Horne did not take his eyes off the shimmering propeller until the distance between the planes increased to about three feet. Then his expression changed; he blinked and swallowed. The color returned to his face.
“Go on!” he snarled. “Get out of there!”
Melvin eased back on the throttle and coasted a little farther away.
“Okay, hold it,” Horne said. He looked beyond Melvin at Cole and McCampbell. “Now listen, you people, I’m leading this flight today, so will you please goddamit do me the favor of waiting for my signals? If I want you stacked up on my tail I’ll give the word. Christ almighty! All right. Now. Here we go. Forget about yesterday. Make these dives clean and get back up here pronto.” He was about to hang up the microphone, but looked again toward Melvin. “Don’t push over too fast or the engine’ll cut out on you.”
“I know it,” Melvin answered without bothering to use the microphone. They were still so near each other that Horne had no trouble reading his lips.
For a few more seconds they flew straight ahead. Then Horne dipped a wing to the left, dipped to the right, and curled down on the approaching target. Melvin flew on, counting aloud, and when he got to ten he dipped to the left, to the right, and pressed the SNJ out of formation.
Below and to the left he could see Horne firing at the sleeve, which was rapidly growing larger. Horne dove by the sleeve and out of sight.
Melvin hooked a finger around the machine-gun trigger and waited, guiding the sleeve toward the center of the ringsight. He noticed that the tow plane and the sleeve were drifting toward the bottom of the ring, so he steepened the dive. The sleeve was still drifting. He pushed the controls until he was diving almost vertically; but the nylon sleeve—much longer now, and much thicker—was being drawn under him, and then he understood that he was doing what Elmer had done. This was what Horne had been trying to explain. The sleeve was too big; he was past the point where he should have fired, past the point where he should have quit firing and gotten out of the way. It was much too big, still growing, filling the ringsight and extending beyond it. He could no longer see the ends of the sleeve. He got the control stick in both hands and forced it to one side. The wings wrinkled and something creaked as the airplane rolled; he saw the sleeve whip upward like a handkerchief flipped in his face.
As he climbed back into position the only thing he could think about was the terrible grade Teitlebaum must have given him. Teitlebaum could not help seeing how he had almost wrapped himself in the sleeve and undoubtedly would make a note of it. He expected to hear the captain on the radio, but there was not a sound.
The second attack was better, although the noise of the machine gun startled him. During the first run he had been so busy centering the target that he had not had time to shoot. Now, after firing one bullet, he stopped, afraid he had broken the gun. But when he touched the trigger again, to find out what would happen more than in hopes of hitting the target, there was another explosion just like the first. He concluded that must be the way a machine gun was supposed to sound. He drew the sleeve toward the center of the ring, fired several quick bursts as it grew larger, and was reluctant to roll aside when the time came.
The formation made two more attacks before the tow plane reversed course and headed for shore. Horne wasted no time establishing the new position, and as soon as the other planes were neatly behind him he dipped his wings and dropped away. Melvin followed almost immediately, with Cole flying third and McCampbell fourth. It was the best run of the day. They all knew it.
Teitlebaum was observing them from the opposite side of the target. The canopy of his SNJ was shoved back and the bill of his canvas cap was turned up, which suggested that he was in a good humor. He appeared to be grading each run on a tablet strapped to his knee, but in addition to watching them it was obvious that he was basking in the early spring sunshine. He was clearly visible a short distance outside the ringsight, unusually close to the target.
During the fourth run of the landward series the captain abruptly pulled up about five hundred yards and flashed over the cadet formation. Melvin, who had just finished shooting and was rejoining the echelon, watched in stupefaction as Captain Teitlebaum looped, flipped over on his back, dove, and emerged in a chandelle. The captain then rammed the propeller of his airplane into low pitch and spiraled vertically above the formation while they all gazed up at him in great wonder and alarm. Melvin thought the officer had gone out of his mind. Presently he materialized just a few yards to the side, opened the hatch, removed the cigar from his teeth, and, apparently berserk, flung it at Melvin, after which he snatched the microphone and gave orders for the formation to return to the base without delay, and having said this dropped out of sight.
