Rush to Glory

by Robert L Hecker

  Hal reached the vacant chair on the dies next to Major Deering and was turning to sit down when a voice made a noise like a chicken’s squawk: “Cut, cut, cut, cadacket.” Hal knew it was Fox.

  Other voices took up the clucking noise, and as the derisive sound built, the officers seated on the dies shifted uneasily, looking from Hal to Luke as though expecting one of them to take some action. But Luke sat silently, his lips twisted into a bleak smile. Without looking, Hal could see Fox in the second row leading the chorus. Next to him, Cossel sat quietly, his face twisted in a frown. Deering sat with his head down, not taking part in the uproar. But what surprised Hal was O’Reilly, sitting on the other side of Fox. The Irishman was sitting silently, staring at Hal, not with the scorn and hatred that were reflected in the other men’s faces, but as though to measure the effect the catcalls were having on him.

  A few men began to stamp their feet, and Major Deering started to his feet. His move was halted by the guard’s call of “Tenhut!” The chanting halted abruptly as everyone snapped to attention.

  Colonel Sutton stalked down the aisle as though unaware of the tension in the room, although he could not have missed hearing the loud chant when he had approached the door. He walked to the podium, turned, gave the command, “As you were,” and the men sat down quietly.

  Hal stared straight ahead stonily as Colonel Sutton began to outline the mission. He had not realized how bitterly the men would resent having to risk their lives while he was safely on the ground. There were, of course, other men on the platform who did not fly, but they were not airmen. They were paddlefeet, with jobs that contributed to the mission’s success: operations, logistics, communications, intelligence. Like the armorers, crew chiefs and mechanics who kept the bombers flying, they were as much a part of the mission as the crews themselves. But Hal’s entire reason for existing, all his training, all his knowledge was to fly . . . to drop bombs.

  The colonel hesitated. “I have just received the information,” he began, “that American forces have secured the Island of Saipan.”

  He paused, but there was no applause. The small island halfway around the world held little meaning for these men. Their war was behind that oilcloth curtain in the back of the colonel, waiting at the end of a red cord. And, besides, they were not yet ready to surrender their resentment toward Hal for another emotion, even the elation of victory.

  “But the battle was not won without a price,” the colonel continued, picking his words carefully. “More than four thousand Marines laid down their lives for their fellow men. More than fifteen thousand wounded. The Japanese lost twenty-four thousand men. I know they are the enemy, but you’ve got to hand it to the little bastards. They fought to the death. Not one of them quit.” He paused for effect; the men’s faces remained cold and set. His back was toward Hal, but he knew that the colonel was addressing him.

  Sutton cleared his throat and continued. “So, they’re doing a hell of a job in the Pacific. But here we’ve got a different job. Right now, that job is to clear out the German Air Force so that when our troops hit the borders of Germany, we’ll have control of the skies, just like we did on D-day. Now, to do this, it’s going to require . . .”

  “Sir.”

  The voice stopped the colonel in mid-sentence. He peered out into his audience to see who had spoken, then demanded angrily, “What the hell is it, O’Reilly?”

  O’Reilly said in a deliberately slow drawl, “Sir, if the mission is so friggin’ important, why don’t we cut out this bullshit and get on with it?”

  A ripple of laughter cut through the room, and the colonel stiffened. O’Reilly had deliberately destroyed the mood the colonel had been trying to build, and Hal wondered why. Could it be that he didn’t want the men to forget about the chicken in their midst?

  “Okay,” the colonel said, his voice showing his irritation. “If you’re in such a hurry to get your asses shot off, take a look at this.”

  He turned and snapped up the cover from the map to reveal the target, and he was rewarded by a sudden silence. “There you are. Munster. Right where the 100th lost every ship in their group. And we look for the enemy to be up in force again today.”

  The colonel turned away from the map then, and the sight of the sea of white faces staring at the target sapped his anger. He wiped a hand across his face, and his voice was gentle as he concluded, “So that’s the job. I’m sorry.” He turned to the Intelligence Officer. “Major.”

