Presently he noticed that the wings were not vibrating quite as heavily, and the list was no longer increasing. The plane appeared to have stabilized itself, almost as though it were alive and were fighting to reach the field.
Melvin felt his throat constrict, and a wild, frantic, useless hope brought him half-erect in the cockpit. He wanted to live. There had never been anything he wanted so much. But the plane was descending. He had already pushed the throttle to the forward end of the slot; he knew he could not push it any farther. However there was nothing else to do, so he tried, and bent the steel handle. He had never heard of anyone doing this and felt proud of his strength, but also rather foolish and embarrassed. He signaled to McCampbell and Roska that he was going to split the landing flaps to try for some additional lift, then he saw the water tower rising above the trees and quickly signaled that he was altering course.
The three SBD’s banked to the right, glinting in the sunlight, and roared slowly over the pine trees.
The field came tilting into view.
From the tetrahedron and the tower lights Melvin knew he would be going in downwind, but there was nothing he could do about that. He had no time to make the usual circular approach to the upwind runway.
The tower was calling. He could hear the message although the headset was in his lap. The tower was advising him that one of the wheels had failed to descend. He was ordered to gain altitude, cross over the field at a minimum of fifteen hundred feet, and attempt to shake the wheel out of the fuselage.
Briefly he considered the fantastic command. He had been flying at full throttle for ten minutes and had not been able to maintain altitude, but the Navy had just ordered him to climb fifteen hundred feet above the field. He was going down and the Navy was insisting that he go up. With a gasp of rage he snatched the microphone and tried to throw it out of the cockpit, but he had forgotten to disconnect it. He grabbed the cords, wound them around his hand, jerked them loose and threw everything out—the microphone, the cords, and the headset.
Now his friends were leaving. He watched, a little sadly, as they drifted higher and higher above him. Or so it seemed, although he knew this was an illusion. They were not climbing any higher; it was just that he was sinking into the trees.
Once more he was alone. Sick with apprehension, he watched the air speed diminish. The SBD was not far from the stalling point. At any moment it would go. He knew exactly how it would feel: the mushy, passive settling, and a wing dipping, and the bulky little bomber rolling belly-up like a dead fish. Then he would be in the trees, the metal wings grinding and breaking off while the fuselage plunged ahead with mindless determination. There would be an explosion when the plane struck the ground, and he would be somewhere inside the explosion, perhaps alive enough to be aware of it.
He watched the crash trucks leave the parking area and drive in a leisurely way out the taxi strip. Then someone must have radioed further information about the approaching bomber, because both trucks stopped and turned around, stopped again, one of them backed up, and finally both trucks drove across the grass to the edge of the landing mat. They looked out of place there, oddly shaped, painted red and white. Melvin could see the drivers as he came flying through the treetops, and he could not understand why the drivers failed to see him. But it was obvious they did not; they had stopped again and backed away, off the pavement, and apparently were going to park and wait for additional orders.
Then they saw him. They lurched forward, throwing mud and clods of turf from the wheels, and swerved onto the mat. The smaller truck almost tipped over, but righted itself and came speeding toward him with a horrible flashing of lights. He could see the hulking form of a firefighter in a white asbestos suit clinging to one side.
Now the time had come. Oil was pouring from the cowl, a dense green rain spattering the windshield—he could no longer see through it—and the stall had begun. He eased the stick forward, hoping for another few seconds of flight, but the trees were rising around him; he pulled the stick all the way back and held it there. When he felt the Dauntless start to roll he cut the switches and flung up his arms to protect his face while the stubby gray bomber broke through the branches like a boat on a choppy sea, bounced crookedly into the swamp grass and weeds at the edge of the runway, and slewed across the concrete in a high metallic orange shower of sparks.
Even before it had come to rest, there was fire on the engine, and smoke boiled sluggishly from the cowl. A wing of the bomber had broken off; the wing had turned over twice and lay upside down on the scorched pavement, showing a large white star on a blue panel and the letters U.S.
The crash trucks stopped not far from the wreckage. The man in the asbestos suit lumbered powerfully forward, crushing the glowing skeletons of branches, and vanished like a medieval apparition in the smoke and flame.
15
Melvin woke up in a hospital bed and asked if the plane had caught fire. A nurse told him it had, but that he was not burned. He next asked what time it was, because he was supposed to meet his father that afternoon and was afraid of being late; she told him that his father was at the field and would be admitted for a short visit in a little while. Then he stared at the ceiling for some time and went back to sleep.
When he woke up again he was alone. He felt better, much stronger, but was unable to recollect anything beyond the moment when he had flung up his arms to protect his face. Most vividly he could recall the oily windshield and how frantically he had pushed the throttle while the SBD was going through the treetops.
