving the engine problems on the B-29's," I say reassuringly. "We hear about fewer engine fires now."
There's an awkward pause. Airmen fear fire more than anything. Burning to death is a bad way to die, and we all heard stories about B-29 engines catching fire even before they came into service. Our newest crewmember would be wondering about those rumors.
As if on cue John finally comes to life at that moment. He chuckles and slaps George on the shoulder.
"You know how we got the name 'The Mockingjay' for our B-29?" he asks.
George shakes his head, of course. Planes are almost always given names, and there is usually a story behind the name. Some of the stories are more amusing than others.
"Mellark wanted to call it 'The Mockingbird,' but I wanted 'The Blue Jay,'" he explains. "We compromised. Great name, isn't it?" John asks.
The new fellow points to the illustration of our "mockingjay" on the nose of our B-29. "Yeah, but that painting looks a lot more like a girl inspired by a mockingbird than a blue jay," he says.
He's right. When I painted the picture of a woman on the nose of the airplane I gave her dark mysterious eyes. She's wearing a smoky gray dress. Her raven-colored hair fans out over her shoulders, but the background behind her is a blue sky. In fact, I added the sky not in deference to John's blue jay idea but to make the rest of the painting show up against the metal armor of the B-29.
"Well, John can't paint. I can," I explain. "So the compromise went a little more my way than his."
"Why didn't you paint her topless?" George asks me while glancing toward another B-29 on the field which does have an illustration of a topless girl adorning it.
John laughs exceptionally hard, this time at my expense, "Oh, you have a lot to learn about Peter Mellark if you think he's going to paint a topless girl on the nose of an airplane." John stares at the "mockingjay" painting for a moment. "She does look like she's mocking us, though." John says turning to me, "is that what you think of girls, Peter? Does Delly mock you?" John asks, referring to my fiancée back home. He's starting to make me angry.
"No," I say slipping my hands into my jacket pockets and grinning like I find the whole conversation hilarious.
John looks at the new fellow.
"Peter thinks he's a good liar, but he's not that good. The truth always comes out in the end. He wears his heart on his sleeve," John tells him before turning on his heel to face George. "What about you. You got a girl?" John asks him.
"Na. Not yet. Someday," he answers.
"No. Not someday. Soon. No time like the present," John's getting more animated by the second, and I have no idea what's gotten into him. "Here's what you do. We win this war, and you go home to Bufallo in your spiffy uniform."
"Tennessee, John. He's from Tennessee." I correct. George even sounds like he's from Tennessee and I wonder how John could be so wrong about remembering where he's from.
"You could go anywhere, you know? But let's say you go home to Tennessee," John continues. "You meet the girl of your dreams, and you tell her all about the war. You tell her how you were an airman and flew over the Himalayas, the highest mountains in the world. Hell, you can tell her you were the pilot. I don't care. You let her think that all of it was so," he pauses, "majestic," he finishes before throwing his hand up in the air for emphasis.
"Majestic?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "Are you drunk, John?"
"Stone cold sober," he says looking at me with an offended scowl before continuing. "You tell her it was amazing and that you were saving the world. And she'll have to go out with you."
I can feel the muscles of my face tightening into an expression of disbelief, "Is that what we're doing? Saving the world?"
"Hell no! I mean, I don't think so. Probably not. I don't think the world can be saved anyway," John stammers.
"He's not usually like this," I tell George, who's by this point watching John with increasing trepidation.
"Then she'll fall in love with you," John adds. "And she'll never leave you. Never. She'll keep her promises to you. You'll be her hero. You can get married and have babies together," John explains. "It'll be great…"
I think I hear his voice crack at the end, and his expression falls flat. His eyes fall to his boots.
"Is that what you're going to do?" George asks John. The question strikes me as odd, but somebody had to say something.
"John has a fiancée," I begin, covering for John's apparent absence from the conversation again. "That picture in his…"
"I don't have a fiancée," John interrupts. Then he swallows hard. "I got a letter from Penny. She. Um. She married somebody else. She said she was 'sorry.'"
He raises his gaze to meet mine, his eyes vacant and red.
"When did that happen?" I ask, dumbfounded. He and Penny had been together for years, since they were 15 or something like that.
"Yesterday," he mutters. "I mean, I got the letter yesterday. She's actually been married for longer."
"She couldn't wait 'til you got home to break your heart?" I shouted angrily, not even thinking about the fact that I am standing in the middle of an airfield. John looks around nervously. The airfield might be quiet because we are waiting on more fuel to arrive before flying more missions, but it is an airfield none the less. I manage to lower my voice a little.
John ponders my response for a moment before concluding, "I guess not."
George takes a deep breath. "I'm gonna' go," he says. "I'm meeting some guys. For. Uh. Something."
"Okay," I say without looking at him. If he's got any sense he'll understand.
John's staring straight ahead with those vacant eyes. "Maybe she thought I wouldn't make it home," he says.
"Then that's even worse," I tell him with a sigh. Then I catch myself. "And you're going to make it home. Don't talk like that anymore."