He shifted restlessly, tipped his hat over his eyes, folded his arms on his chest. The bus swung around a curve, rattled across a wooden bridge, and swayed along to Pensacola.
The bleak and gaseous silence of the upper air, the miracle of being separate from the world—a solid, miniature world, and really very like the painted cardboard globe mounted on a cheap brass base which he used to spin interminably when he was a child—green horizons lower down where the air was warm and thick with human voices and where the trees emptied of birds as he came nearer while the mirrored sun went walking with godly freedom across the tapering aluminum wings. And how the echelon hung unmoving in the opal light, angling down the beach against the off-shore breeze, and swept beyond the speedboats and the swimmers, and curved fanatically up and up and up like scimitars—leaving the birds below and the splash-flowers opening on the vibrant blue glass of the Gulf, until that warm water did seem deep and devoid of mercy, and the cockpit assumed an entity, totally enclosed, as a solarium, or as a very small and ascetic studio with a skylight arched against the universe, until the canopy slid open and winter vanished into spring and he became aware of the coveralls damp with perspiration, stuck to his shoulders in the hot enclosure, the coveralls zipped to his throat, or unzipped to the waist, and the straps and strings of the parachute and life preserver—the stainless metal nub of a carbon dioxide capsule—designed, developed, manufactured under certain rigid specifications for the preservation of his particular life, which was valuable to the nation at war, this impersonal metallic capsule, as integral and as different as the sugary, fruity taste of the gum he was chewing while he idly fingered the nub and considered what might happen if he inflated the life jacket, for no better reason than that he had worn one every day and had never used it—and twisting about, gazed at the mouth of the long white sleeve, the voracious oral beginning, swimming eagerly over the trees and over the water and after him wherever he went. And shortly afterward the tow plane lurched. An SNJ was falling, out of control, caught by the sleeve. The impact where it struck. How the water unexpectedly flowered.
The bus bumped along the shoulder of the highway, slowed and stopped. There was some obstruction, and a junction. Melvin gazed at the road crew; they were putting down their picks and drills; it was time for lunch. Brown paper bags, Thermos bottles; the sun must be directly over the bus, because he could see no shadow. Somebody had sat down beside him and in a moment he smelled perfume; he glanced at the woman as the bus started up, was uninterested, and resumed looking out the window.
The terror he had known as he witnessed those petals of water close on the sinking plane, and the powerful, incomprehensible emotions he had felt as he followed the echelon toward Barin Field—these he could summon up, yet they had no greater meaning now than at the time; they meant no more than the black necktie fluttering around his lips, or the vision, as he drew back on the controls, of his own brain compressed so fearfully odd and solid, and pink as a muddy salmon. On the deserted beach the driftwood animals jumped when the bullets struck, rolling over and over from the impact, and those lying half awash went floating out to sea, to the deep water, and how or why they were so unmistakably animals, he did not know. And he remembered clearly the horror he felt as that skinned white log he had centered in the ringsight of the gun turned over in the water like a human body.
Soon—for already they were in the suburbs—they would be at the terminal, and then he must have lunch with his father and try to explain what had happened. There was no way to explain it. It had just happened, he did not know quite how; he did not want to think about it.
He decided to think about Whiting Field, for there were no unpleasant associations to the instrument squadron; at least there had been no accidents, only a laborious, methodical, interminable procedure and the sense of having been harassed, suffering from vertigo, obliged to do too many things in too short a period of time; three hands would have made it easier, and with four or five hands and an additional brain it would have been simple to create some orderly pattern from the chaos in the unnatural fluorescent light—that lavender-white funereal light which discolored his skin in the gloom of the canvas hood, reminding him inexplicably of water and space and of the iris of a woman’s eye. The radio beam’s shrill unending whine—dash-dot, dash-dot when the plane drifted—a startling cone of silence above the transmitter, throbbing along, bumped by currents of air from fields and roads a mile below. The compass imprisoned in amber liquid sluggishly dipped and crazily swung from south to southeast as the bus swung on the highway.
There was, too, the winter in Albuquerque; he hoped that during the future, a future which held no promise, his memories of the west mesa buried in snow, and the vastness there, and all that went with this, might sustain his spirit. There would be, for instance, the rasp of Lycoming engines like bumblebees on the concrete apron, and the cadets in mackinaws with their backs against the sunny side of the hangar and their hands tucked up their sleeves, while snow on the box toes of their government shoes softened and trickled away. There would be the memory of frozen ruts the color of Indian pottery, and the way the airplanes bobbled across the ruts, and how he felt himself lifted from the earth by the December wind into an immense primeval silence.
And he thought, then, as he rolled along toward Pensacola, that it would be wise not to begin too soon, not to spend this day indulging in dreams. There would be time. There would be enough time to recall how the birds wheeled open-mouthed through the dust-blue Georgia twilight, the cottonwood trees beside the Rio Grande, and the humid melancholy of a Memphis summer. There would be time enough and more.
In the hotel lobby at Pensacola he saw his father pacing back and forth, slapping a rolled newspaper into his palm with an expression of determination.
