“He don’t have it to spare,” Harlan warns.
Godchaux stands in the doorway hugging himself and looking outside. The beige felt shows under the turned-up collar of his blouse. He blows into the end of his fist to warm his fingers. He shakes his head again. His expression is calm but all this is amazing to him, unbelievable. It’s already part of lore.
Dunning leans on the counter, staring out. The seat of his trousers is wrinkled from sitting all day, and the back of his jacket. One chance in a hundred is all, but still a chance. He brings the microphone to his mouth, ready to speak. His thumb fiddles with the button. Finally, unable to stay silent, he says,
“Are you on top yet, White?” He presses the button in and out to make sure he’s transmitting. “White from mobile, are you on top yet?”
Harlan says nothing. He would like to say, what’s the point of his going up? He’s headed the wrong way. You don’t get down by going up. You don’t have to go to college to figure that out. The thing that’s really too bad is they can’t talk to each other. That would be nice, to hear them, Cassada and the captain, especially the next five minutes. Old Wickenden was right for once. They should of listened to him. Sometimes these regulars know what they’re talking about. It’s the law of averages.
“Fortify White from mobile,” Dunning calls. He says it twice, then a third time, looking around at the cloud bases as he does.
Godchaux is blowing on his fingertips.
“Fortify White,” Dunning says urgently, “do you read? White from mobile, do you read?”
Chapter II
Beneath the palms, someone was trying to start a weapons carrier. It was a full colonel, his head bent forward as he looked for the ignition switch in the dark.
“Chance of catching a ride with you?” Isbell asked.
“Who’s that?” the colonel said, turning.
“Captain Isbell, Colonel.”
“I’ll see if we have room,” he said and waved an arm at a group coming down the front steps of the club, holding on to each other and singing. “Let’s go!” he called, looking for the switch again. “Goddamn champs! Let’s go!”
They began climbing in. Isbell waited. The colonel was touching everything on the panel, feeling for the switch. “How’s things in the old 5th?” he said to Isbell. “Bunch of hamburgers.”
“We’re doing all right, Colonel.”
“Oh, yeah?” He glanced up and saw Piebes, winner of the air-to-air. “Get in here, you goddamn dead-eye,” he said.
Piebes tried. He managed to lift one leg onto the running board. He seemed to wonder about what to do next. He was wearing the colonel’s hat, grinning, the silver streaks of lightning visible in the dark.
The colonel slapped the passenger seat beside him. “Sit down,” he said.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Piebes said, pulling himself in. His head hit the canvas roof. Somebody picked the hat up for him.
The colonel stiffened to find the starter with his foot and pushed down. The engine turned over a few times and caught weakly.
“Great equipment,” he said. “Get aboard,” he told Isbell.
The back was crowded, Isbell could see. “That’s all right, we’ll catch the bus.”
“Make up your mind, for Christ’s sake,” the colonel said.
The weapons carrier backed up and then roared off without headlights. Near the theater someone turned them on. As they passed some lights, the colonel could be seen bareheaded, Piebes in the hat.
Isbell walked back to where Cassada was standing. People were still coming out of the club. There was the sound of a woman’s heels on the cement. It was too dark to see.
“Who was that, Colonel Neal? He seemed pretty happy,” Cassada said.
“Famous figure.”
“Why is that?”
“You know how old he is?” Isbell said.
“No.”
“Thirty-four.”
“Is that all?”
“He was one of the first men in his class to make bird.”
They were alone in the darkness, beneath the stars.
“Major Dunning’s older than that,” Cassada remarked.
“Well, that happens, too. But he’s in line for a promotion. His record’s good.”
“How old are you, Captain?”
“Thirty-one,” Isbell said.
Cassada shook his head a little.
“It’s a long pull, isn’t it?” he said.
“Not for everybody,” Isbell replied.
“Colonel Neal.”
“He’s not the only one.”
“You’ll get a squadron next.”
“I might. I hope so. Not here. I’ll be going home too soon. In the States, maybe.”
“Well, let me know. I’d like to be in it,” Cassada said.
“I’ll come looking for you.”
The bus came rattling up, headlights quivering before it. It was filled with airmen and NCOs. Isbell stood with Cassada in the back, at the end of a line of lolling heads and the slow reveal of faces as they passed a streetlight. A sergeant was talking. “Lieutenant,” he recited, “I loaded them myself, that’s what I told him.” He had a hard, lined face. Isbell could see him as they went by the hospital.
“You know what he says to me? He says, Bonney, that’s good enough for me. That’s good enough for me, he says. I tell you, that means something when they talk to you like that.”
The others were listening, turned sideways in the seats or leaning from above, holding on with one hand.
“I seen a lot of them,” Bonney said, “but I’ll tell you one thing, he’s the finest.”
“No.”
“The finest.”
“The colonel is.”
“Not as a gunner. As a officer, yeah. Not as a gunner.”
“Every way.”
“No, no. Hell, man, just look at the scores.”
“The scores ain’t everything.”
“Oh, yeah? What else is there?”
“They ain’t everything.”
They were going down the unlit stretch along the beach. The water was invisible, the color of the night. They rocked along like commuters, the axles squeaking. Cassada’s head was bent down as if in thought, but his eyes were open. The light struck his cheekbones. Isbell was remembering, for no reason, the day he had come around the corner of the hangar with the flying suit wet and stuck to him and unwilling to go back and change. How for a moment, before knowing anything, Isbell had thought: this one’s different.
“Listen,” the sergeant said, “I was in Vegas close to three years. I seen them all.”
“Oh, yeah? You remember the one took all the trophies at the meet there a couple of years back? That West Point major?”
“Sure. I know him. He’s a real hotshot.”
“What’s his name again?”
“I know him,” the sergeant said. “I seen him shoot.”
“You think Lieutenant Piebes could beat him?”
“Hell, yes, he could.”
“He ain’t that good.”
“You want to know what he told me about how he learned shooting?”
“What?”
“I was talking to him the other day and he said, Bonney, I learnt it from flying the tow ship.”
“From what?”
“From flying the tow ship, he said.”
“Hell, Bonney.”
“No, that’s right. That’s right. It’s like a caddie learns how to play golf.” He looked around. “How do you think they learn? By watching good golfers, that’s how.”
He was searching for someone in the dark of the bus, squinting. “Hey, Lieutenant,” he said to Isbell. Then, moving his head a little, “What is it? Captain. I’m sorry. Listen, tell them, isn’t that right, that the way to learn is to watch somebody doing it who really knows how?”