The Cloud Atlas

“I'm sorry to hear that, sir,” I said, though I was barely listening. All I could think of was: It s up to me-I'm defusing the bombs. And then: “ Your Nazis, they build a good bomb…”

“Well, I was pretty damn sorry as well. Not just because he was a good sort, but-an officer. That's when it struck me, this little swipe of genius: this is the work of an enlisted man. Talented, capable, yes, but enlisted. No need to waste officers on such. Surely you agree?”

“Sir, I'm not sure that, well, in training, they-”

“Yes, of course, they're always behind in training. No, no, Sergeant, I'm quite pleased with my proposal, and expect you to be as well. Or… I can… reassign you, if you like.” He looked back toward the terminal. “I'm frequently told that young and able men are needed to clear out caves and bunkers on treeless islands throughout the Pacific. North or south, your choice.” He waited.

“No, sir,” I said quietly.

“No to the north, or south? Aleutians or Philippines?”

“I'm your man, Captain,” I said. “For this mission.” Gurley said nothing for a full minute, and I could feel him staring at me the whole time.

“Sergeant,” he finally said, “I believe that you shall never again find a mission as intriguing-or easy. You are used to digging out half-ton bombs that have plummeted from great heights deep into the earth; these bombs flitter and float to earth via balloons. Thirty-some pounds, tops. Carting one off is like carrying groceries, and about as dangerous.”

We began walking back to the terminal. I wondered what Sergeant Redes would have had to say about Gurley's dangerous-as-groceries bombs. “ Your Jap bombmaker… he's ready to lose a man here and there…”

“And if it weren't all obvious enough,” Gurley said, “there is even a film. A training film. Didn't sit through all of it myself, but it looks helpful enough.”

We'd reached the door of the terminal, and he paused. “One more thing, Sergeant. Examine your heart while I'm gone. Examine your hands, for that matter. If you feel you're not up to this task-if you're not up to tackling alone what bombs we do find, tell me when I get back. Because I don't want to face another scene like I did with that Harvard man. He didn't die immediately, you know. Lasted long enough to ask me to put a bullet in him. Put him out of his misery.” Gurley grimaced. “Can you imagine such a thing? Good Lord, there was hardly enough left of him to shoot.”

With that, he opened the door and stepped inside.

THERE IS PLENTY of Ronnie left to shoot.

But they don't allow guns in the hospice. It doesn't matter; I have an equally efficient weapon in my hand. Ronnie's Comfort One bracelet. It is pretty, in its way. A heavy gold chain with a green and gold charm featuring the program's curious logo: the two words, plus two restroom-sign-style humanoids, a gold person standing behind a white one. Is the white one the patient, and the gold the comforter? Or is the white the soul, the gold the body? Unfortunately, what it resembles most to me is a mugging, the gold man about to pounce his hapless white counterpart.

It cost twenty dollars, as predicted, but I know it's worth much more than that. They are precious things to those who have them, and I find that more of the elderly and dying I visit in the hospital or hospice these days do. They're meant to spare patients pain and everyone else second-guessing. Ailing parishioners usually try to hide the existence of Do Not Resuscitate orders from me; they know the Church stands against euthanasia and worry that their DNRs might run afoul of such beliefs. As it happens, they need not be concerned, but that doesn't keep the patients who have DNRs from prizing them.

I marvel at some of those I visit here, so desperate to die. I think of those Japanese soldiers on Kiska, surrounded by the enemy, with no hope of survival. I think of their wounded, the Japanese soldiers in their field hospital, committing suicide. The doctor doled out grenades, gently laying one on each man's chest. Those who could, pulled their own pins. He pulled the pin for those who could not. Three hundred died this way; the doctor wrote as much in his diary. Then he put down the pen, closed the book, and picked up the grenade he'd reserved for himself.

I'm surprised Ronnie ordered the bracelet. It means he had to get the paperwork, have a doctor sign it, and send it off. It suggests planning and foresight that he never seemed capable of nor interested in. More to the point, it suggests he's going to die, and that he knows this. It makes me realize that I may be the only person who doesn't think he's going to die. Or, for that matter, the only one who doesn't want him to die. Not now. Not yet.