But now Dylan remembered crawling through grass in the swamps on his hands and knees, stuffing grasshoppers in his mouth and squeezing muddy water out of his shirt to drink. It was no different, except in the swamps there had been nobody to even offer help. Dylan also knew that the people who crowded the trucks in Darfur were victims. They had been born in Sudan. They didn’t deserve the cruel genocide that was killing them. They hadn’t done anything to cause their starvation. It hadn’t been their fault!
That’s what made Dylan ashamed now. He hadn’t caused Dad’s death. But neither had everybody else he blamed. It had been an accident. Still he had blamed Dad for dying. He had used that as an excuse for breaking into the junkyard and skipping school. He had picked fights at school and stolen things. He was the one who spit out the malaria pills and walked away from the safety of their group in the jungle. Everything had been his fault. He could blame others, but that would be lying to himself.
One feeling overwhelmed Dylan. It was the same feeling he had felt lying half dead under the screw tree covered with moss in the middle of the jungle. Overwhelming loneliness. Nobody knew his feelings. And nobody probably cared anymore. Dylan’s eyes watered. He wanted to run downstairs and wake Uncle Todd up and say, “Hey, look at all the things I’m thinking. I’m not stupid. I’m really sorry. I don’t always have to protect myself with attitude. Please, give me just one more chance.”
But even as he swung his feet to the floor, he heard his uncle’s muffled snoring downstairs. Dylan crawled back under the covers.
A heavy drizzle fell as Dylan woke and heard his uncle moving around downstairs. It took a couple of seconds to remember where he was. He would never have admitted it, but he missed his uncle’s “Wakee wakee wakee!”
Dylan sat up and slowly unwrapped the gauze from his ankle. The doctor had said if there wasn’t any infection or drainage, it would be okay to remove the bandages after getting home. He said it would be better for the skin to get air.
Dylan dressed and used only one of his crutches to get down the stairs. His ankle felt much better. “Good morning,” he said, trying to sound cheery as he entered the kitchen.
“Good morning,” Uncle Todd said, picking up a newspaper to start reading. “There’s food in the refrigerator if you want breakfast.” His voice was matter-of-fact.
“Do you want some, too?” Dylan asked.
“I’ve already eaten,” Uncle Todd said and kept reading.
Dylan fried himself a couple of eggs, not because he was hungry, but because he wanted to prove to Uncle Todd that he wasn’t this spoiled punk kid who couldn’t do anything for himself. But it didn’t make any difference. Uncle Todd never said a single word or looked up once from his newspaper.
When Dylan finished eating, he hurried upstairs to get his luggage and to get the flag, then came back down and asked, “Can we go see Frank Bower now on the way to the airport?”
“You might want to call him first,” Uncle Todd commented.
“I want to surprise him.”
“Whatever you want,” Uncle Todd said.
Dylan wanted to scream. It was as if Uncle Todd had totally written him off. “You don’t even care if I give this flag to Frank Bower, do you?” Dylan said, his voice accusing.
Uncle Todd turned to face Dylan. “I care. I just don’t like doing anything on this planet that wastes my time,” he said. “Babysitting a spoiled kid who can’t take a crap without thinking the world owes him toilet paper is wasting my time.”
The drizzle had turned to rain as they drove to the Garden Acres Rest Home. It wasn’t much fun riding in the ’62 Corvette with Uncle Todd in a bad mood, not speaking.
“You want me to wait in the car?” Uncle Todd asked, pulling to a stop outside the sprawling brick rest home.
“Can you come in with me?” Dylan asked.
“Whatever you want,” Uncle Todd said, crawling out.
Dylan stood in the rain, holding the American flag from Second Ace. He looked across the top of the Corvette at his uncle. “Why don’t you just say ‘whatever’?!” he shouted. “That’s what you mean. Now you’re the one saying ‘screw you’! You’re the one telling me my words don’t count! You’re the one not showing me respect.”
“Maybe because I’m still not sure you deserve respect!” Uncle Todd shot back.
