Perhaps the son — in his own way — was making up…
Judy's eyes followed the two men plowing through the water together. “Is it true Paul once saved Tom's life?” she asked.
Randi nodded. “It's true.”
Judy looked toward Paul, hero-worship in her eyes. “Gee,” she said in awe. “Isn't it exciting? What happened?”
“I don't really know all of it,” Randi said. “Tom — doesn't like to talk about Vietnam.”
“Was that where it happened?”
“Yes.” Randi sat still for a while. “It was in 1971,” she said. “Tom was a fighter pilot. He — he'd been shot down. Over North Vietnam. Paul got him out.”
“Gee!” Judy said, impressed. “He's a real hero.”
Randi nodded. “I guess so.” She slid into the water and let the velvety coolness wash away her memories of a difficult time as she lay luxuriously on her back, keeping afloat with little hand and foot motions.
Suddenly she felt two powerful hands grab her waist and lift her up out of the water — to let her fall back down, dunking herself in the splash.
Tom caught her as she resurfaced, sputtering and laughing.
“You louse!” she said fervently.
He grinned at her with affection. “You looked entirely too sybaritic.”
Together they climbed out of the pool. Tom took a large towel and wrapped it around his wife. She began to rub herself dry.
“Here,” he offered, “let me help.” He started to pat her.
Gently she disengaged herself. “That's all right,” she said. She gave him a wan little smile. “I can dry myself.”
“Can I just do the good parts?” he asked mischievously.
She looked at him, suddenly sober. “I–I don't think so, Tom,” she said quietly…
The evening had come to an end.
Together they walked to the cars.
“Thanks, Tom, old cock.” Paul slapped his friend on the arm. “Those Holy-Burgers really took off.”
“Really good,” Judy chimed in. “For sure.”
Paul gave Randi a peck on the cheek. “Good night, doll,” he said. “I'm glad Tom picked himself a winner. Take care.”
Randi looked at him. She had the feeling it was probably the closest he'd ever get to complimenting a woman. “Good night, Paul,” she said. “I'm glad finally to have gotten to know you.”
They watched Paul and Judy drive off. Randi turned to her husband. “I hope I picked the right date for him,” she said. “What did you think of her?”
“Judy? I'm madly in love with her.”
“She really is nice.”
“So, how did you like Paul?” Tom asked.
“I — liked him,” Randi said. There was reservation in her voice. “He's very — masculine, isn't he?”
Tom grinned. “Right on!”
“You remember that old movie we saw at the Base theater the other night?” Randi asked. “The Devil's Brigade, I think it was called. There was a character in it — the one Jeremy Slate played. A real rough, he-man kind of character. Paul reminds me of him!”
Tom laughed. “He'd love you,” he said.
Randi looked at him. “Judy wanted to know how he saved your life,” she said. “I could only tell, her generalities. Someday I'd like to know the whole story.”
Tom looked at her — without seeing her.
He was suddenly back in the jungle. Nine years ago. Was it that long? It seemed… It seemed… He could still hear the staccato crackle of the small-arms fire coming from the jungle as he huddled in the tall grass. It had been one of his first missions. He was still green. The SAM had crippled his Corsair II fighter, and warning lights had lit up the cockpit. He'd pulled the “D” ring between his knees with both hands and felt the cold, sharp blast of a 500-knot slipstream strike him as he blasted away from the sick bird…
… He saw his plane hit and explode in an orange-red fireball. It was sight he was never to forget. He saw the pillar of black smoke shooting up into the air — an ominous beacon to announce his arrival to enemy troops for miles around.
He felt unbearably exposed and vulnerable as he drifted with the wind, hanging in his chute, somewhere over enemy territory. He pulled out his survival radio. He could see his wingman circle high above.
“Cardinal Flight,” he called. “This is Cardinal Three. I'm in my chute and OK.”
The answer came immediately.
“Rog, Cardinal Three. This is Cardinal Four. I have you in sight. I see no activity below.”
He stuffed the radio back into his vest and concentrated on his descent. Below was a large open area surrounded by jungle. He pulled on his risers and steered away from the trees.
When he hit the ground in the tall grass, he knew with cold certainty that anyone showing up for him would be Gomers — for he had punched out over North Vietnam far from any friendlies. Incongruously, he had wondered what joker first had come up with the nickname Gomers for enemy troops. Somehow it didn't sound nearly menacing enough.
He struggled out of his chute harness and pulled his survival radio from his vest. High above he could see his wingman still circling the area.
“Cardinal Four,” he called. “This is Cardinal Three. I'm down.”
“Roger, Cardinal Three.” The answer came at once. “Cardinal Flight is at bingo fuel. We've got to leave. The Sandies are on the way. Sandy One will be on in a few minutes. Keep yourself together.”
“Rog, cardinal Four,” he said. He knew his voice was too shrill. He didn't care. Images of reported atrocities against POWs flitted through his mind. He fought to shut them out. He had a damned good chance of falling into enemy hands; checking in at the Hanoi Hilton. Where the customers were always wrong.
And the price was high…
He checked his crash kit and his pistol.
And waited…
It was less than seven minutes, but it had seemed enough time to mobilize an entire North Vietnam division. His survival radio sputtered.
“Hello, Cardinal Three,” a voice could be heard through the crackle and static on his radio. “This is Sandy One. Do you read?”
“Rog, Sandy One,” he responded at once. “Cardinal Three. Read you five by. How far out are you?”
“Cardinal. Sandy. We're about ten minutes out. We've got a Jolly Green standing by. How about a hold-down?”
“Rog.”
He flipped the switch to beeper, giving the Sandy a chance to get a direction fix on his position. He felt better. With the prop-driven, potently armed advance members of the rescue party coming in, he felt less alone. And there had been no enemy activity. So far.
He kept scanning the jungle for the first sign of the enemy. And the sky above for the Sandies. He knew they'd come. Both parties.
The radio crackled. “Cardinal. Sandy. We're coming in. Give us another hold-down.”
“Rog, Sandy, Cardinal's holding,” he said. He flipped the switch. He watched the sky. And he saw them rapidly coming up in the distance. Two beautiful A1E Skyraiders. The Sandies were arriving.
“Cardinal Three,” the radio sputtered. “Sandy One. We're going to make a few low passes around you. Let us know if you hear any firing.”
“Roger, Sandy.”
Tensely he watched the jungle around him. And listened.
It was not a new trick. The Gomers would lie in hiding around a downed flier and wait for the rescue mission. Only then would they open up — hoping to get both the rescuers and their subject. It was a trap used often before.
Suddenly the two prop fighters came roaring low over the treetops. Banking, jinking, they streaked along the jungle edge. Again and again. Checking the area for enemy troops.
All was quiet.
“Cardinal Three,” the radio crackled. “We're going to put some Willie Pete in to mark the way.”