  Beginning with Major Deering, the briefing officers one by one made their presentations, their voices loud in the deathly silence. Usually, there were some protests when the targets of other Wings were given; If their targets look like milk runs, there was a certain amount of stifled laughter or random snickers. Sometimes there was a nervous shuffle of feet or a cough, but now there was only silence amid a miasma of bitter anger. The briefing officers felt it. They were sweating when they finished their presentation. They studiously avoided looking at Hal, but their anger over having been put through the ordeal was plain on their faces.

  Then, inevitably, the time came for the weather briefing. Hal forced himself to his feet. He took three quick steps to the map, expecting something to happen with every step, but there was not a sound. Standing in front of the crewmen, feeling naked, Hal could feel their resentment and contempt radiating like heat from the sun.

  “The weather . . .” he began, and his voice cracked. No one laughed. “The weather over the assembly area is overcast to eight thousand feet?” Not looking at them made it easier to go on, and he hurried through the briefing, running his words together, trying to get the facts out before the hostile silence closed in on him.

  He had reached the “weather over target” point when he made the mistake of turning away from the map, and those set, cold eyes immediately impaled him. The crewmen were quiet. They did not speak; they did not move. But Hal could not look away. The officers on the stand with him had tensed, imperceptibly leaning forward in their chairs, wondering what was wrong, but still, he could not move. He was pinioned against the wall, and he hung there, crucified.

  Then Colonel Sutton’s voice said, “That’s about enough of this.” The eyes shifted, and Hal was free. He wrenched himself away from the wall and ran blindly toward the exit, down the aisle past the suddenly laughing men. He ran outside into the pre-dawn darkness; he ran until his lungs burned and his legs felt leaden, and he collapsed on the cool grass, and the tears came.

  His sorrow was not because he thought he was wrong: he could not be mistaken in that. It was not because he cared what others thought of him. He could endure that. And it was not because he was a coward. He was sure of that.

  Was that a lie? Deep in the wells of his subconscious, was it really because he was a coward?

  To dispel the thought, he dredged forth the image of the bodies under the dew-spangled canvas and the awful destructive power of the bombs, and he knew he was right. And the reason for the bombs, for the war? Was this war any different from the hundreds of others that stained the pages of history? Would killing Hitler change anything?

  It was still dark when he walked back to the barracks, the night shattered by the roar of the big planes as they took off and climbed toward their assembly area. In the deserted barracks, Hal lay on his bunk with his pillow over his head, but there was no escaping the accusing sound. Even when all the bombers were gone, the sound throbbed in his head as though it would never go away.

  He was still awake when Corporal Weems stuck his head in the far door and hollered, “Hey, Bailey. The C.O. wants to see you. On the double.”

  The idea of facing Luke again brought a bitter dryness to Hal’s throat. He told himself that it could be no worse than facing the crews during the briefing, but he knew it wasn’t true. They had been unable to break through his defenses. But Luke could reach him. With his hate, Luke could hurt him more than the
others.

  When a few minutes later, he walked through the orderly room and into the open door of Luke’s office, he had steeled himself for whatever would happen. But he was not prepared to see Colonel Sutton sitting at Luke’s desk. Luke was standing looking out the window, his hands clasped behind his back as though to disassociate himself from the proceedings.

  Hal stopped in front of the desk and saluted. The colonel did not bother to return the salute, and Hal was left with his hand in the air until he let it fall slowly.

  “What the hell is going on here,” the colonel snapped. “You damn near caused a riot at the briefing this morning. You know that?” He paused as though expecting an answer, and when there was none, he said, “What got into you anyway? You haven’t been shot up like some of the others. I’ve seen men with half their heads shot off, and they go back.”

  “That . . . isn’t the reason,” Hal said.

  “Oh?” The colonel’s voice dropped, and he leaned forward. “And just what is the reason, lieutenant?”

  “I’ve explained it to Luke . . .”

  “Well, explain it to me.”

