The humid air of Lynchburg, Virginia was a wet, green, living heat with damp earth, and cicadas buzzing in the canopy of oak trees.
(Apparently Desmond Doss lived between Virginia, Alabama and Georgia at this time)
Duke steered his rented Chevrolet Impala down the narrow road. The suspension creaked over the uneven pavement.
He had the window rolled down, his arm resting on the doorframe, letting the wind enter the sleeve of his white dress shirt.
On the passenger seat lay a thick manila envelope.
Inside were the first sixty pages of Hacksaw Ridge, along with a contract that he got, after consulting with the legal department at Paramount.
Duke checked the address he had scrawled on a napkin. A small, unassuming house on a hill.
He pulled into the gravel driveway. The engine died with a shudder.
Duke stepped out. He stretched his back, feeling the knot of tension that had lived between his shoulder blades finally loosen a little.
He walked up the path. There was no security gate. Just a screen door and a garden that looked like it had been tended.
An older man was kneeling in the dirt near a row of tomato plants. He was wearing canvas trousers and a faded plaid shirt.
He didn't look like a war hero. He didn't look like a man who had single-handedly carried seventy-five broken bodies through the fires of Okinawa.
"Mr. Doss?" Duke called out softly.
The man stopped. He didn't jump. He simply wiped his hands on a rag tucked into his belt and stood up.
He turned, squinting slightly against the afternoon sun. His face was etched with deep lines, but his eyes were clear, sharp, and startlingly kind.
"That's me," the man said. His voice was a soft southern drawl, "And you must be the fellow from California. The one who's been calling the house."
"Connor," he said, extending a hand. "Everyone just calls me Duke."
Desmond looked at the hand for a second and then took it. Desmond's grip was surprisingly firm, the skin rough.
"You came a long way for a 'no', son," Desmond said, a small, sad smile playing on his lips.
"I told your people on the phone. I don't want a movie. Hal B. Wallis came here ten years ago. Audie Murphy came here. I told them all the same thing."
(Apparently in 1970s-1980s there were several attempts to make a movie about him but they all were stopped cause Desmond didn't like the script nor story)
"I'm not here to make a normal movie, Desmond," Duke said. "I'm not here to make you pick up a gun. I read the offers they sent you. They wanted to change too many things."
Desmond chuckled softly, shaking his head. "They always advocate for me to shoot the sniper in the story. They say the audience needs 'closure'."
"I don't care about closure," Duke said, looking him in the eye. "I want to make a movie about the one thing you refused to do."
Desmond studied him.
"It's hot out here," Desmond said finally. "My wife made some lemonade. You better come sit on the porch."
They sat on the wooden porch, rocking chairs creaking in a slow, rhythmic move. The lemonade was cold.
Duke opened the envelope. He didn't hand over the contract. He handed over the script.
"I wrote this," Duke said. "It's a draft. It covers the training. The abuse. The court-martial. And it covers a part of the Ridge."
Desmond took the pages. He didn't read them immediately.
"Why?" Desmond asked.
"This was a long time ago, son. The world has moved on. They got new wars now. Why dig up my old story?"
"Because the world is too hateful nowadays, Desmond," Duke said. "It's angry. The kids hate the soldiers. The soldiers hate the government. We've lost the idea that you can fight for something without hating the person across from you."
Desmond took a sip of his lemonade. "Hating is easy. Love is the hard work."
"Exactly," Duke said. "I want to show the hard work. I want to show what you did on that cliff. The twenty-four hours where you didn't sleep and most importanly when you lowered those men."
Desmond nodded slowly. "It was a busy night."
"I have the sequence outlined," Duke said, leaning forward. "The artillery barrage. The retreat. You stay behind. You find the wounded. You drag them to the edge. You lower them down.."
Desmond looked at Duke, a strange expression crossing his face. It was almost amusement.
"Seventy-five," Desmond murmured. "The Army said a hundred. I said fifty. We split the difference. But you know... the movie folks, they always get the geography wrong. They think it was just a cliff. It was mud. It was slip and slide."
Desmond paused for a moment.
"There was a boy," Desmond said quietly. "I found him in a shell hole. His legs were... well, they weren't much good. I was dragging him. And a grenade landed right next to us. Japanese stick grenade."