“You’ll never know!” yelled Dylan. “Not if you don’t give me another chance.” When Uncle Todd didn’t answer, Dylan shouted again, “Is that it, then? I’m a screw-up, so good-bye and don’t ever come back? Adios!”
Uncle Todd looked back at Dylan. Ignoring the rain that had become a downpour, he pointed his finger at Dylan and shouted, “Do you know what it would have been like to call my brother’s widow and say, ‘I’m sorry, but I got your son killed!’? I never slept one minute until we found you. You were my responsibility, and I failed! I won’t be making that mistake again. Go kill yourself on your own time!”
Thunder rumbled across the sky.
Dylan glared back at his uncle and saw a deep hurt in his eyes. He realized how much Uncle Todd must have cared. But now it was too late. Fighting back his tears, Dylan turned and limped without crutches across the parking lot through the deluge of rain. He tried to protect the flag under his arm.
Uncle Todd followed.
“You sure picked a rainy day to visit,” said the receptionist as they entered the front door, drenched.
“Can you tell me where to find Frank Bower?” Dylan asked.
The receptionist pointed down the hall. “Go ask at the nurses’ station. I’m new and can’t keep the patients straight.”
With Uncle Todd following, Dylan limped down the hallway, stepping around several old people with walkers or in wheelchairs. He recognized the red-haired nurse at the nurse’s station. “We came to see Frank Bower again,” Dylan announced. “Can you tell me where he’s at?”
The nurse recognized them, too, and hesitated. “Are you family?”
“No, I just wanted to give him this.” Dylan held up the flag.
The nurse looked at Dylan and at the flag. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this if you’re not family, but Frank died last Thursday. He had a heart attack. Died in his sleep.”
Dylan stood, stunned. “Died?” he said. “I just talked with him two weeks ago.”
The nurse nodded. “He was quite a guy.”
Dylan spoke, almost frantically. “Did you know he was a waist gunner during the war? He flew twenty-five missions and belonged to the Lucky Bast —”
“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” said the nurse, coming from behind the counter. “But we’re two aides short this morning so I’m alone on the floor. Is there anything else I can help you with?” She started down the hallway, not waiting for an answer.
Dylan shook his head as he watched her disappear. “No,” he whispered. “You can’t help me. Nobody can anymore.”
Dylan hung his head for a moment. Frank Bower being dead was the last straw. Somehow holding on to the American flag and bringing it back to the US for Frank had been a mission of sorts. Dylan knew he had screwed up everything else, but that was the one single thing he had planned on doing that was right. And now he couldn’t even do that.
“Are you satisfied now?” Uncle Todd asked.
Dylan grew suddenly angry. “No, I’m not satisfied,” he shot back. “This isn’t about me being satisfied. You can be mad at me, and you have every reason to be. But now you’re being a jerk. I thought that was my job.”
For a moment, Uncle Todd looked like he was going to blow up. His face twitched and a vein stood out on his neck. But then he motioned and started toward the front door. “Let’s get out of here.”
Dylan was turning to follow when he heard a loud grunt from a side hallway. “Help, please help!” cried a weak voice.
Without thinking, Dylan ran down the hall. Again the desperate voice sounded. Dylan discovered an old man with silver hair lying on the floor inside his room beside the toilet,
his pants still down. His wheelchair lay beside him. It looked like he’d been trying to go to the bathroom and had fallen while swinging himself onto the toilet. He grimaced.
Dylan ran to his side. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“No, dang it, I’m not okay. My wheelchair got away from me. I have my pants down and I’m lying on the floor. A person ain’t okay when they’re like that.”
Dylan set the folded flag on the dresser and grabbed the man under his arms. His frail body felt like a skeleton as Dylan lifted him onto the toilet.
“I’m already done crapping,” the man scolded. “I need to get back in my wheelchair.”
Obediently, Dylan set the wheelchair upright. Once more he lifted the old man and swung him into his chair. With each move, it felt like the old man’s bones would break. “Are you okay now?” Dylan asked.