  “I . . . feel that dropping bombs . . . killing innocent people is wrong. I can’t do it anymore.”

  “You think it’s wrong on moral grounds?”

  “You could put it that way, yes.”

  The colonel sat for a moment without moving. Then he pushed the chair back, and half turned toward Luke. “A conscie. Why didn’t you tell me this, Luke?”

  Luke turned away from the window. “Because I don’t believe it. That’s why.”

  “Did he tell you what he told me?”

  Luke hesitated. “More or less.”

  “You told me he wouldn’t fly because he was afraid. You assured me you could bring him out of it, and I went along with you. Now I find out he objects on moral grounds, a conscientious objector.” He stood up and walked around the desk toward Luke. “You can’t force a man to go against his religious convictions?”

  “Religion, hell. He never went to church no more than I did.”

  “Excuse or not, he said it, and he can stand on it. You know that. There won’t be any more of what happened this morning. Have you got that?”

  Luke abruptly took a step toward the colonel. “Are you going to let him get away with it?”

  The colonel hesitated, then said, “It isn’t a question of getting away with anything. If the man is a conscientious objector, there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “The hell there isn’t. He’s lying. He’s got a yellow streak . . .”

  “Bailey!” The colonel’s voice snapped Luke up short. “If he’s lying, that’s not for us to say. They’ll get the truth at the Rehabilitation Center. But I want him off this base. You understand that? You’ve fouled this up enough. Get him off the base.”

  For the first time, Luke turned to look at Hal, his eyes hooded with hate. “All right,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  The colonel picked up his hat and said, “See that you do.”

  Luke watched him go, then moved heavily to stand in front of Hal. He leaned back against the desk and braced himself with his hands. His voice was acid when he spoke. “I told you what’d happen, you yellow bastard. You’ve really screwed me, haven’t you? Is that what you were after? You never could stand my guts. Is that why you did it?”

  Hal shook his head. “No,” he said through dry lips. “You had nothing to do with it?”

  “The hell I didn’t. I’m right in the middle of your pile of crap.”

  “I’m sorry, Luke, sorry about your promotion. I don’t want to interfere with . . .”

  Luke cut him off. “Yeah. I’ll bet you are.” He moved to stare out the window again, and Hal could just make out his muttered words. “Ten God damn lousy years, and what have I got now? What the hell am I supposed to do now?” He whirled on Hal; his face contorted. “You little bastard!” He started forward, slowly and carefully, his fists clenched. Then he stopped. “That’s all I need.” His voice was tight with regret. “I take you apart, and I’m really done.”

  He moved back behind his desk and fell heavily into his chair, his hands clenching and unclenching. “When this is over . . . ,” he said thickly, “When this war is over, I’m going to look you up, and I’m going to break your neck.” He wiped his face with both hands, then stared at Hal. “I wish Ma and Pa were here. They were always so damn proud of you.” He swept the back of his hand toward the door in a violent gesture. “Get out of here. I could puke at the sight of you! Go on, get out!”

  Hal walked out stiffly, feeling worse than if Luke had ranted and raved at him. He could have taken a beating easier. He had never seen Luke defeated. His brother would never know how much it hurt him. He would never know him at all.

  CHAPTER 20

  He was lying on his bunk when the planes of the 401st returned. He didn’t want to see anyone. But he could not bring himself to hide. There was no reason why he should feel guilty.

  An hour later, when Fox and O’Reilly entered the barracks, they walked directly to Hal’s bunk and stood over him until he looked up.

  “Schultz is dead,” O’Reilly said flatly.

  “It should have been you, you son-of-a-bitch,” Fox said.

  Other crewmen had drifted in, and they settled down quietly to listen.

  “We can’t order you out,” Fox said, “but, buddy boy, when we get through with you, you’ll wish you could trade places with Schultz.”

  For some reason, the menace in Fox’s voice failed to frighten Hal. Instead, he felt a flush of anger. “That wasn’t my fault,” he said, “and you know it.” His voice quivered as he fought to control his rage.

