The Patriot

by Evan S. Connell

“Are you able to prove it?”

  “I don’t have to prove it.”

  “And that, my boy, is where you are wrong. You’re in a very bad spot, I don’t mind telling you. Your dossier fascinates me.”

  “My what?”

  “Why do you look so astonished? Don’t you realize that your government takes a personal interest in you? It wants to know not only what you do, but what you have said and what you believe.” He formed a steeple of his fingers and began singing, half aloud, with a crooked smile, from the Navy hymn: “E-ter-nal Father, strong to sa-ave, Whose arm doth bind the rest-less wa-ave,” but then, after humming along and rocking in the chair, he nodded, as if in confirmation of something he had suspected, and sang the conclusion in globular bass tones: “O hear us when we cry to thee, For those in per-il on the sea!”

  Some SBD’s were landing; a glass of water on Caravaggio’s desk was trembling from the vibration of the engines; he watched it for a while and then picked up the ruler and tapped the glass smartly. “The wind must have changed,” he said. “Isaacs? Oh, Isaacs?” he whispered.

  “Sir?” Melvin had been scowling at the floor and twisting his garrison cap.

  “You’re perspiring.”

  “I have a right to,” he said, not looking up. He was frightened, although he did not know why. The only thing he was positive of was that Caravaggio was mocking him, taunting him.

  “Goodness,” he heard the lieutenant murmur, “what a volatile young man. I’m afraid to strike a match.” At this Melvin looked up with such an expression of hatred that Caravaggio swiveled around in the chair and laughed. “Nothing but a little joke, Isaacs.” With a sultry smile he continued, “For some reason I make people nervous. Now tell me, how many more flights do we have?”

  Melvin held up one finger, afraid to rely on his voice.

  “Well, imagine! Our final flight. When are we scheduled? Tomorrow. We know all about each other. And then we’ll be finished. Won’t that be a relief? No more check rides, no more ground school.”

  Melvin gave a brief nod and sat on his hands because he was afraid that he was losing control of himself and might lunge over the desk. He heard the SBD’s, thudding and coughing, fly lower and lower; they were landing not far from the building; he could hear a screech as each one touched down on the runway.

  “Tell me, Isaacs, was this a difficult program? Truthfully now, you young treasure.”

  Melvin took a deep breath; he felt shaken and exhausted and wondered if he was going insane. He wiped the perspiration from his face.

  “Do I have permission to put it in my own words?”

  Caravaggio, with a skeptical air, nodded.

  “Sir, this program,” Melvin said, gazing with blunt hostility at the doubtful lieutenant, “to be perfectly honest about it, is a twenty-one jewel self-winding son of a bitch.”

  “Ex-cellent! Oh, how marvelous, Isaacs! I’m proud of you. That is exactly what the program was intended to be. The Navy has no use for half-baked aviators. We’re quite proud of our men who wear the wings. We like to think they’re the finest. Now tell me—the men who have gone through training with you. Are they good?”

  “Some of them are fairly hot, sir. Sam Horne is good.”

  Caravaggio looked disappointed. “But he’s such a weathercock, Isaacs. How can you abide him? Why, the moment I laid eyes on that young man I knew all about him. You shouldn’t trust him.”

  “No, you’re wrong,” Melvin said, stubbornly shaking his head.

  “Wait and see. La-dee-da! Wait and see, my boy. Oh! Here, I have a gift for you.” He held out a miniature enameled American flag, which Melvin accepted.

  “I know him, Mr. Caravaggio. You’re absolutely wrong.”

  “Proceed,” the lieutenant said, and he sighed with a limp, airy wave as he rocked back in the big chair. “Someone else. That gnome whose uniform simply does not fit one iota. Surely they must have something in his size.”

  “Oh, McCampbell, you mean. Actually—now you mention it—his uniforms don’t fit, do they? I mean, they do sort of bog and draggle. But he looks better in his blues.”

  “You tell McCampbell to get acquainted with his uniform before I scalp him.”

  “Okay, sir, I’ll tell him. He’s one of the best flyers I ever saw. He’s better than some of the instructors.”

