'Ah,' said Sam.
'Yeah. But I did learn something. This unit, the 2809th, it was commanded by a Major David Stone. That would be Major Stone, M. D.'
Sam wrote it down.
'But if you think you need a line on Stone, Mr. Vincent, you can forget all about it. I ran that through the Department of the Army, and I found out that this Stone died in nineteen forty-five. So it's a dead end.'
'Died of what?'
'Sir, I don't know. It didn't say and nobody knew. You'd have to get the records themselves.'
A. crack appeared in the darkness, and then spread to a blast of light, as someone pried the coffin lid open. Earl was too gone to notice or care.
'Whoa. Do he stank or what? No human man stank like that, no sir.'
'Give it to him.'
The next thing Earl knew, cold water hit him under great pressure, pushing him sideways as it smashed him. He withered under its force, which was in its own way a beating, for the power of the pressure tilted him sideways and mashed him against the rough concrete box. He felt the water going up and down him, then settling in his ass where he was filthiest, where it beat a steady hurting into him there, tearing at him where he was sorest and most delicate.
And the water was so cold it sent tremors raging through his body. He could make no sense of it for a second, of what was happening. It was like going for a sleepwalk and waking up from a dream when you stepped off that top step and started your long and horrifying tumble down the steps.
The water stopped. Rough hands got a grip on him and pulled him out, where they dumped him in the dust. He uncranked limbs that had been immobile for who knew how long, and felt those pains added, as muscles bent in shape were stretched for the first time. Yet he was so confused he could take no pleasure in it.
'Ain't he a sorry sight though?'
'He is. Ain't no white man let his self git like that. He can't be white.'
'He ain't white. He's another nigger, that's all.'
'Hit ' agin with that water, boys. Git his ass good, git that shit out of there so them flies don't go crazy. Bigboy wants him clean and right proper for the doctor. This boy goin' git his shots.'
The water blasted Earl along the ground, but soon the men pinned him flat on his belly and the hose man really squirted him out. Then they pulled him to his feet, and he could not stand, and went to one knee, at which time he was yanked up again.
'Boy, no one here goin' carry you, that's for sure. You can move as we direct, or I can shoot you behind the ear right here and we'll let the hogs eat you.'
Earl couldn't focus or speak. His lips were cracked, his muscles a-tremble. That he was naked before these uniformed men didn't even occur to him, and he felt no shame, for he was not human enough for shame. He just felt some strange sensation that had to be something like the recognition that he was alive. But it was not pleasing nor elating; it simply was. They shoved him along, and his feet dragged in the dust as they led him into the Whipping House.
There, in Bigboy's office, he was wrapped in a blanket.
He waited.
Then Bigboy arrived, with some others, bent to him, and lifted his chin in his big hands. Lights flashed in Earl's eyes; he blinked and jerked, but Bigboy had him in control and yanked his head back.
Something cold and round pressed against his chest, and Earl fought through jangled memories for a name, and came up with the concept of stethoscope, which was attached to the concept of doctor, which led onward to medical examination.
'Well, his heartbeat's remarkably strong. His pupils are all dilated, and they'll stay that way for a day or so. He needs nourishment, bed rest, gradual exercise, penicillin for all of those bites, in case he's infected. But he'll be all right in a bit. Nothing a few shots won't cure easily.'
'Well,' said Bigboy, 'we don't got a bit. We only have right now.'
But the doctor, if that's what he was, stared at Earl in some kind of rapt curiosity. Earl tried not to stare back, for such a breach of rules would get him a rap in the back of the head and his eyes weren't working very well. Some flashing seemed to cut through the room each time he blinked. But he eventually made out a man of surprising civility, neat, modest, hair perfect, eyes lit with probing curiosity, as he looked Earl up and down.
'He's strong,' the doctor said. 'You're strong, aren't you, friend?'
Earl was glum.
'He has fight in him still. You don't see many Negro boys that strong.
They tend to give it up and hand it over. This one has some spirit.'
'Can we do this, sir, and move on?'
'Of course. Secure him.'
Strong hands moored Earl to the table he sat on, and there was in them a threat of violence.
The doctor opened his case. Earl caught just a glimpse into it and made out tubes, many tubes. But then a tube came out, a paper sheathing was pulled away, and Earl saw a large hypodermic needle.
'Like shots, friend?' Earl said nothing as the doctor drew some fluid into his syringe from a tiny bottle, then came around to him. He felt his arms slapped, felt the sting of powerful disinfectant, and then the steely prick of the needle. It felt about an inch wide as it slid in, and a numbness spread as its fluids were injected into his system.
Then came another needle in the other arm. Then he was bent forward, and took two shots in the ass.
'You'll be sore for a while. Now you've got penicillin, a common booster, a blood coagulant, and some vitamins that should get you around.'
'Are you done, sir?' said Bigboy.
'lam. He'll survive.'
He looked at Earl.
'Friend, I don't know what you got yourself into, but I wouldn't want to be in your shoes.'
He rose, closed his case, and left.
Earl was alone with Bigboy. His mind was full of strange sounds, and he was having some trouble making much sense of all this. He felt pain from the needles and could already see the bruising beginning.
But he felt Bigboy looking hard at him, as if trying to figure him out.
Finally Bigboy said, 'You know how long you were in there?'
Earl shook his head.
'Seven days,' said Bigboy. 'Seven goddamn days. No one has lasted there more than four. You know, it backfired. You're playing to be somebody named Jack Bogash, unemployed truck driver, but I'll tell you what, nobody believes just any Arkansas Joe Truckdriver could get through what you got through. Only man who could get through that is some kind of hero, some police officer or Marine raider or agent or some other. You think you're helping yourself, you're only guaranteeing more rough treatment. So I'm now going to ask you again: Who are you? You tell me.'
'Bogash,' was all Earl could think to say after he finally found his tongue.
'Yeah, and my name's Jesus Christ.'
He sat back, got out a cigar and lit it up, sucked in a big cloud of tobacco, let it sift from his mouth through a tiny channel in his lips.
'I told the warden this,' he said. 'See, I know how these boys think.
This one thinks he's a hero. You beat him or drown him or make him think you're going to kill him, that just makes him stronger. You know what the heart of a hero is?' 'No sir,' said Earl.
'You're lying again. Even as stretched thin as you are now, you're lying, playing dumb-and-stupid cracker who doesn't know a thing. You think no matter what, we won't kill you, not 'I'll we've figured out who you are, so that's what's keeping you alive. Yeah, I see that, nobody else does.'
It didn't seem to require an answer.
'So, I'll tell you what the heart of a hero is, even though you know it.
I just want you to know how far ahead of you I am. The heart of a hero isn't love or sacrifice or courage or anything fancy like that.
