Journeys In Between

by Lacy Starling Ladd

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Chapter 1
BURMA

1943

   Let us begin when he pressed his face against the cool moss covered tree. The day was one of many, saturated with his regrets, as he slid his muddy hands over the last broken log. Today he felt less bothered by the rains and wet tree canopies of his past. Yet Mark Saunders knew that the old torment would certainly return once the sunlight died over the gray horizon behind his travels, and the darkness that crept in his mind during those night hours would spur fragmented memories into helpless dreams. Within that old world he kept reliving, Saunders would remind himself that he didn’t have to trudge though this mud or breathe reassuring words to the fear any longer. But every night…the bonfire would bring back his memories…And as the rain his face, he would watch the charred black limbs burn and crumple atop each other. He remembered the faces in the fire light before they burned. He remembered the reflections in their eyes. He remembered before the fire swallowed the faces, what he saw within their glassy orbs. And that was a fear he couldn’t reassure… he could only try to make it stop.

The canopy above him wavered as the warm rain swept its way through the thick foliage. He could barely see the flat, muddy airfield as the night dropped down over the jungle that enclosed all sides of him. But even in the heavy mist and dripping trees that hemmed the area, he could still see the dark shadow that was the cargo plane. And he knew he didn't have that much time.

…Was he ready? ...No, he wasn't ready.

Was there time? …There was no time left.

He felt the warm, wet slither of water go down his neck as he stood, purged.

Mark Saunders bolted across the muddy airfield and into the darkness. He held his black oilskin raincoat over his wet head, fighting to protect himself from the rain slashing his face. But it was useless. The thundering sheets of water slapped him. His footsteps crashed into the flooded ground as he ran, soaking his boots yet again, making his swollen feet burn from the jungle rot that infected his flesh.

Then he stopped. His senses dulled. Through his water-streaked lenses, Saunders looked out onto a distorted landscape. He strained to see the plane.

But...There! He could see it now. The cockpit of the C-46 Commando loomed just above him like a massive gray torso of a humpback whale. The voices of the men chopped through the rain as they worked through the night without any lights. Then he could begin to see the uniformed figures and the cargo door, open several yards from where he stood. He yelled to the men loading the plane.

"Hold it right there!" he yelled waving his raincoat in the air with one hand.

He kept shouting, but the rain had muffled his voice. They couldn't hear him. Even if they did, it wouldn't have mattered. The wooden crate was already being hauled up the ramp, into the belly of the plane.

Mark Saunders dropped his coat and ran with the last of his strength.

With one final agonizing step, he collapsed at the foot of the ramp, his heart racing. To him, it was only a blur when the men seized his arms. He tried to fight back, but they forced him to the ground. This time he couldn't escape from their grasp, and they dragged him back across the airfield, back to the tents.

 

* * *

The canvas opening was flipped up in the rain. Mark Saunders' body fought as the men pushed him into the tent and he was thrown down on his knees. Wet and exhausted from struggling, the agony of recent memories emitted strong as a single torch light flashed his face, blinding his eyes. Then the soldiers left him in the dark again. He lifted his head and tried to look forward.

All he could see was blackness, a blackness that saturated the tent, surrounding his body...and the one man that sat comfortably in front of him.

The only sound was of the rain. It beat against canvas roof, splashing the muddy ground outside. Saunders eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness again and he began to see the burning ember of the Colonel's cigar. Colonel Hunter.

With a scratch of a match, displaying his ragged face in the glow, the Colonel lit the small kerosene lamp and pushed it along the table towards Saunders. "Have a seat, Doctor." he said.

Saunders crawled over and sat in the folding canvas chair, facing the Colonel from across the table. He felt warm blood trickle down into his whiskered chin. His head weighed heavily with exhaustion as he uttered, "Why are you doing this?"

It took moments for Colonel Hunter to respond. He blew a cloud of smoke and angled his forearms on the edge of the table, eyes hidden within the darkness surrounding them. And then, Colonel Hunter began, "Dr. Saunders...," he said, turning his attention to the cigar between his fingers. "This--oh--what would you say-- archaeological find? -- has to be treated with utmost secrecy in order for it to be transported safely to the states."

Saunders attempted to keep his head up, trying to listen, but the weakness took hold and his whole body sank. He forced his words, slowly. "It is important to fully understand what you’re dealing before you make this kind of decision, sir," he said. "A third of your men are dead already...including the General. How many more need to be killed?"

"Dr. Saunders," Colonel Hunter spoke plain and precise as he shook his head and flicked the cigar ash off the papers spread out before him. He began to read, "…our men died because of the jungle's harshness. Our airdrops became more difficult to perform. They lacked equipment--Went days without food. It is unfortunate that casualties would-"

"No!" Saunders yelled. Fighting his weakness, he slammed his fists on the table and pushed the weight of his body back onto his throbbing feet. "You say that… and you risk everything we’ve worked for… everything we found!” The pain in his chest intensified. His arms trembled.

"Pain, Dr. Saunders?” Colonel Hunter flashed a grin. “That's what happens when little men try to accomplish big deeds."

Saunders looked up, his breath shallow. He heard the chair creak as Hunter leaned back, out of sight.