  “Quit! That’s utter rubbish. Tell me something else. No more of this ‘I swear it was an accident’ claptrap, I warn you. Speak to me honestly or you’ll regret it as long as you live.”

  “All right,” Melvin said. “What do you want to know?”

  “Why in the name of sense did you offer a drink of gin to the guard at the entrance to Barin Field?”

  “Oh, what’s the use?” Melvin asked gloomily. “No matter what I do, somebody always has to distort it.”

  Caravaggio grimaced. “But that’s absurd!”

  “Well, you heard me,” Melvin remarked. He had noticed soon after coming into the office that the lieutenant had a distinct musky odor, like a fox or an unhealthy house dog, and this odor disturbed him; it occurred to him that he had never met anyone quite so insignificant and loathsome as this officer; and all at once he became positive that Teitlebaum had come to Saufley Field to talk to Caravaggio.

  “Captain Teitlebaum was here recently, wasn’t he?”

  Caravaggio appeared to be confounded. “What? What?”

  “And he talked to you, didn’t he?” Melvin persisted, looking at the officer with disgust. “He did, didn’t he? He came over here and told you what we talked about in the hangar after that bombing run.”

  “My dear boy,” Caravaggio said uneasily. “I despise Marines and I haven’t the—”

  “Oh, shut up! Don’t lie to me! I’ve been lied to for so long I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “Mr. Isaacs, please remember that you are nothing but a—” Then Caravaggio stopped with his lips parted, gazing at Melvin, who had leaped to his feet. Melvin, noting the consternation on the officer’s face, was enormously gratified; still he was intent on learning exactly what the captain had said.

  “Now stop that!” Caravaggio whined, gesturing, and Melvin realized that he had been nervously twisting his identification bracelet. He had bought the bracelet only a few days before, a link silver chain with a pair of miniature gold wings soldered to the centerpiece, and it felt heavily strange on his wrist.

  “Mr. Teitlebaum has received a promotion. He is now a major.”

  “Is that so,” Melvin said.

  “I understand you don’t like to fly after dark. Is that so?”

  “Well, yes. But how did you know that?”

  Caravaggio smirked. “Don’t you have the sensation of an abyss somewhere beneath you? Do you descend into that Stygian limbo with perspiration trickling down your face? Isn’t the fleece lining of your helmet a bit clammy, my lad? Oh, yes—He! He! He!” Caravaggio laughed, but then stopped with a look of distress, as though something had made a tremendous impression on him.

  Melvin looked at him in stupefaction, convinced the lieutenant was insane and that he was not a naval officer but an impostor who had managed to escape from an asylum and steal a uniform.

  “Umm . . . my son did this,” he went on, tapping the ruler against the rump of a crudely formed ceramic animal which resembled a hippopotamus. It was glazed a brilliant blue and he had been boosting it around with the ruler and a pencil. “Posh, I’m exhausted! Utterly and simply exhausted. But wasn’t it a grand day!” he continued, and taking off the dark glasses he twirled them with a look of idle good humor. “Well, now, let me think. Where were we? Oh, yes! Yes. Well, Mr. Isaacs, Mr. Ancient Pistol, you’re just the type our Navy needs. You’re made to order for this life, so admit it. Don’t be ashamed. Admit that you enjoy taking orders from a superior.” He began to amuse himself with a box of paper clips, pushing it back and forth while he hummed the Navy hymn, and Melvin, staring at him, could not think of anything to say.

  “Now stop!
” Caravaggio said. The plaintive lilt of his voice did not match the groping intelligence in his face. He suddenly tossed the paper clips in the air, but missed catching them; in fact, although he extended one hand as if meaning to catch them, he made no attempt to do so. The box dropped to the floor and the clips sprinkled everywhere with a variety of interesting little sounds. He bent down behind the desk to gather the clips. The swivel chair seemed to be moving by itself. The officer’s face appeared above the level of the desk, gorged with blood, round as an olive. They looked at each other.

  “Did you get it?” Melvin asked.

  Caravaggio held up the box.