  Fox mistook the tremor for fright, and his lips curled. “He wouldn’t be dead if it wasn’t for you. You should be the one with your guts on the floor.”

  “Just because I don’t feel like murdering people, I’m some kind of a freak. Maybe you like killing . . . seeing guys like Schultz with their guts on the floor, but I don’t. So, you bastards go on and do it. I’ve had my belly full.”

  Hal stood up, but Fox put his hand on his chest and shoved him back against his bunk. “Who the hell do you think you’re calling a bastard?” Fox said. “Come outside and I’ll shove your teeth down your throat.”

  Hal nodded. “You’ve been wanting that for a long time, haven’t you?”

  “You’re damn right. Are you coming out, or do I have to drag you?”

  The anger inside Hal cooled to a murderous calm. He knew Fox could beat him easily, but at the moment, he didn’t care. He would welcome the relief of violence.

  “If I do,” he said, “will that be the end of it?”

  “Yeah,” Fox said. He grinned at O’Reilly. “That’ll be the end, all right.”

  Hal knew he wouldn’t be able to go through with it if he didn’t hurry. So, he quickly pushed his way to the back door and outside. Fox and O’Reilly were right behind him, followed by everyone in the barracks.

  In the grassy space between the barracks and the rusted barbed wire fence, Hal stripped off his necktie. The men crowding out the door formed a compact ring in the tiny clearing. Word of the fight had spread to the neighboring barracks, and men poured from them to extend the ring.

  Fox carefully took off his shirt and handed it to one of the men behind him. Then he turned to face Hal. The heavy muscles on his shoulders and back writhed as he moved his arms to loosen up.

  Hal put up his fists and stepped forward carefully, but Fox knocked them down with a quick, chopping motion of his left hand and looped a hard right that landed on the side of Hal’s head with a solid thud. The force of the blow spun him back into the crowd, and they stampeded out of the way.

  Hal regained his footing and swung wildly, but Fox ducked away and hit Hal in t
he exposed ribs, the blow forcing a sharp grunt of pain. Before Hal could recover, Fox’s other fist cracked against his cheekbone, and blackness exploded in his head.

  “Come on, damn it. Get up,” he heard somebody say, and he felt the soft grass under his hands. He pushed himself up. Fox was waiting with his fists cocked, and Hal knew that Fox would be more careful from here on. He wouldn’t want to finish it too quickly. If he was not to take a merciless beating, he would have to put up a defense. But he couldn’t punch with Fox, and he couldn’t out-box him. He would have to take Fox by surprise, or he would have no chance at all.

  So, instead of getting up slowly, Hal hurled himself at Fox, swinging both fists with all his strength, and Fox’s nose was suddenly scarlet. Another wild punch hit Fox in the throat, and he reeled back, gagging and retching. The crowd behind him moved aside, and Fox hit the barbed wire fence heavily. The top strand caught him in the small of the back and flipped him backward. For a second, he hung suspended on the rusty wire; then, the staples on the posts pulled loose, and Fox fell against the next strand, which broke with a dull twang. He groaned in agony and flopped to the ground on his stomach—the men who could see his back sucked in their breaths. The white skin was lacerated with long ugly-looking gashes, blood pouring out in twisting rivers, soaking his pants. Hal saw it, too, and shock broke his anger.

  Two of the men near Fox reached to help him to his feet, but Fox sat up and thrust them aside. He looked around for Hal, his eyes bright with hate.

  Fox came forward again. Hal hit him three times, but Fox kept coming. Then he was clubbing at Hal’s face and head with fists like mallets. He was no longer intent on prolonging the fight. Now he wanted to kill.

  A blow to his temple drove Hal to his knees, and he saved himself from falling by wrapping his arms around Fox’s blood-soaked legs. Before he could pull himself up, Fox hit him at the base of the neck with locked fists and smashed his face into the grass. Then Fox pulled Hal to his feet by the back of his shirt collar and sank his fist deep in Hal’s stomach. Then he began hammering methodically at Hal’s face.