“Do you think the lieutenant will win the bet?” he asked.
“I doubt it,” Isbell said. “What do the men think?”
“Well… they’re betting on Lieutenant Harlan, I guess.”
“Probably a good idea,” Isbell said. “Who are you betting on?”
“Oh, I haven’t made any bets. Lieutenant Cassada is certainly trying though, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, he’s trying.”
Abrams glanced out the open window again. “He sort of puts me in mind of the turtle.”
Cassada was walking slowly back and forth, a few steps each way, watching for the bus.
“Which turtle?”
“You know, Captain. The one that beat the rabbit. In the story.”
“That’s a little lesson for you, isn’t it?”
“He might come from behind, like the turtle.”
“We’ll see. It’s a good thing he believes in himself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Doesn’t always mean a lot. I can tell you that from experience.”
In flying school Cassada had been an enthusiastic student. He loved flying and had never, from the very first, felt any fear. When he received his wings he could not repress his excitement and pride. He’d had two years of college and for a while the love, somewhat dramatic, of a girl in Savannah who wanted to be an actress, but all that did not matter compared to what lay ahead. He was going to join the ranks, go to a squadron overseas. He was going to make a name for himself, become known.
Somehow it had not happened. He had found himself under the command of an unsympathetic officer who neither liked nor tried to understand him. He had never imagined this as a possibility. It had stolen all the joy out of life. The squadron was like a large family with a history he was not really part of, and he felt like a foster child in the house of a stern father. He looked forward only to the day that Wickenden would be gone. He disliked Wickenden and could hardly look at him. He would receive a bad effectiveness report from him, he knew, and already accepting that, he behaved with indifference, almost sullenly and ready to take offense at the least provocation.
Challenging Harlan, a veteran in a flight he would have liked to belong to, was an impulsive act of pride and defiance, though he secretly believed he might win them by it and, outdoing Harlan, show he was worthy to belong. If only he could even come close!
He’d had no success. The many things that had to be done correctly, he could not seem to put together. The secret eluded him. He had gone several times to the bore-sighting pit where the planes, mounted on large jacks, had their guns adjusted and then fired, a round at a time, to be sure they converged at the right point. He had kept a list of which airplanes made good scores. The armament men knew him and were fond of him, but try as he might he could not do better than twelve or fifteen percent until one morning when suddenly, as if a key had been turned, everything had come together. The air had been smooth, the passes good, and even time itself seemed to have slowed a little so that the target, leaning slightly, large and white, the tail of it fluttering, had been there for a fraction of a second longer than usual, and he came down to find it filled with green hits, the color he had been firing! He’d gotten thirty-two percent, more than double anything he’d achieved before. He could hardly believe it, but there it was, green holes all through it, thirty-two percent! His spirits soared. He would do even better.
“Looks like you finally got the idea,” Isbell told him.
“Not bad,” Phipps said. “What did you do, close your eyes?”
“I just did what they tell you to do.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
He didn’t reply. It had been early, the first mission of the day, the others hadn’t come down to the line after breakfast yet, but they would. They would see the target hanging there. The word would spread. He was elated, filled with fresh energy.
“You firing green?” Wickenden asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Wickenden nodded. Not even a word of approval. It hardly mattered. Cassada was smiling to himself. He felt like dancing. There were nine days of gunnery to go.
Chapter VI
In the tent area they had a five-gallon container filled with ice, grapefruit juice, and vodka on a table in the sun. The closing party. Pilots in dirty flying suits. The heat of the day.
“Hey, Wes,” Isbell called. “Have a drink.”
“No, thanks, Captain,” Harlan said.
“Join the fun.”
“I can have enough fun just watching everybody make a fool of themselves.”
“Come on.” Isbell was unsteady on his feet.
“No, thanks.”
“Ah, you’re missing the best part.”
“I don’t know about that,” Harlan said.
“That’s what we come down here for. To eat soup together.”
“Soup?”
“That’s right. Eat soup and drink screwdrivers.”
Gunnery was over. The pickup carrying the target had come in after the last flight and as it slowed the airman in the passenger seat had given a thumbs-up sign, many hits. A crowd watched as it was being unfolded. Near the front end was a great scattering of red. Cassada. Mixed in was blue which was what Phipps had been firing. In the middle of the target, relative emptiness. Harlan stood with the onlookers. His highest score had been a forty percent accomplished during the first weeks and his overall average was impressive, in the low thirties. Dunning had only one score out of the twenties because he insisted on flying his own aircraft which was not a good gunnery ship as the rest of them knew. They would moan when scheduled to fly it.
Isbell was counting the holes. “Red. Red. Two reds. Blue,” he called out. “Another blue. Red. Two more blues.”
Cassada was almost holding his breath, hoping madly. It was the final mission and his last chance. There were not many reds in the middle but at the tail end of the target was a great, redeeming burst.
Dunning came up puffing on a cigar and with his shirt off. Immense and white-skinned, to Harlan he confided, “You might be having a little trouble, Lieutenant.”
“No trouble, Major,” Harlan said as if he were sure.
“He said he’d outshoot you.”
“We’ll see. He hasn’t come close yet.”
He could hear the annoying hits being called out, blue, red, red, three reds…
“I don’t know now,” the major said.
Harlan said nothing, waiting. He was not watching Isbell or Cassada, he was looking at the tail of the target. The light made it hard to see from where he stood.
“Lot of red there,” Dunning said. He seemed to be enjoying it. Harlan was counting to himself. It looked to be a high score, one that could go down to the last hole.
There was a crowd around as Isbell added. It was not quite forty. It was thirty-six percent.
At the party, Cassada came around the side of one of the tents, his sleeves rolled up and the cup of his mess kit almost full. Browned and slender, hair paled by the sun, he looked like a veteran. He found Grace and some others standing in a group. Harlan was among them, his back turned. Cassada walked up to them. He looked at Harlan.
“I guess I owe you some money,” he said.
It was as if Harlan didn’t hear.
“I don’t have all of it, I just have part of it now.”
Harlan turned. Very deliberately he said, “The bet was for a month’s pay.”
“I’ll have to give you the rest later.”
“You were ready to bet but you can’t back it up?”
“Take this. I’ll give you the rest after payday.” He held out a check. Harlan made no move to accept it. Cassada tried to put it in Harlan’s hand but Harlan made no attempt to take it. The check fell to the ground. The others were watching.