He found a bandage around his head. He explored it with his fingers and located a tender spot. Otherwise, excepting an extremely stiff neck and the general impression of having been in another fight with Horne, he thought he was uninjured. He decided he should telephone the barracks because Horne would probably be interested in hearing about the wreck, so he swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood up, and started through the ward to the corridor, but he had not walked very far when a young nurse—a chic, sweet, English-looking nurse with neat auburn hair and a mole like a little button on her cheek—intercepted him. She asked what he was doing out of bed. He explained about telephoning the barracks. She took him by the arm and they started walking back toward his bed. He was mortified by the nightgown somebody had put on him while he was asleep or unconscious and, as he looked at her, he wondered if she had put it on him. He leaned against her; she glanced up at him suspiciously. The odor of her crisply starched white uniform and the thought of his own nakedness began to arouse him, so that in a few seconds he was obliged to bend forward in order not to hook the gown. She said nothing about this odd posture; in fact there was no change whatsoever in her expression, which implied that she had guessed the reason for it.
“I have a sort of a cramp,” he explained.
“My, my!” said the nurse.
He decided to let it go at that. She was difficult to deceive.
“Like I say, I was only going to call the barracks,” he repeated, climbing into bed while she held the covers open. “I wasn’t going to stay up long. What’s your name?”
The nurse tucked in the blanket. “Ensign Sullivan.”
“Let’s forget this ensign business,” Melvin said. “I’m in a bad way. I’ve just been in a wreck and I’d like to be friends. What’s your name?”
“Go to sleep,” the nurse said.
“Where are you going to sleep?”
She looked down at him curiously, as though she could not quite believe what she saw. There was a pure antiseptic odor about her, a strangely virgin quality; Melvin’s eyes began to shine and a lump came into his throat. He thought of how narrowly he had escaped death. He rolled swiftly to the edge of the bed and stared at her substantial, white-stockinged legs, and was surprised by the size of her feet, they were so small. Her little white shoes belonged on a child.
“Well,” said the nurse, “I declayah!” She was smiling a little.
“Where are you from?” said Melvin.
After a moment the nurse said, “Why do you want to know?”
“Because you’re no Southerner.”
“Why, I am so!” She was still smiling. “I’m from Delaware, to tell the truth. But, honey, I’m jus’ lulu ’bout the way they talk down heah. Now, y’all go to sleep.”
He made an awkward grappling lunge for her knee and without hesitation she smacked his hand. He attempted to sit up; she deftly pushed him flat, the bed squeaked, she caught her underlip in her teeth and turned around to see if the other patients were watching.
“Sit down here,” he suggested. He patted the bed.
“Mistah Isaacs,” she began, and all at once he sensed good fortune tapping at his door. He heard in her tone the eternal promise of womankind. For a month he had been at Saufley Field without having seen this nurse. That was regrettable but couldn’t be helped; the thing to do now was to look ahead. He expected to be released from the hospital in a few hours, since there was nothing wrong with him, and a number of days must elapse between then and the time the Navy sent him to Great Lakes. During that interval he would not have much to do, and the custom was that cadets who had been washed out were given quite a bit of liberty.
“You relax now,” she was telling him. “You be nice a little while.”
This sounded so familiar. Be nice, be nice now. How they loved to say that when they had made up their minds to abandon themselves. Melvin looked at her significantly.
“Lie down, lovah bun,” said the nurse.
He did so. She tucked him in and left the ward.
He thought she might be going to arrange a private room for him. He considered getting out of bed and following her. They could have a smoke together and make some definite plans. But while he was debating this idea she returned with the doctor, a muscular man of about forty who was totally bald and who was wearing an expensive gabardine khaki uniform with the three full stripes of a commander.
“There will be no indiscretion here,” the commander remarked as he picked up the chart which hung at the foot of the bed.
Melvin started to ask what he meant, but thought better of it and remained silent with his fingers laced on his chest.
“How do you feel?” the commander asked.
“Fine, sir. How soon can I leave?”
“Possibly tomorrow. That will depend.”
“But why can’t I leave now? I feel swell, sir.”
“So I have been advised, Isaacs. May I suggest you obey orders until you are discharged from sick bay. Otherwise you will have cause to regret your audacity.” Followed by the nurse he visited the other patients, and after writing something on a chart at the far end of the room he walked out.
In a little while a delegation of visitors entered. First came his father, then Horne, Roska, Kerdolph, McCampbell, and Ostrowski, and several other cadets. They gathered around the bed and looked at him. Melvin was embarrassed. To his father he said, “I suppose you’ve already met these guys, huh?”
“Yes, in the waiting room. How are you feeling? Don’t answer—you are supposed to be resting. I spoke to the doctor. He informs me there is nothing wrong with you. What a shock—this accident! How did it happen? I’m not letting your mother know, she would be worried.”
“I’m all right,” Melvin said, and looked from one to another of his friends. He saw that they were ill at ease. None of them had much to say. It was evidently a courtesy call; they had heard he was not seriously injured, which was all that mattered, but they had felt they should stop by and appear solicitous.
“There’s an inspection Thursday,” said one of them.
“Oh? Well, that’s bad news,” said Melvin.
There was a pause.
Kerdolph suddenly rubbed his mouth and Melvin saw that he was trying to conceal a grin.
