The Patriot

by Evan S. Connell

  “No, you won’t. You’ll never catch up with him.”

  “Oh, no? And why not?”

  “Because he’s too clever to suppose he’s tricked you, even if you never mention it.”

  Horne appeared to be thinking about this. “When I first met the guy I thought he was wonderful. I could tell he was smart, and he had good looks and his old man’s got dough, from what I hear. I thought to myself, I can use this guy. He’d understand me. So how wrong can I be?” The longer he considered this, the more it irritated him. He swore and slapped the desk.

  “I know what you mean,” Melvin said. “I could hardly believe it when I discovered that after flying with Teitlebaum for two months he didn’t even know our names.”

  “He knew us.”

  “Not very well. That’s what I couldn’t believe. He knew our faces but he had to fumble for the names. I was sort of startled when I realized it. I’d supposed we meant more to him than that.”

  “What’d you expect—a dinner invitation? You think you’re in college somewhere,” Horne persisted, “where you go beer drinking with the professor after class? We’re at war, something you seem to forget! Sure, we’re nothing but faces, and names for a little while. Teitlebaum’s got another bunch right now. He’s taking them through the gunnery syllabus and in a couple more months they’ll be gone the same way we’re gone, and he’ll never see us again any more than we should ever expect to see him again. And we won’t see Monk again, either,” he remarked with obvious satisfaction. “That’s the way the system is set up and it couldn’t operate on any other basis.”

  “Maybe you’re right. I don’t know.”

  “Of course I’m right.” Horne stretched and yawned, and having nothing to do at the moment he picked up the book of nudes, licked his finger with a debonair expression, and began to turn through it.

  “Who’s this Caravaggio you mentioned?”

  “Who? Oh, just some lieutenant.”

  “Well,” said Melvin after a pause, “what did he want?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know,” said Horne. “I just don’t know.”

  “Did he come here to see me?”

  “Yuh.”

  “What did he want to see me for?”

  “I already told you, I don’t know!”

  “Well, I was just wondering,” said Melvin. “Am I supposed to go see him?”

  “I would, if I were you.”

  “Is he the chaplain?”

  “Nope, he’s line. He had a star on his sleeve. Ostrowski says he’s the one who recommends changes in the duty orders if you don’t seem fitted for what they assign you. I think we’re supposed to have an interview with him before we go back to Mainside. He’s supposed to find out if we’ve flipped. Personally, I don’t think any man living could go through this program and not flip.”

  “It’s odd he’d come over to the barracks. I wonder why he wanted to see me.”

  “For the last time, I don’t know. The man came by. He asked for Cadet Isaacs. I told him you weren’t home.”

  “If he can pull strings he should be worth meeting. I want to make sure I get a Corsair. I guess for two years now I’ve been waiting for the day when I could fly one of those.”

  “When my interview comes,” Horne said, placing a hand over his heart, “I shall register a complaint in regard to the slop they serve for food. When I think back, I just don’t know what to say!”

  “What good will it do us now?”

  “This is not for myself. I am deeply concerned about the welfare of the youth of America who happen to be following us through this crappy program.”

  Melvin threw a pillow at him; it struck the gooseneck lamp, which again crashed into the wastebasket. Horne picked up the lamp, straightened the neck, and twisted the cowl around before replacing it on the desk. Someone who preceded them in the room had painted a purple heart on the base of it. The lamp stood there in an attitude of weary patience, the cowl drooping as though exhausted by all the bickering.

  On the wall not far above the lamp was a framed copy of the Navy flyer’s creed, which Horne had clipped from a service magazine and framed and carried along from one field to the next. The pillow having knocked it askew, he straightened it. More and more often as the time of graduation approached he would lean back in his chair to contemplate this creed.

  Covering the top half of the page was a picture of a pilot in summer flight gear: he stood on a wing and gazed resolutely forward. A propeller blade was visible, as well as a section of engine, while the Pitot tube was silhouetted like a lance against the cloudless sky. It was a dignified, inspirational photograph. The text below it was equally keen:

  I am a United States Navy flyer.