“Ah! There you are!” he exclaimed, rushing across the lobby. “I thought you weren’t coming. How do you feel?” he asked in a voice filled with emotion.
“I’m all right,” Melvin said. “Let’s eat.”
They walked into the dining room. The windows were shut. The fans were not operating. Melvin took off his blue coat and hung it over the back of a chair.
“Is that permissible? It doesn’t look nice, to be frank. A naval aviation cadet.”
“I don’t know if it’s permissible or not,” Melvin said. He loosened his necktie and rolled up his sleeves while he looked at the menu. “I think I’ll have chicken à la king with peas.”
“That won’t be good. Try the steak. The steak should be all right.”
“I want chicken à la king and peas.”
“Small hotels don’t know how to prepare delicacies. Eat the steak. That’s what I’m having.” When the waiter came to their table he ordered two steaks.
“One steak,” Melvin interrupted. “One chicken à la king with peas.”
“Whatever you wish, don’t say I didn’t warn you. And a bottle of nice wine,” his father remarked to the waiter. “Domestic. I leave the selection to you.”
The wine the waiter brought to them was cool, it was roseate, and Melvin called on it frequently during lunch. The more of this wine he drank, the more he became convinced he had been neglecting one of the finer things of life. In a little while he scarcely knew he was drinking this wine, it went down that graciously. He swore to himself he must remember this wine, and, to make certain, he kept the bottle so close at hand that his father was impressed and ordered another.
He did not know at what point during the meal he became aware of the objects on the table, but there were a drop of lead from the Argonne forest, a faded ribbon of the Rainbow division, an Iron Cross, a number of old photographs—his father had taken them from an envelope and was insisting he look at them.
“Here I am, beneath the Arch of Triumph, wearing puttees. You never had to wear puttees. Look, do you see? This is I, here, beneath the arch shaking hands with a Frenchman. That’s the Arch of Triumph, a famous French monument. We marched through it, down the boulevard, I’ll nev
er forget. See this picture? The tomb of Napoleon! I am the second soldier from the right. Here is a theater stub, to a Paris theater. Very interesting. Next, this is part of my railroad ticket, look at that! Read the date. Right there. Nineteen eighteen! Amazing.” He looked into the envelope again. “Ah! I have been planning to tell you more about the family, our ancestors.” He held up a photograph showing a group of people on a brick veranda. “The man in the cavalry hat is your great-grandfather who rode in the Civil War with General Shelby!”
Melvin nodded. Whenever his father stopped talking he nodded. The thought of the impending board of review had begun to frighten him. He did not know what he was going to say to the officers. If they only wanted facts it would be simple, but if they asked for explanations he had no idea what he could say. He drank some wine and poured another glass. The wine and the muggy tropical air made him dizzy and he thought he would like nothing better than to lie down in a cool corner away from everybody and go to sleep. He started up, and realized his father was shaking him by the arm and was holding out an old newspaper clipping for him to read. Melvin accepted the clipping and dizzily read it with his head in his hands while he tried to keep from falling out of the chair.
DAY OF PATRIOTISM
War Indorsed Crowd Hears Patriotic Program And Speech By David W. Isaacs—Bond Campaign Launched
Saturday, Apr. 6, was a day of patriotic renewal for the county. The ringing of bells in the morning startled many people and a few thought peace had been declared or a decisive victory gained. The bells rang again and whistles blew at 12 o’clock and at six o’clock in the evening.
Towards noon the city band played patriotic airs and banners spelling out the words “Buy Liberty Bonds” were hung around the courthouse square by Boy Scouts, who then staged a tableau representing the familiar Leyendecker bond poster. Each scout held a “Can the Kaiser” pennant, with a tin can tied to the end of the pennant.
The courtroom was decorated with bunting for the meeting, with the allied flags on either side of the speaker’s table. Truman T. Morris presided. After the invocation by the Rev. L. R. Borland, Miss Sarah Borland, accompanied by Miss Angela Mert, sang “What kind of an American Are You?”
Judge Isaacs, principal speaker, opened his address with a statement of the war preparations already made by the United States.
“The time has passed for mollycoddling,” Judge Isaacs went on. “The fact is that the enemy is not 3000 miles away. He is in our very midst. It would not surprise me in the least to learn that there is a paid German agent in this very audience.” A wave of murmurs swept through the audience as he said this. He cautioned his hearers to guard against the work of incendiaries, especially around the oil refineries.
Two incidents he told especially touched the audience. They were the story of a French family just rising from poverty into comfortable circumstances, and their happiness at going back to fight the horror in whose shadow they had lived; the other of the eagerness of a young recruit to join his seventeen relatives in the Army.
After Judge Isaacs’ address Mr. Morris asked for loan subscriptions and there was a generous response from the audience.
“What time is it?” Melvin said as soon as he finished reading.
