WARNING: This story contains setting-appropriate racial and ethnic slurs.
“I can paint ya a bettah one, sah.”
That was what Opa said upon seeing the still-wet shark faces
plastered across most of the squadron’s P-40s. A new lieutenant transferred
over from North Africa, said that he saw Kraut planes with shark faces and they
looked appropriately menacing, like predators in the sky – so why not paint
ours like that, too? This is the Pacific, after all; both us and the Japs know
that we’ll likely end up as shark bait, in the end.
Turned down the
new scheme, at first. Didn’t want it, looked silly, like something from a
goddamn Terry and the Pirates strip. But seeing those Forties lined up
in the tropical sun, teeth bared and eyes staring, started to have a change of
heart. And now Opa, the squadron’s resident Polynesian pet and sometimes-painter,
wants the job for himself. Why not – it’s just an oval with teeth in it and a
pair of eyes. No way that anyone could possibly fuck it up, not even a guy
wears a misshapen chunk of polished driftwood as a necklace. Knock yourself
out, Opa, and don’t you splatter the windscreen, or that chunk of wood gets
tossed into tomorrow night’s bonfire.
Saw the results
the next morning. Opa had spent all night on it, on a goddamn shark face paint
job that anyone else could have finished in two hours. And he still managed to
fuck it up! That goofy grin had a primitive, almost childish quality to it, the
teeth were ragged and uneven, and the eyes were crooked, like the shark was
afflicted with a nasty case of walleye. There was none of the bold, cartoonish
menace that the other planes had. And yet . . .
“Take care, sah.
You see eyes? I mix black stone, little bits in; you see teeth, I mix white
stone, little bits, old coral and such. You plane look like shark because shark
demon like it, look like it. Shark demon fly with you now, you shoot many
slanty-eyes, sah. But he want go home, one day; you take care.”
Didn’t know what
the damn fool was talking about; but had to admit, the longer you looked at
that plane, the less you wanted to. There was something alien about it, as
though Opa had dipped his paintbrush right into the Pacific and swathed the
plane with its unforgiving vastness and still, quiet lethality. It looked right
back at you, not with the blank dead eyes that festooned the rest of the
squadron, but with real obsidian malevolence – the void noticing you and taking
your measure, just in case it decided to swallow you later. It was unpleasant.
Decided to fly with it anyway.
Took off for
combat air patrol the next morning. Didn’t expect anything; at least four days
out of five, never saw any Japs anywhere. Just as well; everyone knew a Forty
was no match for a Zero in a dogfight, unless the Jap was a rookie and the Yank
was shit-hot. Felt a familiar hollow feeling in the chest, seeing the sun glinting
off of metal wings over the sea, and knowing that they weren’t ours. They saw
us, and went for us, like barracuda after big, fat tuna.
The Japs expertly
broke formation and selected different targets. Took evasive action, focused on
living long enough to get away. No such luck. One came right over, sprayed
bullets across the left wing, spun on a dime, ended up behind. Christ, he’s
fast – and the Forty flies like it’s tied to a string – this time, it’s over .
. .
Stick seemed to
move itself. Blood drained away as the Forty shot up like a rocket – Jap
couldn’t follow, he’s in front now – Forty rolls onto its back, the stick slams
forward, nose dives and blood returns. The Forty’s faster than a Zero in a
dive. Jap’s under iron sights, now. The guns roar for a brief moment, and the
shark’s first victim spins into the sea. It barrel rolls of its own accord to
commemorate the occasion. The other Zeros break off and retreat.
Back at the field,
everyone’s agog. “Where the hell did you learn to fly like that,” they want to
know. “Didn’t think a Forty could climb like that without the wings peeling
off,” they muse. Don’t have any answers; stick moved by itself. Plane seemed to
have a mind of its own. Still not complaining when they paint a little rising
sun flag under the cockpit. Noticed Opa watching from under the palms with a
little grin on his face. Must think his lousy paint job had something to do
with it.
No more Japs seen
that day, or the next – then another tangle in the afternoon, and two more fall
prey to the shark. Suddenly tied with the Major as top killer in the squadron.
He seems pleased to finally have a little competition. “I was starting to think
that none of you sons of bitches could actually fly,” he says, “Except the ones
who can shoot. And the ones who can fly, can’t shoot! About time someone’s
learned both.” Wonder if he longs to see them fly apart as the bullets hammer
into them. Can’t muster up the courage to ask.