  My countrymen built the best airplane in the world and entrusted it to me. They trained me to fly it. I will use it to the absolute limit of my power.

  With my fellow pilots, air crews, and deck crews, my plane and I will do anything necessary to carry out our tremendous responsibilities. I will always remember we are a part of an unbeatable combat team—the United States Navy.

  When the going is fast and rough, I will not falter. I will be uncompromising in every blow I strike. I will be humble in victory.

  I am a United States Navy flyer. I have dedicated myself to my country, with its many millions of all races, colors, and creeds. They and their way of life are worthy of my greatest protective effort.

  I ask the help of God in making that effort great enough.

  Melvin, too, frequently studied this creed. Again and again he read the concluding line; it reminded him of the inscription GOTT MIT UNS which he had seen on a German medal in a trophy case at the Liberty Memorial in Kansas City. It seemed the Lord was readily available.

  Many copies of the magazine in which the creed appeared had been made available to the cadets. Melvin had sent one to his father, with the comment that he was enclosing a bit of propaganda. He suspected his father would not care for this remark, and waited with some curiosity to see if there would be a response. Very soon the answer came. His father wrote, “Is this a joke? Your sense of humor is misplaced. Is there something about the war that amuses you? Frankly, all of us at home thank God for the sentiment so wonderfully expressed in your creed. I’m enclosing a clipping regarding a speech made by your grandfather more than a quarter of a century ago. . . .”

  Melvin had read the old clipping several times since it arrived; now he handed it across the desk to Horne, who was chewing a cigar and staring out the window with a look of boredom.

  “This might interest you. My father sent it.”

  “You get ten times as much mail as I do,” Horne said bitterly. He tilted back in the chair, put his feet on the desk, and unfolded the clipping.

  LEXINGTON MAN IN ST. JOSEPH SCORES ROOSEVELT

  Judge D. W. Isaacs Declares This Sedition Within America Is Costing Millions in Treasure and Blood of Countless Men.

  St. Joseph, Mo., Jan. 25—David W. Isaacs, president of the Casque and Gauntlet Club of Lexington, Mo., in a speech before members of the St. Joseph auxiliary yesterday, mercilessly flayed ex-President Theodore Roosevelt and those papers which print his effusions, as well as other critics of the government. He said in part:

  “I care not whether the man who criticizes be the pacifist, slacker, Congressman, a United States Senator, a newspaper, or an ex-President, the attacks being made upon America from within our own country are treason: nothing short of that.

  “And this sedition within America is costing the United States and its allies millions of dollars in treasure and the blood of countless men of its citizenry.

  “What sort of talk is being scattered broadcast behind the German lines, in Russia, in Italy and Roumania to make the people of those countries believe that there is dissension right here? God help us if that sort of talk is not stopped in a summary way.

  “Constructive criticism of anything is proper, but destructive criticism has no place in our lives and should not be
tolerated. It is our duty to stand behind the government and the administration.”

  The address was one of the most scathing and remarkable delivered in this city since the outbreak of the war and was accorded a standing ovation.

  “As a matter of fact, that is interesting. It’s very interesting,” Horne remarked. “I didn’t know they had the same problem in those days.”

  “What problem?”

  “People criticizing the war effort. They were in a war up to their necks and—well, here, your grandfather says it—about sedition and treason. It’s just like today.”

  “That’s what my father thinks. Practically every time I hear from him he’s got something to say about espionage or subversion. He acts like he was on the Un-American Activities Committee.” Melvin noticed that Horne was looking at him deliberately, quite strangely. Feeling a little repelled by the strenuous events of the day, confused and discouraged and bruised from the fight, he held his head in his hands. He had begun to feel that some decision was required of him, but he had no idea what he was expected to decide. He rubbed his face with a distraught, anxious movement, and said, “You seem different lately.”

  Sam Horne gave a harsh laugh. “You’re the one who’s changing. Not me.”

