by James Salter
“Listen to me. You’ll have a major accident on your hands and the major and I will get the blame. Break off at six hundred feet.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go ahead and catch the bus. I’m going to be here for a while.”
“What does the schedule look like for tomorrow? I need missions.”
“You’ll see it. Go on, now.”
Cassada hesitated at the door as if he were going to say something, then let go of the jamb and walked out, heading towards the bus stop.
Isbell turned to Abrams,
“All finished?” he asked.
“I’m just checking it over.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
Abrams lowered his head as if in even greater effort. “Sir,” he said, “I always check it.”
“You do?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s a good thing we’re not running a bank,” Isbell said. “Here, give it to me.”
He took the page and scribbled his name at the bottom of it without looking at the figures. “How many mistakes are in there?” he asked, handing it back.
“Captain, it’s correct. I checked it. There are no mistakes.”
“That would set a record,” Isbell said.
He began reading the score sheets on the wall. They had been posted at the end of the day.
“Those are up to the minute,” Abrams offered.
There was no reply. He began to type the envelope the reports went into.
“We’re not doing too bad,” Isbell murmured, almost to himself.
“No, sir. We’re ahead of the other squadrons. I keep tabs.”
“I know.”
Abrams shook out the black typewriter cover and began to put it back on. Through the window he could see the lone figure, waiting.
“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.
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.
“You don’t have the money.” Harlan said. “I could of guessed it.”
“There it is.”
“Where? I don’t see it.”
“It’s right there,” Cassada said. “Better pick it up. It’s the only time I’m going to be paying.”
“What’s all that about next payday, then?”
“That’s the other part.”
“I don’t want parts. Where’s the money?”
Cassada, face burning, pushed the oblong piece of paper towards Harlan with his foot. There was a terrible silence.
“Hell, Wes,” Grace said, “go on and take it.”
Harlan’s broad face filled with scorn and also defiance.
“Why don’t you just say, I don’t have it, buddy?” Harlan said to Cassada. “I just don’t have it.”
Phipps, who was watching, bent down and picked up the check. He passed it to Harlan. “Why don’t you guys act like grown-ups?”
Harlan took the check, folded it, took out his wallet and put it inside. Godchaux had his arm around him.
“Don’t hide it away. Aren’t you going to buy everyone drinks at the club?”
“I don’t think anybody needs more drinks.”
“Come on,” Godchaux said.
“Go ahead and win your own money.”
“I think we ought to have a pool next time,” Grace said, “and the top three split it. Half to the high scorer and on down.”
“All right with me,” Harlan said.
“If we could get ‘A’ Flight to join in we’d clean up,” Grace said. “I see myself getting first place, then maybe Godchaux, then you.”
“I’m third?” Harlan said.
“I’d put you first except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t drink,” Grace said, seemingly serious.
“Shit.”
Near the showers a wrestling match had broken out and they were calling for Dunning, who was in his tent, to come and show how he had played end at Auburn. The party was becoming disorderly and also spreading past the tents to other squadrons having parties of their own.
Sometime after dark Dumfries came into the tent and turned on the light. Cassada was lying on his cot. Dumfries thought at first he was asleep, but he had merely closed his eyes against the light.
“I didn’t know anyone was in here,” Dumfries said. “Aren’t you going over to the club?”
“No.”
“I’m not either. I only had one cup of that stuff. I think it was doggone strong. Some of them are really drunk. Did you have a lot?”
“No.”
“I don’t know what-all was in it.”
Cassada rolled over onto his side and closed his eyes. “Why don’t you turn off that light?” he said.
“I just want to get undressed,” Dumfries said. He sat down on his footlocker and began to unlace his boots. “You still have your shoes on.”
“I know.”
There was noise from the major’s tent and from between the tents, shouting and singing. Dumfries had taken off one boot. He was talking about big fraternity parties he remembered although that was all beer, he said. Mostly beer. Cassada seemed not to be listening.
“Gee, it was too bad to lose that bet,” Dumfries said.
Cassada’s thoughts seemed elsewhere.
