“You’ve been riding in the elevator for an hour,” the night watchman said.
“I can’t help it,” said the wooly jacket man. Then to me, “Where’s Frank?”
“Frank who?”
“You know Frank,” he said. “Come on help me with this elevator.”
“You’re drunk,” I said to him. “Come on skip it and let us get upstairs.”
“So would you be drunk,” said the white woolly jacket man. “So would you be drunk Comrade old Comrade. Listen, where’s Frank?”
“Where do you think he is?”
“In this fellow Henry’s room where the crap game is.”
“Come on with us,” I said. “Don’t fool with those buttons. That’s why you stop it all the time.”
“I can fly anything,” said the woolly jacket man. “And I can fly this old elevator. Want me to stunt it?”
“Skip it,” Al said to him. “You’re drunk. We want to get to the crap game.”
“Who are you? I’ll hit you with a bottle full of champagne wine.”
“Try it,” said Al. “I’d like to cool you, you rummy fake Santa Claus.”
“A rummy fake Santa Claus,” said the bald man. “A rummy fake Santa Claus. And that’s the thanks of the Republic.”
We had gotten the elevator stopped at my floor and were walking down the hall. “Take some bottles,” said the bald man. Then, “Do you know why I’m drunk?”
“No.”
“Well I won’t tell you. But you’d be surprised. A rummy fake Santa Claus. Well well well. What are you in Comrade?”
“Tanks.”
“And you Comrade?”
“Making a picture.”
“And I’m a rummy fake Santa Claus. Well. Well. Well. I repeat. Well. Well. Well.”
“Go and drown in it,” said Al. “You rummy fake Santa Claus.”
We were outside the room now. The man in the white woolly coat took hold of Al’s arm with his thumb and forefinger.
“You amuse me, Comrade,” he said. “You truly amuse me.”
I opened the door. The room was full of smoke and the game looked just as when we had left it except the ham was all gone off the table and the whisky all gone out of the bottle.
“It’s Baldy,” said one of the crap shooters.
“How do you do, Comrades,” said Baldy bowing. “How do you do? How do you do? How do you do?”
The game broke up and they all started to shoot questions at him.
“I have made my report, Comrades,” Baldy said. “And here is a little champagne wine. I am no longer interested in any but the picturesque aspects of the whole affair.”
‘Where did your wing men muck off to?”
“It wasn’t their fault,” said Baldy. “I was engaged in contemplating a terrific spectacle and I was ob-livious of the fact that I had any wing men until all of those Fiats started coming down over, past and under me and I realized that my trusty little air-o-plane no longer had any tail.”
“Jees I wish you weren’t drunk,” said one of the flyers.
“But I am drunk,” said Baldy. “And I hope all you gentlemen and Comrades will join me because I am very happy tonight even though I have been insulted by an ignorant tank man who has called me a rummy fake Santa Claus.”
“I wish you were sober,” the other flyer said. “How’d you get back to the field?”
“Don’t ask me any questions,” Baldy said with great dignity. “I returned in a staff car of the Twelfth Brigade. When I alighted with my trusty par-a-chute there was a tendency to regard me as a criminal fascist due to my inability to master the Lanish Spanguage. But all difficulties were smoothed away when I convinced them of my identity and I was treated with rare consideration. Oh boy you ought to have seen that Junker when she started to burn. That’s what I was watching when the Fiats dove on me. Oh boy I wish I could tell you.”
“He shot a tri-motor Junker down today over the Jarama and his wingmen mucked off on him and he got shot down and bailed out,” one of the flyers said. “You know him. Baldy Jackson.”
“How far did you drop before you pulled your rip cord Baldy?” asked another flyer.
“All of six thousand feet and I think my diaphragm is busted loose in front from when she came taut. I thought it would cut me in two. There must have been fifteen Fiats and I wanted to get completely clear. I had to fool with the chute plenty to get down on the right side of the river. I had to slip her plenty and I hit pretty hard. The wind was good.”
“Frank had to go back to Alcalá,” another flyer said. “We started a crap game. We got to get back there before daylight.”
“I am in no mood to toy with the dice,” said Baldy. “I am in a mood to drink champagne wine out of glasses with cigarette butts in them.”
“I’ll wash them,” said Al.
“For Comrade Fake Santa Claus,” said Baldy. “For old Comrade Claus.”
“Skip it,” said Al. He picked up the glasses and took them to the bathroom.
“Is he in the tanks?” asked one of the Byers.