Duke nodded, remembering the scene from the Gibson movie he had seen in his previous life. "You kicked it away."
"I stepped on it," Desmond corrected gently. "Wait, no. That was the other time. This time, the blast... it took a piece of my leg. Put seventeen pieces of shrapnel in me. I couldn't walk. I was done."
Duke blinked. "In the script... I have you getting lowered down on the stretcher at the end. After the arm break."
"The stretcher," Desmond said, and his eyes sharpened. "That's the part nobody believes. I was on the stretcher. They were lowering me down. I was in a bad way, bleeding out. And I looked over, and I saw another fella. He was hit in the head. He was in worse shape than me."
Duke froze. He remembered reading this in the historical footnotes, but the Mel Gibson movie had cut it. It was too heroic and also too unbelievable.
"So I rolled off," Desmond said simply. "I told the medics, 'Take him.' They didn't want to. I rolled off that stretcher into the mud so they could take that boy down."
Duke stared at him. "You gave up your rescue."
"He was dying," Desmond shrugged. "I could still crawl. So I crawled. I crawled back toward the aid station. And that's when the sniper got me. Hit me right in the arm. Shattered the bone. I crawled three hundred yards with a broken arm and a leg full of iron."
Duke sat back in the rocking chair. The silence of the Virginia afternoon felt heavy.
He realized then the problem he was going to face.
In the 2016 movie, Gibson had kept the grenade kick. He had kept the leg injury. But he had cut the stretcher swap. He had cut the crawling. Why?
Because audiences would have called "bullshit." They would have said it was Hollywood exaggeration.
The reality of Desmond Doss was so outrageous, so superhumanly selfless, that fiction had to be toned down just to make it plausible.
"I can't put that in," Duke whispered, almost to himself.
"What's that?"
"If I put the stretcher swap in the movie," Duke said, looking at Desmond, "the critics will laugh. They won't believe a human being would do that."
Desmond smiled. "That's the trouble with the truth, It doesn't follow a script. It just happens."
Duke rubbed his face with his hands. "We have to cut it. We have to leave out the bravest thing you did because it looks too brave."
Desmond laughed then, a dry, rasping sound. "You're an honest liar, Duke."
The old man rocked for a moment, the chair squeaking. Then he turned his head, his gaze piercing Duke's producer veneer.
"You're too young to know what an explosion feels like," Desmond said. It wasn't a question.
Duke stiffened.
"But you write about it well," Desmond continued, tapping the script. "I read the first few pages you sent in the mail. You describe things in a great way."
Duke looked at the porch floorboards.
Duke said. "I was a door gunner in Vietnam but i got discharged cause of an injury."
Desmond didn't blink.
"That kind of experience never leaves you," Desmond said. "You wash your hands, but the water never runs clear."
"That's why I want to make this movie," Duke said. "I want to show that there's a way to be brave without adding to the body count. And also how brutal war is."
Duke leaned forward, "I need an advisor, Desmond. I want you in the set."
Desmond looked out at the garden again. He watched a butterfly land on a tomato leaf.
"I didn't carry a gun because I promised the Lord I wouldn't take a life," Desmond said. "I figured the world was doing enough killing without my help."
He turned back to Duke.
"Alright, door gunner," Desmond said. "You got a deal. But on one condition."
"Anything."
"No cursing," Desmond said sternly. "I don't want the Lord's name taken in vain. You can show the blood. You can show bone."
"But you keep the language clean. My mother will be watching from heaven."
Duke let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He laughed, a genuine sound of relief. "I can't promise the other soldiers won't swear, Desmond. It's the Army. But I promise you won't swear."
"Fair enough," Desmond said. He picked up the script. "I'll read your pages. But you better stay for dinner. Dorothy is making meatloaf."
Dinner was quiet. The house smelled of savory herbs and baking bread. Duke sat at the small kitchen table, eating with a hunger that surprised him.
He watched Desmond and his wife, Dorothy. They moved with a synchronized grace, passing the salt without asking, filling glasses before they were empty.
It was a kind of intimacy that Hollywood movies tried to replicate but always failed. It wasn't flashy. It was just... steady.
