They were already talking about who would get the flight when Cleve was gone. He had only eleven missions left. It would be soon.
“There isn’t but one man in this group who can take over,” Hunter announced.
Kiser was interested.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“Why, it’s obvious.”
“Pell?”
“Sure. See if he doesn’t.”
“Do you really think he’ll get it?”
“He has to.”
Kiser whistled.
“That’s something. He was a brand-new second lieutenant when he came over, wasn’t he?”
“A lot’s happened since then.”
“But don’t they usually pick captains?”
“Not over a man with six kills.”
“Say,” Kiser asked, “were you with him on any? Did you see them?”
“Sure.”
“What was it like?”
“Just like the combat film they show you.”
“Yes,” Kiser insisted, “but how did it start? How did he actually get them?”
“All kinds of ways,” Hunter said. He was uncomfortable at having spoken too quickly. “Look, you’ll see kills yourself; I guarantee you that.”
There was a pause.
“Have you gotten any?”
“Not yet,” Hunter said.
“I hope I’m along when you do.”
“Maybe you will be.”
Schramm came over and sat down with them. He was a quieter, more threatening fellow than Kiser.
“Has Cleve had the flight all along?” he said.
“Ever since the beginning. He’s been here a long time.”
“Since before Pell got here?”
“Oh, sure.”
“How is it that he only has one MIG, then? Isn’t he any good?”
“It’s not that,” Hunter said.
“How do you explain it then?”
“I don’t know. He’s old, for one thing.”
“How old?”
“Thirty-five, maybe.”
“He’s a regular grandfather, isn’t he?”
“He’s a good pilot,” Hunter said, moved by conscience. “You’d be better off with him than with anybody else, except you probably wouldn’t find anything.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I just know that the Doctor is the one who gets them, and that’s what counts. He’s right in the thick of it every time. Once his leader got shot down right alongside of him, but he made it back.”
“Is that right?”
“And got two MIGs while he was at it.”
“What a mission that must have been,” Kiser said.
“Yes, sir. I wasn’t on that one, myself. If Pell doesn’t get himself killed, though, he’ll wind up top ace of the war. Mark my words. I’ve seen them come and go.”
“You really think he’ll get the flight?” Kiser said. “That would be something.”
“He’d be a mean one to try and beat. He’s a smart operator. Wait until you get to know him some.”
“He looks mean,” Schramm said. “I notice he’s smoking on those cigars all the time.”
“All fighter pilots smoke cigars,” Hunter said.
23
In June came ponderous heat and mornings like eggshells, pale and smooth. Perhaps there might be a bit of early wind, warm but tantalizing, that was never repeated throughout the day. The heat was tremendous. It made the feet ache and clothes feel like abrasive. Even sheets were hot, concrete floors and water pipes. There was no place to go to escape it. The days were interminable. But the mornings, the eternal mornings! They were dawns of doomsday, already burned to transparence while still beyond the horizons over which they came. The mind was threatened by their emptiness. The face wrinkled instinctively against them. They were silent, like the dawns over vast sleeping millions, perfectly still, threatening, deathful. In their silence, premonitions bred like vermin, while red as a tomato the sun rose from behind the eastern hills, throwing down thick blankets of heat.
It was on such a morning that the first-light reconnaissance, which flew along the Chinese border visually checking the enemy fields, returned to report an awesome display. The strips were jammed with aircraft, a rash of silver MIGs strewn as thickly as pebbles on a shore. They had counted almost seven hundred of them, parked wingtip to wingtip.
“I knew it,” Colonel Imil affirmed. The news reached him at breakfast. “I knew it.”
“What’s up?” Moncavage asked.
“They saw seven hundred MIGs up north this morning.”
“Holy fish! What’s going on?”
“They’re loading up. They’ve been tipped off somehow.”
“Tipped off to what?”
“I’ll tell you later. Let’s get down to the line.”
They hurried off to combat operations, firing volleys of conversation at each other in the jeep. When they arrived, Moncavage knew.
“Only the best people today,” Imil was saying as they strode in.
“All right.”
“I want the cream of the group. This is the one, Monk. I can feel it. Seven hundred of them, by God! They’re going to fight.”
He was on the telephone direct to Fifth Air Force minutes later. It was not a good connection. His shouting into the mouthpiece could be heard all through the building.
“Listen, this is Imil. Our visual reccy flight just landed. What? Visual reccy. Yes, it just got back. They counted seven hundred MIGs up there. That’s right. Yes. You goddamn well better. No, it’s not here yet. Well, we’ll be looking for it. Sure, sure, you bet. Sure.”
He hung up and sat there, looking at Moncavage.
“Seven-thirty,” he announced, consulting his watch. “They say the ops order will be here within two hours. A special courier is bringing it.”
Moncavage puffed at a cigarette.
“Maybe I’d better start calling the squadrons.”
“No,” Imil said, “not yet. Don’t get them keyed up. There’s plenty of time.”
“Do you want to wait in my office?”
“Let’s wait right here. I want to open that envelope myself.”
By eight, the pilots in the mess were talking about it. A fever mounted on the field, ominously, like lead melting. There were clusters of men everywhere discussing it—in the latrines, along the road, and out on the line. Something big was coming up. The level of excitement was rising like flood waters. All missions had been called off until further notice. Nobody knew more than that for certain.
At 1130 Hunter came bursting into the room. He looked about quickly.
“Where’s Cleve?”
“What have you heard?” Pell said.
“They want everybody down in the briefing room in fifteen minutes. The whole group.”
“Even the new sports?” He nodded toward Kiser and Schramm.
“Everybody, they said.”
“Do you know what it is yet?”
“No,” Hunter said. “Where’s Cleve?”
“Who cares?” Pell stood up. “Let’s go, men. You, too, Petti.”
Hunter stayed behind. He ran from room to room. They were empty. Everybody had gone. After what seemed like ten minutes, he located Cleve sunning himself behind the barracks. There was another wait while Cleve got dressed. It was a quarter to twelve before they left for operations. All the vehicles had gone already. They had to walk.
They arrived ten minutes late. The whole group was already there. The briefing room overflowed. There were not enough seats for all of them; pilots were standing up in the back of the room. Colonel Moncavage was prowling the center aisle checking for complete attendance. He looked toward them as they entered.
“Thanks for coming, Connell,” he said. Heads turned.
The room was baking hot. As the minutes dragged by, restlessness grew. There were coughs and the sound of matches being struck. Thickening smoke made the air even more unbreathable. At 1215 the colonels were still talking earnestly to each other in the front of the room. Cleve stood looking through the blue haze at the map forty feet away. He squinted his eyes but could not make out anything written on it. The schedule board, too, was blank. Nothing was up there except the familiar, laconic sign at top center of the walclass="underline" The Fighting Heart. With posed, disinterested expressions the pilots waited. Finally, Colonel Imil stood up and walked toward the low platform. He stepped up onto it.