  “Isaacs, it was you, wasn’t it, who hung a Nazi flag out the barracks window? You might as well admit it, because I have inside information that you did it.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “Yes, you did. I know you did.”

  “No, sir, I didn’t do that.”

  “Hmm,” Caravaggio said, fingering his lip and closing his eyes. “But the flag fits in so perfectly. Well, then, who did it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you prove your innocence?”

  “I don’t have to.”

  “Wrong again, Isaacs. Consider the evidence. First: your flight record is blotched like a Rorschach. Second: whether it was accidental or not, you did open fire on Major Teitlebaum. Third: you were caught red-handed attempting to smuggle whisky into a United States Naval Air Station. Fourth: you had an extraordinary number of telephone conversations at NAS Memphis with an unidentified woman while two of the Navy’s newest interceptors were being overhauled on that station. Why so amazed, my boy? Don’t tell me you didn’t know. Fifth: your navigation instructor at Albuquerque has made an allegation, the substance of which is that when under a condition of stress, the stress of extreme concentration, for example, you have been observed to draw a swastika. Several of your navigation examinations had a meticulous row of swastikas along the margin, despite the fact that you had attempted to erase them. Sixth: upon arrival at—Shall I continue? Isaacs, are you listening? It would not be difficult to interpret your actions as those of an unstable personality. You have no idea what can happen to the truth when it falls into the hands of the unscrupulous. However, that is neither hither nor yon; I am endeavoring to point out in the most elementary terms that your officer aptitude is low. Very, very low. Is it illogical to assume that you were the one who hung a Nazi flag from the barracks window?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  Caravaggio folded his hands in satisfaction. “I am waiting for you to confess.”

  “I can’t confess, because I didn’t do it.”

  “I’m perfectly aware you didn’t, you goose. I’m trying to teach you a few things. You’re utterly defenseless. What’s going to become of you? How long was that flag hanging out the window before anyone noticed?”

  “Before the cadets noticed it?”

  “They knew about it right away, I imagine.”

  “Yes, sir. You mean the officers, I guess.”

  “Yes. How long was that Nazi banner flying on the station before an officer saw it?”

  “Oh, I don’t remember exactly,” Melvin said. “I guess it was about a week.”

  “Where on earth did it come from?”

  “Somebody’s brother in Europe sent it to one of the guys in another barracks. At least that’s what I heard.”

  “This is bizarre. Really, do you know what I mean?”

  “We all thought it was sort of bizarre, sir. We wondered how long it would take an officer to discover it, but I guess they were thinking about more important things. That could be the reason. Then, too, the officers usually look at the ground when they march us somewhere. I don’t know why.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed that, too,” Caravaggio murmured, lifting his head. “Well, thank you for volunteering some information. I couldn’t have endured it if you’d been smart with me about that flag.”

  “You’re welcome, sir. I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

  “You hurt more people than you think. Did the enlisted men know about it? I suppose they did.”

  “Yes, sir. They knew.”

  “Hmm! Are you a coward?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Come now. You must know.”

  Melvin shook his head stubbornly. “All I know is I’m not too keen about fighting. Maybe because I usually lose.”

  “What about this liberty-or-death business?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “So much tripe, isn’t it? Very odd. Yes, indeed. Consider. If it were true that men preferred death to the loss of their liberty, would you be good enough to explain to me why our prisons are not replete with suicides? Various patriots sing various songs; isn’t it queer how the tenor rings flat to the sensitive ear? All the same,” he went on, touching his eyebrows, “we must continue with our war. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more. In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility, but when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger: stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage; then lend the eye a terrible aspect: let it cry through the portage of the head like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it as fearfully as doth a gallèd rock o’erhang and jutty his confounded base, swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit to his full height! So we can’t simply quit, do you understand?”

  All at once Melvin felt on the verge of an important discovery. “What do you want?” he asked, trembling with fright, and saw the lieutenant start back in surprise and look at him acutely. “What are you trying to make me say?” Melvin demanded and pressed forward. He did not know what to say next or what to do.