“Hell,” said Kerdolph apologetically, “1 know it ain’t funny. You just about got killed. But it was sure humorous—you trying so hard to keep that heap aloft, and chunks of it dropping off.”
“At the moment it doesn’t strike me as funny,” Melvin said. “Maybe in about ten years it will.”
“We got to run along,” said another cadet, and looked at his wrist watch. “We’re cluttering up the joint and you need sleep. Take it slow, man. See you at the barracks.”
“Sure. Thanks for stopping by,” Melvin said, and they all trooped out, with the exception of his father and Sam Horne.
“Cole said to tell you he’d try to get over here to see you, but his grandmother is in town.”
For some reason this sounded implausible. Melvin was perplexed; he looked at Horne and thought Horne was lying. He could not make any sense of what was going on; he felt sick and exhausted.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m tired. It was nice of everybody.”
“You’re all right, aren’t you? You’re not really hurt, I mean?”
“I don’t know. I’m fine, I guess.”
“Okay, listen. I’ll see you at the barracks in the morning. Between now and then you keep your trap shut. We’ll figure out a story. I don’t know how you can get so screwed up, but don’t say anything until you’ve had time to tell me what happened. We’ll get you out of it some way.”
“Everything’s been figured out.”
Horne clenched his fists on the footrail of the bed. “We’ll talk it over tomorrow, I said! I don’t think anybody’s going to bother you till you get out of here, but if they do you just play it tight. I know a yeoman in the ad building. You’re going to get a board of review, sure as God made apples. Oh, well—skip it for now. I don’t want to upset you. You want anything?”
Melvin shook his head.
Horne stared at him, and attempted to be sympathetic. “You’re still groggy. You’ll be all right tomorrow.”
“As landings go, it was a little rough.”
“I guess! You were lucky. I hope you know that.”
“Yes, I know that,” Melvin said.
Horne made a clucking noise, put on his cap, and strode out of the ward swinging his arms.
“Draw up a chair,” Melvin said to his father.
“I am too nervous to sit down. Thank God this accident is not serious. I have never been so shocked. But explain about the telegram. What does it mean? Are you in trouble, and if so, of what sort? What does your friend mean by a board of review?”
“I’m in no trouble. If I wanted to get commissioned I’d be in a hell of a lot of trouble, but it doesn’t make the slightest difference now because I’m quitting.”
“Come and have lunch with me tomorrow in Pensacola. Can you be excused from the base? We will talk about everything. Everything. You’re not in pain? You’re recovering?”
“I’m all right. That commander is keeping me in the sack here just to prove he’s a big shot.”
“Do whatever he says. In the meantime, do you need anything? Money? I’ll give you some money.”
“I haven’t even got my pants. What would I do with money?”
“All right! It was a question. Something I could do for my son. Will you please be good enough to tell me why you are always in so much trouble?”
Melvin said after a pause, “I do get fouled up sometimes. I don’t know why.”
“I’m going now to telephone Kansas City, to let the family know there is nothing to worry about. I won’t mention the accident. Terrible!” He lifted his hands. “There’s nothing I can do for you?”
“They feed me. I guess I’m all right.”
“How long has it been?”
“Has what been?”
“Since I have seen you.”
Melvin had begun to feel nauseated. The memory of the time when he expected to die came back to him. He gazed at the ceiling and made no attempt to speak.
“Excuse me,” his father said, touching the pillow. “I don’t mean to interrogate.”
“I know you don’t. It’s just that you do.”
“We will talk tomorrow. Have a good rest. Obey the officers
.”
After his father had left the ward Melvin lay quietly in bed considering the past few days. So much had happened. His head was filled with thoughts and impressions which bounded over and under one another like tigers in a circus, so that he felt besieged and dispirited and finally came to the conclusion that he wanted nothing so much as a long period of time to himself. It seemed to him that if he could be alone for a while he might possibly manage to organize his experiences and benefit from them.
About an hour later Pat Cole sauntered in. He sat on the edge of the bed without saying a word. He was carrying a book, as he often did.
“Well, hello,” Melvin said.
“Hello,” said Cole.
“I didn’t think you’d be over.”
“Why?”
“Horne told me your grandmother was in town.”
“I haven’t seen Horne all day. When are you going to wake up?”
“What do you mean?”
“Horne’s an ass, and twice the cheat I am, or ever could be. However, that’s irrelevant. No doubt he concocted that story on the assumption your tender feelings would be bruised if I didn’t show up.”
Melvin looked at him doubtfully.
“If you had the intelligence of your convictions,” Cole went on, pinching the tip of his nose, “you might amount to something. For better or worse, however, you’re too obsessed by your personal problems to exert much influence on the citizens of this grand and glorious republic. Or should I say, loyal subjects of this great oligarchy? In any event, this morning you demonstrated once again your really impressive inanity.” He hesitated, pursed his lips as though he was about to whistle, and finally said, “You did this on purpose, but frankly, I’m damned if I know why.”
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