“You’re never okay when you’re my age,” the man said. “But I’m as good as it gets.”
“Need anything else?” Dylan asked.
“Yeah, a young body like yours and a cuter nurse.”
Dylan smiled. “Well, I gotta go.” He was turning to leave when he spotted a small medal pin on the headrest of the old man’s wheelchair. It was a VFW pin. “Were you in the military?” Dylan asked.
“Guess I was,” the old man said. “Ever heard of the Bataan Death March?”
Dylan shook his head.
The old man pointed a finger at Dylan. “I have some family coming to see me this morning, but come back this afternoon and I’ll tell you what I went through. Compared to the Death March, going to hell would have been a vacation.”
“I have to go to the airport,” Dylan explained. He looked at the man in his wheelchair and then picked up the folded flag off the dresser. “But can I give you this?”
The old man reached out his bony hand. His fingers trembled as he ran them across the red, white and blue cloth. A pained expression crossed his face. “A lot of soldiers went through hell to protect that old flag.”
“Can I give it to you?” Dylan asked again. “I found it in a B-17 bomber in Papua New Guinea. My grandfather had it.”
The old man pulled his hand back from the flag, then shook his head sadly. “No,” he said. “That flag don’t need to be in no skunk-hole place like this sitting on some old fossil’s dresser. You find a better place.”
“You’re not an old fossil,” Dylan blurted. He had come to hate that word.
“If you say so,” the old man said.
“I say so,” Dylan said. “What’s your name?”
“John Taylor. And what’s yours?”
“Dylan Barstow.”
The old man nodded and extended his hand. “Glad to meet you, Dylan Barstow. You sure are a fine young man. I’ll bet your parents are proud of you.”
Dylan shook the old man’s hand but ignored the comment. “I’m glad to meet you, too, John Taylor. I might not know anything about this Death March, but I do know one thing I learned getting that flag.”
“What was that, son?”
“Freedom is never free.”
John Taylor trembled as he spoke. “No, it sure ain’t, son. It’s never free.”
Dylan turned and discovered Uncle Todd standing in the doorway watching all that had gone on. “Maybe you should come back this afternoon and hear about the Bataan Death March,” Uncle Todd said.
“I have to catch the plane,” Dylan said.
Uncle Todd shrugged. “Your mom might understand if you wanted to stay one more day, but that’s up to you,” he said. “You think about it.”
“But I thought you were mad at me.”
“I am. But maybe this is more important.”
Dylan allowed a smile. “I would love to hear about the Death March,” he told John Taylor. “I’ll call Mom and tell her why I’m staying one more day. I do need to get home — I’m missing her.”
“Ready to go?” Uncle Todd asked, his voice softer.
Dylan nodded. “I guess.”
Without speaking, they ran through the pouring rain to the parking lot, rushing to crawl into the Corvette. Dylan gripped the folded flag and looked out the side window in silence. Big raindrops ran down the glass like tears. Dylan blinked, but the raindrops continued.
Again, neither of them spoke as Uncle Todd drove from the parking lot. They were halfway home when suddenly Uncle Todd pulled the Corvette over to the side of the road.
“Is something wrong?” Dylan asked.
The rain had let up, but a light drizzle still misted the air as Uncle Todd eyed Dylan. “That’s what I’m trying to decide.” He continued staring. Finally a soft smile melted his intense expression. He looked out at the gray, drizzly sky. “It’s a great day for drifting a Corvette. Do you think you can do it at fifty miles per hour?”
“But you think I’m a screw-up.”
Uncle Todd shook his head. “I would never let a screw-up even touch my Corvette!”
THE END
Five months after the discovery of the B-17 bomber Second Ace, a Marine task force completed its investigation and recovery of remains from the wreckage. Because many remains could not be identified, an official full-dress ceremony was held at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington National Cemetery. As the individual who officially discovered the wreckage, Dylan Barstow was invited to present a wreath at the tomb.
