"I don't understand."
"There's another man came here from that camp. Matter of fact he's
still here. Came here a year ago. Name of Fitzmartin. Earl Fitzmartin.
He works for George at the lumberyard. Guess you'd know him, wouldn't
you?"
"I know him," I said.
Everybody who survived the camp we were in would know Fitzmartin. He'd
been taken later, had come in a month after we did. He was a lean man
with tremendously powerful hands and arms. He had pale colorless hair,
eyes the elusive shade of wood smoke. He was a Texan and a Marine.
I knew him. One cold night six of us had solemnly pledged that if we
were ever liberated we would one day hunt down Fitzmartin and kill him.
We had believed then that we would. I had forgotten all about it. It
all came back.
Fitz was not a progressive. Yet he was a disrupting influence. In the
camp we felt that if we could maintain a united front it would improve
our chances for survival. We organized ourselves, appointed committees,
assigned responsibilities. There were two retreads who had been in Jap
camps in another war who knew the best organizational procedures.
Fitz, huskier and quicker and craftier than anyone else in camp,
refused to take any part in it. He was a loner. He had an animal
instinct for survival. He kept himself clean and fit. He ate anything
that was organically sound. He prowled by himself and treated us with
icy contempt and amusement. He was no closer to us than to his captors.
He was one of the twelve quartered in the same hut with Timmy and me.
Perhaps that does not seem to constitute enough cause to swear to kill
a man. It wouldn't, in a normal situation. But in captivity minor
resentments become of major importance. Fitz wasn't with us so he was
against us. We needed him and every day he proved he didn't need us.
At the time of the exchange Fitzmartin was perhaps twenty pounds
lighter. But he was in good shape. Many had died but Fitz was in fine
shape. I knew him.
"I'd like to see him," I told the garage man. "Is the lumberyard far
from here?"
It was north of town. I had to take a bus that crossed a bridge at
the north end of town and walk a half mile on the shoulder of the
highway--past junk yards, a cheap drive-in movie, rundown rental
cabins. I kept asking myself why Fitz should have come to Hillston. He
couldn't know about the money. But I could remember the slyness of the
man, his knack of moving without a sound.
The lumberyard was large. There was an office near the road. There was
a long shed open on the front where semi-fabricated pieces were kept
in bins in covered storage. I heard the whine of a saw. Beyond the two
buildings were tall stacks of lumber. A truck was being loaded back
there. In the open shed a clerk was helping a customer select window
frames. An office girl with thin face and dark hair looked up from an
adding machine and told me I could find Fitzmartin out in the back
where they were loading the truck.
I went back and saw him before he saw me. He was heavier but otherwise
unchanged. He stood with another man watching two men loading a stake
truck. He wore khakis and stood with his fists in his hip pockets. The
man said something and Earl Fitzmartin laughed. The sound startled me.
I had never heard him laugh in the camp.
He turned as I approached him. His face changed. The smoke eyes looked
at me, wary, speculative. "I've got the name right, haven't I? Tal
Howard."
"That's right." There was, of course, no move toward shaking hands.
He turned to the other man. "Joe, you go right ahead here. Leave this
slip in the office on your way out."
Fitzmartin started walking back through the lot between the stacked
lumber. I hesitated and followed him. He led the way to a shed on
the back corner of the lot. An elderly Ford coupé was parked by the
shed. He opened the door and gestured and I went into the shed. It was
spotlessly clean. There was a bunk, table, chair, shelf with hot plate
and dishes. He had a supply of canned goods, clean clothes hanging on
hooks, a pile of magazines and paper-bound books near the head of the
bunk. There was a large space heater in the corner, and through an open
door I could see into a small bathroom with unfinished walls.
There was no invitation to sit down. We faced each other.
"Nice to see any old pal from north of the river," he said.
"I heard in town you work here."
"You just happened to be in town and heard I work here."
"That's right."
"Maybe you're going around looking all the boys up. Maybe you're
writing a book."
"It's an idea."
"My experiences as a prisoner of war. Me and Dean."
"I'd put you in the book, Fitz. The big ego. Too damn impressed with
himself to try to help anybody else."
"Help those gutless wonders? You types stone me. You wanted to turn it
into a boys' club. I watched a lot of you die because you didn't have
the guts or will or imagination to survive."
"With your help maybe a couple more would have come back."
"You sound like you think that would be a good thing."
There was an amused sneer in his tone that brought it all vividly back.
That was what we had sensed about him. He hadn't cared if we had all
been buried there, just so Fitzmartin got out of it with a whole skin.
I had thought my anger and outrage had been buried, had thought I was
beyond caring. Perhaps he, too, misjudged the extent of the contempt
that made me careless of his physical power.
I struck blindly, taking him almost completely by surprise, my right
fist hitting his jaw solidly. The impact jarred my arm and shoulder
and back. It knocked him back a full step. I wanted him on the floor.
I swung again and hit a thick, hard arm. He muffled the third blow and
caught my left wrist, then grabbed my right wrist. I tried to snap
my wrists free, but he was far too powerful. I was able to resist
the grinding twisting force for several seconds. His face was quite
impassive. I was slowly forced down onto my knees, tears of anger and
humiliation stinging my eyes.
He released my wrists suddenly and gave me a casual open-handed slap
across the side of my head that knocked me down onto the bare floor. I
scrambled to the chair and tried to pick it up to use it as a weapon.
He twisted it out of my hands, put a foot against my chest and shoved
me back so that I rolled toward the door. He put the chair back in
place, went over and sat on the bunk, and lighted a cigarette. I got up
slowly.