“My watch is slow. We’ll ask the waiter. In every war, I’m trying to point out, our family has devoted time and effort—our lives, in fact—to making the world a decent place. Your ancestors, Melvin, fought in the Revolution for independence. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Their children fought against the Mexicans, and against the Spaniards, and so on. I myself had a very close call during the First World War. I have a trunk filled with souvenirs in the attic in Kansas City—a trench knife with metal teeth on the hand guard, a spiked German helmet, old uniforms. I even have a bayonet on which it is still possible to see traces of blood.”
Melvin finished off the wine and wiped his lips. “I have to be getting back to the base.”
“What are you expected to do this afternoon? I understand it’s to be an investigation. The officers are going to inquire about your accident. Request another opportunity. You can make good, if you try. Apologize for the accident. It doesn’t matter whether you are to blame or not. Merely apologize. Ask for another chance. Promise me. Is that too much?”
“I can’t promise anything,” Melvin said irritably. “I don’t know what I’m going to do or say, so how can I make a promise? I have to think about things. Now I’ve got to go. I’m probably going to be late for the board as it is. Not that it makes much difference, except that as long as I’m going to appear I might as well try to be there on time.”
“Of course. But first, we’ve been telling people we were coming to watch you graduate. Now what will we say? You don’t seem to care! Think of your mother and your sister! How are they going to feel?”
“Things just didn’t work out. I don’t know why.”
“An explanation is the least you owe us. You’ve told me nothing. You send a telegram that you are resigning. That’s all we know. It doesn’t make sense!” There were tears in his eyes.
“Let me alone!” Melvin cried in a choking voice. He got up from the table, but staggered and quickly sat down. He wiped his face, drank some water, and after a few moments he stood up again. “I think I’m all right. It’s so hot today. I know you’re disappointed. I’m sorry. I tried. You don’t believe me, but I did try. I did!”
“It means so much. After so long, success means so much.”
Melvin looked down at his father and for a few moments was not able to speak, but finally he said, “The war is going to end someday. I can’t wait any longer,” and with that he picked up his coat and hurried away.
The bus was disappearing around a corner as he came within sight of the terminal. It was thirty minutes before he got another bus, and when he reached Saufley Field and entered the commander’s office he saw that he was almost an hour late. The board of review, however, was still in session; in fact, he had not even been called. Apparently they were going over all the material that had accumulated about him since he first applied for admission to the training program. He sat on a bench in the corridor holding his hat in his lap and waited. Twenty minutes after he arrived they sent for him. His uniform was rumpled and there was dust on his shoes. His necktie hung askew. His gaze was vague and he reeked of wine.
The officers requested his account of the wreck; he told them what happened as though he were reciting a narrative he had memorized; he spoke in a monotone, paying no attention to their reaction, but paused frequently to correct himself over some insignificant point such as that he might possibly have climbed a few hundred feet higher than his preliminary estimate, or that he might have emerged from the dive in a westerly rather than a southerly direction.
The officers did not ask why he had brought the damaged plane to the field instead of abandoning it in the Gulf. He had hoped that one of them would ask about this. He had no answer, he would have made no particular effort to supply an answer, and yet he wished someone would ask; it would mean that they were concerned not only with what had happened, but why it had happened. However, no one asked.
The inquiry did not take as long as he had expected.
17
He thought he might find Horne and the others waiting for him in the corridor—but it was deserted—or outside the administration building, for he was sure they were anxious to know the results of the board of review, but the only person he encountered as he left the building was an elderly chief petty officer who was tacking a notice on the bulletin board by the front door.
The sky was clear, planes were flying. He walked across the station with his hands in his pockets and a dejected expression. Nobody noticed him.
At the barracks he found everyone getting ready for the trip to the main station where they would be commissioned. Horne was squatting in the middle of the room with his hat on backward; he was cursing monotonously and without much conviction while he rammed books and clothing in
to his duffel bag. When Melvin entered the room he glanced up, scowling, and hit something inside the bag with his fist. Melvin sat down on the bunk.
“Well?” Horne growled after a few minutes.
“They kicked me out. I knew they would.”
“Who didn’t!”
“It wasn’t their fault,” Melvin said mildly. “They were doing what they thought they had to do.”
“Did you just stand up there like Little Red Riding Hood with your thumb in your mouth and tell them the truth?”
Melvin grinned and nodded. Horne considered him and then resumed packing the duffel bag. Melvin began to look around for a cigarette; a package smacked against the wall beside him.
“There! Have a cigarette, George Washington.”
“Oh, relax,” Melvin said. “It’s over. It wasn’t bad.”
The next morning the company left Saufley Field. Melvin helped throw the bags aboard the truck, shook hands all around, and promised that if possible he would visit Mainside for the designation ceremony. As the truck went through the gate he waved, and some of the cadets waved back.
When he could no longer see them he wandered around for a while but at last returned to the barracks. The building was vacant and quiet. Most of the doors to the rooms were open. He sauntered along the corridors looking into the rooms at the doubled-up mattresses, the shades half-drawn, and the dust settling through the beams of light, a little surprised that it was hard to remember who had lived where. The name plates had been removed from the doors and the rooms were so similar.
The Patriot Page 27