  Caravaggio had recovered himself; he sighed, and resumed swiveling and picking at the gold stripes on his sleeve. He had plucked loose a corner of the upper stripe and when he was engrossed in speaking or thinking his fingers would stray toward this corner as though to verify what he had done.

  “I’m quitting,” Melvin said with absolute composure. Then he sat down, wondering what had come over him. “Have you got some forms for me to fill out?” he asked uncertainly.

  “But, Isaacs, weren’t you listening?” Caravaggio asked, leaning forward and delicately clasping his hands. “Not one moment ago I explained why you can not quit. It’s impossible. It isn’t being done.”

  “Maybe so,” Melvin said, laughing. “I’m not arguing. Just hand me whatever forms are necessary.”

  Caravaggio sprang to his feet and went striding toward a large map on the wall. Melvin noticed that he walked in a highly military fashion, with his shoulders back and his paunch withdrawn. He picked up a long wooden pointer, and after tapping it against the floor he cleared his throat and began to trace the front lines of the American defense in the Pacific.

  “Isaacs, when you enlisted we were in a desperate situation. The Japanese were advancing on virtually every front. We had been pushed entirely out of the strategic Philippines. Wake Island had fallen to a fanatical enemy. You know about these things, I’m certain. Let me put it this way: in the old days when a captain needed men for his ship he dispatched his crew with orders to recruit men from the streets, by force if necessary—with clubs, gunny sacks, Lord knows what all. And unfortunately, Isaacs, the United States Navy found itself in a similar circumstance. We needed you. Desperately, believe me. And we still need you, quite desperately. Never doubt for a moment that the Navy is proud of you. You have one more flight, Isaacs, after which you will have successfully concluded the most rigorous training program ever devised. You will have come through it with flying colors. Your difficult, somewhat sophormoric moments will be forgotten, I assure you. Thereafter you will be known as Ensign Mel Isaacs of the United States Naval Air Corps. Do you have any comprehension of what that means? You should! A glorious tradition surrounds you
. The hands of the past rise to salute you—Ensign Isaacs! Ta-tum-te-tum! I see the hand of Captain Kenneth Whiting, USN. Commander Theodore G. Ellyson. Lieutenant Louis T. Barin. Lieutenant, junior grade, Richard C. Saufley. These are among the greatest names in United States Naval Aviation, my boy.”

  “I know they are.”

  “And you want your friend Horne to be proud of you, don’t you?”

  “Yes. But that’s up to him.”

  “You’re not responding to this,” said Caravaggio. He frowned. “Well, Isaacs,” he said in a slightly modulated tone, “I am not supposed to reveal this, but I will, because you have been honest and straightforward with me. Now pay attention: your orders have arrived. What do you think of that? Shall I tell you your assignment?”

  Melvin hesitated. He swallowed and passed a hand over his head. “No. It doesn’t make any difference. I’m through.”

  Caravaggio had been looking at him deeply, squeezing his protruding, purplish lips. Now he dropped his hand and turned away, saying, “Has the wind shifted again?”

  Melvin listened to the distant coughing of the engines.

  “Yes, sir. They’re landing north by northwest.”

  “Isn’t that the dangerous runway?”

  “Well,” Melvin began speculatively, “if you’ve got your head stuck up your—”

  “Yes! Yes!” Caravaggio interrupted. “That’ll do, Isaacs. Now what was it you wanted to fly? I have your preference somewhere in here.” He pulled open a drawer and looked with distaste at the mass of papers.

  “An F4U.”

  “Well, what on earth—oh! I know. The F4U is that charming Brunswick blue machine that resembles a seagull. Yes. My, you have good taste. The F4U is grand.”

  “It’s a good-looking plane,” Melvin admitted. “I wanted to fly one from a carrier.”

  Caravaggio appeared to be shocked. “Are you insane? Have you ever been aboard a carrier? Of course you haven’t. But I have, and I can promise you you wouldn’t like it a bit. I became ill.”

  “I was planning to request night fighter duty.”

  “But why?”

  Caravaggio was posturing again. Melvin could feel, nevertheless, the merciless thrust of someone else behind the mask.