“I used to bet a lot myself,” Dumfries said, “at school. Mostly on football games, the World Series, things like that. After a while I really had a reputation, as a matter of fact. You probably wouldn’t believe it, the way I am now. They used to call me Little John. After John Cuneo. Of course, it was only kidding. He’s a real big gambler over in Sacramento. Maybe you’ve heard of him, John Cuneo.
“But then I used to win so much it wasn’t fun anymore, and I promised my mother I’d stop. She used to say, where’d you get all that money from? She never liked it very much. You know how they are. Aren’t you going to take off your shoes?”
Cassada rolled over and shook his head as if in bewilderment. “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” he muttered.
“What’d you say?”
“I don’t know. Turn out the light.”
Dumfries had taken off his other boot. He was still talking about his mother. Something went past him. It was a shower clog. “Hey!” he said. A shoe flew by and out the tent entry. Then another clog. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” Cassada was sitting up, throwing. The bulb exploded.
“What was that for?” said Dumfries in the darkness.
“Turning out the light,” Cassada said, settling back.
“You got glass all over the place,” Dumfries complained. “Someone’s going to cut their feet. Wait until Captain Wickenden comes in. He’s going to be mad.”
“He won’t know the difference,” Cassada said.
“Well, I’ve got to walk over it in the dark. I don’t want to walk on a lot of glass.”
Cassada did not reply. Stepping with care, Dumfries left the tent and went towards the showers to get a bulb from over one of the sinks. When he got back, Cassada was gone. Dumfries took the broom and swept the glass into a pile near the entrance. He was looking carefully to see if he’d gotten all of it.
“What are you doing?” Wickenden asked.
“Oh. Just sweeping up some glass. Cassada broke the bulb.”
“How’d that happen?”
“He threw a shoe at it.”
“Why didn’t he sweep it up?”
“Gee, Captain, I don’t know. He would have just left it lying there.”
“Bring that broom over here. You missed some.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wickenden went over to his cot. “If I cut my foot,” he said, “he’s going to sweep this tent with his toothbrush.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m not kidding.”
There was going to be trouble, Dumfries thought.
III
GODCHAUX HAD STEPPED OUTSIDE . . .
Godchaux had stepped outside and was facing the direction they would be coming from. The light had faded, the last, deceiving light. A thousand pounds, Dunning was saying to himself, a thousand pounds, fifteen minutes, with Isbell hanging there not able to do a thing. If it was Godchaux with him it would be different, but it was never someone like Godchaux.
“Turn left to zero six zero,” the controller said. “Maintain two thousand
feet.”
“Zero six zero.”
“Roger, White. Now stand by on this channel for your final controller.”
Almost immediately another voice broke in.
“Fortify White, this is your final controller. How do you read?”
There was no answer.
“Fortify White, this is final controller. How do you read me?”
Silence. Dunning had the mike in his hand and was about to call himself when finally there came, replying as if just now part of it all,
“Fortify White.”
“How do you read me?”
“Five square.”
“Roger,” the controller said, adding with calmness, “the tower advises that the field has now gone below minimums.”
Of course it has, Dunning thought. Goddamn it, I knew it when I first called. Look out the window, I said, look out the goddamn window!
“You’re advised to proceed to your alternate. Call outbound over the beacon at thirty-five hundred feet.”
“Negative,” Dunning interrupted. “Bring them in here!”
“The field is closed, White.”
“This isn’t White. This is mobile control.”
“Roger. Stand by one,” the controller said.
“Stand by nothing! This is Major Dunning in mobile. Bring them in. Bring them in here!”
There was the end of another transmission that had been blocked out,
“. . . an emergency!”
“What’d you say, White?”
“You were blocked, White,” the controller said. “Say again.”
“I’m declaring an emergency! I’m declaring an emergency!”
“Roger,” the controller said. In the background the intercom from the tower could be heard. “Can you proceed to Landstuhl?” the controller asked.
“Negative. I’m down to nine hundred pounds. I can’t divert.”
Finally, after agonizing moments, the controller said, “Roger.” And as if it were ordinary routine, “Your position is six miles out on final. Correct two degrees left to zero five eight. Make that zero five five, drifting slightly to the right of on-course.”
“Zero five five.”
“Your gear should be down and locked. Uh, do you request crash equipment to stand by?”
“That’s affirmative.”