"So," Desmond said, buttering a roll. "You're a producer. That means you're the one with the money."
"Technically, the studio, Paramount has the money," Duke said. "I just tell them where to put it."
"And you think people will pay to see a movie about a conscientious objector?"
"I think people are hungry for a hero who doesn't look like a bully," Duke said. "Especially now. The country is confused, Desmond. People don't seem to know who the good guys are anymore."
"The good guys are the ones who help," Desmond said simply. "Doesn't matter what uniform they wear."
Duke committed that line to memory. He would put it in the script.
As the evening wound down, Duke stood on the porch to say goodbye.
"I'll have the lawyers send the official papers," Duke said. "But your word is good enough for me."
"My word is all I got," Desmond said. He leaned against the doorframe. "You take care of yourself, Duke."
Duke nodded.
Duke walked to the Chevy. He looked back once. Desmond Doss was still standing on the porch, a silhouette against the warm light of the kitchen.
Duke got in the car and started the engine.
He drove slowly down the hill, leaving the sanctuary of Lynchburg behind. As he merged onto the highway that would take him to the airport, and back to Hollywood, he felt different.
He turned on the radio. The news was playing reports of troop movements in the Mekong Delta, protests in Chicago, the body count of the week.
Duke turned it off. He rolled down the window and let the night air rush in.
---
Duke pulled his convertible into the driveway of the estate that belonged to Robert Evans.
Duke grabbed the leather satchel from the passenger seat. Inside was the polished second draft of Hacksaw Ridge.
He walked through the garden, bypassing the front door. The butler simply nodded and pointed toward the backyard.
Robert Evans was by the pool.
He was wearing a silk caftan that was unbuttoned to the navel, revealing a tan. He was reclining on a chaise lounge, a telephone cord stretching connecting him to the studio.
"I don't care if he's drunk!" Evans was shouting into the receiver, though his voice was smooth, lacking any real anger. "If he can stand up, he can act. Just get the shot. We aren't making Gone with the Wind, we're making a picture. Yeah, yeah. Ciao."
Evans slammed the phone onto the side table, rattling the ice in his glass of juice. He looked up and saw Duke.
"Duke!" Evans flashed that million-dollar grin, "You look terrible."
"I feel terrible," Duke said, dropping into the chair opposite him. "I haven't slept in a few days."
"Sleep is for people who haven't made it into Hollywood," Evans declared. He gestured to the pitcher on the table. "Juice? It's fresh."
"I'll stick to coffee," Duke said.
Evans adjusted his sunglasses. "So? You ghosted me for a week. My secretary said you were in Virginia? What's in Virginia?"
"A friend," Duke said. He reached into his satchel and pulled out the script. It was bound in a simple black cover.
HACKSAW RIDGE
Screenplay by Duke
He tossed it onto the glass table. It landed with a heavy thud.
"That's the project?" Evans asked, eyeing the script.
"That's my next movie, Bob. That's the one."
Evans picked it up.
"Hacksaw Ridge," Evans read the title. "Sounds like a horror movie. Or a Western."
"It's a war movie," Duke said.
Evans sighed, putting the script down on his chest. "Duke, this name will confuse people."
"Read page one," Duke said. "or a couple of pages."
Evans gave him a skeptical look, then flipped the cover open. He adjusted his sunglasses. He began to read.
Duke watched him. He saw the eyebrow raise at the description of the violence. He saw the frown when Desmond refused to touch the rifle. He saw the lips purse when the sergeant humiliated him.
Evans read fast. He skimmed the dialogue, hunting for the conflict, the hooks, the trailer moments.
Ten minutes passed. The only sound was the rustle of pages and the gentle lap of pool water against the tiles.
Finally, Evans flipped to page forty the scene where Desmond is beaten in the barracks and refuses to identify his attackers.
Evans looked up.
"He doesn't fight back?" Evans asked.
"Never."
"And he doesn't quit?"
"No."
Evans went back to reading. He flipped forward, deeper into the script, to the battle sequences. The exploding bodies. The rats. The sheer, industrial noise of the artillery.
Evans stopped at the scene on the cliff edge. The prayer. Lord, help me get one more.