"Now I understand," Hunter said, straightening the papers on the table, "that in these past few weeks, you have grown quite attached to these... trinkets. But since you haven't been able to determine their origin, any additional exploration as of now has been terminated until further notice. And to put it frankly," he tapped his cigar and leaned his massive body forward, "I have reached my limit with you."

Teeth clenched, Saunders gripped the seat of his chair and the Colonel continued, "…and a discovery like this has to be confined until we can accurately understand whose property we are dealing with. But don't worry, Dr. Saunders. We have expert people already assigned to do just that." Colonel Hunter narrowed his eyes on the cigar turning in his fingers before he bit down on it.

Saunders leaned face to face with Hunter, the smoldering butt of the cigar nearly searing his cheek. "I thought I was your best bet," he said.

Hunter's mouth cracked with smoke as he grinned. "Things change." And then, leaning back, his aged appearance again looked expressionless at him.

Saunders' rage detonated throughout his body. Nothing could hold it back anymore. He leapt onto the table and grabbed Hunter by the neck. Hunter stumbled into his chair and they both collapsed to the floor.

Colonel Hunter's dense body was considerably larger than his. But Saunders' rage seemed greater than the both of them.

For the first time, Saunders now felt a malicious desire to kill this man. After everything that had happened. The lifeless eyes of his comrades still staring back at him through the flaming piles of human flesh… the answers burning with them...

Saunders hands grew tighter around Hunter's wrinkled neck.

They struggled, rolling violently, colliding with the table, throwing it off kilter. The lamp and papers slid off. Soon a growing fire gave life to their fighting shadows. The drab green canvas walls turned black with smoke.

But Saunders didn't care.

Hunter's death, that's all he wanted now.

Abruptly, the soldiers appeared and grabbed him again, yanking him off. Saunders groped, fighting for Hunter again. But Hunter had rolled away from him, gasping for air.

Soon they were out of the burning tent, quickly being squelched by the rain.

Struggling with the soldiers, Saunders could see through his dripping hair. He could see Hunter's figure in the distance. But, one step at a time, Hunter came closer, wiping the blood from his chin.

Now, he could see Hunter's face.

…Now, only his eyes.

Saunders felt his spirit shift as his gut blasted from his mouth. His head swirled. The arms of the soldiers held him for a moment before the muddy ground rushed up and smashed his face.

…and the voice of the Colonel... "Take care of this problem..." faded out.

 

* * *

With each step, Mark Saunders' boots sank deeper in the mud. His legs burned as he followed the soldier ahead of him, treading along the endless winding trail toward the burial pit.

At his back, he felt the barrel of the soldier's rifle press through his shirt, pinning firmly between his shoulder blades.

"Move!" the soldier yelled.

Saunders pulled his foot out of the sucking mud. He dragged another step. His foot caught on something; he tripped and fell to his knees.

Saunders heard the soldier's boots squish in the mud beside him, pushing him to move on. But Saunders only shook his head.

"Just kill me now," he said.

The soldier pushed the barrel to Saunders' neck, feeling it slide up the side of his face. The barrel caught the rim of his glasses. They slid off and dropped down to the mud.

Holding his tied hands weak to his chest, he looked up to the soldier's dark face. The soldier called roughly to his comrade who had disappeared in the fronds in front of them. He looked at Saunders again and moved the barrel to his forehead.

The soldier cocked the rifle.

Mark Saunders turned and stared down at the mud, to the mud that sucked him down. It was the mud he would fall dead in.

He closed his eyes.

Thunder cracked in the sky…

It echoed continuously through the tree. It was a pulsating vibration that fell from the sky and struck the earth. The thundering changed to a rumbling...

The rumbling became louder, closer.

Saunders opened his eyes again; the sound strangely didn't have an end. It shook the raindrops off the brim of the soldier’s hat. The man's eyes grew wide as his bottom lip quivered, then dropped. His arms went limp and the gun fell from his hands.

Saunders whipped his head around to see what the man was staring at. Through a haze of black rain and mud, he could see men, soldiers, running, crashing through fronds and down the slope. He barely heard their screams.

But he knew what it meant.

Landslide.

He looked back to the soldier, but he was gone, fronds waving as he took off down the hill.

The thunderous roar turned earsplitting. The ground suddenly felt like liquid under Saunders' knees. Mud instantly jumped to his chest, then to his neck. A surge of panic!

He couldn't move!

He couldn't breathe!

Trees folded, collapsing over him, racing passed him. Crushing him. He shot his arms up, feeling branches whipping his hands.

He reached, trying to grab. A huge branch slammed against him. Everything turned, twisted. His legs free, in the air, then below him.

He kept his hold.

Branches slashing his face, a river of rocks surged like rapids ten feet under him. Rocks clashed together in one continuous roar. Gravel spewed up, gouging his skin.

The tree rolled and he fell on its trunk. Rocks and mud swelled around him. The speed of it...unbelievable. The trunk shredded apart.

His eyes squinted through the mud, looking for a place to jump, a place to survive.

There was no time to think. A blur of rocks surrounded him. Jarring him. But still he looked up. Up at the gray sky. At the clouds.

At the plane.

Copyright©2006LacyLadd. All Rights Reserved.