They saw no more of him till they landed.
Captain Teitlebaum, without a word, inspected every gun belt to see what color the bullets were tipped. Melvin’s belt was red-tipped, Cole’s was blue, Horne’s was orange, McCampbell’s was green. The captain folded his sun glasses, slipped them into the breast pocket of his coveralls, and beckoned to Melvin. They walked out to the captain’s plane. There were two bullet holes in the right wing not far from the cockpit. Around each hole was a trace of red paint.
That night Melvin said he did not feel like eating dinner; he had retreated to his bunk, where he went whenever he had been hurt or was confused, and there he lay absolutely motionless with the pillow concealing his face.
“You want me to bring you something?” Horne inquired. He was worried and so he pretended to be cheerful. “A pear? How about a nice pear?”
“I don’t want a pear!” said Melvin.
“All right, if you’re going to be that way, suit yourself. It certainly doesn’t make the least bit of difference to me.” He was peeved by this response to his attempt to be helpful. He snapped out the light and marched off to eat his supper. When he returned Melvin was still supine on the bunk, but willing to talk about the incident.
“I’m all through,” Melvin said. “There’s no hope.”
“Teitlebaum say so?”
Melvin rose up on one elbow with a sardonic expression. “I hardly think it was necessary.”
“So your aim was poor, so what? It could happen to anybody. I about beheaded Roska on that last run. Listen, if Teitlebaum was going to wash you out he’d have told you by now.”
“No, I’ll never make it,” Melvin said. He turned over on his stomach.
“How about some pool?”
He shook his head.
“Table’s empty. I’ll give you a chance to win back that five dollars you lost last week.”
“I’d only lose some more.”
“Who is this I’m talking to?” Horne asked, gazing down at him. “I guess you are in a bad way. How about going to the lecture?”
“No!” Melvin shouted, pounding his fist into the pillow. But then, after a pause, he asked doubtfully, “What lecture?”
“That commander. That hot dog that scattered the Jap squadron over Tulagi.”
“He did what?”
Horne became impatient. “How the hell should I know? He got the Congressional Medal, that’s all I know. There’s an announcement on the bulletin board telling what he did. It’s been there for a month. Don’t you ever read what’s on the bulletin board?”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Giving a talk, stupid, that’s what he’s doing. The Navy’s got him touring these roach traps giving talks to get the cadoodlers all fired up. They want us to go out and do the same thing.”
“Why should they want us to go out and give talks?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Horne muttered, clutching his head. “They don’t want us to give talks; they want us to go out and shoot up whole squadrons of Japanese.”
“I’m not a very good shot.”
“Come on,” said Horne, grabbing the pillow. “Come on, it’ll do you good. Listen to a nice lecture.”
“I hate lectures,” Melvin said, but h
e got up and straightened his necktie and put on his garrison cap and the two of them walked over to the auditorium.
The commander was a good speaker and storyteller, but Melvin could not stay awake; he dozed off and woke from time to time with a horrified gasping noise that caused people to look around. As soon as the lecture ended he went outside and sat weakly on the steps while Horne remained in the auditorium to ask questions.
After a while Horne came out and sat down beside him.
“For a hero the commander’s not so bad. He’s a pretty nice Joe, in fact. Before the war he was a dentist in Wyoming. What a brawl that must have been over Tulagi! He knocked off five Jap bombers and two fighters.” Horne stood up, looked around with an agreeable expression, and stretched. “Frankly, I’m glad the man plays ball on our squad.” He took a deep breath and the khaki shirt nearly split. He looked down at Melvin and nudged him with his shoe. “So what’s your problem, cadet?”
“I don’t know. I think I’m sick.”