“Yes. He’s been there since the start.”
“They tell me the tanks aren’t any good anymore,” a flyer said.
“You told him that once,” I said. “Why don’t you layoff? He’s been working all day.”
“So have we. But I mean really they aren’t any good, are they?”
“Not so good. But he’s good.”
“I guess he’s all right. He looks like a nice fellow. What kind of money do they make?”
“They got ten pesetas a day,” I said. “Now he gets a lieutenant’s pay.”
“Spanish lieutenant?”
“Yes.”
“I guess he’s nuts all right. Or has he got politics?”
“He’s got politics.”
“Oh well,” he said. “That explains it. Say Baldy you must have had a hell of a time bailing out with that wind pressure with the tail gone.”
“Yes Comrade,” said Baldy.
“How did you feel?”
“I was thinking all the time, Comrade.”
“Baldy, how many bailed out of the Junker?”
“Four,” said Baldy, “out of a crew of six. I was sure I’d killed the pilot. I noticed when he quit firing. There’s a co-pilot that’s a gunner too and I’m pretty sure I got him too. I must have because he quit firing too. But maybe it was the heat. Anyhow four came out. Would you like me to describe the scene? I can describe the scene very well.”
He was sitting on the bed now with a large water glass of champagne in his hand and his pink head and pink face were moist with sweat.
“Why doesn’t anyone drink to me?” asked Baldy. “I would like all comrades to drink to me and then, I will describe the scene in all its horror and its beauty.”
We all drank.
“Where was I?” asked Baldy.
“Just coming out of the McAlester Hotel,” a Byer said. “In all your horror and your beauty—don’t clown, Baldy. Oddly enough we’re interested.”
“I will describe it,” said Baldy. “But first I must have more champagne wine.” He had drained the glass when we drank to him.
“If he drinks like that he’ll go to sleep,” another flyer said. “Only give him half a glass.”
Baldy drank it off.
“I will describe it,” he said. “After another little drink.”
“Listen Baldy take it easy will you? This is something we want to get straight. You got no ship now for a few days but we’re flying tomorrow and this is important as well as interesting.”
“I made my report,” said Baldy. “You can read it out at the field. They’ll have a copy.”
“Come on Baldy, snap out of it.”
“I will describe it eventually,” said Baldy. He shut and opened his eyes several times then said “Hello Comrade Santa Claus,” to Al. “I will describe it eventually. All you Comrades have to do is listen.”
And he described it.
“It was very strange and very beautiful,” Baldy said and drank off the glass of champagne.
“Cut it out, Baldy,” a Byer said.
“I have experienced profound emotions,” Baldy said. “Highly profound emotions. Emotions of the deepest dye.”
“Let’s get back out to Alcalá,” one flyer said. “That pink head isn’t going to make sense. What about the game?”
“He’s going to make sense,” another flyer said. “He’s just winding up.”
“Are you criticizing me?” asked Baldy. “Is that the thanks of the Republic?”
“Listen Santa Claus,” Al said. “What was it like?”
“Are you asking me?” Baldy stared at him. “Are you putting questions to me? Have you ever been in action, Comrade?”
“No,” said Al. “I got these eyebrows burnt off when I was shaving.”
“Keep your drawers on, Comrade,” said Baldy. “I will describe the strange and beautiful scene. I’m a writer you know as well as a flyer.”
He nodded his head in confirmation of his own statement.
“He writes for the Meridian, Mississippi Argus,” said a flyer. “All the time. They can’t stop him.”
“I have talent as a writer,” said Baldy. “I have a fresh and original talent for description. I have a newspaper clipping which I have lost which says so. Now I will launch myself on the description.”
“O.K. What did it look like?”
“Comrades,” said Baldy. “You can’t describe it.” He held out his glass.
“What did I tell you?” said a flyer. “He couldn’t make sense in a month. He never could make sense.”
“You,” said Baldy, “you unfortunate little fellow. All right. When I banked out of it I looked down and of course she had been pouring back smoke but she was holding right on her course to get over the mountains. She was losing altitude fast and I came up and over and dove on her again. There were still wingmen then and she’d lurched and started to smoke twice as much and then the door of the cockpit came open and it was just like looking into a blast furnace, and then they started to come out. I’d half rolled, dove, and then pulled up out of it and I was looking back and down and they were coming out of her, out through the blast furnace door, dropping out trying to get clear, and the chutes opened up and they looked like great big beautiful morning glories opening up and she was just one big thing of flame now like you never saw and going round and round and there were four chutes just as beautiful as anything you could see just pulling slow against the sky and then one started to burn at the edge and as it burned the man started to drop fast and I was watching him when the bullets started to come by and the Fiats right behind them and the bullets and the Fiats.”
