Free And She Was by Cindy Dyson Page B

an efficient plan no doubt. But when Japanese Zeros bombed the base on two consecutive days in June, these sprawling buildings were obvious targets. Seventeen boys newly arrived from Arkansas heard the air raid siren, figured it was a call to fall out for inspection, dutifully lined up outside their barracks, and were promptly bombed. The military realized their mistake and quickly switched housing plans, scattering small cabanas all over the place.
    Now these cabanas on Ski Bowl Hill were part of Unalaska’s coolest housing stock. Here, only these five had held up. I could see the rooftops above the low bush and tall grass, the smoke curling from two. Looking west, I could see the bay and the road leading to town. About half a mile from the valley floor, a track sunk off downhill, where the residents parked and a network of paths trickled off to each cabana. Thin grasses poked up from the thigh-scratching heath and rippled like wheat in the wind.
    The soldiers built these retreats from rough boards carried by boat from southeast Alaska. Trees do not grow in the Aleutians, and the few that struggle near town were either planted by Russians two hundred years ago or by homesick soldiers during World War II. The tiny forests can’t propagate well and are slowly dying.
    I thought sometimes of these soldiers, snatched from their cheery farmhouses and busy cities and stationed at one of the most battered, remote, and dreary bases of the war. The only assignments worse were the bases farther along the Chain. These soldiers did not choose to come here. Most of them were drafted before they’d had time to decide just what it was they were fit to do with their lives. The military offered a purpose, something large to do—fight for your country, fight for freedom. What they really fought was the weather. More planes were lost, more men died at the hands of the wind and the fog than any Japanese gun or bomb. When the war ended, these men had discovered one goal, at least—to get off this shit-hole of an island.
    The cabana was a fifteen-by-thirty-foot rectangle of open space. A rung ladder dropped between the kitchen-dining area and the living area, above which a king-size loft tucked under the roof peak. Mural-like windows faced the valley. A hillside of moving grass and shrubs slammed into a small back window. Because the building had beendug into the hill, the front deck gained height toward the edge. It was broad and solid, without railing or adornment. The view astounding. The wind whipped across it, shifting from behind to straight-on, as cool mountain air rushed down at night and up in the morning, tangling with the steady ocean wind.
    The bathroom stood thirty feet behind the cabana and was built of the same grayed plank. The decorating attempts of a dozen residents lined the interior walls. Someone had stapled greeting cards, their flaps openable, on the right-hand wall. A stack of gray-ancient Geographic s mildewed on the board seat. The hide of a fox sagged against the back wall above the hole. Several enterprising sitters had carved a few words into the old wood. My favorite: If you got to take a shit, there’s no better place to sit. Nothing as odd as the lone message on the toilet paper holder. On the door hung a curling poster of Billy Idol, lips sneering, leather pants pulling tight at the crotch. The seat faced the same view as the porch. I preferred the view to Billy Idol’s stare and never closed the door.
     
    I’d been in Dutch exactly two days and I had a job and a place to live. In two more days, Thad would be gone fishing and I’d be alone. Only two days left to learn how to operate a generator, refill propane tanks, start pilot lights, and ride a motorcycle. Thad bought me an old 500 to get around on the island. I would rent a truck every couple of weeks to carry in propane, gas, and groceries.
    At least water wasn’t a problem. The little neighborhood had a rain-catching tank uphill with pipes flowing