“Everybody’s sick. That’s no excuse. How long have you been in this outfit?” said Horne, becoming frivolous. He clapped his hands and smacked his lips. “Yes, sir!” he exclaimed. “We got it made! This miserable program’s a cinch. No strain! When I think back—no fooling, when I think back to what all we had to put up with! These crummy seamen giving us orders, honest to God! I’m telling you, though, it’s practically over. Riding from one base to another in those moving-van buses with benches on each side and no windows like we were nothing but pigs—I’m telling you! Well, we’re going to be out before much longer, we’re going to be officers and officially gentlemen and by God in my opinion it’s certainly about time!” He fell silent. He stood with his hands on his hips, scowling. “Well, I don’t know,” he said a few minutes later. “Anyway, though, we got it made.”
Melvin pulled a thread from his trousers and said gloomily, “Maybe you have.”
Horne looked down at him again. “Are you really sick?”
“I suppose there’s nothing wrong with me,” Melvin answered in a low voice. “I don’t believe I’m physically sick, you know. It’s just that—oh, nothing.”
“You still in a sweat about Elmer?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that I got to thinking about this commander. He killed ten or fifteen people he never saw before in his life and received a medal. It’s a little strange.”
“Ah! So that’s it. You’re just now getting to that stage. Listen, stupid, if the commander hadn’t broken up that formation there’d of been a pot full of Japs who got medals, that’s for sure. What do you think they were headed for? A tea party? Remember, sweetheart, they were loaded for us!” Horne tightened his belt and grunted. “Come on, now. How about a game of billiards? You could get your five dollars back if you tried hard.”
“No. I don’t feel like it.”
“Suit yourself. I’m not begging.”
“Cole came by a few minutes ago and was looking for somebody to play.”
“I don’t play with that son of a bitch. You know what he did on that navigation hop the week before last? You know he was leading it and afterwards we all talked about how good it was, how we hit the check points right on the button? Well, I found out why. Somehow he got hold of the chase pilot’s map and copied down the headings before we even took off. No wonder it was a sharp flight, and the bastard got a good grade for it. Always an angle. I don’t think in all his life that guy has ever once played it straight. Like when we had combat last month, I was supposed to dogfight with Cole. So what happened? We went up to five thousand, scissored a couple of times, and then he quit. I got on his tail with no strain. He wasn’t even trying. So afterwards I asked him why he didn’t fight. You know what he said? He says with the dirty, superior smirk of his, ‘I should risk my life?’ Now I ask you, how do you figure a person like that? Cole’s yellow. He’s got no guts!” Horne spat through his teeth.
“I don’t think I have either,” Melvin said. He got up, walked a few steps and paused, and then continued walking.
Presently he realized that he was alone; he stopped with a feeling of confusion and looked around. Horne was nowhere in sight. He discovered, then, to his amazement that he was near the flight line. The hangar lights were on and course lights flashed from the top of the squadron tower. Out on the field the flare pots were blazing in the darkness. He stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt, thinking deeply.
When he looked up again he saw that he had reached the far end of the line and was in the midst of the parked airplanes. He decided to sit in one of the planes. He listened for the security patrol, but could not hear anyone nearby so he climbed on a wing, slid open the greenhouse as quietly as possible, got into the cockpit, and pulled the glass over his head. He felt slightly nauseated, and his head was detached; it had been a grotesque, unnatural sort of day. And yesterday was so immediate, but at the same time so unreal. Death had come and gone as normally as a letter was delivered, Elmer was at the bottom of the sea, whatever was left of him, yet only the night before last in the barracks Elmer had been playing cards.
He became aware that the first night flight was going up. Mechanics with glowing, cherry-red batons were leading the pilots out of the line, waving them toward the runway. Awkwardly the planes trundled through the night while the colored navigation lights blinked alternately; and soon they were rising, one cluster after another, and drawing together in the distance. They returned and descended, more and more slowly, and had almost reached the ground when there was a screech. The lights bobbled stiffly, as though they had been frightened, and sped away through the narrow lane of oil pots flickering in the night wind from the Gulf while the roar of the engine diminished.