Japs are making a
big push, now. Carriers and cruisers move east, taking new islands, staging
aggressive patrols far beyond them – if there’s still a front line, it’s
wrapping around us now, and starting to strangle. Tangle with Jap patrols
almost every day, in numbers you wouldn’t believe, like we’ve stoned the
world’s biggest hornet nest and they’re aching to sting anything that moves.
Other guys fall; lose a third of the squadron in a little over a week. But the
shark keeps scoring; there’s blood in the water now, and it will not be sated.
Don’t even have to
pay attention to anything except at takeoff and landing. The Forty had never
been a bad plane. A few bad points; a little sluggish, too stubborn to climb to
altitude or pull out of a dive – but no longer. Now it’s gleaming, hard-edged
perfection. The shark flies as though it’s hell-bent to claw everything but
itself from the sky, and neither the law of gravity nor the fundamentals of
aeronautics are going to stop it. Mechanics double the ammo load, but the extra
weight makes no difference. The shark knows where to find its prey, knows how
to conceal itself above or below, how to maneuver into position, and exactly – exactly
– where and when to strike. Poor Japs rarely ever see what blasts them out of
the sky. Occasional Jap ace manages to dodge the first strike and gives the
shark a good fight. They wheel and flash in the blue, their contrails swirling
and intertwining like lovestruck cobras looking for the tenderest place to
bite. But in the end, only the shark is ever left, serene and invincible in the
deep blue overhanging the deeper blue.
It’s beyond
impressive. It’s beyond uncanny. It’s destiny with guns and horsepower. On the
ground, there is only awe. Both for the increasingly dull-eyed and
disinterested pilot, and the shark-faced Forty, its coral teeth now blackened by
countless puffs of gunsmoke, its fuselage now adorned with row upon row of
little sun flags in commemorative triumph. There’s constant talk of medals,
promotions, studying the shark’s tactics and teaching them to every son of a
bitch in a flight jacket – but what is that to a predator? All that is wanted,
or needed, is the killing field and the kill. God bless the Pacific, it grants
us both.
The whole island
buzzes with rumors and stories about the shark. Some said there was a good-luck
charm involved – a golden ring, a vintage whiskey bottle, a whore’s stocking.
Some said the pilot flew drunk, or manic with dexedrine, and couldn’t even get
off the ground if sober. A few pilots even believed that it was because Opa,
and no one else, had painted that bloody plane. They begged him to do the same
for theirs, offered to pay double or triple, slipped him all the alcohol they
had hoarded – but he always begged off. “No sah, I can’t conjah but one shark
at a time. And dis here shark’s gettin’ too bloody for his own good – mebbe
havin’ to pull his teeth out, yeh?” he would say.
Laughed that off,
and forgot about it. Japs were still pushing hard; had to fly four, five, six
patrols a day. Everyone exhausted, unshaven, underfed, surviving on coffee,
cigarettes, and the desperate comfort of routine. Dreams are filled with
slashing teeth and wrenching jaws, and always the scent of blood, that stink of
rust and decay. And Zeros still fell to the shark every time it took to the
blue, like coconuts from a well-shaken tree. After one hard fight, saw Jap
pilot eject, his white chute billowing above him. He landed in the water. The
shark spun, dove, and put a few dozen rounds into him. Spreading pool of red
surrounds him as he hangs limp, his limbs fading into the blue; his chute falls
over him like a shroud, its edges slowly turning pink. The rest of the flight
is aghast. Major is furious when he hears. “Not supposed to do that,” he says.
“It’s a war crime.” War crime? Odd choice of words. Others say, “No
problem, Japs do the same thing to us.” No repercussions; everyone knows the
squadron needs the shark, badly. Reverse may not be true, not anymore.
Then, one gray
morning, saw Opa standing at the shark’s red nose, holding a bucket in one hand
and some tool in the other. No one but the two best wrench monkeys on the
island are allowed to touch the shark now, and Opa ain’t one of them. Walked up
to him, red mist over eyes, asked what he thought he was doing.
“Taking deh shark
back, sah,” he said, clutching a rusty paint scraper. A couple of its teeth
were already gone, revealing bare, battle-worn metal.
Why.
“Deh shark has
done its job, sah. It needs to swim free, now.”
You can’t.
“Deh shark, he’s
had his way with you, sah. Looky your eyes – dull and dark, the midnight sea undah
no moon. You become blood-thirsty, sah – no good for no man. You let shark go,
he let you go too.
I won’t let go.
“Deh shark must
go, sah,” Opa said, with absolute finality. And he turned away, dipped his
scraper in the bucket, and resumed scraping.
I won’t let you.