  13

  The next morning a few minutes before noon Sam Horne had his first accident. The brakes of a Dauntless locked while he was landing. The tail rose high in the air, the engine smashed into the runway with a grinding, searing noise, and for a few seconds it looked as though the momentum of landing would carry the tail over the top. This would have crushed him underneath the wreck. But the SBD did not quite tip over; it hovered in a vertical position and then rocked backward. The three propeller blades were twisted and the landing gear was bent, and the fuselage of the airplane sustained a certain amount of damage. Horne remained in the cockpit completely motionless until the crash trucks were halfway across the field; then, as if he had been sitting on a catapult, he was out and running away from the smoking hulk.

  Melvin was at the hangar when Horne came riding across the field on a crash truck, gesturing wildly and insisting he was perfectly all right, and managed to talk with him a moment before he was taken to the hospital for a check-up. Melvin knew, though Horne would not admit, that if there had been less wind he probably would have been killed, for he then would have been traveling fast enough to turn over. The strong wind had diminished his ground speed. That he emerged from the accident alive and in relatively good condition had nothing to do, therefore, with skill. Horne had been extremely lucky, that was all.

  So absorbed was Melvin in the contemplation of this that he ignored an officer who was passing by.

  “Oh-ho!” piped a reedy voice.

  He looked around in stupefaction, and there was Ensign Monk. He could not imagine what the repulsive little ensign was doing at Saufley, yet there he stood, with his paunch thrust out and his clammy hands clasped behind his back, obviously delighted at the opportunity to put Melvin on report again.

  It had been quite a while since Melvin had been given extra duty, but he found that this time he did not mind the punishment; he had four hours all to himself, four hours in which to think. He marched up and down in front of the barracks with a wooden rifle on his shoulder and nobody spoke to him. It was as though he did not exist. He thought of Lieutenant Caravaggio, wondering what the officer had wanted. It was curious that an officer would come to see a cadet. Ordinarily, no matter what sort of business it might be, the cadet simply received an order to report to the officer at a certain time. But this officer, evidently, had left no such order. The longer Melvin considered this, the more irritated he became.

  When the tour of duty ended he returned the rifle to the rack and walked across the station to the administration building. There he asked where he might find Lieutenant Caravaggio. He was directed to the lieutenant’s office and found the door half open. Thinking Caravaggio might have stepped out for a moment, Melvin hesitated, took off his garrison cap, and then suddenly thrust his head into the office. The lieutenant had not stepped out; he was seated in a swivel chair at his desk with his hands folded and was leaning forward peering at the door, as though he had heard or sensed someone just outside.

  “Now, who on earth are you?” the officer said.

  Melvin came to attention and replied, “Aviation Cadet Isaacs, sir.”

  Caravaggio tipped back in the chair. With a doubtful expression he began to finger his lower lip.

  “Very well, then,” he murmured, “you may come in. Close the door softly and have a seat, my good man.” Melvin did as he was told, though he was already beginning to regret the visit. Caravaggio was looking him up and down.

  “Let’s have a cigarette,” the lieutenant said. He had been swiveling from side to side with his feet off the ground so that the chair spun around almost in a complete circle, and as he rode past an open drawer of the desk he reached in deftly and snatched out a package of English cigarettes wrapped in gold foil. He tossed them in the air and caught them awkwardly, clutching at them with his fingers, like a woman, instead of catching them in his palm.

  “No, thank you, sir,” Melvin answered.

  “Oh, come on now. Be friends.”

  Melvin shrugged. “Okay. I’ll have one.”

  “I’m happy you stopped by,” Caravaggio said, pushing the cigarettes, and then some matches, across the desk with the end of a ruler.

  “Now,” he went on, blowing a stiff cone of grayish lavender smoke, “what can I do for you, young man?”

  “I thought you wanted to see me,” Melvin said. He took a puff on his cigarette and gagged.

  “I? I wanted to see you? What did you say your name was?”

  Melvin got up and put on his cap. “I’m sorry, sir. Somebody’s been playing a joke on me.”