Melvin watched them land and take off for a few minutes, but then lost interest. He stared at the constellations, and after a while fell to thinking of a night when he had mistaken Mars for the tail light of the plane ahead of him and had obediently followed it, puzzled that it led him so far from the field but assuming, because he had grown accustomed to following whatever or whoever preceded him, that there must be some valid reason for the excursion. He remembered how he had followed it farther and farther without question or hesitation across the trees and over the beach and many miles out to sea before recognizing it for what it was. He had been shaken by what he had done, by the fantastic implications, and the next day had been astounded to learn he had not been alone. Behind him, one after another, came the others; and he had wondered then, as he wondered now, if they would have followed him on and on until they slipped into the sea like lemmings, betrayed by their faith, one and all.
Melvin opened his eyes, startled by the realization that he had drifted off to sleep and had dreamed he was in the mess hall where somebody at that very instant dropped a stack of aluminum trays; he sat straight up in the cockpit and was conscious that a huge, bulky object was falling from the sky. It crashed and exploded. A column of liquid fire spurted up into the night, burst and showered, silhouetting the squadron tower and illuminating the airplanes overhead. Another flame shot out diagonally with a dull boom that reverberated across the station, and he heard the rush of the wind. He stared at the blazing wreckage. Something else dropped out of the sky, bounced up and down like a joyous living thing, and then all at once, as though it perceived him there, came rolling swiftly forward. With unbelievable speed it rolled toward him and as it rolled by he recognized it as an airplane tire.
He found himself running in the direction of the barracks and knew from the searing pain in his lungs that he could not run much farther. His face was scratched and there was a bump on his head; he had no idea what had caused the scratches, though he had a vague recollection of springing to his feet while he was in the cockpit, and if the canopy was closed at that time, and he supposed it was, he would have hit himself. It was unimportant. He tried to stop running, but could only slow down to an animal-like lope that carried him rapidly through the shadows, gasping and choking and trying to cry out
to someone. When he came within sight of the barracks he stopped and then staggered forward, holding out his arms to the cadets who were crowding the fire escape. He recognized Cole and Roska on the top step. They were carrying billiard sticks. They and all the others were gazing at the wreck, which lay near the center of the concrete mat surrounded by crash trucks. The fire had almost been extinguished; here and there a flame appeared for a few seconds as though a fissure had opened in the earth. A vast cloud of smoke had risen and obscured the stars.
The next day, which was Saturday, they learned that two cadets had been killed. It had been a mid-air collision. The first one burned to death in the explosion on the mat. The other one was not found until daylight; he had fallen outside the fence that enclosed the field. When his body was examined the doctor said—so it was rumored through the barracks—that he had lived for an hour or so and might have been conscious during that time. It was possible he had been listening to the men who were searching for him.
Melvin lay in his bunk all day, mute and terrified, with his hands clasped underneath his head. He stared at the ceiling and once in a while shut his eyes, but he was unable to sleep. He had not slept all night. Sam Horne was not disturbed by the accident, nor was he surprised; he had been saying ever since they arrived at Barin Field that the traffic pattern was too crowded.
“You’d think these moron officers would do something about it,” he said as he sat at the desk and tried to sew a button on his trousers.
A few minutes later he continued. “It seems like every couple of weeks some guy gets clobbered. I’m glad we’re almost finished. Those poor slobs that are just starting, I feel sorry for them. And those two last night, those poor guys! Well, it’s their own fault, though.” He threw down the needle in exasperation, and after glaring at it he sucked his thumb, which was bleeding slightly, picked up the needle, and resumed sewing.
“Night flying is pretty hairy. It is, for a fact. When that old ice fog drifts in and that manifold pressure starts to drop I say to myself, ‘Sammy, you’ve had it tonight!’ No, sir, I don’t care for it. I’m glad it’s over. Ah—but those two last night, they must have had their heads inside the cockpit. They’re taught better than that. Even if the field is crowded there’s no excuse for a mid-air. It was their own fault.”
The Patriot Page 15