Body moved on its
own. Smashed him to the ground, kicked the scraper out of his hand, leaned over
him with teeth bared, saliva dripping. His throat looked inviting –
Felt a sharp pain
from behind, then blackness. Nothingness.
Woke up in a cell,
light streaming through barred window. “You lost control,” Major said, “Damn
near killed him. Had to clock you with a wrench. Look, we’re all under
pressure; everyone’s tired, everyone’s pissed. No need to kill each other over
it. Stay on the ground a few days, have a few drinks, watch the sun rise and
fall over the palm trees. Take it easy, for Christ’s sake.”
Did he finish?
“Finish? Finish
what?”
The shark – the
paint.
“He’s in no
condition to finish anything. Jesus, no one’s touched your goddamn plane – see
for yourself when you get out tomorrow.”
The shark still
waits, complacently grinning.
Everyone looks at
you differently after you’ve acted a certain way. Mixture of respect, fear,
unease . . . is that envy? “You can do what we can’t, or won’t, and you have,
God damn you.” But a smug envy; “We’re civilized, you’re a barbarian. We can
shed blood like no men since Cain and still go back, play with our kids, love
our wives, grow old enough to forget that cruelty and avarice make the world go
round. We’re still people; you’re just a predator.”
Maybe they’re
right.
Out of the brig
the next day. Still supposed to be grounded; no matter. The blue beckons,
outward and upward – or is it downward? Catch a glance of Opa, cowering away
under the palms. That’s right; run. Hide. You’ll do yourself no good. The shark
has tasted blood. It’ll never stop.
Kick the chocks
away. Climb into the cockpit. One mechanic jumps up on the ladder, says “It’s
not allowed” in a jittery little voice. Pathetic. One punch sends him to the
ground with a broken nose. A few drops of blood spatter the windscreen. Plenty
more to come.
Start the engine.
Hear that welcome roar, that unhinged, full-throated wail of a just-awakened
beast longing to flex its wings and sink its teeth.
See figures
running towards the shark. A few carry guns, for all the good they’ll do. Fools
– should be running away. Throttle forward – get the shark moving. Give the
pedals a light kick to level the guns – and pull the trigger. Hard. Again, and
again, and again. Bullets buzzsaw through metal, palms, flesh. Kick the rudder
and the shark pivots beautifully, just enough to line up its nose with its
former comrades. No longer worthy to share its domain. They go up in flame,
smoke, and shrapnel. Puddles of blood spread on the tarmac, slowly seeping
towards the shore. Like to see it drip into the white foam lapping hungrily
against the sand – but the sky awaits.
The shark rockets
above it all, driven by unseen forces beyond a mere three blades, twelve
cylinders, or thousand horses. The cries of millions echo past in the warm,
moist air, seeking absolution. Everyone wants to kill, even if they’ll never
admit it to anyone, not even themselves. Everyone wants their pint of blood,
their pound of flesh. Today, they’ll have it.
In the blink of a
lidless eye, the Japs are there in numbers. The shark is but one – but look,
the Zeros now bear their own toothy grins. No need to feel alone – it’s an
uproarious tournament of equals, predator upon predator, all equally lethal,
all able to dispatch and be dispatched with identical alacrity. Sky and sea
merge into a limitless blue void.
The sharks wheel
and loop and roll, fins glinting under the unrelenting sun. Bullets fly, parts
fly – sometimes metal, sometimes flesh and bone – blood flies. Teeth gnash and
tails flash. It’s a full-blown frenzy, and it is glorious.
But it cannot
last. Soon, the last of the sharks hangs alone in the blue, wings creaking,
breath sputtering, vision dimming. Red, red everywhere; what a brilliant
contrast against the blue. Never noticed it before. And then the shark dives.
Time to go home,
it says, back to the deep, the tranquil peace of the still waters. It sounds
inviting.
I can already feel
my body bursting.
Back on shore, one
hand pressed against the bullet wound in his thigh, Opa looked to the sky, at
the impossibly tangled spiderweb of white contrails, already scattered by the
wind. He had seen a great many dogfights in his time, and that was incomparably
the greatest. No one else would ever know that it had happened. He saw the last
plane fall, spinning like a rifle bullet, somewhere beyond the horizon. He
frowned.
“Dat’s deh shark
demon, sah,” he said, to the corpses scattered over the runway. “He give much,
but he take all – in deh end, he take you, too.”
He pulled the
wooden amulet from his neck and tossed it into the water. Then he waded in
after it. The blood had already reached the water, and there were fins
circling.
This story is published with a Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 4.0 license.