He closed the script slowly. He took a sip of his carrot juice.
"It's violent," Evans said softly. "Won't it get an X rating if you shoot this?"
"I dont think so," Duke said.
Evans nodded, looking out at the pool. He took off his sunglasses. His mind was calculating, running the numbers, the demographics, the marketing angles.
"You know," Evans said, a smile creeping back onto his face. "It's brilliant."
Duke let out a breath. "You think?"
"It's the perfect counter-programming," Evans said, sitting up. "Look at what we just did with Midnight Cowboy. We sold them a tragedy about a gay hustler dying on a bus. And they ate it up because it felt 'real'."
Evans tapped the script with a fingernail.
"This? This is the other side of the coin. It's got the violence the kids want. But the hero... the hero is a boy scout. He's pure. The parents will love him because he reads the Bible. The hippies will love him because he refuses to kill."
"That was the plan," Duke said.
"And the best part," Evans laughed, "is that it's not depressing. This leaves you wanting to hug your brother. It's a great script."
Evans stood up and walked to the edge of the pool.
"I can sell this. The poster can be just a helmet with a red cross. Simple. Iconic."
"I have Desmond Doss on board as an advisor," Duke added. "He signed the rights yesterday. He's the real deal, Bob."
"Even better," Evans said. "We trot him out for the press junket. A real Medal of Honor winner. The Academy eats that stuff up."
Evans walked back to the table and picked up the script again, treating it with more reverence this time.
"So," Evans said, dropping back onto the lounge. "We have the script. We have the rights. Who do you want for the Sergeant? The prick who rides him?"
"I was thinking Lee Marvin," Duke lied. He knew he wanted Harrison Ford, but he needed Evans to think about star power first so he could pivot later.
"Marvin is good," Evans mused. "Expensive, but good. And the kid? Doss?"
"Someone unknown," Duke said. "Someone with big eyes. Someone who looks like he'd blow away in a stiff wind."
"We'll find him," Evans waved his hand. "Casting is the easy part. The hard part is the story, and you nailed it."
Evans reached for a silver cigarette box on the table. He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling up into the pristine morning air. He looked at Duke through the haze.
"You know, Duke," Evans said, his tone shifting. It became more casual, more inquisitive. "You're a machine. You produced the biggest hit of the year. You launched that... that beeping coin box thing..."
"Atari," Duke corrected.
"Atari. Right. You're doing a million things."
Evans leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"But I have to ask, are you publishing a book anytime soon?" Evans said. "Love Story spent forty weeks on the New York Times list. It's still there, actually. Paperback sales are through the roof."
Evans gestured with his cigarette.
"That was last year, Duke. In this town, you're only as good as your last hit. When is the next book coming out?"
Duke shifted in his chair. He had forgotten about the "author" aspect of his persona.
In his rush to build the tech empire and the film slate, he had neglected the literary career he had fabricated to give himself credibility.
"I've been busy, Bob," Duke said. "Writing screenplays takes time."
"Screenplays are blueprints," Evans scoffed. "You want to make Hacksaw Ridge? Great. But imagine if you had published it as a biography first. We'd have a built-in audience."
Evans looked at him expectantly.
"So? What's in the drawer? You must have something. A thriller? A romance? Another tearjerker?"
Duke's mind raced. He needed a lie. And not just a lie, but a promise of a future hit. He scanned his memory of the 1970s bestseller list.
"I have an idea," Duke said slowly. "I've been toying with it."
"Tell me," Evans said, his eyes lighting up.
"It's about a fish," Duke said.
Evans paused. "A fish? You mean a shark like Jaws?"
"No. A dad that tells stories," Duke said. "He tells big fish stories. He meets a 12 feet tall man and a glass eyed witch who he learns from how he's going to die."
Evans' cigarette paused halfway to his mouth. "Hmm, you should lay off drugs for some time, it would be for the best."
"And he convinces some siamese korean twins to betray their country and follow him to America," Duke continued, improvising the pitch. "He also meets a Circus Owner who is secretly a werewolf."
Evans stared at him for a long moment.
"Let's just focus on the war movie for now." Evans said after a moment
___
Sort of long chapter