On a blustery winter’s day, an honor guard gave a twenty-one-gun salute. The ceremony was witnessed by relatives of the lost crew. Also among the small group stood one very proud mother, as well as the other members of the search team, Gene and Quentin Cooper, Todd Barstow, and Allen Jackson. They all watched as Dylan Barstow walked solemnly to an easel placed in front of the tomb. There he hung a green spruce wreath woven with nine roses — the number of crew members who perished on a stormy day back in 1943 in a swamp in Papua New Guinea.
When the wreath had been hung, Dylan reached inside his jacket and removed a folded American flag. He paused for a moment to touch the cloth one last time and to remember how the flag had come into his possession. Then he rested the flag gently on the wreath. “Thanks, Grandpa,” he whispered. “Thanks, Dad,” he added. He paused one more time. “And thanks, Kanzi, whoever you are.”
Before leaving the grave, Dylan knelt and placed a simple note on the marble tomb. The note was written in the messy handwriting of a young teenager. It said simply,
Freedom is never free!
For the record, not that it mattered anymore, but Dylan Barstow’s pants hung down a little bit that day only because it was more comfortable.
I must say that during the writing of each of my novels, it is not me who creates and changes the story as much as it is the story that changes me. I was well aware of many of the historical facts of the Second World War, but after hearing the personal accounts of bravery during my research for Jungle of Bones, I was humbled to tears. The adage that “freedom is never free” became more than simple words. Those words became very real and not only imprinted themselves on my mind but are now chiseled like stone in my heart.
Ben Mikaelsen
Ben Mikaelsen is the winner of the International Reading Association Award and the Western Writer’s Golden Spur Award. His novels have been nominated for and have won many state Readers’ Choice awards. These novels include Rescue Josh McGuire, Sparrow Hawk Red, Stranded, Countdown, Petey, Touching Spirit Bear, Red Midnight, Tree Girl, and Ghost of Spirit Bear. Ben is known for his in-depth research and the magical worlds he creates. This research has taken him around the world from the North Pole to Africa. He has made over 1,000 parachute jumps, boated the length of the Mississippi, cycled in nearly every state, lived with the homeless in Mexico, raced sled dogs, and ridden a horse from Minnesota to Oregon. Ben lives in a log cabin near Bozeman, Montana, with his wife, Connie. For twenty-six years he raised a 750-pound black bear, Buffy, that he saved from a research facility. Visit Ben online at www.benmikaelsen.com.
ALSO BY BEN MIKAELSEN:
Touching Spir
it Bear
Petey
Countdown
Red Midnight
Rescue Josh McGuire
Sparrow Hawk Red
Ghost of Spirit Bear
Stranded
Tree Girl
Copyright © 2014 by Ben Mikaelsen
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Mikaelsen, Ben, 1952– author.
Jungle of bones / Ben Mikaelsen.
pages cm
Summary: When sullen teenager Dylan Barstow is caught joyriding in a stolen car he is sent to his ex-Marine uncle for the summer, but soon they are on the way to Papua New Guinea in search of a World War II fighter plane and Dylan discovers that defiance is not a survival skill when you are lost in a jungle.
ISBN 978-0-545-44287-9 (alk. paper) — ISBN 0-545-44287-7 (alk. paper)
1. Quests (Expeditions) — Juvenile fiction. 2. Jungle survival — Juvenile fiction. 3. Uncles — Juvenile fiction. 4. Teenagers — Juvenile fiction. 5. Adventure stories. 6. Papua New Guinea — Juvenile fiction. [1. Adventure and adventurers — Fiction. 2. Jungles — Fiction. 3. Survival — Fiction. 4. Uncles — Fiction. 5. Papua New Guinea — Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M5926Jun 2014
813.54 — dc23
2013016936
First edition, February 2014
Cover design by Jeannine Riske
Cover illustration by Antonio Javier Caparo
e-ISBN 978-0-545-63362-8
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.