Chad Thumann - The Undesirables

Now Danil was confused. “I don’t understand.”

“We use dogs, so-called mine dogs. We use them to destroy German tanks. We strap explosives to them and train them to run underneath a tank, where the explosives go off.”

Danil nodded. In a twisted, cruel way, it actually sounded quite brilliant. “Does it work?”

Petr shook his head. “Not that I’ve seen. The dogs get confused. They were trained on our tanks, you see. Ours run on a different type of fuel. So when they smell the German tanks, well, like I said, they get confused. Usually they just explode without really hurting anyone but themselves.”

Danil was beginning to understand. “That’s why they told me I’d never see him again. Because they expected him to explode.”

“That’s right. And that’s why we brought him back. If he goes back into the army, they’ll strap him to a bomb again. He’s better than that. He deserves more than that.”

So Duck had cast his spell over these soldiers, too. That made sense. They didn’t want the dog to die any more than Danil did. They’d grown to love the animal. “I think I understand.”

“I don’t know if you can keep him hidden, but if you don’t, you might lose him.”

Hiding Duck would mean defying official policy. Technically, it would be a crime. It would be the first and only time Danil had resisted his government. It was a dangerous risk. Men had been arrested, had been tortured, and had been sent to Gulag labor camps for less.

Danil wanted to tell the boy soldier no. He wanted to send him away and make him take Duck away with him. But he couldn’t. Much to his dismay, Danil realized he was still in love with the dog, too.

So instead, Danil just said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Duck’s happy here. I’m glad we brought him home.”

“If there’s anything I can do for you?”

“No, nothing,” Petr said. “We’re fine—”

“You can give us clothes,” the girl cut in.

Danil glanced over at her, surprised. She had been so quiet until now, so deferential. He had somehow assumed she was meek, despite whatever smarts she might have. Now her voice was direct and commanding. Petr’s expression revealed that he hadn’t expected it, either. But, unlike Danil, he didn’t seem surprised.

“Nice clothes,” Inna continued. “Formal clothes. A dress for me and a suit for him.” She nodded toward Petr. “They don’t have to be new. They don’t have to be nice. They just have to be clean and presentable.”

Danil nodded. He had an old suit he hardly wore anymore, and he was sure Anya could give up one dress. It was the least they could do, hardly a just reward for the return of their pet. “May I ask why?”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t,” Inna replied. And she left it at that.

Bobby was drunk. He stared at his whiskey glass instead of the card game.

He’d been drunk a lot lately. It helped him sleep. He’d had trouble sleeping. He kept having nightmares about his plane getting shot up, starting to disintegrate around him. In his nightmare, though, he had to eject. He drifted on his parachute through the cold breeze, the water below drawing closer and closer. As soon as his boots hit and he felt the icy chill of the ocean about to swallow him, he’d wake with a jolt.

In reality, he was one of the lucky ones.

Major Bovington had lost his life that day, as had seven other brave pilots in Bobby’s squadron. To make matters worse, they’d lost their lives in vain. Dutch Harbor was destroyed and would be subject to Japanese assault no more. Dozens of American soldiers on the ground were killed. In the days that followed, the Japanese captured all of Unalaska Island. The top brass must have been shocked. The islands had little strategic value, but the defeat meant more American territory conquered by the Japanese.

If he was drunk enough, Bobby wouldn’t have to think about it. If he was drunk enough, he’d just pass out and wouldn’t have to dream in terror. So he spent more and more time sitting in the cold Alaskan barracks, playing cards as an excuse to drink whiskey.

“Bobby?”

He looked up from his whiskey glass. Jack was staring at him, expecting something from him. “Yeah?”

“What’re you gonna do?” Jack asked patiently.

Bobby glanced down at the cards in his hand. “Oh yeah. Call.”

Bobby was enjoying the liquor, but he wasn’t much enjoying their latest game in the officer’s mess. Gambling for duty chips had been bad enough. This was far worse. Unfortunately, it appeared he was the only one who thought so.

Wally was already down to his undershirt and boxer shorts, but he still had a wolfish grin on his face as he gazed across the table at the three Russian girls. They’d proven to be excellent card players. And they were hardly even tipsy, while the American boys were already beginning to slur their words. But everyone other than Bobby, it seemed, was certain his luck could change any minute. Hope springs eternal.