  “Oh, sit down! Stop acting ridiculous. Really, Isaacs, come along now. Sit!”

  “Is that an order?”

  “Doesn’t it sound like one?”

  “Not like most of them, sir.”

  “You’re implying I’m a poor officer. I could have your scalp, young man.”

  “I wasn’t implying anything, sir. I only said—”

  “Well, you’re absolutely right. I’m a wretched officer. Will you please sit down? You’re making me nervous standing there. What brought you here, Isaacs?”

  “You stopped by the barracks, isn’t that right? All right, they said you wanted to see me. So here I am.”

  “Did I leave word for you to report to me?”

  Melvin looked around the office a little desperately. The perfumed smoke had begun to make him ill, and for some obscure reason he could imagine Caravaggio reclining voluptuously on a divan to the sound of flutes and tambourines.

  “I don’t know what this is all about,” he began. “I guess it’s probably my fault again.”

  “Nonsense, Isaacs, how could it be your fault? You’ve never done anything wrong.”

  “Listen, do you want to see me or not?” Melvin demanded, amazed by his own temerity. He had a premonition that he was about to reach across the desk and give the lieutenant a slap on the mouth. This thought was repugnant and fascinating; he pressed forward, biting his lip to keep from sneering or bursting into laughter. “Why did you stop by my barracks?” he demanded, choking with contempt.

  “But, Isaacs, those aren’t your barracks.”

  “Okay, okay, you know what I mean.”

  “You’re the most insolent cadet I ever saw. Upon my soul!”

  “How did you hear about me?” Melvin continued. He placed both elbows on the desk and stared at the lieutenant with aversion.

  “What makes you think I heard about you? What a terribly odd thing to say! Really, Isaacs, you’re quite odd.”

  Melvin straightened up with a confused and obsequious smile; he had been absolutely convinced that the lieutenant was intimidated, and yet the tone of Caravaggio’s voice altered so subtly, with such a menacing undertone, that he
did not know quite what to do.

  “On your feet, Isaacs! Hop-hop! Snap to! Atten-shun! My, you look nice,” he went on when Melvin stood in front of him with shoulders braced. “By the way, my boy, I did see you—ah, could it have been three weeks ago?—at the beach, where you were shining your wings in the sand. Did you shine them too industriously, Isaacs? Did you wear away the gold plate? What was underneath? Pray tell.”

  “Is that all, sir?” Melvin asked. “Am I dismissed?”

  “Certainly not! You young monster. At ease. Sit down. Goodness.”

  “Look, I’m sorry.”

  “If there is one thing which infuriates me, it is an apology. Never recant, Isaacs. Never. Why do you suppose I wanted to meet you? Be a man, for the love of heaven. We can destroy you, there’s no disgrace, but don’t be a twig.” He took a pair of smoked glasses from his desk and slipped them on, his mouth fixed in a prim line. “I intend to be stern. You need expect no quarter from me.”

  “Why did you want to meet me?”

  “You’re dreadfully green. I’m almost afraid to bend you. But listen to me now. Is it true, Isaacs? Is it true?”

  “Is what true, sir?”

  “Oh, it couldn’t be. Not even you! Now, do quit.”

  “Sir?”

  “I’m warning you, Isaacs. I’m a dangerous man. Don’t trifle with me or you’ll regret it. Tell me, why did you shoot that Marine?”

  “You mean Captain Teitlebaum? You heard about that?”

  “Oh, my!” exclaimed Caravaggio, throwing up his hands. “Everybody has heard about it.”

  “Now listen, it was like this,” Melvin said in a resigned but determined voice. He had told the story dozens of times without being able to convince anyone that he had simply missed the target. “So you see, Mr. Caravaggio,” he concluded, “it really didn’t amount to anything at all, just a couple of little bullet holes in the wing.”

  “Oh.”

  “Listen,” Melvin went on patiently, for there had been an infinite amount of sarcasm and disbelief in the lieutenant’s tone, “it was an accident, I tell you.”