Stig Dagerman - Island of the Doomed

‘We’re both military men,’ said the captain; it was almost completely dark now, and the iguanas down below were rattling their way into their sleeping quarters. ‘We’re both used to discipline, and we know what it means. Please, do sit down: we’re going to have a little talk.’

Boy Larus sat down on the bulwark; it was uncomfortable, but he didn’t dare sit in any other way. He was pleased at having been rescued, proud of the opportunity to obey this man who was still kicking his jackboot on his plateau. He knew just how well tended this boot was, how he always felt every time he polished it with grass and sand and leaves with what admirable care the makers must have constructed it, it was as well made as a city hall with rooms for all imaginable occasions, as harmoniously conjoined as a musical instrument, and yet so hard and brutal in a completely natural way, like a beast of prey.

‘Come a bit closer,’ said the captain, moving closer himself. ‘I remember once in Verdisse, we’d set up camp on a hill near a church, and started a fire near the churchyard wall, just a little fire, made of leaves and a few branches, nothing much to warm yourself by, but it made a cosy glow and the plains around Verdisse are so damned lonely. We felt as if we were all on our own, not just in Verdisse but in the whole world; it was autumn, and it was dark, and I had that fire made so that we wouldn’t feel so damned lonely.’

Boy Larus listened respectfully to the prattle about the fire, that fire at Verdisse which must have been a remarkable fire since the captain said so, but he was only showing respectful interest; the last strips of twilight were now breaking up, just a few faint glows could be seen on the swirling sea which sounded deeper now as if a lid had been placed over it and one was straining one’s ears to hear the sound under that lid. And everything was cleaner and better now, the two little animals in his loins could gnaw away to their hearts’ content now, he was no longer tempted to eye them voluptuously and feel the the same ruthless, primitive, animal-like expression of abandonment in his features like several of his companions, no, not companions: fellow-survivors.

More and more stars emerged into the conquering night, unsure whether they should stay there or fade away again; he stroked the hollows in the bulwark and everything was calm and silent; he tried in vain to pick up the hidden melody under the stone, but he was startled by a low but nevertheless crystal clear signal which made him feel uncomfortable. He was not sure at first where it was coming from and started tapping the bulwark nervously with his knuckles in a state of extreme uncertainty. Then he fell silent and started listening intently to the captain, and noticed immediately the new tone that had crept into his voice, affecting his speech as if a jammer had started interfering with a radio station and almost obliterated the normal programme and making it irrelevant: the main point was now the jammer. He was still going on about the fire at Verdisse, how as the night wore on they had taken the blankets from the horses and burnt them, and scraped the bark off a maple to keep the fire going, and plucked grass from off the hill, taken oats from the horses and cotton waste from the mechanics to keep it alive.

When Boy Larus made as if to stroke the hollow between him and the captain, he suddenly felt his hand burning from below and pulled it back quickly as if he’d touched a red-hot stove.

Then suddenly, the captain stopped talking about the fire, broke off in the middle of a sentence and said, quickly and rather nonchalantly, ‘You’re keeping something back from us, Larus. You’re keeping something back from me. Why do you come up here every night?’

‘Captain, don’t make me talk about that, it’s too difficult.’

‘My friend, we’re both soldiers, aren’t we? As we’re both soldiers in the same army, we shouldn’t have any secrets from each other.’

He suddenly swung his canvas leg over the bulwark and sank down on to the plateau at Boy’s feet.

‘Captain,’ said Boy, and everything was closing in on him, he felt he had to obey before something even worse happened. ‘Captain, if you have a wound, if you have a. . if you have a. .’

‘Come on, out with it my friend, there’s no need to be frightened of me.’

‘Well, if you have a wound, if you have a wound somewhere on your body, a big wound you feel is just getting bigger and bigger, what is best in a case like this: to keep it secret or to find a confidant you can show it to and get advice and help?’

‘To find a confidant.’

‘But captain, if there’s nothing you can do about it, if you yourself are well aware the wound can never be healed no matter what, what’s the point of showing it to a close friend?’

‘Oh, there are always good reasons. You can never be sure about wounds. The worst-looking ones can be easy to cure if you get the right treatment; other types of wound that seem minor, not much more than a bit of inflammation in fact, can be the worst kind and just spread inwards.’

‘In my case both types apply,’ said Boy. ‘They look awful, it’s really a question of two wounds which both look equally awful, and both of them are growing inwards.’

The captain lay back on the rock and started kicking the bulwark, not loudly, but regularly and unnervingly. Then he raised his head and rested it on his hand.

‘Where are they?’

This tone, this jammer breaking in and provoking resistance.

‘Captain,’ said Boy, ‘I can’t tell you that, I can’t tell you that, captain.’

A few periods of eternity ensued; there was a smell of smoke again, acrid and irritating, and a group of birds swooped down over the plateau, their wings beating urgently, round and round, as if they were on an exercise. The captain rolled over on to his side and pounded on the rock with the palm of his hand.

‘Which squadron did you belong to, Larus?’

‘Seventeenth west, based at Weston, CO: Colonel Tolov.’

‘You were moved when war broke out, weren’t you?’

‘No, not straight away. We were in Weston for a year and a half; guarding convoys was our main duty.’

‘But you eventually moved to a base on one of the islands out here, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, in the end twelve per cent of the original squadron was moved there; to an island called Brondona in fact. It looks like a horseshoe on the map, and the aerodrome was surrounded by both arms of the horseshoe. It was a pretty efficient harbour, come to that, protected by long, high breakwaters.’

‘What were you doing there, then?’

‘Reconnaissance. There were rumours of a fleet assembling in the channels around Ronton, but as usual there was lots of smoke and little fire. We didn’t do much good to tell you the truth, just a couple of sorties every week, and the rest of the time it was gymnastics and fencing, eating and games.’

‘Who was your commander on Brondona?’

‘Captain Simmon, captain.’

‘When were you attacked then?’

‘It was at dawn, the twelfth of January this year.’

‘Was it just at dawn and not during the night?’

‘No captain, just at dawn. They came out of the mists and bombed the station, and part of the fleet that had closed in during the night sailed into the harbour.’

‘The attack came as a complete surprise?’

‘Yes, absolutely. There was a bit of resistance when they landed, but that was overcome more or less straight away.’

‘You were all taken prisoner, then?’

‘Yes, more or less everybody apart from eight of us who were killed in the bombing, three who were shot during the landings, and Captain Simmon and a lieutenant called Osp who committed suicide in the HQ bunker.’