“You’re a writer all right,” said one flyer. “You ought to write for War Aces. Do you mind telling me in plain language what happened?”
“No,” said Baldy. “I’ll tell you. But you know, no kidding, it was something to see. And I never shot down any big tri-motor Junkers before and I’m happy.”
“Everybody’s happy, Baldy, Tell us what happened, really.”
“O.K.,” said Baldy. “I’ll just drink a little wine and then I’ll tell you.”
“How were you when you sighted them?”
“We were in a left echelon of V’s, Then we went into a left echelon of echelons and dove onto them with all four guns until you could have touched them before we rolled out of it. We crippled three others. The Fiats were hanging up in the sun. They didn’t come down until I was sightseeing all by myself.”
“Did your wing men muck off?”
“No. It was my fault I started watching the spectacle and they were gone. There isn’t any formation for watching spectacles. I guess they went on and picked up the echelon. I don’t know. Don’t ask me. And I’m tired. I was elated. But now I’m tired.”
“You’re sleepy you mean. You’re rum-dumb and sleepy.”
“I am simply tired,” said Baldy. “A man in my position has the right to be tired. And if I become sleepy I have the right to be sleepy. Don’t I Santa Claus?” he said to Al.
“Yeah,” said Al. “I guess you have the right to be sleepy. I’m even sleepy myself. Isn’t there going to be any crap game?”
“We got to get him out to Alcala and we’ve got to get out there too,” a flyer said. “Why? You lost money in the game?”
“A little,” said Al.
“You want to try to pass for it once?” the flyer asked him.
“I’ll shoot a thousand,” Al said.
“I’ll fade you,” the flyer said. “You guys don’t make much do you?”
“No,” said Al. “We don’t make much.”
He laid the thousand peseta note down on the floor, rolled the dice between his palms so they clicked over and over, and shot them out on the floor with a snap. Two ones showed.
“They’re still your dice,” the flyer said picking up the bill and looking at Al.
“I don’t need them,” said Al. He stood up.
“Need any dough?” the flyer asked him. Looking at him curiously.
“Got no use for it,” Al said.
“We’ve got to get the hell out to Alcalá,” the flyer said. “We’ll have a game some night soon. We’ll get hold of Frank and the rest of them. We could get up a pretty good game. Can we give you a lift?”
“Yes. Want a ride?”
“No,” Al said. “I’m walking. It’s just down the street.”
“Well we’re going out to Alcalá. Does anybody know the password for tonight?”
“Oh the chauffeur will have it. He’ll have gone by and picked it up before dark.”
“Come on Baldy. You drunken sleepy bum.”
“Not me,” said Baldy. “I am a potential ace of the people’s army.”
“Takes ten to be an ace. Even if you count Italians. You’ve only got one, Baldy.”
“It wasn’t Italians,” said Baldy. “It was Germans. And you didn’t see her when she was all hot like that inside. She was a raging inferno.”
“Carry him out,” said a flyer. “He’s writing for that Meridian, Mississippi paper again. Well so long. Thanks for having us up in the room.”
They all shook hands and they were gone. I went to the head of the stairs with them. The elevator was no longer running and I watched them go down the stairs. One was on each side of Baldy and he was nodding his head slowly. He was really sleepy now.
In their room the two I was working on the picture with were still working over the bad camera. It was delicate, eye-straining work and when I asked, “Do you think you’ll get her?” the tall one said, “Yes. Sure. We have to. I make a piece now which was broken.”
“What was the party?” asked the other. “We work always on this damn camera.”
“American flyers,” I said. “And a fellow I used to know who’s in tanks.”
“Goot fun? I am sorry not to be there.”
“All right,” I said. “Kind of funny.”
“You must get sleep. We must all be up early. We must be fresh for tomorrow.”
“How much more have you got on that camera?”
“There it goes again. Damn such shape springs.”
“Leave him alone. We finish it then we all sleep. What time you call us?”
“Five?”
“All right. As soon as is light.”
“Good night.”
“Salud. Get some sleep.”
“Salud,” I said. “We’ve got to be closer tomorrow.”
“Yes,” he said. “I have thought so too. Much closer. I am glad you know.”
Short Stories Page 55