Strip poker had been Jack’s idea, of course. Jack had never stopped trying to find a beautiful woman, not even here in the wilds of Alaska. He had braved the cold and the wind every weekend to travel into town on sightseeing tours, the “sights” in this case, pretty Inuit girls. One time he took Bobby with him, subtly pointing out which girls he’d already identified as the most promising. Bobby was amazed. He didn’t know how Jack did it. The girls all looked the same to him, dressed as they were in thick sealskin parkas and big hoods—just big bundles of moving clothing.

Somehow, Jack had always maneuvered them into a situation where they took off their hoods and parkas so he could get a good look at them. Usually that meant following them into the general store, where they bartered local salmon and seal fat for imported flour or cornmeal. Other times he bought them coffee at the tavern. Although his intentions weren’t innocent, his methods were. After all, he wasn’t yet trying to seduce the girls. He was merely identifying the ones worth the effort.

The most promising of his potential prey was a girl in her early twenties with shiny, intricately braided hair and a geometric tattoo along her jawline. Jack found the tattoo both fascinating and erotic. He’d never seen anything like it. She had the opposite effect on Bobby. He agreed that the girl possessed rare natural beauty, but found the tattoo off-putting. His disinterest pleased Jack. It meant less competition.

But Jack’s plan had one fatal flaw—none of the Inuit girls spoke English. He tried to tackle that problem by learning the native language himself. But he found it difficult. He fumbled even the simplest words, like “Hello,” on his tongue.

After the squadron returned from its first action against the Japanese, Jack had become despondent—not because of losing the air battle, but because returning only reminded him that he was clearly losing the romantic battle with the local girls. That had changed with the arrival of the Russian pilots. They were female pilots, just like the ones they’d met in Iran. In fact, most were the same pilots they’d met back then. The Soviet military had decided to keep trusting the transport flights to women, reserving the men for combat duty against the Germans. The main difference between then and now was that the Russian girls had begun to learn English. That meant Jack could finally talk to the girl he’d danced with four months ago. Her English was still basic, but it was a lot better than Jack’s nonexistent Russian.

Jack invited the girls into the officer’s mess while the mechanics prepped their Lend-Lease Airacobras for the transport flight across the Bering Strait to Russia.

The girls clearly expected more dancing and were disappointed to discover there was no jukebox in Nome. Jack flashed a smile and promised he’d order one for delivery—maybe next time they came it’d be there for them. In the meantime, he suggested a round of drinks and a game of cards.

The round of drinks turned into four and then five rounds of neat whiskey—for the men, anyway; the women would soon have to fly back, after all. And the game of cards turned into strip poker. At first the girls didn’t want to risk having to disrobe, so Jack upped the ante to make things more interesting. The losers didn’t just have to strip; they had to run out to the airfield and back in their underwear. The Russian girls thought it would be funny to watch the Americans shiver in the cold, so they agreed to the terms.

Wally was quickly reduced to his undershirt and boxer shorts—and that wolfish grin. Jack had already lost his jacket, his necktie, his shoes, and his socks. Next to go would be his shirt and trousers. Bobby was only a little better off than Jack, having retained his socks and necktie. The girls had lost their boots and their hats and their jackets, and Jack’s favorite girl, a plump twenty-three-year-old named Bel, had also lost her belt.

To make matters worse, Jack had raised the current bet to two articles of clothing, and it was time to lay down the cards. One more loss would see Wally running to the airfield in bare feet through the cold.

Bel eyed Jack. “You nice legs? I hope,” she teased, then laid down two pairs: fives and kings.

“And I hope you’re wearing a clean bra,” Jack retorted with a grin, laying down a set: three tens.

That left Bobby out in the cold. He had only a pair of aces. He folded with a groan and drained his whiskey. The two other girls, Katia and Lenka, folded.

But Wally stood in triumph. “Read ’em and weep!” he announced, dropping a full house. Delirious with joy that he’d finally won a hand, he gestured at the entire room, chanting, “Take! It! Off!”